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.
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