The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays - BestLightNovel.com
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(_The_ POET _is sitting at a table, writing. Enter_ d.i.c.k PRATTLE.)
PRATTLE. Hullo, Harry.
DE REVES. Hullo, d.i.c.k. Good Lord, where are you from?
PRATTLE (_casually_). The ends of the Earth.
DE REVES. Well, I'm d.a.m.ned!
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 turn 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 a.s.sumed wonder_). I say.... I say.... You old heathen ... but Good Lord....
(_He b.u.mps into the high screen behind, pus.h.i.+ng 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.
(_He is about to go round behind it._)
