TROTTER. [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the pleasure of meeting a confrere?
THE COUNT. No, sir: I have no right to my costume except the right of a lover of the arts to dress myself handsomely. You are most welcome, Mr. Trotter. [Trotter bows in the French manner].
SAVOYARD. Mr. Vaughan.
THE COUNT. How do you do, Mr. Vaughan?
VAUGHAN. Quite well, thanks.
SAVOYARD. Mr. Gunn.
THE COUNT. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gunn.
GUNN. Very pleased.
SAVOYARD. Mr. Flawner Bannal.
THE COUNT. Very kind of you to come, Mr. Bannal.
BANNAL. Dont mention it.
THE COUNT. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. We are very greatly indebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim. [The dressing bell sounds. The Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The dressing bell, gentlemen. As our play begins at nine, I have had to put forward the dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your rooms? [He goes out, followed by all the men, except Trotter, who, going last, is detained by Fanny].
FANNY. Mr. Trotter: I want to say something to you about this play.
TROTTER. No: thats forbidden. You must not attempt to souffler the critic.
FANNY. Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion.
TROTTER. But you do: you are influencing me very shockingly. You invite me to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming dinner. And just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming young lady to be talked to about the play. How can you expect me to be impartial? God forbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do more than record an impression; but my impressions can be influenced; and in this case youre influencing them shamelessly all the time.
FANNY. Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr. Trotter. If you knew how I feel!
TROTTER. Naturally: your first party: your first appearance in England as hostess. But youre doing it beautifully. Dont be afraid. Every nuance is perfect.
FANNY. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr. Trotter. But that isnt whats the matter. The truth is, this play is going to give my father a dreadful shock.
TROTTER. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. Half the young ladies in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them to plays that are not fit for elderly people to see.
FANNY. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it means to Papa. Youre not so innocent as he is.
TROTTER. [remonstrating] My dear young lady—
FANNY. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your articles knows youre as innocent as a lamb.
TROTTER. What!
FANNY. Yes, Mr. Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby: a dear, good, well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee lamb in a world of wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my father's time.
TROTTER. Well, I must say!
FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge Fabian Society.
TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand.
FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the sorts is the "I must says."
TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute "Blame my cats!" No: I substitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I say again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens. Impertinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is on your conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of those in which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers in the art of milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your father. Well, I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall recommend him to smack you soundly and pack you off to bed.
FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr. Trotter; but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what you really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you thoroughly at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you?
TROTTER. I—
FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me.
TROTTER. Trottering!
FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge.
TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage cliche, I should say Damn Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn you. If youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coax me. If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I'll treat you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man.
FANNY. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals, Mr. Trotter!
TROTTER. I'm getting the worst of this.
FANNY. Oh no. Why do you say that?
TROTTER. May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently?
FANNY. What does it matter? We're both ready. I havnt told you yet what I want you to do for me.
TROTTER. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except out of pure magnanimity. What is it?
FANNY. I dont mind this play shocking my father morally. It's good for him to be shocked morally. It's all that the young can do for the old, to shock them and keep them up to date. But I know that this play will shock him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral consideration could make a breach between us: he would forgive me for anything of that kind sooner or later; but he never gives way on a point of art. I darent let him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if he heard three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for ever. Now what I want you to do is this. If hes very angry—if he hates the play, because it's a modern play—will you tell him that it's not my fault; that its style and construction, and so forth, are considered the very highest art nowadays; that the author wrote it in the proper way for repertory theatres of the most superior kind—you know the kind of plays I mean?
TROTTER. [emphatically] I think I know the sort of entertainments you mean. But please do not beg a vital question by calling them plays. I dont pretend to be an authority; but I have at least established the fact that these productions, whatever else they may be, are certainly not plays.
FANNY. The authors dont say they are.
TROTTER. [warmly] I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to say, a personal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly subterfuge of calling them conversations, discussions, and so forth, with the express object of evading criticism. But I'm not to be disarmed by such tricks. I say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you will. Exhibitions of character, perhaps: especially the character of the author. Fictions, possibly, though a little decent reticence as to introducing actual persons, and thus violating the
