Plays of Near & Far by Lord Dunsany (motivational books for men .TXT) 📖

>Sir Webley: And all these plays. What does he mean by calling them plays? They've never been acted.

Trundleben: Well—er—no, not exactly acted, Sir Webley.

Sir Webley: What do you mean by not exactly, Trundleben?

Trundleben: Well, I believe they were acted in America, though of course not in London.

Sir Webley: In America? What's that got to do with it. America? Why, that's the other side of the Atlantic.

Trundleben: Oh, yes, Sir Webley, I—I quite agree with you.

Sir Webley: America! I daresay they did. I daresay they did act them. But that doesn't make him a suitable member for the Olympus. Quite the contrary.

Neeks: Oh, quite the contrary.

Trundleben: Oh, certainly, Sir Webley, certainly.

Sir Webley: I daresay "Macbeth" would be the sort of thing that would appeal to Irish Americans. Just the sort of thing.

Trundleben: Very likely, Sir Webley, I'm sure.

Sir Webley: Their game laws are very lax, I believe, over there; they probably took to him on account of his being a poacher.

Trundleben: I've no doubt of it, Sir Webley. Very likely.

Neeks: I expect that was just it.

Sir Webley: Well now, Trundleben; are we to ask the Olympus to elect a man who'll come in here with his pockets bulging with rabbits.

Neeks: Rabbits, and hares too.

Sir Webley: And venison even, if you come to that.

Trundleben: Yes indeed, Sir Webley.

Sir Webley: Thank God the Olympus can get its haunch of venison without having to go to a man like that for it.

Neeks: Yes indeed.

Trundleben: Indeed I hope so.

Sir Webley: Well now, about those plays. I don't say we've absolute proof that the man's entirely hopeless. We must be sure of our ground.

Neeks: Yes, quite so.

Trundleben: Oh, I'm afraid Sir Webley, they're very bad indeed. There are some quite unfortunate—er—references in them.

Sir Webley: So I should have supposed. So I should have supposed.

Neeks: Yes, yes, of course.

Trundleben: For instance, in that play about that funny ship—I have a list of the characters here—and I'm afraid, well—er,—er you see for yourself. (Hands paper.) You see that is, I am afraid, in very bad taste, Sir Webley.

Sir Webley: Certainly, Trundleben, certainly. Very bad indeed.

Neeks (peering): Er—er, what is it, Sir Webley?

Sir Webley (pointing): That, you see.

Neeks: A—a drunken butler! But most regrettable.

Sir Webley: A very deserving class. A—a quite gratuitous slight. I don't say you mightn't see one drunken butler ...

Trundleben: Quite so.

Neeks: Yes, of course.

Sir Webley: But to put it boldly on a programme like that is practically tantamount to implying that all butlers are drunken.

Trundleben: Which is by no means true.

Sir Webley: There would naturally be a protest of some sort, and to have a member of the Olympus mixed up with a controversy like that would be—er—naturally—er—most ...

Trundleben: Yes, of course, Sir Webley.

Sir Webley: And then of course, if he does a thing like that once ...

Neeks: There are probably other lapses just as deplorable.

Trundleben: I haven't gone through his whole list, Sir Webley. I often feel about these modern writers that perhaps the less one looks the less one will find that might be, er ...

Sir Webley: Yes, quite so.

Neeks: That is certainly true.

Sir Webley: Well, we can't wade all through his list of characters to see if they are all suitable to be represented on a stage.

Trundleben: Oh no, Sir Webley, quite impossible; there are—there are—I might say—hundreds of them.

Sir Webley: Good gracious! He must have been wasting his time a great deal.

Trundleben: Oh, a great deal, Sir Webley.

Sir Webley: But we shall have to go further into this. We can't have ...

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.

[He is about to go round behind it.

de Reves: No, don't go round there.

Prattle: What? Why not?

de Reves: Oh, you wouldn't understand.

Prattle: Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got?

de Reves: Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand.

Prattle: Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look.

[The Poet walks towards Prattle and the screen. He protests no further. Prattle looks round the corner of the screen.

An altar.

de Reves (removing the screen altogether): That is all. What do you make of it?

[An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. Papers litter the floor all about it.

Prattle: I say—you always were an untidy devil.

de Reves: Well, what do you make of it?

Prattle: It reminds me of your room at Eton.

de Reves: My room at Eton?

Prattle: Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.

de Reves: Oh, yes——

Prattle: And what are these?

de Reves: All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame.

Prattle: To Fame?

de Reves: The same that Homer knew.

Prattle: Good Lord!

de Reves: Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever.

Prattle: But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there really is such a person?

de Reves: I offer all my songs to her.

Prattle: But you don't mean you think you could actually see Fame?

de Reves: We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only but sculptors