Fanny’s First Play

from him all the dangers and disgraces that keep men of finer perception in check. The Count approaches them hospitably. Savoyard Count O’Dowda, gentlemen. Mr. Trotter. 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 Don’t 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 show 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: that’s 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 you’re influencing them shamelessly all the time. Fanny Don’t 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 you’re doing it beautifully. Don’t be afraid. Every nuance is perfect. Fanny It’s so kind of you to say so, Mr. Trotter. But that isn’t what’s 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 can’t understand what it means to Papa. You’re not so innocent as he is. Trotter Remonstrating. My dear young lady⁠— Fanny I don’t mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your articles knows you’re as innocent as a lamb. Trotter What! Fanny Yes, Mr. Trotter: I’ve seen a good deal of life since I came to England; and I assure you that to me you’re 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. That’s one of our classifications in the Cambridge Fabian Society. Trotter Classifications? I don’t 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 That’s one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr. Trotter; but it doesn’t take me in. You see, I’m much more conscious of what you really are than you are yourself, because we’ve discussed you thoroughly at Cambridge; and you’ve never discussed yourself, have you? Trotter I⁠— Fanny Of course you haven’t; so you see it’s no good Trottering at me. Trotter Trottering! Fanny That’s what we call it at Cambridge. Trotter If it were not so obviously a stage cliché, I should say Damn Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn you. If you’re going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coax me. If you’re 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 haven’t 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 don’t 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 daren’t let him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if he heard three bars of Elektra, it’d part us forever. Now what I want you to do is this. If he’s very angry⁠—if he hates the