Fanny's First Play/Epilogue

*Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats.*
THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold
your opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have
believed it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art?
Is it agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is
it delicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I
speak from a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my
discomposure. This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches
and menaces to all of us who are parents.

TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has
amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence.

THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist. *[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat, making a noise like a pheasant]*. You see hundreds of plays every year. But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before,
the effect of this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been
what people call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit.
*[Vaughan is shocked]*. Love beautifies every romance and justifies
every audacity. *[Bannal assents gravely]*. But there are reticences
which everybody should respect. There are decencies too subtle to be
put into words, without which human society would be unbearable.
People could not talk to one another as those people talk. No child
could speak to its parent—no girl could speak to a youth—no human
creature could tear down the veils— *[Appealing to Vaughan, who is*
on his left flank, with Gunn between them] *Could they, sir?*

VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that.

THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! *[To Gunn]* Sir: I
appeal to you.

GUNN. *[with studied weariness]* It seems to me the most ordinary
sort of old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel.

THE COUNT *[turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and Bannal]* Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed, outraged, revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by every word of this play, every tone, every implication; that you did
not sit there shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might come next?

TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind
of thing by the yard.

THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return.
I must believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not
agitated, not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes,
gentlemen, horror—horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to
you, ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little
younger than myself. Sir: if young people spoke to me like that, I
should die of shame: I could not face it. I must go back. The world
has passed me by and left me. Accept the apologies of an elderly and
no doubt ridiculous admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was
still some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in family life.
But I promised my daughter your opinion; and I must keep my word.
Gentlemen: you are the choice and master spirits of this age: you
walk through it without bewilderment and face its strange products
without dismay. Pray deliver your verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that
it is the custom at a Court Martial for the youngest officer present
to deliver his judgment first; so that he may not be influenced by the
authority of his elders. You are the youngest. What is your opinion
of the play?

BANNAL. Well, whos it by?

THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present.

BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I
dont know who the author is, do you?

THE COUNT. Why not?

BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play by
Pinero and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing about
them?

THE COUNT. I presume not.

BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which was
Pinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thats
what I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or a
melodrama? Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying
stuff?

GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it?

BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to
take it? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his
play is, let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain
if I dont know either. *I*'m not the author.

THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple
question.

BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's
a good play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author?
Tell me that; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth.

THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name.
The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits.

BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Who
would you say it's by, Gunn?

GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioned
domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a
naval lieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The
heroine gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into
trouble, thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as
hard as she can. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father
when hes going to put her out of the house, and says she'll go too.
Then theres the comic relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic
shopkeeper's wife, the comic footman who turns out to be a duke in
disguise, and the young scapegrace who gives the author his excuse for
dragging in a fast young woman. All as old and stale as a fried fish
shop on a winter morning.

THE COUNT. But—

GUNN *[interrupting him]* I know what youre going to say, Count.
Youre going to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new
and unusual and original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who
cracks up the English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old
Shaw touch. The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of
being dukes and millionaires. The heroine gets kicked through the
mud: real mud. Theres no plot. All the old stage conventions and
puppets without the old ingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble
air of intellectual pretentiousness kept up all through to persuade
you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's because hes too
clever to stoop to anything so commonplace. And you three experienced
men have sat through all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why,
the play bears the author's signature in every line.

BANNAL. Who?

GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out
of The Madras House.

BANNAL. Poor old Barker!

VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style?

BANNAL. No.

VAUGHAN. *[contemptuously]* Do you know what style is?

BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's
not my style—since you ask me.

VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin
with, it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in
spite of the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He
was an earl, you may remember. You notice, too, the author's
offensive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in them
when you come to examine them, just to set all the fools in the house
giggling. Then what does it all come to? An attempt to expose the
supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan middle class in England: people
just as good as the author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable
improper female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you
cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your professions:
thats all I have to say.

BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch
that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw.

GUNN. Rubbish!

VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor
as this play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow
that beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she
really loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly
proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion.

BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I
always say that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart.

GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart
and brain—Shakespear would have called it liver and wits—is really
schoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer.
Even such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been
ashamed of it. Heart and brain, indeed!

VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent.

GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word!

VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in
this play were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves
it's not by Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere
puppets stuck up to spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them
seem different.

BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shaw
doesnt write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insult
everybody all round and set us talking about him.

TROTTER. *[wearily]* And naturally, here we are all talking about
him. For heaven's sake, let us change the subject

VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw—

GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about
Shaw is—

BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to
know my opinion about Shaw—

*[Together, yelling]*:
TROTTER. No, please, we dont.

VAUGHAN. Shut your head, Bannal.

GUNN. Oh, do drop it.

*The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from the*
centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan.

BANNAL. *[sulkily]* Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure.

TROTTER. Shaw—

*Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4*
critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats.

THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold
your opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have
believed it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art?
Is it agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is
it delicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I
speak from a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my
discomposure. This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches
and menaces to all of us who are parents.

TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has
amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence.

THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist.
*[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat,*
making a noise like a pheasant]*. You see hundreds of plays every*
year. But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before,
the effect of this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been
what people call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit.
*[Vaughan is shocked]*. Love beautifies every romance and justifies
every audacity. *[Bannal assents gravely]*. But there are reticences
which everybody should respect. There are decencies too subtle to be
put into words, without which human society would be unbearable.
People could not talk to one another as those people talk. No child
could speak to its parent—no girl could speak to a youth—no human
creature could tear down the veils— *[Appealing to Vaughan, who is*
on his left flank, with Gunn between them] *Could they, sir?*

VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that.

THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! *[To Gunn]* Sir: I
appeal to you.

GUNN. *[with studied weariness]* It seems to me the most ordinary
sort of old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel.

THE COUNT *[turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and*
Bannal] *Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed,*
outraged, revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by
every word of this play, every tone, every implication; that you did
not sit there shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might
come next?

TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind
of thing by the yard.

THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return.
I must believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not
agitated, not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes,
gentlemen, horror—horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to
you, ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little
younger than myself. Sir: if young people spoke to me like that, I
should die of shame: I could not face it. I must go back. The world
has passed me by and left me. Accept the apologies of an elderly and
no doubt ridiculous admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was
still some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in family life.
But I promised my daughter your opinion; and I must keep my word.
Gentlemen: you are the choice and master spirits of this age: you
walk through it without bewilderment and face its strange products
without dismay. Pray deliver your verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that
it is the custom at a Court Martial for the youngest officer present
to deliver his judgment first; so that he may not be influenced by the
authority of his elders. You are the youngest. What is your opinion
of the play?

BANNAL. Well, whos it by?

THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present.

BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I
dont know who the author is, do you?

THE COUNT. Why not?

BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play by
Pinero and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing about
them?

THE COUNT. I presume not.

BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which was
Pinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thats
what I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or a
melodrama? Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying
stuff?

GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it?

BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to
take it? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his
play is, let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain
if I dont know either. *I'*m not the author.

THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple
question.

BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's
a good play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author?
Tell me that; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth.

THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name.
The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits.

BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Who
would you say it's by, Gunn?

GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioned
domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a
naval lieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The
heroine gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into
trouble, thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as
hard as she can. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father
when hes going to put her out of the house, and says she'll go too.
Then theres the comic relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic
shopkeeper's wife, the comic footman who turns out to be a duke in
disguise, and the young scapegrace who gives the author his excuse for
dragging in a fast young woman. All as old and stale as a fried fish
shop on a winter morning.

THE COUNT. But—

GUNN *[interrupting him]* I know what youre going to say, Count.
Youre going to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new
and unusual and original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who
cracks up the English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old
Shaw touch. The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of
being dukes and millionaires. The heroine gets kicked through the
mud: real mud. Theres no plot. All the old stage conventions and
puppets without the old ingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble
air of intellectual pretentiousness kept up all through to persuade
you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's because hes too
clever to stoop to anything so commonplace. And you three experienced
men have sat through all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why,
the play bears the author's signature in every line.

BANNAL. Who?

GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out
of The Madras House.

BANNAL. Poor old Barker!

VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style?

BANNAL. No.

VAUGHAN. *[contemptuously]* Do you know what style is?

BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's
not my style—since you ask me.

VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin
with, it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in
spite of the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He
was an earl, you may remember. You notice, too, the author's
offensive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in them
when you come to examine them, just to set all the fools in the house
giggling. Then what does it all come to? An attempt to expose the
supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan middle class in England: people
just as good as the author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable
improper female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you
cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your professions:
thats all I have to say.

BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch
that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw.

GUNN. Rubbish!

VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor
as this play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow
that beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she
really loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly
proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion.

BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I
always say that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart.

GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart
and brain—Shakespear would have called it liver and wits—is really
schoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer.
Even such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been
ashamed of it. Heart and brain, indeed!

VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent.

GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word!

VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in
this play were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves
it's not by Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere
puppets stuck up to spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them
seem different.

BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shaw
doesnt write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insult
everybody all round and set us talking about him.

TROTTER. *[wearily]* And naturally, here we are all talking about
him. For heaven's sake, let us change the subject

VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw—

GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about
Shaw is—

BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to
know my opinion about Shaw—

*Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4*
critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats.

THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold
your opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have
believed it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art?
Is it agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is
it delicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I
speak from a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my
discomposure. This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches
and menaces to all of us who are parents.

TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has
amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence.

THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist.
*[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat,*
making a noise like a pheasant]*. You see hundreds of plays every*
year. But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before,
the effect of this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been
what people call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit.
*[Vaughan is shocked]*. Love beautifies every romance and justifies
every audacity. *[Bannal assents gravely]*. But there are reticences
which everybody should respect. There are decencies too subtle to be
put into words, without which human society would be unbearable.
People could not talk to one another as those people talk. No child
could speak to its parent—no girl could speak to a youth—no human
creature could tear down the veils— *[Appealing to Vaughan, who is*
on his left flank, with Gunn between them] *Could they, sir?*

VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that.

THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! *[To Gunn]* Sir: I
appeal to you.

GUNN. *[with studied weariness]* It seems to me the most ordinary
sort of old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel.

THE COUNT *[turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and*
Bannal] *Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed,*
outraged, revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by
every word of this play, every tone, every implication; that you did
not sit there shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might
come next?

TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind
of thing by the yard.

THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return.
I must believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not
agitated, not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes,
gentlemen, horror—horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to
you, ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little
younger than myself. Sir: if young people spoke to me like that, I
should die of shame: I could not face it. I must go back. The world
has passed me by and left me. Accept the apologies of an elderly and
no doubt ridiculous admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was
still some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in family life.
But I promised my daughter your opinion; and I must keep my word.
Gentlemen: you are the choice and master spirits of this age: you
walk through it without bewilderment and face its strange products
without dismay. Pray deliver your verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that
it is the custom at a Court Martial for the youngest officer present
to deliver his judgment first; so that he may not be influenced by the
authority of his elders. You are the youngest. What is your opinion
of the play?

BANNAL. Well, whos it by?

THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present.

BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I
dont know who the author is, do you?

THE COUNT. Why not?

BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play by
Pinero and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing about
them?

THE COUNT. I presume not.

BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which was
Pinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thats
what I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or a
melodrama? Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying
stuff?

GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it?

BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to
take it? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his
play is, let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain
if I dont know either. *I*'m not the author.

THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple
question.

BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's
a good play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author?
Tell me that; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth.

THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name.
The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits.

BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Who
would you say it's by, Gunn?

GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioned
domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a
naval lieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The
heroine gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into
trouble, thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as
hard as she can. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father
when hes going to put her out of the house, and says she'll go too.
Then theres the comic relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic
shopkeeper's wife, the comic footman who turns out to be a duke in
disguise, and the young scapegrace who gives the author his excuse for
dragging in a fast young woman. All as old and stale as a fried fish
shop on a winter morning.

THE COUNT. But—

GUNN *[interrupting him]* I know what youre going to say, Count.
Youre going to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new
and unusual and original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who
cracks up the English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old
Shaw touch. The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of
being dukes and millionaires. The heroine gets kicked through the
mud: real mud. Theres no plot. All the old stage conventions and
puppets without the old ingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble
air of intellectual pretentiousness kept up all through to persuade
you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's because hes too
clever to stoop to anything so commonplace. And you three experienced
men have sat through all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why,
the play bears the author's signature in every line.

BANNAL. Who?

GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out
of The Madras House.

BANNAL. Poor old Barker!

VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style?

BANNAL. No.

VAUGHAN. *[contemptuously]* Do you know what style is?

BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's
not my style—since you ask me.

VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin
with, it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in
spite of the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He
was an earl, you may remember. You notice, too, the author's
offensive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in them
when you come to examine them, just to set all the fools in the house
giggling. Then what does it all come to? An attempt to expose the
supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan middle class in England: people
just as good as the author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable
improper female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you
cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your professions:
thats all I have to say.

BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch
that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw.

GUNN. Rubbish!

VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor
as this play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow
that beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she
really loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly
proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion.

BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I
always say that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart.

GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart
and brain—Shakespear would have called it liver and wits—is really
schoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer.
Even such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been
ashamed of it. Heart and brain, indeed!

VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent.

GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word!

VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in
this play were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves
it's not by Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere
puppets stuck up to spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them
seem different.

BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shaw
doesnt write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insult
everybody all round and set us talking about him.

TROTTER. *[wearily]* And naturally, here we are all talking about
him. For heaven's sake, let us change the subject

VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw—

GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about
Shaw is—

BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to
know my opinion about Shaw—
*[Yelling together*:

TROTTER. No, please, we dont.

VAUGHAN. Shut your head, Bannal.

GUNN. Oh, do drop it.

*The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from the*
centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan.

BANNAL. *[sulkily]* Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure.

*[Beginning again simultaneously]*:
TROTTER. Shaw—

VAUGHAN. Shaw—

GUNN. Shaw—

*They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the curtains. She is almost in tears.*

FANNY. *[coming between Trotter and Gunn]* I'm so sorry, gentlemen.
And it was such a success when I read it to the Cambridge Fabian
Society!

TROTTER. Miss O'Dowda: I was about to tell these gentlemen what I
guessed before the curtain rose: that you are the author of the play.
*[General amazement and consternation]*.

FANNY. And you all think it beastly. You hate it. You think I'm a
conceited idiot, and that I shall never be able to write anything
decent.

*[She is almost weeping. A wave of sympathy carries away the critics.]*

VAUGHAN. No, no. Why, I was just saying that it must have been
written by Pinero. Didnt I, Gunn?

FANNY. *[enormously flattered]* Really?

TROTTER. I thought Pinero was much too popular for the Cambridge
Fabian Society.

FANNY. Oh yes, of course; but still—Oh, did you really say that, Mr
Vaughan?

GUNN. I owe you an apology, Miss O'Dowda. I said it was by Barker.

FANNY. *[radiant]* Granville Barker! Oh, you couldnt really have
thought it so fine as that.

BANNAL. *I* said Bernard Shaw.

FANNY. Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard Shaw. The
Fabian touch, you know.

BANNAL. *[coming to her encouragingly]* A jolly good little play,
Miss O'Dowda. Mind: I dont say it's like one of Shakespear's—Hamlet
or The Lady of Lyons, you know—but still, a firstrate little bit of
work. *[He shakes her hand]*.

GUNN. *[following Bannal's example]* I also, Miss O'Dowda. Capital.
Charming. *[He shakes hands]*.

VAUGHAN *[with maudlin solemnity]* Only be true to yourself, Miss
O'Dowda. Keep serious. Give up making silly jokes. Sustain the note
of passion. And youll do great things.

FANNY. You think I have a future?

TROTTER. You have a past, Miss O'Dowda.

FANNY. *[looking apprehensively at her father]* Sh-sh-sh!

THE COUNT. A past! What do you mean, Mr Trotter?

TROTTER. *[to Fanny]* You cant deceive me. That bit about the
police was real. Youre a Suffraget, Miss O'Dowda. You were on that
Deputation.

THE COUNT. Fanny: is this true?

FANNY. It is. I did a month with Lady Constance Lytton; and I'm
prouder of it than I ever was of anything or ever shall be again.

TROTTER. Is that any reason why you should stuff naughty plays down
my throat?

FANNY. Yes: itll teach you what it feels like to be forcibly fed.

THE COUNT. She will never return to Venice. I feel now as I felt
when the Campanile fell.

*[Savoyard comes in through the curtains.]*

SAVOYARD. *[to the Count]* Would you mind coming to say a word of
congratulation to the company? Theyre rather upset at having had no
curtain call.

THE COUNT. Certainly, certainly. I'm afraid Ive been rather remiss.
Let us go on the stage, gentlemen.

*The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play and the actors on the stage. The Count, Savoyard, the critics, and Fanny join them, shaking hands and congratulating.*
THE COUNT. Whatever we may think of the play, gentlemen, I'm sure you
will agree with me that there can be only one opinion about the
acting.

THE CRITICS. Hear, hear! *[They start the applause]*.

THE END
AYOT ST. LAWRENCE, March 1911.