Fanny’s First Play

and all that⁠—three weeks of it would drive me melancholy mad. However, I’m glad you told me, because it explains why it is you don’t seem to know your way about much in England. I hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction to your daughter. The Count She seems quite satisfied. She tells me that the actors you sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice people to work with. I understand she had some difficulties at the first rehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he hadn’t read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about everything went smoothly. Savoyard Haven’t you seen the rehearsals? The Count Oh no. I haven’t been allowed even to meet any of the company. All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman: Savoyard is rather scandalized. I asked her not to have an English hero. That is all I know. Ruefully. I haven’t been consulted even about the costumes, though there, I think, I could have been some use. Savoyard Puzzled. But there aren’t any costumes. The Count Seriously shocked. What! No costumes! Do you mean to say it is a modern play? Savoyard I don’t know: I didn’t read it. I handed it to Billy Burjoyce⁠—the producer, you know⁠—and left it to him to select the company and so on. But I should have had to order the costumes if there had been any. There weren’t. The Count Smiling as he recovers from his alarm. I understand. She has taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in beautiful costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr. Savoyard, that what you are about to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. The heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks the father and brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle. Savoyard I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman will make five. That’s why you wanted five men in the company. The Count My dear sir, you don’t suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly, silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the existence of such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of the Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Savoyard Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are rot. They’ve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy Burjoyce told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, and had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she’d been away in Venice all the time. The Count Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge. Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were no women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at Cambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I said yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private performance of it with real actors and real critics. Savoyard Yes: that’s what staggered me. It was easy enough to engage a company for a private performance: it’s done often enough. But the notion of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it. They don’t expect private engagements; and so they have no agents. Besides, I didn’t know what to offer them. I knew that they were cheaper than actors, because they get long engagements: forty years sometimes; but that’s no rule for a single job. Then there’s such a lot of them: on first nights they run away with all your stalls: you can’t find a decent place for your own mother. It would have cost a fortune to bring the lot. The Count Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a few first-rate representative men. Savoyard Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of a hundred notices you won’t find more than four at the outside that say anything different. Well, I’ve got just the right four for you. And what do you think it has cost me? The Count Shrugging his shoulders. I cannot guess. Savoyard Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal ten. He wouldn’t come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, because if we hadn’t had him we might just as well have had nobody at all. The Count But what about the others, if Mr. Flannel⁠— Savoyard Shocked. Flawner Bannal. The Count —if Mr. Bannal got the whole ten? Savoyard Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, the first man I went for was Trotter. The Count Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr. Trotter. I have read his Playful Impressions. Savoyard Well, I was rather in a funk about him. He’s not exactly what I call approachable; and he was a bit standoff at first. But when I explained and told him your daughter⁠— The Count Interrupting in alarm. You did not say that the play was by her, I hope? Savoyard No: that’s been kept a dead secret. I just said your daughter has asked for a real play with a real author and a real critic and all the rest of it. The moment I mentioned