Epilogue

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