Here are the avenues for incantation and workshops
for the cunning engravers.
The galleries are full of music, the pianist is storm-
ing the keys, the great cellist is crucified over his
instrument,
That none may hear the ejaculations of the sentinels
Nor the sigh of the most numerous and the most
poor; the thud of their falling bodies
Who with their lives have banished hence the serpent
and the faceless insect.
(The gardens of Paradise Park. A beautifully kept lawn. Numbers of people are walking about the stage in sports clothes of various kinds or propelling themselves hither and thither in invalid chairs. Some lie on the grass absorbed in books. In the background are two large trees. In one of the trees sits the Poet, smoking cigarettes: In the other are two Lovers, dressed in nursery-teapot-Dutch costumes. In the distance, the band plays a waltz.)
chorus. When you're in trouble,
When you get the air,
When everything returns your ring
Do not despair, because although
Friends may forsake you
And all skies are dark
You can be gay if you just step this way
Into Paradise Park.
Was it a tiring day
On your office stool?
Has your wife all your life
Made you feel a fool? Don't cry, for though
Landlords perplex you
And all bosses frown,
In Paradise Park you can feet a young spark
And do them down! (Enter Alan and the Dog.
They approach the Poet's tree.)
Alan. (To Poet.) Excuse me, sir. Is this Paradise
Park?
Poet. ἕστινΘάλασσα, τίζ δέ νιν χατασβέσαι.
Alan. I beg your pardon?
Poet. Nil nimium studeo, Caesar, tibi velle placere nec scire utrum sis albus aut ater homo.
Alan. I'm awfully sorry, but I don't understand.
Do you speak English?
Poet. Nessum maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice.
Alan. I know a little German, if that will do. Entschuldigen Sic, bitte. Koennen Sic mir sagen, ob dies ist der Garten von Paradies?
Poet. Dans l'an trentième de mon age. . . . (Alan begins to move off.) Oh well, if you insist on talking our filthy native language, I suppose I must. . . . Give me a cigarette. I've finished mine.
Alan. I'm so sorry. . . . Of course.
Is the name Sir Francis Crewe
Known by any chance to you?
Poet. Did you like it?
Alan. Er . . . ?
Poet. I'm so glad you did I I wrote it!
Alan. Wrote what!
Poet. "Advances New," of course. Now tell me, which section did you like the best? Mandrake is the best technically, of course. But cinders is more the real me, I think.
Alan. I'm afraid you misunderstood me. I said Sir Francis Crewe. I've been looking for him.
Poet. "Your chase had a beast in view."
Alan. You know where he is?
Poet. Well, of course.
Alan. Where?
Poet. (Tapping his forehead.) Here. Everything's here. You're here. He's here. This park's here. This tree's here. If I shut my eyes they all disappear.
Alan. And what happens if I shut my eyes? Do you disappear, too?
Poet. (Crossly.) No, of course not! I'm the only real person in the whole world.
Alan. Well, suppose your tree was cut down? It wouldn't be there when you looked for it. Poet. Nonsense! The axe wouldn't exist unless I thought of it. The woodcutter wouldn't exist either.
Alan. Isn't your father the famous financier?
Poet. I used to think so. But I got tired of that and forgot him. Give me another cigarette. (As he leans down, the Dog jumps up and bites his hand.)
Poet. (Nursing his hand.) Why can't you keep your blasted dog in order? Oh, my poor hand!
Alan. I'm most dreadfully sorry. But you see, he's never seen a real person before. When you're only an imaginary dog and have been eating imaginary
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