NEEKS: I see Mr. Gleek sitting over there, Sir Webley.
SIR WEBLEY: Why, yes, yes, so he is.
NEEKS: The Banner and Evening Gazette would know all about him if there's anything to know.
SIR WEBLEY: Yes, of course they would.
NEEKS: If we were to ask him.
SIR WEBLEY: Well, Trundleben, you may leave it to us. Mr. Neeks and I will talk it all over and see what's to be done.
TRUNDLEBEN: Thank you, Sir Webley. I'm really very sorry it all happened-very sorry indeed.
SIR WEBLEY: Very well, Trundleben, we'll see what's to be done. If nothing's known of him and his plays, you'll have to write and request him to withdraw his candidature. But we'll see. We'll see.
TRUNDLEBEN: Thank you, Sir Webley. I'm sure I'm very sorry it all occurred. Thank you, Mr. Neeks.
[Exit TRUNDLEBEN, waddling slowly away.
SIR WEBLEY: Well, Neeks, that's what it will have to be. If nothing whatever's known of him we can't have him putting up for the Olympus.
NEEKS: Quite so, Sir Webley. I'll call Mr. Gleek's attention.
[He begins to rise, hopefully looking Gleek-wards, when JERGINS comes between him and MR. GLEEK. He has come to take away the coffee.
SIR WEBLEY: Times are changing, Jergins.
JERGINS: I'm afraid so, Sir Webley.
SIR WEBLEY: Changing fast, and new members putting up for the Club.
JERGINS: Yes, I'm afraid so, Sir Webley.
SIR WEBLEY: You notice it too, Jergins.
JERGINS: Yes, Sir Webley, it's come all of a sudden. Only last week I saw ...
SIR WEBLEY: Well, Jergins.
JERGINS: I saw Lord Pondleburrow wearing a ...
SIR WEBLEY: Wearing what, Jergins?
JERGINS: Wearing one of those billycock hats, Sir Webley.
SIR WEBLEY: Well, well. I suppose they've got to change, but not at that rate.
JERGINS: No, Sir Webley.
[EXIT, shaking his head as he goes.
SIR WEBLEY: Well, we must find out about this fellow.
NEEKS: Yes. I'll call Mr. Gleek's attention. He knows all about that sort of thing.
SIR WEBLEY: Yes, yes. Just ...
[NEEKS rises and goes some of the way towards GLEEK'S chair.
NEEKS: Er-er--
GLEEK (looking round): Yes?
SIR WEBLEY: Do you know anything of a man called Mr. William Shakespeare?
GLEEK (looking over his pince-nez): No!
[He shakes his head several times and returns to his paper.
CURTAIN.
FAME AND THE POET
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
HARRY DE REVES, a Poet.
(This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicised and is pronounced DE REEVS.)
DICK PRATTLE, a Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines .
FAME.
SCENE
The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.
Time: February 30th.
The POET is sitting at a table writing.
[Enter DICK PRATTLE.
PRATTLE: Hullo, Harry.
DE REVES: Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from?
PRATTLE (casually): The ends of the earth.
DE REVES: Well, I'm damned!
PRATTLE: Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on.
DE REVES: Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London?
PRATTLE: Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent ties to wear-you can get nothing out there-then I thought I'd have a look and see how London was getting on.
DE REVES: Splendid! How's everybody?
PRATTLE: All going strong.
DE REVES: That's good.
PRATTLE (seeing paper and ink): But what are you doing?
DE REVES: Writing.
PRATTLE: Writing? I didn't know you wrote.
DE REVES: Yes, I've taken to it rather.
PRATTLE: I say-writing's no good. What do you write?
DE REVES: Oh, poetry.
PRATTLE: Poetry! Good Lord!
DE REVES: Yes, that sort of thing, you know.
PRATTLE: Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?
DE REVES: No. Hardly any.
PRATTLE: I say-why don't you chuck it?
DE REVES: Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather. That's why I go on.
PRATTLE: I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.
DE REVES: Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly approve of poetry if there was money in it.
PRATTLE: Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only--
DE REVES: Only what?
PRATTLE: Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.
DE REVES: Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus--
PRATTLE: What's Pegasus?
DE REVES: Oh, the winged horse of poets.
PRATTLE: I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?
DE REVES: In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you.
PRATTLE: I say. (Give me a cigarette. Thanks.) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds?
DE REVES: Yes. Yes. In all of them.
PRATTLE: Good Lord!
DE REVES: You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?
PRATTLE: Yes, of course; but what has--
DE REVES: Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of--
PRATTLE: Yes; but, I say, what has all this--
DE REVES: Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one....
PRATTLE: Well, of course he is.
DE REVES: In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions.
PRATTLE (rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder ): I say ... I say ... You old heathen ... but Good Lord ...
[He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little.
DE REVES: Look out! Look out!
PRATTLE: What? What's the matter?
DE REVES: The screen!
PRATTLE: Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.