Fanny’s First Play

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 don’t 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 don’t 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 sanctity of private life, might not be amiss. But plays, no. I say no. Not plays. If you will not concede this point I can’t continue our conversation. I take this seriously. It’s a matter of principle. I must ask you, Miss O’Dowda, before we go a step further, Do you or do you not claim that these works are plays? Fanny I assure you I don’t. 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 Don’t 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 they’re not plays. They’re not plays. I can’t 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 they’re 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 don’t 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 don’t 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 there’s something you don’t know; and I shan’t 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 haven’t selected it out of mere heartlessness? Trotter I can’t possibly tell you what I shall say to your father about the play until I’ve seen the play. But I’ll tell you what I shall say to him about you. I shall say that you’re a very foolish young lady; that you’ve 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 There’s quite a Trotter set. Trotter Well, upon my word! Fanny They go in for adventures and call you Aramis. Trotter They wouldn’t 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? I’ve tried all my life to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. I’ve lived a blameless life. I’ve 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 don’t 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. That’s vieux jeu. Trotter Shouting at her. Don’t 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 That’s 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 won’t 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