these works are plays?
FANNY. I assure you I dont.
TROTTER. Not in any sense of the word?
FANNY. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays.
TROTTER. [disappointed] That last remark destroys all the value of your admission. You admire these—these theatrical nondescripts? You enjoy them?
FANNY. Dont you?
TROTTER. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose I prefer popular melodramas? Have I not written most appreciative notices of them? But I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I cant consent to remain in this house another minute if anything remotely resembling them is to be foisted on me as a play.
FANNY. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only want you to tell my father that plays are not plays nowadays—not in your sense of the word.
TROTTER. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the word! You believe that my criticism is merely a personal impression; that—
FANNY. You always said it was.
TROTTER. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had been classically educated—
FANNY. But I have.
TROTTER. Pooh! Cambridge! If you had been educated at Oxford, you would know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly and scientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years. When I say that these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense of the word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortal Stagirite.
FANNY. Who is the Stagirite?
TROTTER. [shocked] You dont know who the Stagirite was?
FANNY. Sorry. Never heard of him.
TROTTER. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my dear young lady, I'm delighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant spoil you by dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly becoming to your age and sex. So we'll leave it at that.
FANNY. But you will promise to tell my father that lots of people write plays just like this one—that I havnt selected it out of mere heartlessness?
TROTTER. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father about the play until Ive seen the play. But I'll tell you what I shall say to him about you. I shall say that youre a very foolish young lady; that youve got into a very questionable set; and that the sooner he takes you away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the better.
FANNY. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father. In Cambridge we regard you as a bel esprit, a wit, an Irresponsible, a Parisian Immoralist, tres chic.
TROTTER. I!
FANNY. Theres quite a Trotter set.
TROTTER. Well, upon my word!
FANNY. They go in for adventures and call you Aramis.
TROTTER. They wouldnt dare!
FANNY. You always make such delicious fun of the serious people. Your insouciance—
TROTTER. [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not a proper language for a young girl. Great heavens! how is it possible that a few innocent pleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood? Ive tried all my life to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. Ive lived a blameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in the face of ridicule and insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre of Immoralism! of Modern Minxism! a trifler with the most sacred subjects! a Nietzschean!! perhaps a Shavian!!!
FANNY. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr. Trotter?
TROTTER. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare you ask me such a question?
FANNY. Then why dont you play for it?
TROTTER. I do play for it—short, of course, of making myself ridiculous.
FANNY. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good cause! Oh, Mr. Trotter. Thats vieux jeu.
TROTTER. [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not allow it.
FANNY. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date. The Cambridge Fabian Society—
TROTTER. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me.
FANNY. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making yourself ridiculous."
TROTTER. Skate! What has that to do with it?
FANNY. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery."
TROTTER. Ice of life indeed! You should be eating penny ices and enjoying yourself. I wont hear another word.
The Count returns.
THE COUNT. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear. Have you been detaining Mr. Trotter all this time?
TROTTER. I'm so sorry. I must have just a little brush up: I [He hurries out].
THE COUNT. My dear, you should be in the drawing-room. You should not have kept him here.
FANNY. I know. Dont scold me: I had something important to say to him.
THE COUNT. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner.
FANNY. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go off well.
THE COUNT. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along.
FANNY. Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone. Who was the Stagirite?
THE COUNT. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you dont know?
FANNY. Havnt the least notion.
THE COUNT. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, dont mention him to Mr. Trotter.
They go to the dining-room.
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