Good old d.i.c.k. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time pa.s.ses.

(_He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations._)

Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it.

(_He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses._)

No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar.

(_He places the sonnet upon the altar itself._)

If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.

(_He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table.

Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, or however the actor pleases._)

Well, well. Fancy seeing d.i.c.k again. Well, d.i.c.k enjoys his life, so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and how many of _them_ are there? There's a bigger demand for smoked gla.s.ses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame care for us? Yes, d.i.c.k is right. It's a poor game chasing illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, we are ourselves dreams. (_He leans back in his chair._)

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

(_He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head_)

My room at Eton, d.i.c.k said. An untidy mess.

(_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more than a poet's dream._)

So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too.

d.i.c.k's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole d.a.m.ned heap.

(_He advances impetuously toward the screen_) Every d.a.m.ned poem that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on.

(_He pushes back the screen._ FAME _in a Greek dress with a long golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the altar like a marble G.o.ddess._)

So ... you have come!

(_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the altar._)

Divine fair lady, you have come.

(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.)

This is my sonnet. Is it well done?

(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her rapturously._)

FAME. You're a bit of all right.

DE REVES. What?

FAME. Some poet.

DE REVES. I--I--scarcely ... understand.

FAME. You're IT.

DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?

FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.

DE REVES. O Heavens!

(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her head out._)

FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry for help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, folks! Hi!

(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard._ FAME _blows her trumpet._)

FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder._) What's your name?

DE REVES. De Reves.

FAME. His name's de Reves.

DE REVES. Harry de Reves.

FAME. His pals call him Harry.

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. Say, what's your favourite color?

DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand.

FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?

DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of the window._) No--er--I think green.

FAME. Green is his favourite colour.

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer.

DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my sonnet, if you would--er....

FAME (_picking up quill_). Here, what's this?

DE REVES. Oh, that's my pen.