Scanned and proofed by Ron Burkey (rburkey@heads-up.com) and Amy Thomte.
This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays
"Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play",
and the essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children".
Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with underlines
("_"). Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text.
Shaw intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard
system. For example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe),
"Dr." is given as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and
"Shakespeare" is given as "Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where
several characters in the play are speaking at once, I have indicated
it with vertical bars ("|"). The pound (currency) symbol has been
replaced by the word "pounds".
FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
BY BERNARD SHAW
1911
PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface. But its
lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. Mere morality, or the
substitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful
and cynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and
dishonor, of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of
morality and immorality. The word morality, if we met it in the
Bible, would surprise us as much as the word telephone or motor car.
Nowadays we do not seem to know that there is any other test of
conduct except morality; and the result is that the young had better
have their souls awakened by disgrace, capture by the police, and a
month's hard labor, than drift along from their cradles to their
graves doing what other people do for no other reason than that other
people do it, and knowing nothing of good and evil, of courage and
cowardice, or indeed anything but how to keep hunger and concupiscence
and fashionable dressing within the bounds of good taste except when
their excesses can be concealed. Is it any wonder that I am driven to
offer to young people in our suburbs the desperate advice: Do
something that will get you into trouble? But please do not suppose
that I defend a state of things which makes such advice the best that
can be given under the circumstances, or that I do not know how
difficult it is to find out a way of getting into trouble that will
combine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respect and
reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings and interests on
every point except their dread of losing their own respectability.
But when there's a will there's a way. I hate to see dead people
walking about: it is unnatural. And our respectable middle class
people are all as dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have
delivered on them the judgment of her God.
The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play under
the names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me: in fact Mr
Trotter forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr
Claude King so successfully simulated his personal appearance. The
critics whom I did not introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should have
been myself under the same circumstances; but I had not room for them
all; so I can only apologize and assure them that I meant no
disrespect.
The concealment of the authorship, if a _secret de Polichinelle_ can
be said to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play. In
so far as it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to
those critics and playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained
legendary reputation that they approach my plays in a condition which
is really one of derangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play
of mine as anything but a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to
compass their ethical perversion and intellectual confusion. If it
were possible, I should put forward all my plays anonymously, or hire
some less disturbing person, as Bacon is said to have hired
Shakespear, to father my plays for me.
Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the Little
Theatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April
19th 1911.
FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
INDUCTION
_The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence
Towers, the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form
a stage for a private theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose
Spanish livery enters before the curtain, on its O.P. side._
FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes
in: a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He
is surprised to find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh,
beg pardon, sir: I thought the Count was here. He was when I took up
your name. He must have gone through the stage into the library.
This way, sir. [He moves towards the division in the middle of the
curtains].
SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play
begin? Half-past eight?
FOOTMAN. Nine, sir.
SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the
George that it's not until nine?
FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir?
SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget.
THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in
through the curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr
Cecil Savoyard, sir. [He withdraws].
COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied
elegance a hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake
hands with his visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly
recollected that all the bookcases in the library were locked--in fact
theyve never been opened since we came from Venice--and as our
literary guests will probably use the library a good deal, I just ran
in to unlock everything.
SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose
theres a smoking room?
THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, you
understand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard?
SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's
obsolete costume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear
in the piece yourself.
THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I
had better explain the position, if it interests you.
SAVOYARD. Certainly.
THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your
world. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'm
not really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life
in Italy--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one: I am a
Count of the Holy Roman Empire.
SAVOYARD. Where's that?
THE COUNT. At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal.
[Savoyard inclines his head respectfully to the ideal]. But I am by
no means an idealogue. I am not content with beautiful dreams: I
want beautiful realities.
SAVOYARD. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there--when you can get them.
THE COUNT. Why not get them? The difficulty is not that there are no
beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the difficulty is that so few of us
know them when we see them. We have inherited from the past a vast
treasure of beauty--of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of
painting, of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite
fashions in dress, in furniture, in domestic decoration. We can
contemplate these treasures. We can reproduce many of them. We can
buy a few inimitable originals. We can shut out the nineteenth
century--
SAVOYARD. [correcting him] The twentieth.
THE COUNT. To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenth
century, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the
Queen, no matter how many kings may succeed. I found England befouled
with industrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused to
live in it. You remember Byron's words: "I am sure my bones would
not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that
country. I believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed
could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey
my carcase back to her soil. I would not even feed her worms if I
could help it."
SAVOYARD. Did Byron say that?
THE COUNT. He did, sir.
SAVOYARD. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal of him at one
time.
THE COUNT. You! But how is that possible? You are too young.
SAVOYARD. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a job in the
original production of Our Boys.
THE COUNT. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord Byron, the poet.
SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were talking of the
Byron. So you prefer living abroad?
THE COUNT. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, I dont live in
it. I find modern houses ugly. I dont live in them: I have a palace
on the grand canal. I find modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them,
except, of course, in the street. My ears are offended by the Cockney
twang: I keep out of hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian.
I find Beethoven's music coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless
and detestable. I do not listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to
Pergolesi, to Gluck and Mozart. Nothing simpler, sir.
SAVOYARD. It's all right when you can afford it.
THE COUNT. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a
sense of beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in
Venice on 1500 pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial
millionaires are spending twenty thousand on the amusements of
billiard markers. I assure you I am a poor man according to modern
ideas. But I have never had anything less than the very best that
life has produced. It is my good fortune to have a beautiful and
lovable daughter; and that girl, sir, has never seen an ugly sight or
heard an ugly sound that I could spare her; and she has certainly
never worn an ugly dress or tasted coarse food or bad wine in her
life. She has lived in a palace; and her perambulator was a gondola.
Now you know the sort of people we are, Mr Savoyard. You can imagine
how we feel here.
SAVOYARD. Rather out of it, eh?
THE COUNT. Out of it, sir! Out of what?
SAVOYARD. Well, out of everything.
THE COUNT. Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of
vulgarity and ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and
stupidity. Out of all this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted
region of which great artists alone have had the secret, in the sacred
footsteps of Byron, of Shelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and
Ruskin. Dont you envy me, Mr Savoyard?
SAVOYARD. Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep the
place going. Besides--though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all right
from the high art point of view 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 dont 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
hadnt read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about
everything went smoothly.
SAVOYARD. Havnt you seen the rehearsals?
THE COUNT. Oh no. I havnt 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 havnt been
consulted even about the costumes, though there, I think, I could have
been some use.
SAVOYARD. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes.
THE COUNT. [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! Do you mean to
say it is a modern play?
SAVOYARD. I dont know: I didnt 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 wernt.
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. Thats why you wanted five men in the company.
THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont 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. Theyve 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: thats 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 dont expect private engagements; and so they have no
agents. Besides, I didnt know what to offer them. I knew that they
were cheaper than actors, because they get long engagements: forty
years sometimes; but thats no rule for a single job. Then theres such
a lot of them: on first nights they run away with all your stalls:
you cant 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 wont find more than four at the outside that say
anything different. Well, Ive 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 wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it,
because if we hadnt 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. Hes not exactly
what I call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off 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: thats 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 the daughter I
had him. He has a daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment!
Offered to come just to please her! Quite human. I was surprised.
THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him.
SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as
the drama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him
Trotter would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird.
Then I thought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go
for the newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed
Gilbert Gunn. The four will give you a representative team. By the
way [looking at his watch] theyll be here presently.
THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints
about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them?
I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might
unwittingly say something tactless.
SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont
know that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English:
never happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so
unnecessarily well that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the
moment he opens his mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends to turn
up his nose at the theatre and says people make too much fuss about
art [the Count is extremely indignant]. But thats only his modesty,
because art is his own line, you understand. Mind you dont chaff him
about Aristotle.
THE COUNT. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle?
SAVOYARD. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways of
chaffing him. However, youll get on with him all right: hes a man of
the world and a man of sense. The one youll have to be careful about
is Vaughan.
THE COUNT. In what way, may I ask?
SAVOYARD. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke with
him he'll think youre insulting him on purpose. Mind: it's not that
he doesnt see a joke: he does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene
makes him sore all over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches
into the play for all hes worth.
THE COUNT. But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of his
profession?
SAVOYARD. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is honest, and dont
care a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody or
not; and you must have one man of that sort to say the things that
nobody else will say.
THE COUNT. It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labor
too far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in
separate compartments. What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask?
SAVOYARD. Gunn is one of the intellectuals.
THE COUNT. But arnt they all intellectuals?
SAVOYARD. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be careful what you say
about that: I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual: I
dont think any Englishman would! They dont count really, you know;
but still it's rather the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the
young intellectuals: he writes plays himself. Hes useful because he
pitches into the older intellectuals who are standing in his way. But
you may take it from me that none of these chaps really matter.
Flawner Bannal's your man. Bannal really represents the British
playgoer. When he likes a thing, you may take your oath there are a
hundred thousand people in London thatll like it if they can only be
got to know about it. Besides, Bannal's knowledge of the theatre is
an inside knowledge. We know him; and he knows us. He knows the
ropes: he knows his way about: he knows what hes talking about.
THE COUNT. [with a little sigh] Age and experience, I suppose?
SAVOYARD. Age! I should put him at twenty at the very outside,
myself. It's not an old man's job after all, is it? Bannal may not
ride the literary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take
his opinion before any other in London. Hes the man in the street;
and thats what you want.
THE COUNT. I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his full
terms. I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound
opinion. He may feel shabbily treated.
SAVOYARD. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his asking fifty.
After all, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly good business for him
to earn ten guineas: hes done the same job often enough for half a
quid, I expect.
_Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited and
nervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her
father's._
FANNY. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one of them has a
cocked hat and sword like a-- [she notices Savoyard] Oh, I beg
your pardon.
THE COUNT. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear.
FANNY. [shaking hands] How do you do?
SAVOYARD. Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda. The cocked hat is all
right. Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee. He induced
them to go in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him
to wear it.
THE FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr
Flawner Bannal. [The four critics enter. Trotter wears a diplomatic
dress, with sword and three-cornered hat. His age is about 50.
Vaughan is 40. Gunn is 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike
the others. They can be classed at sight as professional men: Bannal
is obviously one of those unemployables of the business class who
manage to pick up a living by a sort of courage which gives him
cheerfulness, conviviality, and bounce, and is helped out positively
by a slight turn for writing, and negatively by a comfortable
ignorance and lack of intuition which hides 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. 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 sanctity of
private life, might not be amiss. But plays, no. I say NO. Not
plays. If you will not concede this point I cant 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 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._
THE PLAY
ACT I
_In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits
at breakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is at the end of the
oblong dining-table furthest from the fire. There is an empty chair
at the other end. The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is
next the fireplace, between it and the corner. An arm-chair stands
beside the coal-scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the
sideboard, parallel to the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly
dining-room chairs, ranged against the walls, and including a baby
rocking-chair on the lady's side of the room. The lady is a placid
person. Her husband, Mr Robin Gilbey, not at all placid, bursts
violently into the room with a letter in his hand._
GILBEY. [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This is a b--
MRS GILBEY. [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please.
Whatever it is, bad language wont make it better.
GILBEY. [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. Take your
boy's part against me. [He flings himself into the empty chair
opposite her].
MRS GILBEY. When he does anything right, hes your son. When he does
anything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him?
GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you.
MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort,
at all events.
GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of the
river for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and
paces the room distractedly].
MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand?
GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York.
Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice
thing, isnt it?
MRS GILBEY. What for?
GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do _I_ know what
for?
MRS GILBEY. What does he say?
GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles]
This is what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had
to follow me across the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day.
I am afraid he is incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels
that this last escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think,
myself, that Bobby ought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve
a certain degree of reprobation." "As you may imagine"! And we know
no more about it than the babe unborn.
MRS GILBEY. What else does he say?
GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame
himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive
formality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had
better be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer
on visiting terms. As ever, yours sincerely." [His agitation
masters him again] Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a man
in his position! This is what your son has brought on me.
MRS GILBEY. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. He as good as
tells you hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good.
GILBEY. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and hang it up over
the mantelpiece as a testimonial.
MRS GILBEY. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to be thankful to
know that the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly
a week.
GILBEY. Nearly a week! A fortnight, you mean. Wheres your feelings,
woman? It was fourteen days yesterday.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was in
prison.
GILBEY. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got on my nerves so,
that I'd believe even that.
MRS GILBEY. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get into a scrape like
any other lad; but he'd never do anything low.
_Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. He is a
rather low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and
address, and iron self-command._
JUGGINS. [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes to see
Mr Bobby's parents, sir.
GILBEY. [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's parent. I
disown him.
JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey].
MRS GILBEY. You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins: he
doesnt mean it. [She takes the card and reads it]. Well, I never!
GILBEY. Whats up now?
MRS GILBEY. [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling Dora." Just like
that--in brackets. What sort of person, Juggins?
GILBEY. Whats her address?
MRS GILBEY. The West Circular Road. Is that a respectable address,
Juggins?
JUGGINS. A great many most respectable people live in the West
Circular Road, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of
respectability.
GILBEY. So it's come to that with him, has it?
MRS GILBEY. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How do you know? [To
Juggins] Is she a lady, Juggins? You know what I mean.
JUGGINS. In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam.
MRS GILBEY. I'd better try what I can get out of her. [To Juggins]
Shew her up. You dont mind, do you, Rob?
GILBEY. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her.
[He rises and plants himself on the hearth-rug].
_Juggins goes out._
MRS GILBEY. I wonder what she wants, Rob?
GILBEY. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a farthing. A
nice thing, everybody seeing her on our doorstep! If it wasnt that
she may tell us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the
hussy into the street.
JUGGINS. [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He waits for
express orders before placing a chair for this visitor].
_Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious disposition,
very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. She is so affable and
confidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by
any process short of flinging her out of the house._
DORA. [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middle
of the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of Bobby's. He told
me all about you once, in a moment of confidence. Of course he never
let on who he was at the police court.
GILBEY. Police court!
MRS GILBEY. [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Tch--! Juggins:
a chair.
DORA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Juggins
approvingly as he places a chair for her between the table and the
sideboard] But hes the right sort: I can see that. [Buttonholing
him] You wont let on downstairs, old man, will you?
JUGGINS. The family can rely on my absolute discretion. [He
withdraws].
DORA. [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youll say to me:
you know I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to
do? You know Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you? But of course you
do.
GILBEY. [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother of
Monsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking.
DORA. [wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont tell me that old
geezer has a brother a Monsignor! And youre Catholics! And I never
knew it, though Ive known Bobby ever so long! But of course the last
thing you find out about a person is their religion, isnt it?
MRS GILBEY. We're not Catholics. But when the Samuelses got an
Archdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby
ought to have a chance too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr
Gilbey consulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his
that was more sinned against than sinning.
GILBEY. [on tenderhooks] She dont want to hear about that, Maria.
[To Dora] Whats your business?
DORA. I'm afraid it was all my fault.
GILBEY. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. I dont know
what has happened to the boy: hes been lost these fourteen days--
MRS GILBEY. A fortnight, Rob.
GILBEY. --and not a word have we heard of him since.
MRS GILBEY. Dont fuss, Rob.
GILBEY. [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You dont care
what becomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely].
DORA. [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of course. How
thoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe. Indeed
hes in the safest place in the world, as one may say: safe under lock
and key.
GILBEY. [horrified, pitiable] Oh my-- [his breath fails him].
Do you mean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock?
Oh, Maria! Oh, great Lord! What has he done? What has he got for
it? [Desperate] Will you tell me or will you see me go mad on my
own carpet?
DORA. [sweetly] Yes, old dear--
MRS GILBEY. [starting at the familiarity] Well!
DORA. [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: hes all
right. I came out myself this morning: there was such a crowd! and a
band! they thought I was a suffragette: only fancy! You see it was
like this. Holy Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion
sprinter at college.
MRS GILBEY. A what?
DORA. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner in
England. We were all in the old cowshed that night.
MRS GILBEY. What old cowshed?
GILBEY. [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on.
DORA. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of me! It's a
rather go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. We call it the old
cowshed.
MRS GILBEY. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls?
DORA. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: fairly laps it
up like a kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling--"
MRS GILBEY. [placidly] Why does he call you Darling?
DORA. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of name Ive got.
Darling Dora, you know. Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy
Joe to sprint a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the
gold keys."
MRS GILBEY. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey
clutches at his hair in his impatience].
DORA. Well, what would he call him? After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe;
and boys will be boys.
MRS GILBEY. Whats a squiffer?
DORA. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concertina. Theres one
in a shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia
leather bellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt
afford it, poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me.
GILBEY. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I
shall go out of my senses. Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for
ever; and all you care to know is what a squiffer is.
DORA. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man wouldnt take a penny
less than 15 pounds for it. It was a presentation one.
GILBEY. [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats happened to my
son? Will you tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer?
DORA. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, old dear.
And you neednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby behaved like a
perfect gentleman. Besides, it was all my fault. I'll own it: I
took too much champagne. I was not what you might call drunk; but I
was bright, and a little beyond myself; and--I'll confess it--I wanted
to shew off before Bobby, because he was a bit taken by a woman on the
stage; and she was pretending to be game for anything. You see youve
brought Bobby up too strict; and when he gets loose theres no holding
him. He does enjoy life more than any lad I ever met.
GILBEY. Never you mind how hes been brought up: thats my business.
Tell me how hes been brought down: thats yours.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob.
DORA. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so headstrong. Well,
it was a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the
nod; so we started to walk, very jolly, you know: arm in arm, and
dancing along, singing and all that. When we came into Jamaica
Square, there was a young copper on point duty at the corner. I says
to Bob: "Dearie boy: is it a bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe
sprint for you?" "Anything you like, darling," says he: "I love
you." I put on my best company manners and stepped up to the copper.
"If you please, sir," says I, "can you direct me to Carrickmines
Square?" I was so genteel, and talked so sweet, that he fell to it
like a bird. "I never heard of any such Square in these parts," he
says. "Then," says I, "what a very silly little officer you must
be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knocked it over his
eyes, and did a bunk.
MRS GILBEY. Did a what?
DORA. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he sprinted faster
than he ever did in college, I bet, the old dear. He got clean off,
too. Just as he was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard
the whistle; and at the sound of it he drew away like a streak of
lightning; and that was the last I saw of him. I was copped in the
Dock Road myself: rotten luck, wasn't it? I tried the innocent and
genteel and all the rest; but Bobby's hat done me in.
GILBEY. And what happened to the boy?
DORA. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! He thought the
copper would see the joke, poor lamb. He was arguing about it when
the two that took me came along to find out what the whistle was for,
and brought me with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before
in my life; but there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops were
very spiteful and laid it on for all they were worth: drunk and
disorderly and assaulting the police and all that. I got fourteen
days without the option, because you see--well, the fact is, I'd done
it before, and been warned. Bobby was a first offender and had the
option; but the dear boy had no money left and wouldnt give you away
by telling his name; and anyhow he couldnt have brought himself to buy
himself off and leave me there; so hes doing his time. Well, it was
two forty shillingses; and Ive only twenty-eight shillings in the
world. If I pawn my clothes I shant be able to earn any more. So I
cant pay the fine and get him out; but if youll stand 3 pounds I'll
stand one; and thatll do it. If youd like to be very kind and nice
you could pay the lot; but I cant deny that it was my fault; so I wont
press you.
GILBEY. [heart-broken] My son in gaol!
DORA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look at me after
fourteen days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet.
You mustnt let it prey on your mind.
GILBEY. The disgrace of it will kill me. And it will leave a mark on
him to the end of his life.
DORA. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive educated Bobby a
bit: hes not the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand.
MRS GILBEY. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. They wanted him to go
in for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, of
course, I couldnt allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out.
GILBEY. [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you.
DORA. Oh, aint we cross!
GILBEY. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a respectable
household. Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble.
It's the like of you thats the ruin of the like of him.
DORA. So you always say, you old dears. But you know better. Bobby
came to me: I didnt come to him.
GILBEY. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to?
Tell me that. You know why he went to you, I suppose?
DORA. [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt
it?
MRS GILBEY. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. And we have the
Knoxes to dinner every Friday. Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good as
engaged. Mr Knox is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very
religious; but shes quite cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays.
So thats two evenings pleasure every week.
GILBEY. [almost in tears] We done what we could for the boy.
Short of letting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what
he likes. What more does he want?
DORA. Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short
of it. And I must say youre not very nice to me about it. Ive talked
to him like a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I
dont deny I like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when
we're lighthearted. Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid.
