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diff --git a/3328.txt b/3328.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6be4b7a --- /dev/null +++ b/3328.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8544 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man And Superman, by George Bernard Shaw + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Man And Superman + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #3328] +Last Updated: July 30, 2015 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN AND SUPERMAN *** + + + + +Produced by Eve Sobol + + + + + +MAN AND SUPERMAN + +A COMEDY AND A PHILOSOPHY + +By Bernard Shaw + + + + +EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO ARTHUR BINGHAM WALKLEY + +My dear Walkley: + +You once asked me why I did not write a Don Juan play. The levity with +which you assumed this frightful responsibility has probably by this +time enabled you to forget it; but the day of reckoning has arrived: +here is your play! I say your play, because qui facit per alium facit +per se. Its profits, like its labor, belong to me: its morals, its +manners, its philosophy, its influence on the young, are for you to +justify. You were of mature age when you made the suggestion; and you +knew your man. It is hardly fifteen years since, as twin pioneers of +the New Journalism of that time, we two, cradled in the same new sheets, +made an epoch in the criticism of the theatre and the opera house by +making it a pretext for a propaganda of our own views of life. So you +cannot plead ignorance of the character of the force you set in motion. +You meant me to epater le bourgeois; and if he protests, I hereby refer +him to you as the accountable party. + +I warn you that if you attempt to repudiate your responsibility, I shall +suspect you of finding the play too decorous for your taste. The +fifteen years have made me older and graver. In you I can detect no such +becoming change. Your levities and audacities are like the loves and +comforts prayed for by Desdemona: they increase, even as your days do +grow. No mere pioneering journal dares meddle with them now: the stately +Times itself is alone sufficiently above suspicion to act as your +chaperone; and even the Times must sometimes thank its stars that +new plays are not produced every day, since after each such event +its gravity is compromised, its platitude turned to epigram, its +portentousness to wit, its propriety to elegance, and even its decorum +into naughtiness by criticisms which the traditions of the paper do not +allow you to sign at the end, but which you take care to sign with the +most extravagant flourishes between the lines. I am not sure that this +is not a portent of Revolution. In eighteenth century France the end was +at hand when men bought the Encyclopedia and found Diderot there. When +I buy the Times and find you there, my prophetic ear catches a rattle of +twentieth century tumbrils. + +However, that is not my present anxiety. The question is, will you not +be disappointed with a Don Juan play in which not one of that hero's +mille e tre adventures is brought upon the stage? To propitiate you, let +me explain myself. You will retort that I never do anything else: it +is your favorite jibe at me that what I call drama is nothing but +explanation. But you must not expect me to adopt your inexplicable, +fantastic, petulant, fastidious ways: you must take me as I am, a +reasonable, patient, consistent, apologetic, laborious person, with the +temperament of a schoolmaster and the pursuits of a vestryman. No doubt +that literary knack of mine which happens to amuse the British public +distracts attention from my character; but the character is there none +the less, solid as bricks. I have a conscience; and conscience is +always anxiously explanatory. You, on the contrary, feel that a man who +discusses his conscience is much like a woman who discusses her modesty. +The only moral force you condescend to parade is the force of your +wit: the only demand you make in public is the demand of your artistic +temperament for symmetry, elegance, style, grace, refinement, and the +cleanliness which comes next to godliness if not before it. But my +conscience is the genuine pulpit article: it annoys me to see people +comfortable when they ought to be uncomfortable; and I insist on making +them think in order to bring them to conviction of sin. If you don't +like my preaching you must lump it. I really cannot help it. + +In the preface to my Plays for Puritans I explained the predicament of +our contemporary English drama, forced to deal almost exclusively with +cases of sexual attraction, and yet forbidden to exhibit the incidents +of that attraction or even to discuss its nature. Your suggestion that +I should write a Don Juan play was virtually a challenge to me to treat +this subject myself dramatically. The challenge was difficult enough +to be worth accepting, because, when you come to think of it, though we +have plenty of dramas with heroes and heroines who are in love and must +accordingly marry or perish at the end of the play, or about people +whose relations with one another have been complicated by the marriage +laws, not to mention the looser sort of plays which trade on the +tradition that illicit love affairs are at once vicious and delightful, +we have no modern English plays in which the natural attraction of the +sexes for one another is made the mainspring of the action. That is +why we insist on beauty in our performers, differing herein from the +countries our friend William Archer holds up as examples of seriousness +to our childish theatres. There the Juliets and Isoldes, the Romeos and +Tristans, might be our mothers and fathers. Not so the English actress. +The heroine she impersonates is not allowed to discuss the elemental +relations of men and women: all her romantic twaddle about novelet-made +love, all her purely legal dilemmas as to whether she was married +or "betrayed," quite miss our hearts and worry our minds. To console +ourselves we must just look at her. We do so; and her beauty feeds our +starving emotions. Sometimes we grumble ungallantly at the lady because +she does not act as well as she looks. But in a drama which, with all +its preoccupation with sex, is really void of sexual interest, good +looks are more desired than histrionic skill. + +Let me press this point on you, since you are too clever to raise the +fool's cry of paradox whenever I take hold of a stick by the right +instead of the wrong end. Why are our occasional attempts to deal with +the sex problem on the stage so repulsive and dreary that even those +who are most determined that sex questions shall be held open and their +discussion kept free, cannot pretend to relish these joyless attempts at +social sanitation? Is it not because at bottom they are utterly sexless? +What is the usual formula for such plays? A woman has, on some past +occasion, been brought into conflict with the law which regulates the +relations of the sexes. A man, by falling in love with her, or +marrying her, is brought into conflict with the social convention which +discountenances the woman. Now the conflicts of individuals with law and +convention can be dramatized like all other human conflicts; but they +are purely judicial; and the fact that we are much more curious about +the suppressed relations between the man and the woman than about the +relations between both and our courts of law and private juries of +matrons, produces that sensation of evasion, of dissatisfaction, of +fundamental irrelevance, of shallowness, of useless disagreeableness, +of total failure to edify and partial failure to interest, which is as +familiar to you in the theatres as it was to me when I, too, frequented +those uncomfortable buildings, and found our popular playwrights in the +mind to (as they thought) emulate Ibsen. + +I take it that when you asked me for a Don Juan play you did not want +that sort of thing. Nobody does: the successes such plays sometimes +obtain are due to the incidental conventional melodrama with which the +experienced popular author instinctively saves himself from failure. +But what did you want? Owing to your unfortunate habit--you now, I +hope, feel its inconvenience--of not explaining yourself, I have had to +discover this for myself. First, then, I have had to ask myself, what +is a Don Juan? Vulgarly, a libertine. But your dislike of vulgarity +is pushed to the length of a defect (universality of character is +impossible without a share of vulgarity); and even if you could acquire +the taste, you would find yourself overfed from ordinary sources +without troubling me. So I took it that you demanded a Don Juan in the +philosophic sense. + +Philosophically, Don Juan is a man who, though gifted enough to be +exceptionally capable of distinguishing between good and evil, follows +his own instincts without regard to the common statute, or canon law; +and therefore, whilst gaining the ardent sympathy of our rebellious +instincts (which are flattered by the brilliancies with which Don +Juan associates them) finds himself in mortal conflict with existing +institutions, and defends himself by fraud and farce as unscrupulously +as a farmer defends his crops by the same means against vermin. The +prototypic Don Juan, invented early in the XVI century by a Spanish +monk, was presented, according to the ideas of that time, as the enemy +of God, the approach of whose vengeance is felt throughout the drama, +growing in menace from minute to minute. No anxiety is caused on Don +Juan's account by any minor antagonist: he easily eludes the police, +temporal and spiritual; and when an indignant father seeks private +redress with the sword, Don Juan kills him without an effort. Not until +the slain father returns from heaven as the agent of God, in the form +of his own statue, does he prevail against his slayer and cast him into +hell. The moral is a monkish one: repent and reform now; for to-morrow +it may be too late. This is really the only point on which Don Juan is +sceptical; for he is a devout believer in an ultimate hell, and risks +damnation only because, as he is young, it seems so far off that +repentance can be postponed until he has amused himself to his heart's +content. + +But the lesson intended by an author is hardly ever the lesson the world +chooses to learn from his book. What attracts and impresses us in El +Burlador de Sevilla is not the immediate urgency of repentance, but +the heroism of daring to be the enemy of God. From Prometheus to my own +Devil's Disciple, such enemies have always been popular. Don Juan became +such a pet that the world could not bear his damnation. It reconciled +him sentimentally to God in a second version, and clamored for +his canonization for a whole century, thus treating him as English +journalism has treated that comic foe of the gods, Punch. Moliere's Don +Juan casts back to the original in point of impenitence; but in piety he +falls off greatly. True, he also proposes to repent; but in what terms? +"Oui, ma foi! il faut s'amender. Encore vingt ou trente ans de cette +vie-ci, et puis nous songerons a nous." After Moliere comes the +artist-enchanter, the master of masters, Mozart, who reveals the hero's +spirit in magical harmonies, elfin tones, and elate darting rhythms as +of summer lightning made audible. Here you have freedom in love and in +morality mocking exquisitely at slavery to them, and interesting you, +attracting you, tempting you, inexplicably forcing you to range the hero +with his enemy the statue on a transcendant plane, leaving the prudish +daughter and her priggish lover on a crockery shelf below to live +piously ever after. + +After these completed works Byron's fragment does not count for much +philosophically. Our vagabond libertines are no more interesting from +that point of view than the sailor who has a wife in every port, and +Byron's hero is, after all, only a vagabond libertine. And he is dumb: +he does not discuss himself with a Sganarelle-Leporello or with the +fathers or brothers of his mistresses: he does not even, like Casanova, +tell his own story. In fact he is not a true Don Juan at all; for he is +no more an enemy of God than any romantic and adventurous young sower of +wild oats. Had you and I been in his place at his age, who knows whether +we might not have done as he did, unless indeed your fastidiousness +had saved you from the empress Catherine. Byron was as little of a +philosopher as Peter the Great: both were instances of that rare and +useful, but unedifying variation, an energetic genius born without +the prejudices or superstitions of his contemporaries. The resultant +unscrupulous freedom of thought made Byron a greater poet than +Wordsworth just as it made Peter a greater king than George III; but +as it was, after all, only a negative qualification, it did not prevent +Peter from being an appalling blackguard and an arrant poltroon, nor did +it enable Byron to become a religious force like Shelley. Let us, then, +leave Byron's Don Juan out of account. Mozart's is the last of the true +Don Juans; for by the time he was of age, his cousin Faust had, in the +hands of Goethe, taken his place and carried both his warfare and his +reconciliation with the gods far beyond mere lovemaking into politics, +high art, schemes for reclaiming new continents from the ocean, and +recognition of an eternal womanly principle in the universe. Goethe's +Faust and Mozart's Don Juan were the last words of the XVIII century +on the subject; and by the time the polite critics of the XIX century, +ignoring William Blake as superficially as the XVIII had ignored Hogarth +or the XVII Bunyan, had got past the Dickens-Macaulay Dumas-Guizot stage +and the Stendhal-Meredith-Turgenieff stage, and were confronted with +philosophic fiction by such pens as Ibsen's and Tolstoy's, Don Juan had +changed his sex and become Dona Juana, breaking out of the Doll's House +and asserting herself as an individual instead of a mere item in a moral +pageant. + +Now it is all very well for you at the beginning of the XX century to +ask me for a Don Juan play; but you will see from the foregoing survey +that Don Juan is a full century out of date for you and for me; and +if there are millions of less literate people who are still in the +eighteenth century, have they not Moliere and Mozart, upon whose art no +human hand can improve? You would laugh at me if at this time of day I +dealt in duels and ghosts and "womanly" women. As to mere libertinism, +you would be the first to remind me that the Festin de Pierre of +Moliere is not a play for amorists, and that one bar of the voluptuous +sentimentality of Gounod or Bizet would appear as a licentious stain on +the score of Don Giovanni. Even the more abstract parts of the Don Juan +play are dilapidated past use: for instance, Don Juan's supernatural +antagonist hurled those who refuse to repent into lakes of burning +brimstone, there to be tormented by devils with horns and tails. Of that +antagonist, and of that conception of repentance, how much is left that +could be used in a play by me dedicated to you? On the other hand, those +forces of middle class public opinion which hardly existed for a +Spanish nobleman in the days of the first Don Juan, are now triumphant +everywhere. Civilized society is one huge bourgeoisie: no nobleman +dares now shock his greengrocer. The women, "marchesane, principesse, +cameriere, cittadine" and all, are become equally dangerous: the sex +is aggressive, powerful: when women are wronged they do not group +themselves pathetically to sing "Protegga il giusto cielo": they grasp +formidable legal and social weapons, and retaliate. Political parties +are wrecked and public careers undone by a single indiscretion. A man +had better have all the statues in London to supper with him, ugly as +they are, than be brought to the bar of the Nonconformist Conscience by +Donna Elvira. Excommunication has become almost as serious a business as +it was in the X century. + +As a result, Man is no longer, like Don Juan, victor in the duel of +sex. Whether he has ever really been may be doubted: at all events +the enormous superiority of Woman's natural position in this matter is +telling with greater and greater force. As to pulling the Nonconformist +Conscience by the beard as Don Juan plucked the beard of the +Commandant's statue in the convent of San Francisco, that is out of the +question nowadays: prudence and good manners alike forbid it to a hero +with any mind. Besides, it is Don Juan's own beard that is in danger of +plucking. Far from relapsing into hypocrisy, as Sganarelle feared, +he has unexpectedly discovered a moral in his immorality. The growing +recognition of his new point of view is heaping responsibility on him. +His former jests he has had to take as seriously as I have had to take +some of the jests of Mr W. S. Gilbert. His scepticism, once his least +tolerated quality, has now triumphed so completely that he can no +longer assert himself by witty negations, and must, to save himself from +cipherdom, find an affirmative position. His thousand and three affairs +of gallantry, after becoming, at most, two immature intrigues leading to +sordid and prolonged complications and humiliations, have been discarded +altogether as unworthy of his philosophic dignity and compromising to +his newly acknowledged position as the founder of a school. Instead of +pretending to read Ovid he does actually read Schopenhaur and Nietzsche, +studies Westermarck, and is concerned for the future of the race instead +of for the freedom of his own instincts. Thus his profligacy and his +dare-devil airs have gone the way of his sword and mandoline into the +rag shop of anachronisms and superstitions. In fact, he is now more +Hamlet than Don Juan; for though the lines put into the actor's mouth to +indicate to the pit that Hamlet is a philosopher are for the most +part mere harmonious platitude which, with a little debasement of the +word-music, would be properer to Pecksniff, yet if you separate the real +hero, inarticulate and unintelligible to himself except in flashes of +inspiration, from the performer who has to talk at any cost through +five acts; and if you also do what you must always do in Shakespear's +tragedies: that is, dissect out the absurd sensational incidents and +physical violences of the borrowed story from the genuine Shakespearian +tissue, you will get a true Promethean foe of the gods, whose +instinctive attitude towards women much resembles that to which Don Juan +is now driven. From this point of view Hamlet was a developed Don Juan +whom Shakespear palmed off as a reputable man just as he palmed poor +Macbeth off as a murderer. To-day the palming off is no longer necessary +(at least on your plane and mine) because Don Juanism is no longer +misunderstood as mere Casanovism. Don Juan himself is almost ascetic in +his desire to avoid that misunderstanding; and so my attempt to bring +him up to date by launching him as a modern Englishman into a modern +English environment has produced a figure superficially quite unlike the +hero of Mozart. + +And yet I have not the heart to disappoint you wholly of another glimpse +of the Mozartian dissoluto punito and his antagonist the statue. I feel +sure you would like to know more of that statue--to draw him out when he +is off duty, so to speak. To gratify you, I have resorted to the trick +of the strolling theatrical manager who advertizes the pantomime of +Sinbad the Sailor with a stock of second-hand picture posters designed +for Ali Baba. He simply thrusts a few oil jars into the valley of +diamonds, and so fulfils the promise held out by the hoardings to +the public eye. I have adapted this simple device to our occasion by +thrusting into my perfectly modern three-act play a totally extraneous +act in which my hero, enchanted by the air of the Sierra, has a dream in +which his Mozartian ancestor appears and philosophizes at great length +in a Shavio-Socratic dialogue with the lady, the statue, and the devil. + +But this pleasantry is not the essence of the play. Over this essence +I have no control. You propound a certain social substance, sexual +attraction to wit, for dramatic distillation; and I distil it for you. +I do not adulterate the product with aphrodisiacs nor dilute it with +romance and water; for I am merely executing your commission, not +producing a popular play for the market. You must therefore (unless, +like most wise men, you read the play first and the preface afterwards) +prepare yourself to face a trumpery story of modern London life, a life +in which, as you know, the ordinary man's main business is to get means +to keep up the position and habits of a gentleman, and the ordinary +woman's business is to get married. In 9,999 cases out of 10,000, you +can count on their doing nothing, whether noble or base, that conflicts +with these ends; and that assurance is what you rely on as their +religion, their morality, their principles, their patriotism, their +reputation, their honor and so forth. + +On the whole, this is a sensible and satisfactory foundation for +society. Money means nourishment and marriage means children; and that +men should put nourishment first and women children first is, broadly +speaking, the law of Nature and not the dictate of personal ambition. +The secret of the prosaic man's success, such as it is, is the +simplicity with which he pursues these ends: the secret of the artistic +man's failure, such as that is, is the versatility with which he strays +in all directions after secondary ideals. The artist is either a poet +or a scallawag: as poet, he cannot see, as the prosaic man does, that +chivalry is at bottom only romantic suicide: as scallawag, he cannot see +that it does not pay to spunge and beg and lie and brag and neglect +his person. Therefore do not misunderstand my plain statement of the +fundamental constitution of London society as an Irishman's reproach to +your nation. From the day I first set foot on this foreign soil I knew +the value of the prosaic qualities of which Irishmen teach Englishmen to +be ashamed as well as I knew the vanity of the poetic qualities of which +Englishmen teach Irishmen to be proud. For the Irishman instinctively +disparages the quality which makes the Englishman dangerous to him; and +the Englishman instinctively flatters the fault that makes the Irishman +harmless and amusing to him. What is wrong with the prosaic Englishman +is what is wrong with the prosaic men of all countries: stupidity. The +vitality which places nourishment and children first, heaven and hell +a somewhat remote second, and the health of society as an organic whole +nowhere, may muddle successfully through the comparatively tribal stages +of gregariousness; but in nineteenth century nations and twentieth +century empires the determination of every man to be rich at all costs, +and of every woman to be married at all costs, must, without a highly +scientific social organization, produce a ruinous development of +poverty, celibacy, prostitution, infant mortality, adult degeneracy, and +everything that wise men most dread. In short, there is no future for +men, however brimming with crude vitality, who are neither intelligent +nor politically educated enough to be Socialists. So do not +misunderstand me in the other direction either: if I appreciate the +vital qualities of the Englishman as I appreciate the vital qualities of +the bee, I do not guarantee the Englishman against being, like the +bee (or the Canaanite) smoked out and unloaded of his honey by beings +inferior to himself in simple acquisitiveness, combativeness, and +fecundity, but superior to him in imagination and cunning. + +The Don Juan play, however, is to deal with sexual attraction, and not +with nutrition, and to deal with it in a society in which the serious +business of sex is left by men to women, as the serious business of +nutrition is left by women to men. That the men, to protect themselves +against a too aggressive prosecution of the women's business, have set +up a feeble romantic convention that the initiative in sex business must +always come from the man, is true; but the pretence is so shallow that +even in the theatre, that last sanctuary of unreality, it imposes only +on the inexperienced. In Shakespear's plays the woman always takes the +initiative. In his problem plays and his popular plays alike the love +interest is the interest of seeing the woman hunt the man down. She may +do it by blandishment, like Rosalind, or by stratagem, like Mariana; but +in every case the relation between the woman and the man is the same: +she is the pursuer and contriver, he the pursued and disposed of. When +she is baffled, like Ophelia, she goes mad and commits suicide; and the +man goes straight from her funeral to a fencing match. No doubt Nature, +with very young creatures, may save the woman the trouble of scheming: +Prospero knows that he has only to throw Ferdinand and Miranda together +and they will mate like a pair of doves; and there is no need for +Perdita to capture Florizel as the lady doctor in All's Well That Ends +Well (an early Ibsenite heroine) captures Bertram. But the mature +cases all illustrate the Shakespearian law. The one apparent exception, +Petruchio, is not a real one: he is most carefully characterized as +a purely commercial matrimonial adventurer. Once he is assured that +Katharine has money, he undertakes to marry her before he has seen her. +In real life we find not only Petruchios, but Mantalinis and Dobbins who +pursue women with appeals to their pity or jealousy or vanity, or cling +to them in a romantically infatuated way. Such effeminates do not count +in the world scheme: even Bunsby dropping like a fascinated bird into +the jaws of Mrs MacStinger is by comparison a true tragic object of +pity and terror. I find in my own plays that Woman, projecting herself +dramatically by my hands (a process over which I assure you I have no +more real control than I have over my wife), behaves just as Woman did +in the plays of Shakespear. + +And so your Don Juan has come to birth as a stage projection of the +tragi-comic love chase of the man by the woman; and my Don Juan is the +quarry instead of the huntsman. Yet he is a true Don Juan, with a sense +of reality that disables convention, defying to the last the fate which +finally overtakes him. The woman's need of him to enable her to carry +on Nature's most urgent work, does not prevail against him until his +resistance gathers her energy to a climax at which she dares to throw +away her customary exploitations of the conventional affectionate and +dutiful poses, and claim him by natural right for a purpose that far +transcends their mortal personal purposes. + +Among the friends to whom I have read this play in manuscript are some +of our own sex who are shocked at the "unscrupulousness," meaning +the total disregard of masculine fastidiousness, with which the woman +pursues her purpose. It does not occur to them that if women were as +fastidious as men, morally or physically, there would be an end of the +race. Is there anything meaner then to throw necessary work upon other +people and then disparage it as unworthy and indelicate. We laugh at the +haughty American nation because it makes the negro clean its boots and +then proves the moral and physical inferiority of the negro by the fact +that he is a shoeblack; but we ourselves throw the whole drudgery of +creation on one sex, and then imply that no female of any womanliness +or delicacy would initiate any effort in that direction. There are no +limits to male hypocrisy in this matter. No doubt there are moments when +man's sexual immunities are made acutely humiliating to him. When +the terrible moment of birth arrives, its supreme importance and its +superhuman effort and peril, in which the father has no part, dwarf +him into the meanest insignificance: he slinks out of the way of the +humblest petticoat, happy if he be poor enough to be pushed out of the +house to outface his ignominy by drunken rejoicings. But when the +crisis is over he takes his revenge, swaggering as the breadwinner, and +speaking of Woman's "sphere" with condescension, even with chivalry, as +if the kitchen and the nursery were less important than the office in +the city. When his swagger is exhausted he drivels into erotic poetry +or sentimental uxoriousness; and the Tennysonian King Arthur posing as +Guinevere becomes Don Quixote grovelling before Dulcinea. You must admit +that here Nature beats Comedy out of the field: the wildest hominist or +feminist farce is insipid after the most commonplace "slice of life." +The pretence that women do not take the initiative is part of the farce. +Why, the whole world is strewn with snares, traps, gins and pitfalls +for the capture of men by women. Give women the vote, and in five years +there will be a crushing tax on bachelors. Men, on the other hand, +attach penalties to marriage, depriving women of property, of the +franchise, of the free use of their limbs, of that ancient symbol of +immortality, the right to make oneself at home in the house of God by +taking off the hat, of everything that he can force Woman to dispense +with without compelling himself to dispense with her. All in vain. Woman +must marry because the race must perish without her travail: if the risk +of death and the certainty of pain, danger and unutterable discomforts +cannot deter her, slavery and swaddled ankles will not. And yet we +assume that the force that carries women through all these perils and +hardships, stops abashed before the primnesses of our behavior for young +ladies. It is assumed that the woman must wait, motionless, until she is +wooed. Nay, she often does wait motionless. That is how the spider waits +for the fly. But the spider spins her web. And if the fly, like my hero, +shows a strength that promises to extricate him, how swiftly does she +abandon her pretence of passiveness, and openly fling coil after coil +about him until he is secured for ever! + +If the really impressive books and other art-works of the world were +produced by ordinary men, they would express more fear of women's +pursuit than love of their illusory beauty. But ordinary men cannot +produce really impressive art-works. Those who can are men of genius: +that is, men selected by Nature to carry on the work of building up an +intellectual consciousness of her own instinctive purpose. Accordingly, +we observe in the man of genius all the unscrupulousness and all the +"self-sacrifice" (the two things are the same) of Woman. He will risk +the stake and the cross; starve, when necessary, in a garret all his +life; study women and live on their work and care as Darwin studied +worms and lived upon sheep; work his nerves into rags without payment, +a sublime altruist in his disregard of himself, an atrocious egotist in +his disregard of others. Here Woman meets a purpose as impersonal, as +irresistible as her own; and the clash is sometimes tragic. When it is +complicated by the genius being a woman, then the game is one for a king +of critics: your George Sand becomes a mother to gain experience for +the novelist and to develop her, and gobbles up men of genius, Chopins, +Mussets and the like, as mere hors d'oeuvres. + +I state the extreme case, of course; but what is true of the great man +who incarnates the philosophic consciousness of Life and the woman who +incarnates its fecundity, is true in some degree of all geniuses and +all women. Hence it is that the world's books get written, its pictures +painted, its statues modelled, its symphonies composed, by people who +are free of the otherwise universal dominion of the tyranny of sex. +Which leads us to the conclusion, astonishing to the vulgar, that art, +instead of being before all things the expression of the normal sexual +situation, is really the only department in which sex is a superseded +and secondary power, with its consciousness so confused and its purpose +so perverted, that its ideas are mere fantasy to common men. Whether the +artist becomes poet or philosopher, moralist or founder of a religion, +his sexual doctrine is nothing but a barren special pleading for +pleasure, excitement, and knowledge when he is young, and for +contemplative tranquillity when he is old and satiated. Romance and +Asceticism, Amorism and Puritanism are equally unreal in the great +Philistine world. The world shown us in books, whether the books be +confessed epics or professed gospels, or in codes, or in political +orations, or in philosophic systems, is not the main world at all: it +is only the self-consciousness of certain abnormal people who have the +specific artistic talent and temperament. A serious matter this for you +and me, because the man whose consciousness does not correspond to that +of the majority is a madman; and the old habit of worshipping madmen is +giving way to the new habit of locking them up. And since what we call +education and culture is for the most part nothing but the substitution +of reading for experience, of literature for life, of the obsolete +fictitious for the contemporary real, education, as you no doubt +observed at Oxford, destroys, by supplantation, every mind that is not +strong enough to see through the imposture and to use the great Masters +of Arts as what they really are and no more: that is, patentees of +highly questionable methods of thinking, and manufacturers of highly +questionable, and for the majority but half valid representations of +life. The schoolboy who uses his Homer to throw at his fellow's head +makes perhaps the safest and most rational use of him; and I observe +with reassurance that you occasionally do the same, in your prime, with +your Aristotle. + +Fortunately for us, whose minds have been so overwhelmingly +sophisticated by literature, what produces all these treatises and poems +and scriptures of one sort or another is the struggle of Life to become +divinely conscious of itself instead of blindly stumbling hither and +thither in the line of least resistance. Hence there is a driving +towards truth in all books on matters where the writer, though +exceptionally gifted is normally constituted, and has no private axe to +grind. Copernicus had no motive for misleading his fellowmen as to the +place of the sun in the solar system: he looked for it as honestly as a +shepherd seeks his path in a mist. But Copernicus would not have written +love stories scientifically. When it comes to sex relations, the man of +genius does not share the common man's danger of capture, nor the woman +of genius the common woman's overwhelming specialization. And that is +why our scriptures and other art works, when they deal with love, turn +from honest attempts at science in physics to romantic nonsense, erotic +ecstasy, or the stern asceticism of satiety ("the road of excess leads +to the palace of wisdom" said William Blake; for "you never know what is +enough unless you know what is more than enough"). + +There is a political aspect of this sex question which is too big for my +comedy, and too momentous to be passed over without culpable frivolity. +It is impossible to demonstrate that the initiative in sex transactions +remains with Woman, and has been confirmed to her, so far, more and more +by the suppression of rapine and discouragement of importunity, +without being driven to very serious reflections on the fact that this +initiative is politically the most important of all the initiatives, +because our political experiment of democracy, the last refuge of cheap +misgovernment, will ruin us if our citizens are ill bred. + +When we two were born, this country was still dominated by a selected +class bred by political marriages. The commercial class had not then +completed the first twenty-five years of its new share of political +power; and it was itself selected by money qualification, and bred, if +not by political marriage, at least by a pretty rigorous class marriage. +Aristocracy and plutocracy still furnish the figureheads of politics; +but they are now dependent on the votes of the promiscuously bred +masses. And this, if you please, at the very moment when the political +problem, having suddenly ceased to mean a very limited and occasional +interference, mostly by way of jobbing public appointments, in the +mismanagement of a tight but parochial little island, with occasional +meaningless prosecution of dynastic wars, has become the industrial +reorganization of Britain, the construction of a practically +international Commonwealth, and the partition of the whole of Africa and +perhaps the whole of Asia by the civilized Powers. Can you believe that +the people whose conceptions of society and conduct, whose power of +attention and scope of interest, are measured by the British theatre as +you know it to-day, can either handle this colossal task themselves, or +understand and support the sort of mind and character that is (at least +comparatively) capable of handling it? For remember: what our voters are +in the pit and gallery they are also in the polling booth. We are +all now under what Burke called "the hoofs of the swinish multitude." +Burke's language gave great offence because the implied exceptions to +its universal application made it a class insult; and it certainly was +not for the pot to call the kettle black. The aristocracy he defended, +in spite of the political marriages by which it tried to secure breeding +for itself, had its mind undertrained by silly schoolmasters and +governesses, its character corrupted by gratuitous luxury, its +self-respect adulterated to complete spuriousness by flattery and +flunkeyism. It is no better to-day and never will be any better: our +very peasants have something morally hardier in them that culminates +occasionally in a Bunyan, a Burns, or a Carlyle. But observe, this +aristocracy, which was overpowered from 1832 to 1885 by the middle +class, has come back to power by the votes of "the swinish multitude." +Tom Paine has triumphed over Edmund Burke; and the swine are now courted +electors. How many of their own class have these electors sent to +parliament? Hardly a dozen out of 670, and these only under the +persuasion of conspicuous personal qualifications and popular eloquence. +The multitude thus pronounces judgment on its own units: it admits +itself unfit to govern, and will vote only for a man morphologically +and generically transfigured by palatial residence and equipage, by +transcendent tailoring, by the glamor of aristocratic kinship. Well, we +two know these transfigured persons, these college passmen, these well +groomed monocular Algys and Bobbies, these cricketers to whom age brings +golf instead of wisdom, these plutocratic products of "the nail and +sarspan business as he got his money by." Do you know whether to laugh +or cry at the notion that they, poor devils! will drive a team of +continents as they drive a four-in-hand; turn a jostling anarchy of +casual trade and speculation into an ordered productivity; and federate +our colonies into a world-Power of the first magnitude? Give these +people the most perfect political constitution and the soundest +political program that benevolent omniscience can devise for them, and +they will interpret it into mere fashionable folly or canting charity as +infallibly as a savage converts the philosophical theology of a Scotch +missionary into crude African idolatry. + +I do not know whether you have any illusions left on the subject of +education, progress, and so forth. I have none. Any pamphleteer can show +the way to better things; but when there is no will there is no way. My +nurse was fond of remarking that you cannot make a silk purse out of +a sow's ear, and the more I see of the efforts of our churches and +universities and literary sages to raise the mass above its own level, +the more convinced I am that my nurse was right. Progress can do nothing +but make the most of us all as we are, and that most would clearly not +be enough even if those who are already raised out of the lowest +abysses would allow the others a chance. The bubble of Heredity has been +pricked: the certainty that acquirements are negligible as elements in +practical heredity has demolished the hopes of the educationists as well +as the terrors of the degeneracy mongers; and we know now that there is +no hereditary "governing class" any more than a hereditary hooliganism. +We must either breed political capacity or be ruined by Democracy, +which was forced on us by the failure of the older alternatives. Yet +if Despotism failed only for want of a capable benevolent despot, what +chance has Democracy, which requires a whole population of capable +voters: that is, of political critics who, if they cannot govern in +person for lack of spare energy or specific talent for administration, +can at least recognize and appreciate capacity and benevolence in +others, and so govern through capably benevolent representatives? Where +are such voters to be found to-day? Nowhere. Promiscuous breeding has +produced a weakness of character that is too timid to face the full +stringency of a thoroughly competitive struggle for existence and +too lazy and petty to organize the commonwealth co-operatively. Being +cowards, we defeat natural selection under cover of philanthropy: being +sluggards, we neglect artificial selection under cover of delicacy and +morality. + +Yet we must get an electorate of capable critics or collapse as Rome +and Egypt collapsed. At this moment the Roman decadent phase of panem +et circenses is being inaugurated under our eyes. Our newspapers and +melodramas are blustering about our imperial destiny; but our eyes and +hearts turn eagerly to the American millionaire. As his hand goes down +to his pocket, our fingers go up to the brims of our hats by instinct. +Our ideal prosperity is not the prosperity of the industrial north, but +the prosperity of the Isle of Wight, of Folkestone and Ramsgate, of Nice +and Monte Carlo. That is the only prosperity you see on the stage, where +the workers are all footmen, parlourmaids, comic lodging-letters +and fashionable professional men, whilst the heroes and heroines are +miraculously provided with unlimited dividends, and eat gratuitously, +like the knights in Don Quixote's books of chivalry. + +The city papers prate of the competition of Bombay with Manchester and +the like. The real competition is the competition of Regent Street with +the Rue de Rivoli, of Brighton and the south coast with the Riviera, for +the spending money of the American Trusts. What is all this growing +love of pageantry, this effusive loyalty, this officious rising +and uncovering at a wave from a flag or a blast from a brass band? +Imperialism: Not a bit of it. Obsequiousness, servility, cupidity roused +by the prevailing smell of money. When Mr Carnegie rattled his millions +in his pockets all England became one rapacious cringe. Only, when +Rhodes (who had probably been reading my Socialism for Millionaires) +left word that no idler was to inherit his estate, the bent backs +straightened mistrustfully for a moment. Could it be that the Diamond +King was no gentleman after all? However, it was easy to ignore a rich +man's solecism. The ungentlemanly clause was not mentioned again; and +the backs soon bowed themselves back into their natural shape. + +But I hear you asking me in alarm whether I have actually put all this +tub thumping into a Don Juan comedy. I have not. I have only made my Don +Juan a political pamphleteer, and given you his pamphlet in full by way +of appendix. You will find it at the end of the book. I am sorry to say +that it is a common practice with romancers to announce their hero as +a man of extraordinary genius, and to leave his works entirely to the +reader's imagination; so that at the end of the book you whisper to +yourself ruefully that but for the author's solemn preliminary assurance +you should hardly have given the gentleman credit for ordinary good +sense. You cannot accuse me of this pitiable barrenness, this feeble +evasion. I not only tell you that my hero wrote a revolutionists' +handbook: I give you the handbook at full length for your edification if +you care to read it. And in that handbook you will find the politics of +the sex question as I conceive Don Juan's descendant to understand them. +Not that I disclaim the fullest responsibility for his opinions and for +those of all my characters, pleasant and unpleasant. They are all right +from their several points of view; and their points of view are, for the +dramatic moment, mine also. This may puzzle the people who believe that +there is such a thing as an absolutely right point of view, usually +their own. It may seem to them that nobody who doubts this can be in a +state of grace. However that may be, it is certainly true that nobody +who agrees with them can possibly be a dramatist, or indeed anything +else that turns upon a knowledge of mankind. Hence it has been pointed +out that Shakespear had no conscience. Neither have I, in that sense. + +You may, however, remind me that this digression of mine into politics +was preceded by a very convincing demonstration that the artist never +catches the point of view of the common man on the question of sex, +because he is not in the same predicament. I first prove that anything I +write on the relation of the sexes is sure to be misleading; and then I +proceed to write a Don Juan play. Well, if you insist on asking me why +I behave in this absurd way, I can only reply that you asked me to, +and that in any case my treatment of the subject may be valid for the +artist, amusing to the amateur, and at least intelligible and therefore +possibly suggestive to the Philistine. Every man who records his +illusions is providing data for the genuinely scientific psychology +which the world still waits for. I plank down my view of the existing +relations of men to women in the most highly civilized society for what +it is worth. It is a view like any other view and no more, neither true +nor false, but, I hope, a way of looking at the subject which throws +into the familiar order of cause and effect a sufficient body of fact +and experience to be interesting to you, if not to the play-going public +of London. I have certainly shown little consideration for that public +in this enterprise; but I know that it has the friendliest disposition +towards you and me as far as it has any consciousness of our existence, +and quite understands that what I write for you must pass at a +considerable height over its simple romantic head. It will take my books +as read and my genius for granted, trusting me to put forth work of such +quality as shall bear out its verdict. So we may disport ourselves on +our own plane to the top of our bent; and if any gentleman points out +that neither this epistle dedicatory nor the dream of Don Juan in the +third act of the ensuing comedy is suitable for immediate production at +a popular theatre we need not contradict him. Napoleon provided Talma +with a pit of kings, with what effect on Talma's acting is not recorded. +As for me, what I have always wanted is a pit of philosophers; and this +is a play for such a pit. + +I should make formal acknowledgment to the authors whom I have pillaged +in the following pages if I could recollect them all. The theft of the +brigand-poetaster from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is deliberate; and the +metamorphosis of Leporello into Enry Straker, motor engineer and New +Man, is an intentional dramatic sketch for the contemporary embryo of +Mr H. G. Wells's anticipation of the efficient engineering class +which will, he hopes, finally sweep the jabberers out of the way of +civilization. Mr Barrio has also, whilst I am correcting my proofs, +delighted London with a servant who knows more than his masters. The +conception of Mendoza Limited I trace back to a certain West Indian +colonial secretary, who, at a period when he and I and Mr Sidney +Webb were sowing our political wild oats as a sort of Fabian Three +Musketeers, without any prevision of the surprising respectability +of the crop that followed, recommended Webb, the encyclopedic and +inexhaustible, to form himself into a company for the benefit of the +shareholders. Octavius I take over unaltered from Mozart; and I hereby +authorize any actor who impersonates him, to sing "Dalla sua pace" (if +he can) at any convenient moment during the representation. Ann was +suggested to me by the fifteenth century Dutch morality called Everyman, +which Mr William Poel has lately resuscitated so triumphantly. I +trust he will work that vein further, and recognize that Elizabethan +Renascence fustian is no more bearable after medieval poesy than Scribe +after Ibsen. As I sat watching Everyman at the Charterhouse, I said to +myself Why not Everywoman? Ann was the result: every woman is not Ann; +but Ann is Everywoman. + +That the author of Everyman was no mere artist, but an +artist-philosopher, and that the artist-philosophers are the only sort +of artists I take quite seriously, will be no news to you. Even Plato +and Boswell, as the dramatists who invented Socrates and Dr Johnson, +impress me more deeply than the romantic playwrights. Ever since, as +a boy, I first breathed the air of the transcendental regions at a +performance of Mozart's Zauberflote, I have been proof against the +garish splendors and alcoholic excitements of the ordinary stage +combinations of Tappertitian romance with the police intelligence. +Bunyan, Blake, Hogarth and Turner (these four apart and above all the +English Classics), Goethe, Shelley, Schopenhaur, Wagner, Ibsen, Morris, +Tolstoy, and Nietzsche are among the writers whose peculiar sense of +the world I recognize as more or less akin to my own. Mark the word +peculiar. I read Dickens and Shakespear without shame or stint; +but their pregnant observations and demonstrations of life are not +co-ordinated into any philosophy or religion: on the contrary, Dickens's +sentimental assumptions are violently contradicted by his observations; +and Shakespear's pessimism is only his wounded humanity. Both have the +specific genius of the fictionist and the common sympathies of human +feeling and thought in pre-eminent degree. They are often saner and +shrewder than the philosophers just as Sancho-Panza was often saner and +shrewder than Don Quixote. They clear away vast masses of oppressive +gravity by their sense of the ridiculous, which is at bottom a +combination of sound moral judgment with lighthearted good humor. But +they are concerned with the diversities of the world instead of with its +unities: they are so irreligious that they exploit popular religion for +professional purposes without delicacy or scruple (for example, Sydney +Carton and the ghost in Hamlet!): they are anarchical, and cannot +balance their exposures of Angelo and Dogberry, Sir Leicester Dedlock +and Mr Tite Barnacle, with any portrait of a prophet or a worthy leader: +they have no constructive ideas: they regard those who have them as +dangerous fanatics: in all their fictions there is no leading thought or +inspiration for which any man could conceivably risk the spoiling of +his hat in a shower, much less his life. Both are alike forced to borrow +motives for the more strenuous actions of their personages from +the common stockpot of melodramatic plots; so that Hamlet has to +be stimulated by the prejudices of a policeman and Macbeth by the +cupidities of a bushranger. Dickens, without the excuse of having to +manufacture motives for Hamlets and Macbeths, superfluously punt his +crew down the stream of his monthly parts by mechanical devices which I +leave you to describe, my own memory being quite baffled by the simplest +question as to Monks in Oliver Twist, or the long lost parentage of +Smike, or the relations between the Dorrit and Clennam families so +inopportunely discovered by Monsieur Rigaud Blandois. The truth is, the +world was to Shakespear a great "stage of fools" on which he was utterly +bewildered. He could see no sort of sense in living at all; and Dickens +saved himself from the despair of the dream in The Chimes by taking the +world for granted and busying himself with its details. Neither of them +could do anything with a serious positive character: they could place a +human figure before you with perfect verisimilitude; but when the moment +came for making it live and move, they found, unless it made them laugh, +that they had a puppet on their hands, and had to invent some artificial +external stimulus to make it work. This is what is the matter with +Hamlet all through: he has no will except in his bursts of temper. +Foolish Bardolaters make a virtue of this after their fashion: +they declare that the play is the tragedy of irresolution; but all +Shakespear's projections of the deepest humanity he knew have the same +defect: their characters and manners are lifelike; but their actions +are forced on them from without, and the external force is grotesquely +inappropriate except when it is quite conventional, as in the case of +Henry V. Falstaff is more vivid than any of these serious reflective +characters, because he is self-acting: his motives are his own appetites +and instincts and humors. Richard III, too, is delightful as the +whimsical comedian who stops a funeral to make love to the corpse's +widow; but when, in the next act, he is replaced by a stage villain who +smothers babies and offs with people's heads, we are revolted at the +imposture and repudiate the changeling. Faulconbridge, Coriolanus, +Leontes are admirable descriptions of instinctive temperaments: indeed +the play of Coriolanus is the greatest of Shakespear's comedies; but +description is not philosophy; and comedy neither compromises the author +nor reveals him. He must be judged by those characters into which he +puts what he knows of himself, his Hamlets and Macbeths and Lears and +Prosperos. If these characters are agonizing in a void about factitious +melodramatic murders and revenges and the like, whilst the comic +characters walk with their feet on solid ground, vivid and amusing, +you know that the author has much to show and nothing to teach. The +comparison between Falstaff and Prospero is like the comparison +between Micawber and David Copperfield. At the end of the book you know +Micawber, whereas you only know what has happened to David, and are not +interested enough in him to wonder what his politics or religion might +be if anything so stupendous as a religious or political idea, or a +general idea of any sort, were to occur to him. He is tolerable as a +child; but he never becomes a man, and might be left out of his own +biography altogether but for his usefulness as a stage confidant, a +Horatio or "Charles his friend" what they call on the stage a feeder. + +Now you cannot say this of the works of the artist-philosophers. +You cannot say it, for instance, of The Pilgrim's Progress. Put your +Shakespearian hero and coward, Henry V and Pistol or Parolles, beside +Mr Valiant and Mr Fearing, and you have a sudden revelation of the abyss +that lies between the fashionable author who could see nothing in the +world but personal aims and the tragedy of their disappointment or the +comedy of their incongruity, and the field preacher who achieved virtue +and courage by identifying himself with the purpose of the world as +he understood it. The contrast is enormous: Bunyan's coward stirs your +blood more than Shakespear's hero, who actually leaves you cold and +secretly hostile. You suddenly see that Shakespear, with all his flashes +and divinations, never understood virtue and courage, never conceived +how any man who was not a fool could, like Bunyan's hero, look back +from the brink of the river of death over the strife and labor of his +pilgrimage, and say "yet do I not repent me"; or, with the panache of +a millionaire, bequeath "my sword to him that shall succeed me in my +pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it." This +is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by +yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you +are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a +feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that +the world will not devote itself to making you happy. And also the only +real tragedy in life is the being used by personally minded men for +purposes which you recognize to be base. All the rest is at worst mere +misfortune or mortality: this alone is misery, slavery, hell on earth; +and the revolt against it is the only force that offers a man's work +to the poor artist, whom our personally minded rich people would so +willingly employ as pandar, buffoon, beauty monger, sentimentalizer and +the like. + +It may seem a long step from Bunyan to Nietzsche; but the difference +between their conclusions is purely formal. Bunyan's perception that +righteousness is filthy rags, his scorn for Mr Legality in the village +of Morality, his defiance of the Church as the supplanter of religion, +his insistence on courage as the virtue of virtues, his estimate of the +career of the conventionally respectable and sensible Worldly Wiseman +as no better at bottom than the life and death of Mr Badman: all +this, expressed by Bunyan in the terms of a tinker's theology, is what +Nietzsche has expressed in terms of post-Darwinian, post-Schopenhaurian +philosophy; Wagner in terms of polytheistic mythology; and Ibsen in +terms of mid-XIX century Parisian dramaturgy. Nothing is new in these +matters except their novelties: for instance, it is a novelty to +call Justification by Faith "Wille," and Justification by Works +"Vorstellung." The sole use of the novelty is that you and I buy and +read Schopenhaur's treatise on Will and Representation when we should +not dream of buying a set of sermons on Faith versus Works. At bottom +the controversy is the same, and the dramatic results are the same. +Bunyan makes no attempt to present his pilgrims as more sensible or +better conducted than Mr Worldly Wiseman. Mr W. W.'s worst enemies, as +Mr Embezzler, Mr Never-go-to-Church-on-Sunday, Mr Bad Form, Mr Murderer, +Mr Burglar, Mr Co-respondent, Mr Blackmailer, Mr Cad, Mr Drunkard, Mr +Labor Agitator and so forth, can read the Pilgrim's Progress without +finding a word said against them; whereas the respectable people who +snub them and put them in prison, such as Mr W.W. himself and his young +friend Civility; Formalist and Hypocrisy; Wildhead, Inconsiderate, and +Pragmatick (who were clearly young university men of good family +and high feeding); that brisk lad Ignorance, Talkative, By-Ends of +Fairspeech and his mother-in-law Lady Feigning, and other reputable +gentlemen and citizens, catch it very severely. Even Little Faith, +though he gets to heaven at last, is given to understand that it served +him right to be mobbed by the brothers Faint Heart, Mistrust, and +Guilt, all three recognized members of respectable society and veritable +pillars of the law. The whole allegory is a consistent attack on +morality and respectability, without a word that one can remember +against vice and crime. Exactly what is complained of in Nietzsche and +Ibsen, is it not? And also exactly what would be complained of in all +the literature which is great enough and old enough to have attained +canonical rank, officially or unofficially, were it not that books are +admitted to the canon by a compact which confesses their greatness in +consideration of abrogating their meaning; so that the reverend rector +can agree with the prophet Micah as to his inspired style without being +committed to any complicity in Micah's furiously Radical opinions. Why, +even I, as I force myself; pen in hand, into recognition and civility, +find all the force of my onslaught destroyed by a simple policy of +non-resistance. In vain do I redouble the violence of the language in +which I proclaim my heterodoxies. I rail at the theistic credulity of +Voltaire, the amoristic superstition of Shelley, the revival of tribal +soothsaying and idolatrous rites which Huxley called Science and +mistook for an advance on the Pentateuch, no less than at the welter +of ecclesiastical and professional humbug which saves the face of the +stupid system of violence and robbery which we call Law and Industry. +Even atheists reproach me with infidelity and anarchists with nihilism +because I cannot endure their moral tirades. And yet, instead of +exclaiming "Send this inconceivable Satanist to the stake," the +respectable newspapers pith me by announcing "another book by this +brilliant and thoughtful writer." And the ordinary citizen, knowing that +an author who is well spoken of by a respectable newspaper must be all +right, reads me, as he reads Micah, with undisturbed edification from +his own point of view. It is narrated that in the eighteen-seventies an +old lady, a very devout Methodist, moved from Colchester to a house in +the neighborhood of the City Road, in London, where, mistaking the Hall +of Science for a chapel, she sat at the feet of Charles Bradlaugh +for many years, entranced by his eloquence, without questioning +his orthodoxy or moulting a feather of her faith. I fear I small be +defrauded of my just martyrdom in the same way. + +However, I am digressing, as a man with a grievance always does. And +after all, the main thing in determining the artistic quality of a book +is not the opinions it propagates, but the fact that the writer has +opinions. The old lady from Colchester was right to sun her simple soul +in the energetic radiance of Bradlaugh's genuine beliefs and disbeliefs +rather than in the chill of such mere painting of light and heat as +elocution and convention can achieve. My contempt for belles lettres, +and for amateurs who become the heroes of the fanciers of literary +virtuosity, is not founded on any illusion of mind as to the permanence +of those forms of thought (call them opinions) by which I strive to +communicate my bent to my fellows. To younger men they are already +outmoded; for though they have no more lost their logic than an +eighteenth century pastel has lost its drawing or its color, yet, like +the pastel, they grow indefinably shabby, and will grow shabbier until +they cease to count at all, when my books will either perish, or, if +the world is still poor enough to want them, will have to stand, with +Bunyan's, by quite amorphous qualities of temper and energy. With this +conviction I cannot be a bellettrist. No doubt I must recognize, as even +the Ancient Mariner did, that I must tell my story entertainingly if I +am to hold the wedding guest spellbound in spite of the siren sounds of +the loud bassoon. But "for art's sake" alone I would not face the toil +of writing a single sentence. I know that there are men who, having +nothing to say and nothing to write, are nevertheless so in love with +oratory and with literature that they keep desperately repeating as much +as they can understand of what others have said or written aforetime. +I know that the leisurely tricks which their want of conviction leaves +them free to play with the diluted and misapprehended message supply +them with a pleasant parlor game which they call style. I can pity their +dotage and even sympathize with their fancy. But a true original style +is never achieved for its own sake: a man may pay from a shilling to a +guinea, according to his means, to see, hear, or read another man's act +of genius; but he will not pay with his whole life and soul to become a +mere virtuoso in literature, exhibiting an accomplishment which will not +even make money for him, like fiddle playing. Effectiveness of assertion +is the Alpha and Omega of style. He who has nothing to assert has no +style and can have none: he who has something to assert will go as far +in power of style as its momentousness and his conviction will carry +him. Disprove his assertion after it is made, yet its style remains. +Darwin has no more destroyed the style of Job nor of Handel than Martin +Luther destroyed the style of Giotto. All the assertions get disproved +sooner or later; and so we find the world full of a magnificent debris +of artistic fossils, with the matter-of-fact credibility gone clean out +of them, but the form still splendid. And that is why the old masters +play the deuce with our mere susceptibles. Your Royal Academician thinks +he can get the style of Giotto without Giotto's beliefs, and correct +his perspective into the bargain. Your man of letters thinks he can +get Bunyan's or Shakespear's style without Bunyan's conviction or +Shakespear's apprehension, especially if he takes care not to split +his infinitives. And so with your Doctors of Music, who, with their +collections of discords duly prepared and resolved or retarded or +anticipated in the manner of the great composers, think they can learn +the art of Palestrina from Cherubim's treatise. All this academic art +is far worse than the trade in sham antique furniture; for the man who +sells me an oaken chest which he swears was made in the XIII century, +though as a matter of fact he made it himself only yesterday, at least +does not pretend that there are any modern ideas in it, whereas your +academic copier of fossils offers them to you as the latest outpouring +of the human spirit, and, worst of all, kidnaps young people as pupils +and persuades them that his limitations are rules, his observances +dexterities, his timidities good taste, and his emptinesses purities. +And when he declares that art should not be didactic, all the people who +have nothing to teach and all the people who don't want to learn agree +with him emphatically. + +I pride myself on not being one of these susceptible: If you study +the electric light with which I supply you in that Bumbledonian public +capacity of mine over which you make merry from time to time, you will +find that your house contains a great quantity of highly susceptible +copper wire which gorges itself with electricity and gives you no light +whatever. But here and there occurs a scrap of intensely insusceptible, +intensely resistant material; and that stubborn scrap grapples with the +current and will not let it through until it has made itself useful to +you as those two vital qualities of literature, light and heat. Now if I +am to be no mere copper wire amateur but a luminous author, I must also +be a most intensely refractory person, liable to go out and to go wrong +at inconvenient moments, and with incendiary possibilities. These are +the faults of my qualities; and I assure you that I sometimes dislike +myself so much that when some irritable reviewer chances at that moment +to pitch into me with zest, I feel unspeakably relieved and obliged. But +I never dream of reforming, knowing that I must take myself as I am and +get what work I can out of myself. All this you will understand; for +there is community of material between us: we are both critics of life +as well as of art; and you have perhaps said to yourself when I have +passed your windows, "There, but for the grace of God, go I." An awful +and chastening reflection, which shall be the closing cadence of this +immoderately long letter from yours faithfully, + +G. BERNARD SHAW. + +WOKING, 1903 + + + + +ACT I + +Roebuck Ramsden is in his study, opening the morning letters. The study, +handsomely and solidly furnished, proclaims the man of means. Not +a speck of dust is visible: it is clear that there are at least two +housemaids and a parlormaid downstairs, and a housekeeper upstairs who +does not let them spare elbow-grease. Even the top of Roebuck's head is +polished: on a sunshiny day he could heliograph his orders to distant +camps by merely nodding. In no other respect, however, does he suggest +the military man. It is in active civil life that men get his broad air +of importance, his dignified expectation of deference, his determinate +mouth disarmed and refined since the hour of his success by the +withdrawal of opposition and the concession of comfort and precedence +and power. He is more than a highly respectable man: he is marked out +as a president of highly respectable men, a chairman among directors, +an alderman among councillors, a mayor among aldermen. Four tufts of +iron-grey hair, which will soon be as white as isinglass, and are in +other respects not at all unlike it, grow in two symmetrical pairs above +his ears and at the angles of his spreading jaws. He wears a black frock +coat, a white waistcoat (it is bright spring weather), and trousers, +neither black nor perceptibly blue, of one of those indefinitely mixed +hues which the modern clothier has produced to harmonize with the +religions of respectable men. He has not been out of doors yet to-day; +so he still wears his slippers, his boots being ready for him on the +hearthrug. Surmising that he has no valet, and seeing that he has no +secretary with a shorthand notebook and a typewriter, one meditates +on how little our great burgess domesticity has been disturbed by new +fashions and methods, or by the enterprise of the railway and hotel +companies which sell you a Saturday to Monday of life at Folkestone as a +real gentleman for two guineas, first class fares both ways included. + +How old is Roebuck? The question is important on the threshold of a +drama of ideas; for under such circumstances everything depends on +whether his adolescence belonged to the sixties or to the eighties. He +was born, as a matter of fact, in 1839, and was a Unitarian and Free +Trader from his boyhood, and an Evolutionist from the publication of +the Origin of Species. Consequently he has always classed himself as an +advanced thinker and fearlessly outspoken reformer. + +Sitting at his writing table, he has on his right the windows giving +on Portland Place. Through these, as through a proscenium, the curious +spectator may contemplate his profile as well as the blinds will permit. +On his left is the inner wall, with a stately bookcase, and the door +not quite in the middle, but somewhat further from him. Against the wall +opposite him are two busts on pillars: one, to his left, of John Bright; +the other, to his right, of Mr Herbert Spencer. Between them hang an +engraved portrait of Richard Cobden; enlarged photographs of Martineau, +Huxley, and George Eliot; autotypes of allegories by Mr G.F. Watts (for +Roebuck believed in the fine arts with all the earnestness of a man who +does not understand them), and an impression of Dupont's engraving of +Delaroche's Beaux Artes hemicycle, representing the great men of +all ages. On the wall behind him, above the mantelshelf, is a family +portrait of impenetrable obscurity. + +A chair stands near the writing table for the convenience of business +visitors. Two other chairs are against the wall between the busts. + +A parlormaid enters with a visitor's card. Roebuck takes it, and nods, +pleased. Evidently a welcome caller. + +RAMSDEN. Show him up. + +The parlormaid goes out and returns with the visitor. + +THE MAID. Mr Robinson. + +Mr Robinson is really an uncommonly nice looking young fellow. He must, +one thinks, be the jeune premier; for it is not in reason to suppose +that a second such attractive male figure should appear in one story. +The slim shapely frame, the elegant suit of new mourning, the small head +and regular features, the pretty little moustache, the frank clear eyes, +the wholesome bloom and the youthful complexion, the well brushed glossy +hair, not curly, but of fine texture and good dark color, the arch of +good nature in the eyebrows, the erect forehead and neatly pointed chin, +all announce the man who will love and suffer later on. And that he will +not do so without sympathy is guaranteed by an engaging sincerity and +eager modest serviceableness which stamp him as a man of amiable nature. +The moment he appears, Ramsden's face expands into fatherly liking and +welcome, an expression which drops into one of decorous grief as the +young man approaches him with sorrow in his face as well as in his black +clothes. Ramsden seems to know the nature of the bereavement. As the +visitor advances silently to the writing table, the old man rises and +shakes his hand across it without a word: a long, affectionate shake +which tells the story of a recent sorrow common to both. + +RAMSDEN. [concluding the handshake and cheering up] Well, well, +Octavius, it's the common lot. We must all face it someday. Sit down. + +Octavius takes the visitor's chair. Ramsden replaces himself in his own. + +OCTAVIUS. Yes: we must face it, Mr Ramsden. But I owed him a great deal. +He did everything for me that my father could have done if he had lived. + +RAMSDEN. He had no son of his own, you see. + +OCTAVIUS. But he had daughters; and yet he was as good to my sister as +to me. And his death was so sudden! I always intended to thank him--to +let him know that I had not taken all his care of me as a matter +of course, as any boy takes his father's care. But I waited for an +opportunity and now he is dead--dropped without a moment's warning. He +will never know what I felt. [He takes out his handkerchief and cries +unaffectedly]. + +RAMSDEN. How do we know that, Octavius? He may know it: we cannot +tell. Come! Don't grieve. [Octavius masters himself and puts up his +handkerchief]. That's right. Now let me tell you something to console +you. The last time I saw him--it was in this very room--he said to me: +"Tavy is a generous lad and the soul of honor; and when I see how little +consideration other men get from their sons, I realize how much better +than a son he's been to me." There! Doesn't that do you good? + +OCTAVIUS. Mr Ramsden: he used to say to me that he had met only one man +in the world who was the soul of honor, and that was Roebuck Ramsden. + +RAMSDEN. Oh, that was his partiality: we were very old friends, you +know. But there was something else he used to say about you. I wonder +whether I ought to tell you or not! + +OCTAVIUS. You know best. + +RAMSDEN. It was something about his daughter. + +OCTAVIUS. [eagerly] About Ann! Oh, do tell me that, Mr Ramsden. + +RAMSDEN. Well, he said he was glad, after all, you were not his son, +because he thought that someday Annie and you--[Octavius blushes +vividly]. Well, perhaps I shouldn't have told you. But he was in +earnest. + +OCTAVIUS. Oh, if only I thought I had a chance! You know, Mr Ramsden, I +don't care about money or about what people call position; and I can't +bring myself to take an interest in the business of struggling for them. +Well, Ann has a most exquisite nature; but she is so accustomed to be +in the thick of that sort of thing that she thinks a man's character +incomplete if he is not ambitious. She knows that if she married me she +would have to reason herself out of being ashamed of me for not being a +big success of some kind. + +RAMSDEN. [Getting up and planting himself with his back to the +fireplace] Nonsense, my boy, nonsense! You're too modest. What does she +know about the real value of men at her age? [More seriously] Besides, +she's a wonderfully dutiful girl. Her father's wish would be sacred to +her. Do you know that since she grew up to years of discretion, I don't +believe she has ever once given her own wish as a reason for doing +anything or not doing it. It's always "Father wishes me to," or "Mother +wouldn't like it." It's really almost a fault in her. I have often told +her she must learn to think for herself. + +OCTAVIUS. [shaking his head] I couldn't ask her to marry me because her +father wished it, Mr Ramsden. + +RAMSDEN. Well, perhaps not. No: of course not. I see that. No: you +certainly couldn't. But when you win her on your own merits, it will be +a great happiness to her to fulfil her father's desire as well as her +own. Eh? Come! you'll ask her, won't you? + +OCTAVIUS. [with sad gaiety] At all events I promise you I shall never +ask anyone else. + +RAMSDEN. Oh, you shan't need to. She'll accept you, my boy--although +[here he suddenly becomes very serious indeed] you have one great +drawback. + +OCTAVIUS. [anxiously] What drawback is that, Mr Ramsden? I should rather +say which of my many drawbacks? + +RAMSDEN. I'll tell you, Octavius. [He takes from the table a book bound +in red cloth]. I have in my hand a copy of the most infamous, the most +scandalous, the most mischievous, the most blackguardly book that ever +escaped burning at the hands of the common hangman. I have not read +it: I would not soil my mind with such filth; but I have read what the +papers say of it. The title is quite enough for me. [He reads it]. The +Revolutionist's Handbook and Pocket Companion by John Tanner, M.I.R.C., +Member of the Idle Rich Class. + +OCTAVIUS. [smiling] But Jack-- + +RAMSDEN. [testily] For goodness' sake, don't call him Jack under my +roof [he throws the book violently down on the table, Then, somewhat +relieved, he comes past the table to Octavius, and addresses him at +close quarters with impressive gravity]. Now, Octavius, I know that my +dead friend was right when he said you were a generous lad. I know that +this man was your schoolfellow, and that you feel bound to stand by +him because there was a boyish friendship between you. But I ask you +to consider the altered circumstances. You were treated as a son in my +friend's house. You lived there; and your friends could not be turned +from the door. This Tanner was in and out there on your account almost +from his childhood. He addresses Annie by her Christian name as freely +as you do. Well, while her father was alive, that was her father's +business, not mine. This man Tanner was only a boy to him: his opinions +were something to be laughed at, like a man's hat on a child's head. +But now Tanner is a grown man and Annie a grown woman. And her father +is gone. We don't as yet know the exact terms of his will; but he often +talked it over with me; and I have no more doubt than I have that you're +sitting there that the will appoints me Annie's trustee and guardian. +[Forcibly] Now I tell you, once for all, I can't and I won't have Annie +placed in such a position that she must, out of regard for you, suffer +the intimacy of this fellow Tanner. It's not fair: it's not right: it's +not kind. What are you going to do about it? + +OCTAVIUS. But Ann herself has told Jack that whatever his opinions are, +he will always be welcome because he knew her dear father. + +RAMSDEN. [out of patience] That girl's mad about her duty to her +parents. [He starts off like a goaded ox in the direction of John +Bright, in whose expression there is no sympathy for him. As he speaks, +he fumes down to Herbert Spencer, who receives him still more coldly] +Excuse me, Octavius; but there are limits to social toleration. You +know that I am not a bigoted or prejudiced man. You know that I am plain +Roebuck Ramsden when other men who have done less have got handles to +their names, because I have stood for equality and liberty of conscience +while they were truckling to the Church and to the aristocracy. +Whitefield and I lost chance after chance through our advanced opinions. +But I draw the line at Anarchism and Free Love and that sort of thing. +If I am to be Annie's guardian, she will have to learn that she has a +duty to me. I won't have it: I will not have it. She must forbid John +Tanner the house; and so must you. + +The parlormaid returns. + +OCTAVIUS. But-- + +RAMSDEN. [calling his attention to the servant] Ssh! Well? + +THE MAID. Mr Tanner wishes to see you, sir. + +RAMSDEN. Mr Tanner! + +OCTAVIUS. Jack! + +RAMSDEN. How dare Mr Tanner call on me! Say I cannot see him. + +OCTAVIUS. [hurt] I am sorry you are turning my friend from your door +like that. + +THE MAID. [calmly] He's not at the door, sir. He's upstairs in the +drawingroom with Miss Ramsden. He came with Mrs Whitefield and Miss Ann +and Miss Robinson, sir. + +Ramsden's feelings are beyond words. + +OCTAVIUS. [grinning] That's very like Jack, Mr Ramsden. You must see +him, even if it's only to turn him out. + +RAMSDEN. [hammering out his words with suppressed fury] Go upstairs and +ask Mr Tanner to be good enough to step down here. [The parlormaid goes +out; and Ramsden returns to the fireplace, as to a fortified position]. +I must say that of all the confounded pieces of impertinence--well, if +these are Anarchist manners I hope you like them. And Annie with him! +Annie! A-- [he chokes]. + +OCTAVIUS. Yes: that's what surprises me. He's so desperately afraid of +Ann. There must be something the matter. + +Mr John Tanner suddenly opens the door and enters. He is too young to be +described simply as a big man with a beard. But it is already plain that +middle life will find him in that category. He has still some of the +slimness of youth; but youthfulness is not the effect he aims at: his +frock coat would befit a prime minister; and a certain high chested +carriage of the shoulders, a lofty pose of the head, and the Olympian +majesty with which a mane, or rather a huge wisp, of hazel colored +hair is thrown back from an imposing brow, suggest Jupiter rather than +Apollo. He is prodigiously fluent of speech, restless, excitable (mark +the snorting nostril and the restless blue eye, just the thirty-secondth +of an inch too wide open), possibly a little mad. He is carefully +dressed, not from the vanity that cannot resist finery, but from a sense +of the importance of everything he does which leads him to make as +much of paying a call as other men do of getting married or laying a +foundation stone. A sensitive, susceptible, exaggerative, earnest man: a +megalomaniac, who would be lost without a sense of humor. + +Just at present the sense of humor is in abeyance. To say that he is +excited is nothing: all his moods are phases of excitement. He is now in +the panic-stricken phase; and he walks straight up to Ramsden as if with +the fixed intention of shooting him on his own hearthrug. But what he +pulls from his breast pocket is not a pistol, but a foolscap document +which he thrusts under the indignant nose of Ramsden as he exclaims-- + +TANNER. Ramsden: do you know what that is? + +RAMSDEN. [loftily] No, Sir. + +TANNER. It's a copy of Whitefield's will. Ann got it this morning. + +RAMSDEN. When you say Ann, you mean, I presume, Miss Whitefield. + +TANNER. I mean our Ann, your Ann, Tavy's Ann, and now, Heaven help me, +my Ann! + +OCTAVIUS. [rising, very pale] What do you mean? + +TANNER. Mean! [He holds up the will]. Do you know who is appointed Ann's +guardian by this will? + +RAMSDEN. [coolly] I believe I am. + +TANNER. You! You and I, man. I! I!! I!!! Both of us! [He flings the will +down on the writing table]. + +RAMSDEN. You! Impossible. + +TANNER. It's only too hideously true. [He throws himself into Octavius's +chair]. Ramsden: get me out of it somehow. You don't know Ann as well +as I do. She'll commit every crime a respectable woman can; and +she'll justify every one of them by saying that it was the wish of +her guardians. She'll put everything on us; and we shall have no more +control over her than a couple of mice over a cat. + +OCTAVIUS. Jack: I wish you wouldn't talk like that about Ann. + +TANNER. This chap's in love with her: that's another complication. Well, +she'll either jilt him and say I didn't approve of him, or marry him +and say you ordered her to. I tell you, this is the most staggering blow +that has ever fallen on a man of my age and temperament. + +RAMSDEN. Let me see that will, sir. [He goes to the writing table and +picks it up]. I cannot believe that my old friend Whitefield would have +shown such a want of confidence in me as to associate me with-- [His +countenance falls as he reads]. + +TANNER. It's all my own doing: that's the horrible irony of it. He told +me one day that you were to be Ann's guardian; and like a fool I began +arguing with him about the folly of leaving a young woman under the +control of an old man with obsolete ideas. + +RAMSDEN. [stupended] My ideas obsolete!!!!! + +TANNER. Totally. I had just finished an essay called Down with +Government by the Greyhaired; and I was full of arguments and +illustrations. I said the proper thing was to combine the experience of +an old hand with the vitality of a young one. Hang me if he didn't take +me at my word and alter his will--it's dated only a fortnight after that +conversation--appointing me as joint guardian with you! + +RAMSDEN. [pale and determined] I shall refuse to act. + +TANNER. What's the good of that? I've been refusing all the way from +Richmond; but Ann keeps on saying that of course she's only an orphan; +and that she can't expect the people who were glad to come to the house +in her father's time to trouble much about her now. That's the latest +game. An orphan! It's like hearing an ironclad talk about being at the +mercy of the winds and waves. + +OCTAVIUS. This is not fair, Jack. She is an orphan. And you ought to +stand by her. + +TANNER. Stand by her! What danger is she in? She has the law on her +side; she has popular sentiment on her side; she has plenty of money +and no conscience. All she wants with me is to load up all her moral +responsibilities on me, and do as she likes at the expense of my +character. I can't control her; and she can compromise me as much as she +likes. I might as well be her husband. + +RAMSDEN. You can refuse to accept the guardianship. I shall certainly +refuse to hold it jointly with you. + +TANNER. Yes; and what will she say to that? what does she say to it? +Just that her father's wishes are sacred to her, and that she shall +always look up to me as her guardian whether I care to face the +responsibility or not. Refuse! You might as well refuse to accept the +embraces of a boa constrictor when once it gets round your neck. + +OCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is not kind to me, Jack. + +TANNER. [rising and going to Octavius to console him, but still +lamenting] If he wanted a young guardian, why didn't he appoint Tavy? + +RAMSDEN. Ah! why indeed? + +OCTAVIUS. I will tell you. He sounded me about it; but I refused the +trust because I loved her. I had no right to let myself be forced on her +as a guardian by her father. He spoke to her about it; and she said I +was right. You know I love her, Mr Ramsden; and Jack knows it too. If +Jack loved a woman, I would not compare her to a boa constrictor in his +presence, however much I might dislike her [he sits down between the +busts and turns his face to the wall]. + +RAMSDEN. I do not believe that Whitefield was in his right senses +when he made that will. You have admitted that he made it under your +influence. + +TANNER. You ought to be pretty well obliged to me for my influence. He +leaves you two thousand five hundred for your trouble. He leaves Tavy a +dowry for his sister and five thousand for himself. + +OCTAVIUS. [his tears flowing afresh] Oh, I can't take it. He was too +good to us. + +TANNER. You won't get it, my boy, if Ramsden upsets the will. + +RAMSDEN. Ha! I see. You have got me in a cleft stick. + +TANNER. He leaves me nothing but the charge of Ann's morals, on the +ground that I have already more money than is good for me. That shows +that he had his wits about him, doesn't it? + +RAMSDEN. [grimly] I admit that. + +OCTAVIUS. [rising and coming from his refuge by the wall] Mr Ramsden: +I think you are prejudiced against Jack. He is a man of honor, and +incapable of abusing-- + +TANNER. Don't, Tavy: you'll make me ill. I am not a man of honor: I am +a man struck down by a dead hand. Tavy: you must marry her after all and +take her off my hands. And I had set my heart on saving you from her! + +OCTAVIUS. Oh, Jack, you talk of saving me from my highest happiness. + +TANNER. Yes, a lifetime of happiness. If it were only the first half +hour's happiness, Tavy, I would buy it for you with my last penny. But +a lifetime of happiness! No man alive could bear it: it would be hell on +earth. + +RAMSDEN. [violently] Stuff, sir. Talk sense; or else go and waste +someone else's time: I have something better to do than listen to your +fooleries [he positively kicks his way to his table and resumes his +seat]. + +TANNER. You hear him, Tavy! Not an idea in his head later than +eighteen-sixty. We can't leave Ann with no other guardian to turn to. + +RAMSDEN. I am proud of your contempt for my character and opinions, sir. +Your own are set forth in that book, I believe. + +TANNER. [eagerly going to the table] What! You've got my book! What do +you think of it? + +RAMSDEN. Do you suppose I would read such a book, sir? + +TANNER. Then why did you buy it? + +RAMSDEN. I did not buy it, sir. It has been sent me by some foolish +lady who seems to admire your views. I was about to dispose of it when +Octavius interrupted me. I shall do so now, with your permission. [He +throws the book into the waste paper basket with such vehemence that +Tanner recoils under the impression that it is being thrown at his +head]. + +TANNER. You have no more manners than I have myself. However, that saves +ceremony between us. [He sits down again]. What do you intend to do +about this will? + +OCTAVIUS. May I make a suggestion? + +RAMSDEN. Certainly, Octavius. + +OCTAVIUS. Aren't we forgetting that Ann herself may have some wishes in +this matter? + +RAMSDEN. I quite intend that Annie's wishes shall be consulted in every +reasonable way. But she is only a woman, and a young and inexperienced +woman at that. + +TANNER. Ramsden: I begin to pity you. + +RAMSDEN. [hotly] I don't want to know how you feel towards me, Mr +Tanner. + +TANNER. Ann will do just exactly what she likes. And what's more, she'll +force us to advise her to do it; and she'll put the blame on us if it +turns out badly. So, as Tavy is longing to see her-- + +OCTAVIUS. [shyly] I am not, Jack. + +TANNER. You lie, Tavy: you are. So let's have her down from the +drawing-room and ask her what she intends us to do. Off with you, Tavy, +and fetch her. [Tavy turns to go]. And don't be long for the strained +relations between myself and Ramsden will make the interval rather +painful [Ramsden compresses his lips, but says nothing--]. + +OCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Mr Ramsden. He's not serious. [He goes out]. + +RAMSDEN [very deliberately] Mr Tanner: you are the most impudent person +I have ever met. + +TANNER. [seriously] I know it, Ramsden. Yet even I cannot wholly conquer +shame. We live in an atmosphere of shame. We are ashamed of everything +that is real about us; ashamed of ourselves, of our relatives, of our +incomes, of our accents, of our opinions, of our experience, just as +we are ashamed of our naked skins. Good Lord, my dear Ramsden, we are +ashamed to walk, ashamed to ride in an omnibus, ashamed to hire a hansom +instead of keeping a carriage, ashamed of keeping one horse instead of +two and a groom-gardener instead of a coachman and footman. The more +things a man is ashamed of, the more respectable he is. Why, you're +ashamed to buy my book, ashamed to read it: the only thing you're not +ashamed of is to judge me for it without having read it; and even that +only means that you're ashamed to have heterodox opinions. Look at the +effect I produce because my fairy godmother withheld from me this gift +of shame. I have every possible virtue that a man can have except-- + +RAMSDEN. I am glad you think so well of yourself. + +TANNER. All you mean by that is that you think I ought to be ashamed of +talking about my virtues. You don't mean that I haven't got them: you +know perfectly well that I am as sober and honest a citizen as yourself, +as truthful personally, and much more truthful politically and morally. + +RAMSDEN. [touched on his most sensitive point] I deny that. I will +not allow you or any man to treat me as if I were a mere member of +the British public. I detest its prejudices; I scorn its narrowness; I +demand the right to think for myself. You pose as an advanced man. Let +me tell you that I was an advanced man before you were born. + +TANNER. I knew it was a long time ago. + +RAMSDEN. I am as advanced as ever I was. I defy you to prove that I have +ever hauled down the flag. I am more advanced than ever I was. I grow +more advanced every day. + +TANNER. More advanced in years, Polonius. + +RAMSDEN. Polonius! So you are Hamlet, I suppose. + +TANNER. No: I am only the most impudent person you've ever met. That's +your notion of a thoroughly bad character. When you want to give me a +piece of your mind, you ask yourself, as a just and upright man, what +is the worst you can fairly say of me. Thief, liar, forger, adulterer, +perjurer, glutton, drunkard? Not one of these names fit me. You have +to fall back on my deficiency in shame. Well, I admit it. I even +congratulate myself; for if I were ashamed of my real self, I should +cut as stupid a figure as any of the rest of you. Cultivate a little +impudence, Ramsden; and you will become quite a remarkable man. + +RAMSDEN. I have no-- + +TANNER. You have no desire for that sort of notoriety. Bless you, I knew +that answer would come as well as I know that a box of matches will come +out of an automatic machine when I put a penny in the slot: you would be +ashamed to say anything else. + +The crushing retort for which Ramsden has been visibly collecting his +forces is lost for ever; for at this point Octavius returns with Miss +Ann Whitefield and her mother; and Ramsden springs up and hurries to the +door to receive them. Whether Ann is good-looking or not depends upon +your taste; also and perhaps chiefly on your age and sex. To Octavius +she is an enchantingly beautiful woman, in whose presence the world +becomes transfigured, and the puny limits of individual consciousness +are suddenly made infinite by a mystic memory of the whole life of the +race to its beginnings in the east, or even back to the paradise from +which it fell. She is to him the reality of romance, the leaner good +sense of nonsense, the unveiling of his eyes, the freeing of his soul, +the abolition of time, place and circumstance, the etherealization of +his blood into rapturous rivers of the very water of life itself, +the revelation of all the mysteries and the sanctification of all the +dogmas. To her mother she is, to put it as moderately as possible, +nothing whatever of the kind. Not that Octavius's admiration is in any +way ridiculous or discreditable. Ann is a well formed creature, as far +as that goes; and she is perfectly ladylike, graceful, and comely, with +ensnaring eyes and hair. Besides, instead of making herself an eyesore, +like her mother, she has devised a mourning costume of black and +violet silk which does honor to her late father and reveals the family +tradition of brave unconventionality by which Ramsden sets such store. + +But all this is beside the point as an explanation of Ann's charm. +Turn up her nose, give a cast to her eye, replace her black and violet +confection by the apron and feathers of a flower girl, strike all the +aitches out of her speech, and Ann would still make men dream. Vitality +is as common as humanity; but, like humanity, it sometimes rises to +genius; and Ann is one of the vital geniuses. Not at all, if you please, +an oversexed person: that is a vital defect, not a true excess. She is +a perfectly respectable, perfectly self-controlled woman, and looks +it; though her pose is fashionably frank and impulsive. She inspires +confidence as a person who will do nothing she does not mean to do; also +some fear, perhaps, as a woman who will probably do everything she means +to do without taking more account of other people than may be necessary +and what she calls right. In short, what the weaker of her own sex +sometimes call a cat. + +Nothing can be more decorous than her entry and her reception by +Ramsden, whom she kisses. The late Mr Whitefield would be gratified +almost to impatience by the long faces of the men (except Tanner, who is +fidgety), the silent handgrasps, the sympathetic placing of chairs, the +sniffing of the widow, and the liquid eye of the daughter, whose heart, +apparently, will not let her control her tongue to speech. Ramsden and +Octavius take the two chairs from the wall, and place them for the two +ladies; but Ann comes to Tanner and takes his chair, which he offers +with a brusque gesture, subsequently relieving his irritation by sitting +down on the corner of the writing table with studied indecorum. Octavius +gives Mrs Whitefield a chair next Ann, and himself takes the vacant +one which Ramsden has placed under the nose of the effigy of Mr Herbert +Spencer. + +Mrs Whitefield, by the way, is a little woman, whose faded flaxen hair +looks like straw on an egg. She has an expression of muddled shrewdness, +a squeak of protest in her voice, and an odd air of continually elbowing +away some larger person who is crushing her into a corner. One guesses +her as one of those women who are conscious of being treated as silly +and negligible, and who, without having strength enough to assert +themselves effectually, at any rate never submit to their fate. There +is a touch of chivalry in Octavius's scrupulous attention to her, even +whilst his whole soul is absorbed by Ann. + +Ramsden goes solemnly back to his magisterial seat at the writing table, +ignoring Tanner, and opens the proceedings. + +RAMSDEN. I am sorry, Annie, to force business on you at a sad time like +the present. But your poor dear father's will has raised a very serious +question. You have read it, I believe? + +[Ann assents with a nod and a catch of her breath, too much affected to +speak]. + +I must say I am surprised to find Mr Tanner named as joint guardian +and trustee with myself of you and Rhoda. [A pause. They all look +portentous; but they have nothing to say. Ramsden, a little ruffled by +the lack of any response, continues] I don't know that I can consent to +act under such conditions. Mr Tanner has, I understand, some objection +also; but I do not profess to understand its nature: he will no doubt +speak for himself. But we are agreed that we can decide nothing until we +know your views. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to choose between +my sole guardianship and that of Mr Tanner; for I fear it is impossible +for us to undertake a joint arrangement. + +ANN. [in a low musical voice] Mamma-- + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [hastily] Now, Ann, I do beg you not to put it on me. I +have no opinion on the subject; and if I had, it would probably not be +attended to. I am quite with whatever you three think best. + +Tanner turns his head and looks fixedly at Ramsden, who angrily refuses +to receive this mute communication. + +ANN. [resuming in the same gentle voice, ignoring her mother's bad +taste] Mamma knows that she is not strong enough to bear the whole +responsibility for me and Rhoda without some help and advice. Rhoda +must have a guardian; and though I am older, I do not think any young +unmarried woman should be left quite to her own guidance. I hope you +agree with me, Granny? + +TANNER. [starting] Granny! Do you intend to call your guardians Granny? + +ANN. Don't be foolish, Jack. Mr Ramsden has always been Grandpapa +Roebuck to me: I am Granny's Annie; and he is Annie's Granny. I +christened him so when I first learned to speak. + +RAMSDEN. [sarcastically] I hope you are satisfied, Mr Tanner. Go on, +Annie: I quite agree with you. + +ANN. Well, if I am to have a guardian, CAN I set aside anybody whom my +dear father appointed for me? + +RAMSDEN. [biting his lip] You approve of your father's choice, then? + +ANN. It is not for me to approve or disapprove. I accept it. My father +loved me and knew best what was good for me. + +RAMSDEN. Of course I understand your feeling, Annie. It is what I should +have expected of you; and it does you credit. But it does not settle the +question so completely as you think. Let me put a case to you. Suppose +you were to discover that I had been guilty of some disgraceful +action--that I was not the man your poor dear father took me for. Would +you still consider it right that I should be Rhoda's guardian? + +ANN. I can't imagine you doing anything disgraceful, Granny. + +TANNER. [to Ramsden] You haven't done anything of the sort, have you? + +RAMSDEN. [indignantly] No sir. + +MRS. WHITEFIELD. [placidly] Well, then, why suppose it? + +ANN. You see, Granny, Mamma would not like me to suppose it. + +RAMSDEN. [much perplexed] You are both so full of natural and +affectionate feeling in these family matters that it is very hard to put +the situation fairly before you. + +TANNER. Besides, my friend, you are not putting the situation fairly +before them. + +RAMSDEN. [sulkily] Put it yourself, then. + +TANNER. I will. Ann: Ramsden thinks I am not fit be your guardian; and I +quite agree with him. He considers that if your father had read my book, +he wouldn't have appointed me. That book is the disgraceful action he +has been talking about. He thinks it's your duty for Rhoda's sake to ask +him to act alone and to make me withdraw. Say the word and I will. + +ANN. But I haven't read your book, Jack. + +TANNER. [diving at the waste-paper basket and fishing the book out for +her] Then read it at once and decide. + +RAMSDEN. If I am to be your guardian, I positively forbid you to read +that book, Annie. [He smites the table with his fist and rises]. + +ANN. Of course, if you don't wish it. [She puts the book on the table]. + +TANNER. If one guardian is to forbid you to read the other guardian's +book, how are we to settle it? Suppose I order you to read it! What +about your duty to me? + +ANN. [gently] I am sure you would never purposely force me into a +painful dilemma, Jack. + +RAMSDEN. [irritably] Yes, yes, Annie: this is all very well, and, as I +said, quite natural and becoming. But you must make a choice one way or +the other. We are as much in a dilemma as you. + +ANN. I feel that I am too young, too inexperienced, to decide. My +father's wishes are sacred to me. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. If you two men won't carry them out I must say it is +rather hard that you should put the responsibility on Ann. It seems to +me that people are always putting things on other people in this world. + +RAMSDEN. I am sorry you take it that way. + +ANN. [touchingly] Do you refuse to accept me as your ward, Granny? + +RAMSDEN. No: I never said that. I greatly object to act with Mr Tanner: +that's all. + +MRS. WHITEFIELD. Why? What's the matter with poor Jack? + +TANNER. My views are too advanced for him. + +RAMSDEN. [indignantly] They are not. I deny it. + +ANN. Of course not. What nonsense! Nobody is more advanced than Granny. +I am sure it is Jack himself who has made all the difficulty. Come, +Jack! Be kind to me in my sorrow. You don't refuse to accept me as your +ward, do you? + +TANNER. [gloomily] No. I let myself in for it; so I suppose I must face +it. [He turns away to the bookcase, and stands there, moodily studying +the titles of the volumes]. + +ANN. [rising and expanding with subdued but gushing delight] Then we are +all agreed; and my dear father's will is to be carried out. You don't +know what a joy that is to me and to my mother! [She goes to Ramsden and +presses both his hands, saying] And I shall have my dear Granny to help +and advise me. [She casts a glance at Tanner over her shoulder]. And +Jack the Giant Killer. [She goes past her mother to Octavius]. And +Jack's inseparable friend Ricky-ticky-tavy [he blushes and looks +inexpressibly foolish]. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [rising and shaking her widow's weeds straight] Now that +you are Ann's guardian, Mr Ramsden, I wish you would speak to her about +her habit of giving people nicknames. They can't be expected to like it. +[She moves towards the door]. + +ANN. How can you say such a thing, Mamma! [Glowing with affectionate +remorse] Oh, I wonder can you be right! Have I been inconsiderate? [She +turns to Octavius, who is sitting astride his chair with his elbows on +the back of it. Putting her hand on his forehead she turns his face up +suddenly]. Do you want to be treated like a grown up man? Must I call +you Mr Robinson in future? + +OCTAVIUS. [earnestly] Oh please call me Ricky-ticky-tavy, "Mr Robinson" +would hurt me cruelly. [She laughs and pats his cheek with her finger; +then comes back to Ramsden]. You know I'm beginning to think that Granny +is rather a piece of impertinence. But I never dreamt of its hurting +you. + +RAMSDEN. [breezily, as he pats her affectionately on the back] My dear +Annie, nonsense. I insist on Granny. I won't answer to any other name +than Annie's Granny. + +ANN. [gratefully] You all spoil me, except Jack. + +TANNER. [over his shoulder, from the bookcase] I think you ought to call +me Mr Tanner. + +ANN. [gently] No you don't, Jack. That's like the things you say on +purpose to shock people: those who know you pay no attention to them. +But, if you like, I'll call you after your famous ancestor Don Juan. + +RAMSDEN. Don Juan! + +ANN. [innocently] Oh, is there any harm in it? I didn't know. Then I +certainly won't call you that. May I call you Jack until I can think of +something else? + +TANKER. Oh, for Heaven's sake don't try to invent anything worse. I +capitulate. I consent to Jack. I embrace Jack. Here endeth my first and +last attempt to assert my authority. + +ANN. You see, Mamma, they all really like to have pet names. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Well, I think you might at least drop them until we are +out of mourning. + +ANN. [reproachfully, stricken to the soul] Oh, how could you remind me, +mother? [She hastily leaves the room to conceal her emotion]. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Of course. My fault as usual! [She follows Ann]. + +TANNER. [coming from the bockcase] Ramsden: we're +beaten--smashed--nonentitized, like her mother. + +RAMSDEN. Stuff, Sir. [He follows Mrs Whitefield out of the room]. + +TANNER. [left alone with Octavius, stares whimsically at him] Tavy: do +you want to count for something in the world? + +OCTAVIUS. I want to count for something as a poet: I want to write a +great play. + +TANNER. With Ann as the heroine? + +OCTAVIUS. Yes: I confess it. + +TANNER. Take care, Tavy. The play with Ann as the heroine is all right; +but if you're not very careful, by Heaven she'll marry you. + +OCTAVIUS. [sighing] No such luck, Jack! + +TANNER. Why, man, your head is in the lioness's mouth: you are half +swallowed already--in three bites--Bite One, Ricky; Bite Two, Ticky; +Bite Three, Tavy; and down you go. + +OCTAVIUS. She is the same to everybody, Jack: you know her ways. + +TANNER. Yes: she breaks everybody's back with the stroke of her paw; but +the question is, which of us will she eat? My own opinion is that she +means to eat you. + +OCTAVIUS. [rising, pettishly] It's horrible to talk like that about her +when she is upstairs crying for her father. But I do so want her to eat +me that I can bear your brutalities because they give me hope. + +TANNER. Tavy; that's the devilish side of a woman's fascination: she +makes you will your own destruction. + +OCTAVIUS. But it's not destruction: it's fulfilment. + +TANNER. Yes, of HER purpose; and that purpose is neither her happiness +nor yours, but Nature's. Vitality in a woman is a blind fury of +creation. She sacrifices herself to it: do you think she will hesitate +to sacrifice you? + +OCTAVIUS. Why, it is just because she is self-sacrificing that she will +not sacrifice those she loves. + +TANNER. That is the profoundest of mistakes, Tavy. It is the +self-sacrificing women that sacrifice others most recklessly. Because +they are unselfish, they are kind in little things. Because they have a +purpose which is not their own purpose, but that of the whole universe, +a man is nothing to them but an instrument of that purpose. + +OCTAVIUS. Don't be ungenerous, Jack. They take the tenderest care of us. + +TANNER. Yes, as a soldier takes care of his rifle or a musician of his +violin. But do they allow us any purpose or freedom of our own? Will +they lend us to one another? Can the strongest man escape from them when +once he is appropriated? They tremble when we are in danger, and weep +when we die; but the tears are not for us, but for a father wasted, a +son's breeding thrown away. They accuse us of treating them as a mere +means to our pleasure; but how can so feeble and transient a folly as +a man's selfish pleasure enslave a woman as the whole purpose of Nature +embodied in a woman can enslave a man? + +OCTAVIUS. What matter, if the slavery makes us happy? + +TANNER. No matter at all if you have no purpose of your own, and are, +like most men, a mere breadwinner. But you, Tavy, are an artist: that +is, you have a purpose as absorbing and as unscrupulous as a woman's +purpose. + +OCTAVIUS. Not unscrupulous. + +TANNER. Quite unscrupulous. The true artist will let his wife starve, +his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at +seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half +vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to +study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their +inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest +creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see +visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades +women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means +them to do it for his. He steals the mother's milk and blackens it to +make printer's ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He +pretends to spare her the pangs of childbearing so that he may have +for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her +children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a +bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a bloodsucker, a +hypocrite and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if +only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint +a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder +philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist's work is to show us +ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of +ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as +surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he +is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and +as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so +treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man +and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue +between them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist +cant, they love one another. + +OCTAVIUS. Even if it were so--and I don't admit it for a moment--it is +out of the deadliest struggles that we get the noblest characters. + +TANNER. Remember that the next time you meet a grizzly bear or a Bengal +tiger, Tavy. + +OCTAVIUS. I meant where there is love, Jack. + +TANNER. Oh, the tiger will love you. There is no love sincerer than the +love of food. I think Ann loves you that way: she patted your cheek as +if it were a nicely underdone chop. + +OCTAVIUS. You know, Jack, I should have to run away from you if I did +not make it a fixed rule not to mind anything you say. You come out with +perfectly revolting things sometimes. + +Ramsden returns, followed by Ann. They come in quickly, with their +former leisurely air of decorous grief changed to one of genuine +concern, and, on Ramsden's part, of worry. He comes between the two men, +intending to address Octavius, but pulls himself up abruptly as he sees +Tanner. + +RAMSDEN. I hardly expected to find you still here, Mr Tanner. + +TANNER. Am I in the way? Good morning, fellow guardian [he goes towards +the door]. + +ANN. Stop, Jack. Granny: he must know, sooner or later. + +RAMSDEN. Octavius: I have a very serious piece of news for you. It is of +the most private and delicate nature--of the most painful nature too, I +am sorry to say. Do you wish Mr Tanner to be present whilst I explain? + +OCTAVIUS. [turning pale] I have no secrets from Jack. + +RAMSDEN. Before you decide that finally, let me say that the news +concerns your sister, and that it is terrible news. + +OCTAVIUS. Violet! What has happened? Is she--dead? + +RAMSDEN. I am not sure that it is not even worse than that. + +OCTAVIUS. Is she badly hurt? Has there been an accident? + +RAMSDEN. No: nothing of that sort. + +TANNER. Ann: will you have the common humanity to tell us what the +matter is? + +ANN. [half whispering] I can't. Violet has done something dreadful. We +shall have to get her away somewhere. [She flutters to the writing +table and sits in Ramsden's chair, leaving the three men to fight it out +between them]. + +OCTAVIUS. [enlightened] Is that what you meant, Mr Ramsden? + +RAMSDEN. Yes. [Octavius sinks upon a chair, crushed]. I am afraid there +is no doubt that Violet did not really go to Eastbourne three weeks ago +when we thought she was with the Parry Whitefields. And she called on a +strange doctor yesterday with a wedding ring on her finger. Mrs. Parry +Whitefield met her there by chance; and so the whole thing came out. + +OCTAVIUS. [rising with his fists clenched] Who is the scoundrel? + +ANN. She won't tell us. + +OCTAVIUS. [collapsing upon his chair again] What a frightful thing! + +TANNER. [with angry sarcasm] Dreadful. Appalling. Worse than death, as +Ramsden says. [He comes to Octavius]. What would you not give, Tavy, to +turn it into a railway accident, with all her bones broken or something +equally respectable and deserving of sympathy? + +OCTAVIUS. Don't be brutal, Jack. + +TANNER. Brutal! Good Heavens, man, what are you crying for? Here is +a woman whom we all supposed to be making bad water color sketches, +practising Grieg and Brahms, gadding about to concerts and parties, +wasting her life and her money. We suddenly learn that she has turned +from these sillinesses to the fulfilment of her highest purpose and +greatest function--to increase, multiply and replenish the earth. And +instead of admiring her courage and rejoicing in her instinct; instead +of crowning the completed womanhood and raising the triumphal strain of +"Unto us a child is born: unto us a son is given," here you are--you who +have been as merry as Brigs in your mourning for the dead--all pulling +long faces and looking as ashamed and disgraced as if the girl had +committed the vilest of crimes. + +RAMSDEN. [roaring with rage] I will not have these abominations uttered +in my house [he smites the writing table with his fist]. + +TANNER. Look here: if you insult me again I'll take you at your word and +leave your house. Ann: where is Violet now? + +ANN. Why? Are you going to her? + +TANNER. Of course I am going to her. She wants help; she wants money; +she wants respect and congratulation. She wants every chance for her +child. She does not seem likely to get it from you: she shall from me. +Where is she? + +ANN. Don't be so headstrong, Jack. She's upstairs. + +TANNER. What! Under Ramsden's sacred roof! Go and do your miserable +duty, Ramsden. Hunt her out into the street. Cleanse your threshold from +her contamination. Vindicate the purity of your English home. I'll go +for a cab. + +ANN. [alarmed] Oh, Granny, you mustn't do that. + +OCTAVIUS. [broken-heartedly, rising] I'll take her away, Mr Ramsden. She +had no right to come to your house. + +RAMSDEN. [indignantly] But I am only too anxious to help her. [turning +on Tanner] How dare you, sir, impute such monstrous intentions to me? +I protest against it. I am ready to put down my last penny to save her +from being driven to run to you for protection. + +TANNER. [subsiding] It's all right, then. He's not going to act up to +his principles. It's agreed that we all stand by Violet. + +OCTAVIUS. But who is the man? He can make reparation by marrying her; +and he shall, or he shall answer for it to me. + +RAMSDEN. He shall, Octavius. There you speak like a man. + +TANNER. Then you don't think him a scoundrel, after all? + +OCTAVIUS. Not a scoundrel! He is a heartless scoundrel. + +RAMSDEN. A damned scoundrel. I beg your pardon, Annie; but I can say no +less. + +TANNER. So we are to marry your sister to a damned scoundrel by way of +reforming her character! On my soul, I think you are all mad. + +ANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Of course you are quite right, Tavy; but we +don't know who he is: Violet won't tell us. + +TANNER. What on earth does it matter who he is? He's done his part; and +Violet must do the rest. + +RAMSDEN. [beside himself] Stuff! lunacy! There is a rascal in our midst, +a libertine, a villain worse than a murderer; and we are not to +learn who he is! In our ignorance we are to shake him by the hand; to +introduce him into our homes; to trust our daughters with him; to--to-- + +ANN. [coaxingly] There, Granny, don't talk so loud. It's most shocking: +we must all admit that; but if Violet won't tell us, what can we do? +Nothing. Simply nothing. + +RAMSDEN. Hmph! I'm not so sure of that. If any man has paid Violet any +special attention, we can easily find that out. If there is any man of +notoriously loose principles among us-- + +TANNER. Ahem! + +RAMSDEN. [raising his voice] Yes sir, I repeat, if there is any man of +notoriously loose principles among us-- + +TANNER. Or any man notoriously lacking in self-control. + +RAMSDEN. [aghast] Do you dare to suggest that I am capable of such an +act? + +TANNER. My dear Ramsden, this is an act of which every man is capable. +That is what comes of getting at cross purposes with Nature. The +suspicion you have just flung at me clings to us all. It's a sort of mud +that sticks to the judge's ermine or the cardinal's robe as fast as to +the rags of the tramp. Come, Tavy: don't look so bewildered: it might +have been me: it might have been Ramsden; just as it might have been +anybody. If it had, what could we do but lie and protest as Ramsden is +going to protest. + +RAMSDEN. [choking] I--I--I-- + +TANNER. Guilt itself could not stammer more confusedly, And yet you know +perfectly well he's innocent, Tavy. + +RAMSDEN. [exhausted] I am glad you admit that, sir. I admit, myself, +that there is an element of truth in what you say, grossly as you +may distort it to gratify your malicious humor. I hope, Octavius, no +suspicion of me is possible in your mind. + +OCTAVIUS. Of you! No, not for a moment. + +TANNER. [drily] I think he suspects me just a little. + +OCTAVIUS. Jack: you couldn't--you wouldn't-- + +TANNER. Why not? + +OCTAVIUS. [appalled] Why not! + +TANNER. Oh, well, I'll tell you why not. First, you would feel bound +to quarrel with me. Second, Violet doesn't like me. Third, if I had +the honor of being the father of Violet's child, I should boast of it +instead of denying it. So be easy: our Friendship is not in danger. + +OCTAVIUS. I should have put away the suspicion with horror if only you +would think and feel naturally about it. I beg your pardon. + +TANNER. MY pardon! nonsense! And now let's sit down and have a family +council. [He sits down. The rest follow his example, more or less under +protest]. Violet is going to do the State a service; consequently she +must be packed abroad like a criminal until it's over. What's happening +upstairs? + +ANN. Violet is in the housekeeper's room--by herself, of course. + +TANNER. Why not in the drawingroom? + +ANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Miss Ramsden is in the drawingroom with my +mother, considering what to do. + +TANNER. Oh! the housekeeper's room is the penitentiary, I suppose; and +the prisoner is waiting to be brought before her judges. The old cats! + +ANN. Oh, Jack! + +RAMSDEN. You are at present a guest beneath the roof of one of the old +cats, sir. My sister is the mistress of this house. + +TANNER. She would put me in the housekeeper's room, too, if she dared, +Ramsden. However, I withdraw cats. Cats would have more sense. Ann: as +your guardian, I order you to go to Violet at once and be particularly +kind to her. + +ANN. I have seen her, Jack. And I am sorry to say I am afraid she is +going to be rather obstinate about going abroad. I think Tavy ought to +speak to her about it. + +OCTAVIUS. How can I speak to her about such a thing [he breaks down]? + +ANN. Don't break down, Ricky. Try to bear it for all our sakes. + +RAMSDEN. Life is not all plays and poems, Octavius. Come! face it like a +man. + +TANNER. [chafing again] Poor dear brother! Poor dear friends of the +family! Poor dear Tabbies and Grimalkins. Poor dear everybody except the +woman who is going to risk her life to create another life! Tavy: don't +you be a selfish ass. Away with you and talk to Violet; and bring her +down here if she cares to come. [Octavius rises]. Tell her we'll stand +by her. + +RAMSDEN. [rising] No, sir-- + +TANNER. [rising also and interrupting him] Oh, we understand: it's +against your conscience; but still you'll do it. + +OCTAVIUS. I assure you all, on my word, I never meant to be selfish. +It's so hard to know what to do when one wishes earnestly to do right. + +TANNER. My dear Tavy, your pious English habit of regarding the world +as a moral gymnasium built expressly to strengthen your character in, +occasionally leads you to think about your own confounded principles +when you should be thinking about other people's necessities. The need +of the present hour is a happy mother and a healthy baby. Bend your +energies on that; and you will see your way clearly enough. + +Octavius, much perplexed, goes out. + +RAMSDEN. [facing Tanner impressively] And Morality, sir? What is to +become of that? + +TANNER. Meaning a weeping Magdalen and an innocent child branded with +her shame. Not in our circle, thank you. Morality can go to its father +the devil. + +RAMSDEN. I thought so, sir. Morality sent to the devil to please our +libertines, male and female. That is to be the future of England, is it? + +TANNER. Oh, England will survive your disapproval. Meanwhile, I +understand that you agree with me as to the practical course we are to +take? + +RAMSDEN. Not in your spirit sir. Not for your reasons. + +TANNER. You can explain that if anybody calls you to account, here or +hereafter. [He turns away, and plants himself in front of Mr Herbert +Spencer, at whom he stares gloomily]. + +ANN. [rising and coming to Ramsden] Granny: hadn't you better go up to +the drawingroom and tell them what we intend to do? + +RAMSDEN. [looking pointedly at Tanner] I hardly like to leave you alone +with this gentleman. Will you not come with me? + +ANN. Miss Ramsden would not like to speak about it before me, Granny. I +ought not to be present. + +RAMSDEN. You are right: I should have thought of that. You are a good +girl, Annie. + +He pats her on the shoulder. She looks up at him with beaming eyes and +he goes out, much moved. Having disposed of him, she looks at Tanner. +His back being turned to her, she gives a moment's attention to her +personal appearance, then softly goes to him and speaks almost into his +ear. + +ANN. Jack [he turns with a start]: are you glad that you are my +guardian? You don't mind being made responsible for me, I hope. + +TANNER. The latest addition to your collection of scapegoats, eh? + +ANN. Oh, that stupid old joke of yours about me! Do please drop it. Why +do you say things that you know must pain me? I do my best to please +you, Jack: I suppose I may tell you so now that you are my guardian. You +will make me so unhappy if you refuse to be friends with me. + +TANNER. [studying her as gloomily as he studied the dust] You need not +go begging for my regard. How unreal our moral judgments are! You seem +to me to have absolutely no conscience--only hypocrisy; and you can't +see the difference--yet there is a sort of fascination about you. I +always attend to you, somehow. I should miss you if I lost you. + +ANN. [tranquilly slipping her arm into his and walking about with him] +But isn't that only natural, Jack? We have known each other since we +were children. Do you remember? + +TANNER. [abruptly breaking loose] Stop! I remember EVERYTHING. + +ANN. Oh, I daresay we were often very silly; but-- + +TANNER. I won't have it, Ann. I am no more that schoolboy now than I +am the dotard of ninety I shall grow into if I live long enough. It is +over: let me forget it. + +ANN. Wasn't it a happy time? [She attempts to take his arm again]. + +TANNER. Sit down and behave yourself. [He makes her sit down in the +chair next the writing table]. No doubt it was a happy time for you. You +were a good girl and never compromised yourself. And yet the wickedest +child that ever was slapped could hardly have had a better time. I can +understand the success with which you bullied the other girls: your +virtue imposed on them. But tell me this: did you ever know a good boy? + +ANN. Of course. All boys are foolish sometimes; but Tavy was always a +really good boy. + +TANNER. [struck by this] Yes: you're right. For some reason you never +tempted Tavy. + +ANN. Tempted! Jack! + +TANNER. Yes, my dear Lady Mephistopheles, tempted. You were insatiably +curious as to what a boy might be capable of, and diabolically clever at +getting through his guard and surprising his inmost secrets. + +ANN. What nonsense! All because you used to tell me long stories of the +wicked things you had done--silly boys tricks! And you call such things +inmost secrets: Boys' secrets are just like men's; and you know what +they are! + +TANNER. [obstinately] No I don't. What are they, pray? + +ANN. Why, the things they tell everybody, of course. + +TANNER. Now I swear I told you things I told no one else. You lured me +into a compact by which we were to have no secrets from one another. We +were to tell one another everything, I didn't notice that you never told +me anything. + +ANN. You didn't want to talk about me, Jack. You wanted to talk about +yourself. + +TANNER. Ah, true, horribly true. But what a devil of a child you must +have been to know that weakness and to play on it for the satisfaction +of your own curiosity! I wanted to brag to you, to make myself +interesting. And I found myself doing all sorts of mischievous things +simply to have something to tell you about. I fought with boys I didn't +hate; I lied about things I might just as well have told the truth +about; I stole things I didn't want; I kissed little girls I didn't care +for. It was all bravado: passionless and therefore unreal. + +ANN. I never told of you, Jack. + +TANNER. No; but if you had wanted to stop me you would have told of me. +You wanted me to go on. + +ANN. [flashing out] Oh, that's not true: it's NOT true, Jack. I never +wanted you to do those dull, disappointing, brutal, stupid, vulgar +things. I always hoped that it would be something really heroic at last. +[Recovering herself] Excuse me, Jack; but the things you did were never +a bit like the things I wanted you to do. They often gave me great +uneasiness; but I could not tell on you and get you into trouble. And +you were only a boy. I knew you would grow out of them. Perhaps I was +wrong. + +TANNER. [sardonically] Do not give way to remorse, Ann. At least +nineteen twentieths of the exploits I confessed to you were pure lies. I +soon noticed that you didn't like the true stories. + +ANN. Of course I knew that some of the things couldn't have happened. +But-- + +TANNER. You are going to remind me that some of the most disgraceful +ones did. + +ANN. [fondly, to his great terror] I don't want to remind you of +anything. But I knew the people they happened to, and heard about them. + +TANNER. Yes; but even the true stories were touched up for telling. +A sensitive boy's humiliations may be very good fun for ordinary +thickskinned grown-ups; but to the boy himself they are so acute, +so ignominious, that he cannot confess them--cannot but deny them +passionately. However, perhaps it was as well for me that I romanced a +bit; for, on the one occasion when I told you the truth, you threatened +to tell of me. + +ANN. Oh, never. Never once. + +TANNER. Yes, you did. Do you remember a dark-eyed girl named Rachel +Rosetree? [Ann's brows contract for an instant involuntarily]. I got up +a love affair with her; and we met one night in the garden and walked +about very uncomfortably with our arms round one another, and kissed at +parting, and were most conscientiously romantic. If that love affair had +gone on, it would have bored me to death; but it didn't go on; for the +next thing that happened was that Rachel cut me because she found out +that I had told you. How did she find it out? From you. You went to her +and held the guilty secret over her head, leading her a life of abject +terror and humiliation by threatening to tell on her. + +ANN. And a very good thing for her, too. It was my duty to stop her +misconduct; and she is thankful to me for it now. + +TANNER. Is she? + +ANN. She ought to be, at all events. + +TANNER. It was not your duty to stop my misconduct, I suppose. + +ANN. I did stop it by stopping her. + +TANNER. Are you sure of that? You stopped my telling you about my +adventures; but how do you know that you stopped the adventures? + +ANN. Do you mean to say that you went on in the same way with other +girls? + +TANNER. No. I had enough of that sort of romantic tomfoolery with +Rachel. + +ANN. [unconvinced] Then why did you break off our confidences and become +quite strange to me? + +TANNER. [enigmatically] It happened just then that I got something that +I wanted to keep all to myself instead of sharing it with you. + +ANN. I am sure I shouldn't have asked for any of it if you had grudged +it. + +TANNER. It wasn't a box of sweets, Ann. It was something you'd never +have let me call my own. + +ANN. [incredulously] What? + +TANNER. My soul. + +ANN. Oh, do be sensible, Jack. You know you're talking nonsense. + +TANNER. The most solemn earnest, Ann. You didn't notice at that time +that you were getting a soul too. But you were. It was not for nothing +that you suddenly found you had a moral duty to chastise and reform +Rachel. Up to that time you had traded pretty extensively in being a +good child; but you had never set up a sense of duty to others. Well, I +set one up too. Up to that time I had played the boy buccaneer with no +more conscience than a fox in a poultry farm. But now I began to have +scruples, to feel obligations, to find that veracity and honor were no +longer goody-goody expressions in the mouths of grown up people, but +compelling principles in myself. + +ANN. [quietly] Yes, I suppose you're right. You were beginning to be a +man, and I to be a woman. + +TANNER. Are you sure it was not that we were beginning to be something +more? What does the beginning of manhood and womanhood mean in most +people's mouths? You know: it means the beginning of love. But love +began long before that for me. Love played its part in the earliest +dreams and follies and romances I can remember--may I say the earliest +follies and romances we can remember?--though we did not understand it +at the time. No: the change that came to me was the birth in me of moral +passion; and I declare that according to my experience moral passion is +the only real passion. + +ANN. All passions ought to be moral, Jack. + +TANNER. Ought! Do you think that anything is strong enough to impose +oughts on a passion except a stronger passion still? + +ANN. Our moral sense controls passion, Jack. Don't be stupid. + +TANNER. Our moral sense! And is that not a passion? Is the devil to +have all the passions as well as all the good times? If it were not a +passion--if it were not the mightiest of the passions, all the other +passions would sweep it away like a leaf before a hurricane. It is the +birth of that passion that turns a child into a man. + +ANN. There are other passions, Jack. Very strong ones. + +TANNER. All the other passions were in me before; but they were idle +and aimless--mere childish greedinesses and cruelties, curiosities +and fancies, habits and superstitions, grotesque and ridiculous to the +mature intelligence. When they suddenly began to shine like newly lit +flames it was by no light of their own, but by the radiance of the +dawning moral passion. That passion dignified them, gave them conscience +and meaning, found them a mob of appetites and organized them into an +army of purposes and principles. My soul was born of that passion. + +ANN. I noticed that you got more sense. You were a dreadfully +destructive boy before that. + +TANNER. Destructive! Stuff! I was only mischievous. + +ANN. Oh Jack, you were very destructive. You ruined all the young fir +trees by chopping off their leaders with a wooden sword. You broke all +the cucumber frames with your catapult. You set fire to the common: the +police arrested Tavy for it because he ran away when he couldn't stop +you. You-- + +TANNER. Pooh! pooh! pooh! these were battles, bombardments, stratagems +to save our scalps from the red Indians. You have no imagination, Ann. I +am ten times more destructive now than I was then. The moral passion has +taken my destructiveness in hand and directed it to moral ends. I have +become a reformer, and, like all reformers, an iconoclast. I no longer +break cucumber frames and burn gorse bushes: I shatter creeds and +demolish idols. + +ANN. [bored] I am afraid I am too feminine to see any sense in +destruction. Destruction can only destroy. + +TANNER. Yes. That is why it is so useful. Construction cumbers the +ground with institutions made by busybodies. Destruction clears it and +gives us breathing space and liberty. + +ANN. It's no use, Jack. No woman will agree with you there. + +TANNER. That's because you confuse construction and destruction with +creation and murder. They're quite different: I adore creation and abhor +murder. Yes: I adore it in tree and flower, in bird and beast, even +in you. [A flush of interest and delight suddenly clears the growing +perplexity and boredom from her face]. It was the creative instinct that +led you to attach me to you by bonds that have left their mark on me +to this day. Yes, Ann: the old childish compact between us was an +unconscious love compact. + +ANN. Jack! + +TANNER. Oh, don't be alarmed-- + +ANN. I am not alarmed. + +TANNER. [whimsically] Then you ought to be: where are your principles? + +ANN. Jack: are you serious or are you not? + +TANNER. Do you mean about the moral passion? + +ANN. No, no; the other one. [Confused] Oh! you are so silly; one never +knows how to take you. + +TANNER. You must take me quite seriously. I am your guardian; and it is +my duty to improve your mind. + +ANN. The love compact is over, then, is it? I suppose you grew tired of +me? + +TANNER. No; but the moral passion made our childish relations +impossible. A jealous sense of my new individuality arose in me. + +ANN. You hated to be treated as a boy any longer. Poor Jack! + +TANNER. Yes, because to be treated as a boy was to be taken on the old +footing. I had become a new person; and those who knew the old person +laughed at me. The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor: he took +my measure anew every time he saw me, whilst all the rest went on with +their old measurements and expected them to fit me. + +ANN. You became frightfully self-conscious. + +TANNER. When you go to heaven, Ann, you will be frightfully conscious of +your wings for the first year or so. When you meet your relatives there, +and they persist in treating you as if you were still a mortal, you will +not be able to bear them. You will try to get into a circle which has +never known you except as an angel. + +ANN. So it was only your vanity that made you run away from us after +all? + +TANNER. Yes, only my vanity, as you call it. + +ANN. You need not have kept away from ME on that account. + +TANNER. From you above all others. You fought harder than anybody +against my emancipation. + +ANN. [earnestly] Oh, how wrong you are! I would have done anything for +you. + +TANNER. Anything except let me get loose from you. Even then you had +acquired by instinct that damnable woman's trick of heaping obligations +on a man, of placing yourself so entirely and helplessly at his mercy +that at last he dare not take a step without running to you for leave. +I know a poor wretch whose one desire in life is to run away from his +wife. She prevents him by threatening to throw herself in front of the +engine of the train he leaves her in. That is what all women do. If we +try to go where you do not want us to go there is no law to prevent us, +but when we take the first step your breasts are under our foot as it +descends: your bodies are under our wheels as we start. No woman shall +ever enslave me in that way. + +ANN. But, Jack, you cannot get through life without considering other +people a little. + +TANNER. Ay; but what other people? It is this consideration of other +people or rather this cowardly fear of them which we call consideration +that makes us the sentimental slaves we are. To consider you, as you +call it, is to substitute your will for my own. How if it be a baser +will than mine? Are women taught better than men or worse? Are mobs of +voters taught better than statesmen or worse? Worse, of course, in both +cases. And then what sort of world are you going to get, with its public +men considering its voting mobs, and its private men considering their +wives? What does Church and State mean nowadays? The Woman and the +Ratepayer. + +ANN. [placidly] I am so glad you understand politics, Jack: it will +be most useful to you if you go into parliament [he collapses like a +pricked bladder]. But I am sorry you thought my influence a bad one. + +TANNER. I don't say it was a bad one. But bad or good, I didn't choose +to be cut to your measure. And I won't be cut to it. + +ANN. Nobody wants you to, Jack. I assure you--really on my word--I +don't mind your queer opinions one little bit. You know we have all been +brought up to have advanced opinions. Why do you persist in thinking me +so narrow minded? + +TANNER. That's the danger of it. I know you don't mind, because you've +found out that it doesn't matter. The boa constrictor doesn't mind the +opinions of a stag one little bit when once she has got her coils round +it. + +ANN. [rising in sudden enlightenment] O-o-o-o-oh! NOW I understand why +you warned Tavy that I am a boa constrictor. Granny told me. [She laughs +and throws her boa around her neck]. Doesn't it feel nice and soft, +Jack? + +TANNER. [in the toils] You scandalous woman, will you throw away even +your hypocrisy? + +ANN. I am never hypocritical with you, Jack. Are you angry? [She +withdraws the boa and throws it on a chair]. Perhaps I shouldn't have +done that. + +TANNER. [contemptuously] Pooh, prudery! Why should you not, if it amuses +you? + +ANN. [Shyly] Well, because--because I suppose what you really meant by +the boa constrictor was THIS [she puts her arms round his neck]. + +TANNER. [Staring at her] Magnificent audacity! [She laughs and pats his +cheeks]. Now just to think that if I mentioned this episode not a soul +would believe me except the people who would cut me for telling, whilst +if you accused me of it nobody would believe my denial. + +ANN. [taking her arms away with perfect dignity] You are incorrigible, +Jack. But you should not jest about our affection for one another. +Nobody could possibly misunderstand it. YOU do not misunderstand it, I +hope. + +TANNER. My blood interprets for me, Ann. Poor Ricky Tiky Tavy! + +ANN. [looking quickly at him as if this were a new light] Surely you are +not so absurd as to be jealous of Tavy. + +TANNER. Jealous! Why should I be? But I don't wonder at your grip of +him. I feel the coils tightening round my very self, though you are only +playing with me. + +ANN. Do you think I have designs on Tavy? + +TANNER. I know you have. + +ANN. [earnestly] Take care, Jack. You may make Tavy very happy if you +mislead him about me. + +TANNER. Never fear: he will not escape you. + +ANN. I wonder are you really a clever man! + +TANNER. Why this sudden misgiving on the subject? + +ANN. You seem to understand all the things I don't understand; but you +are a perfect baby in the things I do understand. + +TANNER. I understand how Tavy feels for you, Ann; you may depend on +that, at all events. + +ANN. And you think you understand how I feel for Tavy, don't you? + +TANNER. I know only too well what is going to happen to poor Tavy. + +ANN. I should laugh at you, Jack, if it were not for poor papa's death. +Mind! Tavy will be very unhappy. + +TANNER. Yes; but he won't know it, poor devil. He is a thousand times +too good for you. That's why he is going to make the mistake of his life +about you. + +ANN. I think men make more mistakes by being too clever than by being +too good [she sits down, with a trace of contempt for the whole male sex +in the elegant carriage of her shoulders]. + +TANNER. Oh, I know you don't care very much about Tavy. But there is +always one who kisses and one who only allows the kiss. Tavy will kiss; +and you will only turn the cheek. And you will throw him over if anybody +better turns up. + +ANN. [offended] You have no right to say such things, Jack. They are not +true, and not delicate. If you and Tavy choose to be stupid about me, +that is not my fault. + +TANNER. [remorsefully] Forgive my brutalities, Ann. They are levelled +at this wicked world, not at you. [She looks up at him, pleased and +forgiving. He becomes cautious at once]. All the same, I wish Ramsden +would come back. I never feel safe with you: there is a devilish +charm--or no: not a charm, a subtle interest [she laughs]. Just so: you +know it; and you triumph in it. Openly and shamelessly triumph in it! + +ANN. What a shocking flirt you are, Jack! + +TANNER. A flirt!! I!! + +ANN. Yes, a flirt. You are always abusing and offending people, but you +never really mean to let go your hold of them. + +TANNER. I will ring the bell. This conversation has already gone further +than I intended. + +Ramsden and Octavius come back with Miss Ramsden, a hardheaded old +maiden lady in a plain brown silk gown, with enough rings, chains and +brooches to show that her plainness of dress is a matter of principle, +not of poverty. She comes into the room very determinedly: the two men, +perplexed and downcast, following her. Ann rises and goes eagerly to +meet her. Tanner retreats to the wall between the busts and pretends +to study the pictures. Ramsden goes to his table as usual; and Octavius +clings to the neighborhood of Tanner. + +MISS RAMSDEN. [almost pushing Ann aside as she comes to Mr. Whitefield's +chair and plants herself there resolutely] I wash my hands of the whole +affair. + +OCTAVIUS. [very wretched] I know you wish me to take Violet away, Miss +Ramsden. I will. [He turns irresolutely to the door]. + +RAMSDEN. No no-- + +MISS RAMSDEN. What is the use of saying no, Roebuck? Octavius knows that +I would not turn any truly contrite and repentant woman from your doors. +But when a woman is not only wicked, but intends to go on being wicked, +she and I part company. + +ANN. Oh, Miss Ramsden, what do you mean? What has Violet said? + +RAMSDEN. Violet is certainly very obstinate. She won't leave London. I +don't understand her. + +MISS RAMSDEN. I do. It's as plain as the nose on your face, Roebuck, +that she won't go because she doesn't want to be separated from this +man, whoever he is. + +ANN. Oh, surely, surely! Octavius: did you speak to her? + +OCTAVIUS. She won't tell us anything. She won't make any arrangement +until she has consulted somebody. It can't be anybody else than the +scoundrel who has betrayed her. + +TANNER. [to Octavius] Well, let her consult him. He will be glad enough +to have her sent abroad. Where is the difficulty? + +MISS RAMSDEN. [Taking the answer out of Octavius's mouth]. The +difficulty, Mr Jack, is that when he offered to help her I didn't offer +to become her accomplice in her wickedness. She either pledges her word +never to see that man again, or else she finds some new friends; and the +sooner the better. + +[The parlormaid appears at the door. Ann hastily resumes her seat, and +looks as unconcerned as possible. Octavius instinctively imitates her]. + +THE MAID. The cab is at the door, ma'am. + +MISS RAMSDEN. What cab? + +THE MAID. For Miss Robinson. + +MISS RAMSDEN. Oh! [Recovering herself] All right. [The maid withdraws]. +She has sent for a cab. + +TANNER. I wanted to send for that cab half an hour ago. + +MISS RAMSDEN. I am glad she understands the position she has placed +herself in. + +RAMSDEN. I don't like her going away in this fashion, Susan. We had +better not do anything harsh. + +OCTAVIUS. No: thank you again and again; but Miss Ramsden is quite +right. Violet cannot expect to stay. + +ANN. Hadn't you better go with her, Tavy? + +OCTAVIUS. She won't have me. + +MISS RAMSDEN. Of course she won't. She's going straight to that man. + +TANNER. As a natural result of her virtuous reception here. + +RAMSDEN. [much troubled] There, Susan! You hear! and there's some truth +in it. I wish you could reconcile it with your principles to be a little +patient with this poor girl. She's very young; and there's a time for +everything. + +MISS RAMSDEN. Oh, she will get all the sympathy she wants from the men. +I'm surprised at you, Roebuck. + +TANNER. So am I, Ramsden, most favorably. + +Violet appears at the door. She is as impenitent and self-assured a +young lady as one would desire to see among the best behaved of her sex. +Her small head and tiny resolute mouth and chin; her haughty crispness +of speech and trimness of carriage; the ruthless elegance of her +equipment, which includes a very smart hat with a dead bird in it, mark +a personality which is as formidable as it is exquisitely pretty. She is +not a siren, like Ann: admiration comes to her without any compulsion +or even interest on her part; besides, there is some fun in Ann, but in +this woman none, perhaps no mercy either: if anything restrains her, it +is intelligence and pride, not compassion. Her voice might be the +voice of a schoolmistress addressing a class of girls who had disgraced +themselves, as she proceeds with complete composure and some disgust to +say what she has come to say. + +VIOLET. I have only looked in to tell Miss Ramsden that she will find +her birthday present to me, the filagree bracelet, in the housekeeper's +room. + +TANNER. Do come in, Violet, and talk to us sensibly. + +VIOLET. Thank you: I have had quite enough of the family conversation +this morning. So has your mother, Ann: she has gone home crying. But +at all events, I have found out what some of my pretended friends are +worth. Good bye. + +TANNER. No, no: one moment. I have something to say which I beg you +to hear. [She looks at him without the slightest curiosity, but waits, +apparently as much to finish getting her glove on as to hear what he +has to say]. I am altogether on your side in this matter. I congratulate +you, with the sincerest respect, on having the courage to do what you +have done. You are entirely in the right; and the family is entirely in +the wrong. + +Sensation. Ann and Miss Ramsden rise and turn toward the two. Violet, +more surprised than any of the others, forgets her glove, and comes +forward into the middle of the room, both puzzled and displeased. +Octavius alone does not move or raise his head; he is overwhelmed with +shame. + +ANN. [pleading to Tanner to be sensible] Jack! + +MISS RAMSDEN. [outraged] Well, I must say! + +VIOLET. [sharply to Tanner] Who told you? + +TANNER. Why, Ramsden and Tavy of course. Why should they not? + +VIOLET. But they don't know. + +TANNER. Don't know what? + +VIOLET. They don't know that I am in the right, I mean. + +TANNER. Oh, they know it in their hearts, though they think themselves +bound to blame you by their silly superstitions about morality and +propriety and so forth. But I know, and the whole world really knows, +though it dare not say so, that you were right to follow your instinct; +that vitality and bravery are the greatest qualities a woman can have, +and motherhood her solemn initiation into womanhood; and that the fact +of your not being legally married matters not one scrap either to your +own worth or to our real regard for you. + +VIOLET. [flushing with indignation] Oh! You think me a wicked woman, +like the rest. You think I have not only been vile, but that I share +your abominable opinions. Miss Ramsden: I have borne your hard words +because I knew you would be sorry for them when you found out the truth. +But I won't bear such a horrible insult as to be complimented by Jack on +being one of the wretches of whom he approves. I have kept my marriage +a secret for my husband's sake. But now I claim my right as a married +woman not to be insulted. + +OCTAVIUS. [raising his head with inexpressible relief] You are married! + +VIOLET. Yes; and I think you might have guessed it. What business had +you all to take it for granted that I had no right to wear my wedding +ring? Not one of you even asked me: I cannot forget that. + +TANNER. [in ruins] I am utterly crushed. I meant well--I +apologize--abjectly apologize. + +VIOLET. I hope you will be more careful in future about the things +you say. Of course one does not take them seriously. But they are very +disagreeable, and rather in bad taste. + +TANNER. [bowing to the storm] I have no defence: I shall know better in +future than to take any woman's part. We have all disgraced ourselves in +your eyes, I am afraid, except Ann, SHE befriended you. For Ann's sake, +forgive us. + +VIOLET. Yes: Ann has been very kind; but then Ann knew. + +TANNER. Oh! + +MISS RAMSDEN. [stiffly] And who, pray, is the gentleman who does not +acknowledge his wife? + +VIOLET. [promptly] That is my business, Miss Ramsden, and not yours. I +have my reasons for keeping my marriage a secret for the present. + +RAMSDEN. All I can say is that we are extremely sorry, Violet. I am +shocked to think of how we have treated you. + +OCTAVIUS. [awkwardly] I beg your pardon, Violet. I can say no more. + +MISS RAMSDEN. [still loth to surrender] Of course what you say puts +a very different complexion on the matter. All the same, I owe it to +myself-- + +VIOLET. [cutting her short] You owe me an apology, Miss Ramsden: that's +what you owe both to yourself and to me. If you were a married woman you +would not like sitting in the housekeeper's room and being treated like +a naughty child by young girls and old ladies without any serious duties +and responsibilities. + +TANNER. Don't hit us when we're down, Violet. We seem to have made fools +of ourselves; but really it was you who made fools of us. + +VIOLET. It was no business of yours, Jack, in any case. + +TANNER. No business of mine! Why, Ramsden as good as accused me of being +the unknown gentleman. + +Ramsden makes a frantic demonstration; but Violet's cool keen anger +extinguishes it. + +VIOLET. You! Oh, how infamous! how abominable! How disgracefully you +have all been talking about me! If my husband knew it he would never let +me speak to any of you again. [To Ramsden] I think you might have spared +me, at least. + +RAMSDEN. But I assure you I never--at least it is a monstrous perversion +of something I said that-- + +MISS RAMSDEN. You needn't apologize, Roebuck. She brought it all on +herself. It is for her to apologize for having deceived us. + +VIOLET. I can make allowances for you, Miss Ramsden: you cannot +understand how I feel on this subject though I should have expected +rather better taste from people of greater experience. However, I quite +feel that you have all placed yourselves in a very painful position; +and the most truly considerate thing for me to do is to go at once. Good +morning. + +She goes, leaving them staring. + +Miss RAMSDEN. Well, I must say--! + +RAMSDEN. [plaintively] I don't think she is quite fair to us. + +TANNER. You must cower before the wedding ring like the rest of us, +Ramsden. The cup of our ignominy is full. + + + + +ACT II + +On the carriage drive in the park of a country house near Richmond a +motor car has broken down. It stands in front of a clump of trees round +which the drive sweeps to the house, which is partly visible through +them: indeed Tanner, standing in the drive with the car on his right +hand, could get an unobstructed view of the west corner of the house on +his left were he not far too much interested in a pair of supine legs +in blue serge trousers which protrude from beneath the machine. He is +watching them intently with bent back and hands supported on his knees. +His leathern overcoat and peaked cap proclaim him one of the dismounted +passengers. + +THE LEGS. Aha! I got him. + +TANNER. All right now? + +THE LEGS. All right now. + +Tanner stoops and takes the legs by the ankles, drawing their owner +forth like a wheelbarrow, walking on his hands, with a hammer in his +mouth. He is a young man in a neat suit of blue serge, clean shaven, +dark eyed, square fingered, with short well brushed black hair and +rather irregular sceptically turned eyebrows. When he is manipulating +the car his movements are swift and sudden, yet attentive and +deliberate. With Tanner and Tanner's friends his manner is not in the +least deferential, but cool and reticent, keeping them quite effectually +at a distance whilst giving them no excuse for complaining of him. +Nevertheless he has a vigilant eye on them always, and that, too, rather +cynically, like a man who knows the world well from its seamy side. He +speaks slowly and with a touch of sarcasm; and as he does not at all +affect the gentleman in his speech, it may be inferred that his smart +appearance is a mark of respect to himself and his own class, not to +that which employs him. + +He now gets into the car to test his machinery and put his cap and +overcoat on again. Tanner takes off his leather overcoat and pitches +it into the car. The chauffeur (or automobilist or motoreer or whatever +England may presently decide to call him) looks round inquiringly in the +act of stowing away his hammer. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. Had enough of it, eh? + +TANNER. I may as well walk to the house and stretch my legs and calm my +nerves a little. [Looking at his watch] I suppose you know that we have +come from Hyde Park Corner to Richmond in twenty-one minutes. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. I'd have done it under fifteen if I'd had a clear road +all the way. + +TANNER. Why do you do it? Is it for love of sport or for the fun of +terrifying your unfortunate employer? + +THE CHAUFFEUR. What are you afraid of? + +TANNER. The police, and breaking my neck. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. Well, if you like easy going, you can take a bus, you +know. It's cheaper. You pay me to save your time and give you the value +of your thousand pound car. [He sits down calmly]. + +TANNER. I am the slave of that car and of you too. I dream of the +accursed thing at night. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. You'll get over that. If you're going up to the house, +may I ask how long you're goin to stay there? Because if you mean to +put in the whole morning talkin to the ladies, I'll put the car in the +stables and make myself comfortable. If not, I'll keep the car on the go +about here til you come. + +TANNER. Better wait here. We shan't be long. There's a young American +gentleman, a Mr Malone, who is driving Mr Robinson down in his new +American steam car. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. [springing up and coming hastily out of the car to +Tanner] American steam car! Wot! racin us down from London! + +TANNER. Perhaps they're here already. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. If I'd known it! [with deep reproach] Why didn't you tell +me, Mr Tanner? + +TANNER. Because I've been told that this car is capable of 84 miles an +hour; and I already know what YOU are capable of when there is a rival +car on the road. No, Henry: there are things it is not good for you to +know; and this was one of them. However, cheer up: we are going to have +a day after your own heart. The American is to take Mr Robinson and his +sister and Miss Whitefield. We are to take Miss Rhoda. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. [consoled, and musing on another matter] That's Miss +Whitefield's sister, isn't it? + +TANNER. Yes. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. And Miss Whitefield herself is goin in the other car? Not +with you? + +TANNER. Why the devil should she come with me? Mr Robinson will be in +the other car. [The Chauffeur looks at Tanner with cool incredulity, and +turns to the car, whistling a popular air softly to himself. Tanner, +a little annoyed, is about to pursue the subject when he hears the +footsteps of Octavius on the gravel. Octavius is coming from the house, +dressed for motoring, but without his overcoat]. We've lost the race, +thank Heaven: here's Mr Robinson. Well, Tavy, is the steam car a +success? + +OCTAVIUS. I think so. We came from Hyde Park Corner here in seventeen +minutes. [The Chauffeur, furious, kicks the car with a groan of +vexation]. How long were you? + +TANNER. Oh, about three quarters of an hour or so. + +THE CHAUFFEUR. [remonstrating] Now, now, Mr Tanner, come now! We could +ha done it easy under fifteen. + +TANNER. By the way, let me introduce you. Mr Octavius Robinson: Mr Enry +Straker. + +STRAKER. Pleased to meet you, sir. Mr Tanner is gittin at you with his +Enry Straker, you know. You call it Henery. But I don't mind, bless you. + +TANNER. You think it's simply bad taste in me to chaff him, Tavy. But +you're wrong. This man takes more trouble to drop his aiches than ever +his father did to pick them up. It's a mark of caste to him. I have +never met anybody more swollen with the pride of class than Enry is. + +STRAKER. Easy, easy! A little moderation, Mr Tanner. + +TANNER. A little moderation, Tavy, you observe. You would tell me to +draw it mild, But this chap has been educated. What's more, he knows +that we haven't. What was that board school of yours, Straker? + +STRAKER. Sherbrooke Road. + +TANNER. Sherbrooke Road! Would any of us say Rugby! Harrow! Eton! in +that tone of intellectual snobbery? Sherbrooke Road is a place where +boys learn something; Eton is a boy farm where we are sent because we +are nuisances at home, and because in after life, whenever a Duke is +mentioned, we can claim him as an old schoolfellow. + +STRAKER. You don't know nothing about it, Mr. Tanner. It's not the Board +School that does it: it's the Polytechnic. + +TANNER. His university, Octavius. Not Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, Dublin +or Glasgow. Not even those Nonconformist holes in Wales. No, Tavy. +Regent Street, Chelsea, the Borough--I don't know half their confounded +names: these are his universities, not mere shops for selling class +limitations like ours. You despise Oxford, Enry, don't you? + +STRAKER. No, I don't. Very nice sort of place, Oxford, I should +think, for people that like that sort of place. They teach you to be a +gentleman there. In the Polytechnic they teach you to be an engineer or +such like. See? + +TANNER. Sarcasm, Tavy, sarcasm! Oh, if you could only see into Enry's +soul, the depth of his contempt for a gentleman, the arrogance of his +pride in being an engineer, would appal you. He positively likes the car +to break down because it brings out my gentlemanly helplessness and his +workmanlike skill and resource. + +STRAKER. Never you mind him, Mr Robinson. He likes to talk. We know him, +don't we? + +OCTAVIUS. [earnestly] But there's a great truth at the bottom of what he +says. I believe most intensely in the dignity of labor. + +STRAKER. [unimpressed] That's because you never done any, Mr Robinson. +My business is to do away with labor. You'll get more out of me and a +machine than you will out of twenty laborers, and not so much to drink +either. + +TANNER. For Heaven's sake, Tavy, don't start him on political economy. +He knows all about it; and we don't. You're only a poetic Socialist, +Tavy: he's a scientific one. + +STRAKER. [unperturbed] Yes. Well, this conversation is very improvin; +but I've got to look after the car; and you two want to talk about your +ladies. I know. [He retires to busy himself about the car; and presently +saunters off towards the house]. + +TANNER. That's a very momentous social phenomenon. + +OCTAVIUS. What is? + +TANNER. Straker is. Here have we literary and cultured persons been +for years setting up a cry of the New Woman whenever some unusually old +fashioned female came along; and never noticing the advent of the New +Man. Straker's the New Man. + +OCTAVIUS. I see nothing new about him, except your way of chaffing +him. But I don't want to talk about him just now. I want to speak to you +about Ann. + +TANNER. Straker knew even that. He learnt it at the Polytechnic, +probably. Well, what about Ann? Have you proposed to her? + +OCTAVIUS. [self-reproachfully] I was brute enough to do so last night. + +TANNER. Brute enough! What do you mean? + +OCTAVIUS. [dithyrambically] Jack: we men are all coarse. We never +understand how exquisite a woman's sensibilities are. How could I have +done such a thing! + +TANNER. Done what, you maudlin idiot? + +OCTAVIUS. Yes, I am an idiot. Jack: if you had heard her voice! if you +had seen her tears! I have lain awake all night thinking of them. If she +had reproached me, I could have borne it better. + +TANNER. Tears! that's dangerous. What did she say? + +OCTAVIUS. She asked me how she could think of anything now but her dear +father. She stifled a sob--[he breaks down]. + +TANNER. [patting him on the back] Bear it like a man, Tavy, even if you +feel it like an ass. It's the old game: she's not tired of playing with +you yet. + +OCTAVIUS. [impatiently] Oh, don't be a fool, Jack. Do you suppose this +eternal shallow cynicism of yours has any real bearing on a nature like +hers? + +TANNER. Hm! Did she say anything else? + +OCTAVIUS. Yes; and that is why I expose myself and her to your ridicule +by telling you what passed. + +TANNER. [remorsefully] No, dear Tavy, not ridicule, on my honor! +However, no matter. Go on. + +OCTAVIUS. Her sense of duty is so devout, so perfect, so-- + +TANNER. Yes: I know. Go on. + +OCTAVIUS. You see, under this new arrangement, you and Ramsden are her +guardians; and she considers that all her duty to her father is now +transferred to you. She said she thought I ought to have spoken to you +both in the first instance. Of course she is right; but somehow it seems +rather absurd that I am to come to you and formally ask to be received +as a suitor for your ward's hand. + +TANNER. I am glad that love has not totally extinguished your sense of +humor, Tavy. + +OCTAVIUS. That answer won't satisfy her. + +TANNER. My official answer is, obviously, Bless you, my children: may +you be happy! + +OCTAVIUS. I wish you would stop playing the fool about this. If it is +not serious to you, it is to me, and to her. + +TANNER. You know very well that she is as free to choose as you. She +does not think so. + +OCTAVIUS. She does not think so. + +TANNER. Oh, doesn't she! just! However, say what you want me to do. + +OCTAVIUS. I want you to tell her sincerely and earnestly what you think +about me. I want you to tell her that you can trust her to me--that is, +if you feel you can. + +TANNER. I have no doubt that I can trust her to you. What worries me is +the idea of trusting you to her. Have you read Maeterlinck's book about +the bee? + +OCTAVIUS. [keeping his temper with difficulty] I am not discussing +literature at present. + +TANNER. Be just a little patient with me. I am not discussing +literature: the book about the bee is natural history. It's an awful +lesson to mankind. You think that you are Ann's suitor; that you are the +pursuer and she the pursued; that it is your part to woo, to persuade, +to prevail, to overcome. Fool: it is you who are the pursued, the marked +down quarry, the destined prey. You need not sit looking longingly +at the bait through the wires of the trap: the door is open, and will +remain so until it shuts behind you for ever. + +OCTAVIUS. I wish I could believe that, vilely as you put it. + +TANNER. Why, man, what other work has she in life but to get a husband? +It is a woman's business to get married as soon as possible, and a +man's to keep unmarried as long as he can. You have your poems and your +tragedies to work at: Ann has nothing. + +OCTAVIUS. I cannot write without inspiration. And nobody can give me +that except Ann. + +TANNER. Well, hadn't you better get it from her at a safe distance? +Petrarch didn't see half as much of Laura, nor Dante of Beatrice, as you +see of Ann now; and yet they wrote first-rate poetry--at least so +I'm told. They never exposed their idolatry to the test of domestic +familiarity; and it lasted them to their graves. Marry Ann and at +the end of a week you'll find no more inspiration than in a plate of +muffins. + +OCTAVIUS. You think I shall tire of her. + +TANNER. Not at all: you don't get tired of muffins. But you don't find +inspiration in them; and you won't in her when she ceases to be a poet's +dream and becomes a solid eleven stone wife. You'll be forced to dream +about somebody else; and then there will be a row. + +OCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is no use, Jack. You don't understand. You +have never been in love. + +TANNER. I! I have never been out of it. Why, I am in love even with Ann. +But I am neither the slave of love nor its dupe. Go to the bee, thou +poet: consider her ways and be wise. By Heaven, Tavy, if women could do +without our work, and we ate their children's bread instead of making +it, they would kill us as the spider kills her mate or as the bees kill +the drone. And they would be right if we were good for nothing but love. + +OCTAVIUS. Ah, if we were only good enough for Love! There is nothing +like Love: there is nothing else but Love: without it the world would be +a dream of sordid horror. + +TANNER. And this--this is the man who asks me to give him the hand of my +ward! Tavy: I believe we were changed in our cradles, and that you are +the real descendant of Don Juan. + +OCTAVIUS. I beg you not to say anything like that to Ann. + +TANNER. Don't be afraid. She has marked you for her own; and nothing +will stop her now. You are doomed. [Straker comes back with a +newspaper]. Here comes the New Man, demoralizing himself with a +halfpenny paper as usual. + +STRAKER. Now, would you believe it: Mr Robinson, when we're out motoring +we take in two papers, the Times for him, the Leader or the Echo for me. +And do you think I ever see my paper? Not much. He grabs the Leader and +leaves me to stodge myself with his Times. + +OCTAVIUS. Are there no winners in the Times? + +TANNER. Enry don't old with bettin, Tavy. Motor records are his +weakness. What's the latest? + +STRAKER. Paris to Biskra at forty mile an hour average, not countin the +Mediterranean. + +TANNER. How many killed? + +STRAKER. Two silly sheep. What does it matter? Sheep don't cost such a +lot: they were glad to ave the price without the trouble o sellin em +to the butcher. All the same, d'y'see, there'll be a clamor agin it +presently; and then the French Government'll stop it; an our chance will +be gone see? That what makes me fairly mad: Mr Tanner won't do a good +run while he can. + +TANNER. Tavy: do you remember my uncle James? + +OCTAVIUS. Yes. Why? + +TANNER. Uncle James had a first rate cook: he couldn't digest anything +except what she cooked. Well, the poor man was shy and hated society. +But his cook was proud of her skill, and wanted to serve up dinners to +princes and ambassadors. To prevent her from leaving him, that poor +old man had to give a big dinner twice a month, and suffer agonies of +awkwardness. Now here am I; and here is this chap Enry Straker, the New +Man. I loathe travelling; but I rather like Enry. He cares for nothing +but tearing along in a leather coat and goggles, with two inches of dust +all over him, at sixty miles an hour and the risk of his life and mine. +Except, of course, when he is lying on his back in the mud under the +machine trying to find out where it has given way. Well, if I don't give +him a thousand mile run at least once a fortnight I shall lose him. He +will give me the sack and go to some American millionaire; and I shall +have to put up with a nice respectful groom-gardener-amateur, who will +touch his hat and know his place. I am Enry's slave, just as Uncle James +was his cook's slave. + +STRAKER. [exasperated] Garn! I wish I had a car that would go as fast +as you can talk, Mr Tanner. What I say is that you lose money by a motor +car unless you keep it workin. Might as well ave a pram and a nussmaid +to wheel you in it as that car and me if you don't git the last inch out +of us both. + +TANNER. [soothingly] All right, Henry, all right. We'll go out for half +an hour presently. + +STRAKER. [in disgust] Arf an ahr! [He returns to his machine; seats +himself in it; and turns up a fresh page of his paper in search of more +news]. + +OCTAVIUS. Oh, that reminds me. I have a note for you from Rhoda. [He +gives Tanner a note]. + +TANNER. [opening it] I rather think Rhoda is heading for a row with Ann. +As a rule there is only one person an English girl hates more than she +hates her mother; and that's her eldest sister. But Rhoda positively +prefers her mother to Ann. She--[indignantly] Oh, I say! + +OCTAVIUS. What's the matter? + +TANNER. Rhoda was to have come with me for a ride in the motor car. She +says Ann has forbidden her to go out with me. + +Straker suddenly begins whistling his favorite air with remarkable +deliberation. Surprised by this burst of larklike melody, and jarred by +a sardonic note in its cheerfulness, they turn and look inquiringly at +him. But he is busy with his paper; and nothing comes of their movement. + +OCTAVIUS. [recovering himself] Does she give any reason? + +TANNER. Reason! An insult is not a reason. Ann forbids her to be alone +with me on any occasion. Says I am not a fit person for a young girl to +be with. What do you think of your paragon now? + +OCTAVIUS. You must remember that she has a very heavy responsibility now +that her father is dead. Mrs Whitefield is too weak to control Rhoda. + +TANNER. [staring at him] In short, you agree with Ann. + +OCTAVIUS. No; but I think I understand her. You must admit that your +views are hardly suited for the formation of a young girl's mind and +character. + +TANNER. I admit nothing of the sort. I admit that the formation of a +young lady's mind and character usually consists in telling her lies; +but I object to the particular lie that I am in the habit of abusing the +confidence of girls. + +OCTAVIUS. Ann doesn't say that, Jack. + +TANNER. What else does she mean? + +STRAKER. [catching sight of Ann coming from the house] Miss Whitefield, +gentlemen. [He dismounts and strolls away down the avenue with the air +of a man who knows he is no longer wanted]. + +ANN. [coming between Octavius and Tanner]. Good morning, Jack. I have +come to tell you that poor Rhoda has got one of her headaches and cannot +go out with you to-day in the car. It is a cruel disappointment to her, +poor child! + +TANNER. What do you say now, Tavy. + +OCTAVIUS. Surely you cannot misunderstand, Jack. Ann is showing you the +kindest consideration, even at the cost of deceiving you. + +ANN. What do you mean? + +TANNER. Would you like to cure Rhoda's headache, Ann? + +ANN. Of course. + +TANNER. Then tell her what you said just now; and add that you arrived +about two minutes after I had received her letter and read it. + +ANN. Rhoda has written to you! + +TANNER. With full particulars. + +OCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Ann. You were right, quite right. Ann was only +doing her duty, Jack; and you know it. Doing it in the kindest way, too. + +ANN. [going to Octavius] How kind you are, Tavy! How helpful! How well +you understand! + +Octavius beams. + +TANNER. Ay: tighten the coils. You love her, Tavy, don't you? + +OCTAVIUS. She knows I do. + +ANN. Hush. For shame, Tavy! + +TANNER. Oh, I give you leave. I am your guardian; and I commit you to +Tavy's care for the next hour. + +ANN. No, Jack. I must speak to you about Rhoda. Ricky: will you go back +to the house and entertain your American friend? He's rather on Mamma's +hands so early in the morning. She wants to finish her housekeeping. + +OCTAVIUS. I fly, dearest Ann [he kisses her hand]. + +ANN. [tenderly] Ricky Ticky Tavy! + +He looks at her with an eloquent blush, and runs off. + +TANNER. [bluntly] Now look here, Ann. This time you've landed yourself; +and if Tavy were not in love with you past all salvation he'd have found +out what an incorrigible liar you are. + +ANN. You misunderstand, Jack. I didn't dare tell Tavy the truth. + +TANNER. No: your daring is generally in the opposite direction. What the +devil do you mean by telling Rhoda that I am too vicious to associate +with her? How can I ever have any human or decent relations with her +again, now that you have poisoned her mind in that abominable way? + +ANN. I know you are incapable of behaving badly. + +TANNER. Then why did you lie to her? + +ANN. I had to. + +TANNER. Had to! + +ANN. Mother made me. + +TANNER. [his eye flashing] Ha! I might have known it. The mother! Always +the mother! + +ANN. It was that dreadful book of yours. You know how timid mother is. +All timid women are conventional: we must be conventional, Jack, or we +are so cruelly, so vilely misunderstood. Even you, who are a man, cannot +say what you think without being misunderstood and vilified--yes: I +admit it: I have had to vilify you. Do you want to have poor Rhoda +misunderstood and vilified to the same way? Would it be right for mother +to let her expose herself to such treatment before she is old enough to +judge for herself? + +TANNER. In short, the way to avoid misunderstanding is for everybody to +lie and slander and insinuate and pretend as hard as they can. That is +what obeying your mother comes to. + +ANN. I love my mother, Jack. + +TANNER. [working himself up into a sociological rage] Is that any reason +why you are not to call your soul your own? Oh, I protest against this +vile abjection of youth to age! look at fashionable society as you know +it. What does it pretend to be? An exquisite dance of nymphs. What is +it? A horrible procession of wretched girls, each in the claws of a +cynical, cunning, avaricious, disillusioned, ignorantly experienced, +foul-minded old woman whom she calls mother, and whose duty it is +to corrupt her mind and sell her to the highest bidder. Why do these +unhappy slaves marry anybody, however old and vile, sooner than not +marry at all? Because marriage is their only means of escape from these +decrepit fiends who hide their selfish ambitions, their jealous hatreds +of the young rivals who have supplanted them, under the mask of maternal +duty and family affection. Such things are abominable: the voice of +nature proclaims for the daughter a father's care and for the son a +mother's. The law for father and son and mother and daughter is not +the law of love: it is the law of revolution, of emancipation, of final +supersession of the old and worn-out by the young and capable. I +tell you, the first duty of manhood and womanhood is a Declaration of +Independence: the man who pleads his father's authority is no man: the +woman who pleads her mother's authority is unfit to bear citizens to a +free people. + +ANN. [watching him with quiet curiosity] I suppose you will go in +seriously for politics some day, Jack. + +TANNER. [heavily let down] Eh? What? Wh--? [Collecting his scattered +wits] What has that got to do with what I have been saying? + +ANN. You talk so well. + +TANNER. Talk! Talk! It means nothing to you but talk. Well, go back +to your mother, and help her to poison Rhoda's imagination as she has +poisoned yours. It is the tame elephants who enjoy capturing the wild +ones. + +ANN. I am getting on. Yesterday I was a boa constrictor: to-day I am an +elephant. + +TANNER. Yes. So pack your trunk and begone; I have no more to say to +you. + +ANN. You are so utterly unreasonable and impracticable. What can I do? + +TANNER. Do! Break your chains. Go your way according to your own +conscience and not according to your mother's. Get your mind clean +and vigorous; and learn to enjoy a fast ride in a motor car instead of +seeing nothing in it but an excuse for a detestable intrigue. Come with +me to Marseilles and across to Algiers and to Biskra, at sixty miles +an hour. Come right down to the Cape if you like. That will be a +Declaration of Independence with a vengeance. You can write a book about +it afterwards. That will finish your mother and make a woman of you. + +ANN. [thoughtfully] I don't think there would be any harm in that, Jack. +You are my guardian: you stand in my father's place, by his own wish. +Nobody could say a word against our travelling together. It would be +delightful: thank you a thousand times, Jack. I'll come. + +TANNER. [aghast] You'll come!!! + +ANN. Of course. + +TANNER. But-- [he stops, utterly appalled; then resumes feebly] No: look +here, Ann: if there's no harm in it there's no point in doing it. + +ANN. How absurd you are! You don't want to compromise me, do you? + +TANNER. Yes: that's the whole sense of my proposal. + +ANN. You are talking the greatest nonsense; and you know it. You would +never do anything to hurt me. + +TANNER. Well, if you don't want to be compromised, don't come. + +ANN. [with simple earnestness] Yes, I will come, Jack, since you wish +it. You are my guardian; and think we ought to see more of one another +and come to know one another better. [Gratefully] It's very thoughtful +and very kind of you, Jack, to offer me this lovely holiday, especially +after what I said about Rhoda. You really are good--much better than you +think. When do we start? + +TANNER. But-- + +The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Whitefield from +the house. She is accompanied by the American gentleman, and followed by +Ramsden and Octavius. + +Hector Malone is an Eastern American; but he is not at all ashamed of +his nationality. This makes English people of fashion think well of +him, as of a young fellow who is manly enough to confess to an obvious +disadvantage without any attempt to conceal or extenuate it. They feel +that he ought not to be made to suffer for what is clearly not his +fault, and make a point of being specially kind to him. His chivalrous +manners to women, and his elevated moral sentiments, being both +gratuitous and unusual, strike them as being a little unfortunate; +and though they find his vein of easy humor rather amusing when it has +ceased to puzzle them (as it does at first), they have had to make +him understand that he really must not tell anecdotes unless they +are strictly personal and scandalous, and also that oratory is an +accomplishment which belongs to a cruder stage of civilization than that +in which his migration has landed him. On these points Hector is not +quite convinced: he still thinks that the British are apt to make merits +of their stupidities, and to represent their various incapacities as +points of good breeding. English life seems to him to suffer from a lack +of edifying rhetoric (which he calls moral tone); English behavior to +show a want of respect for womanhood; English pronunciation to fail +very vulgarly in tackling such words as world, girl, bird, etc.; English +society to be plain spoken to an extent which stretches occasionally to +intolerable coarseness; and English intercourse to need enlivening by +games and stories and other pastimes; so he does not feel called upon to +acquire these defects after taking great paths to cultivate himself in a +first rate manner before venturing across the Atlantic. To this culture +he finds English people either totally indifferent as they very commonly +are to all culture, or else politely evasive, the truth being that +Hector's culture is nothing but a state of saturation with our literary +exports of thirty years ago, reimported by him to be unpacked at a +moment's notice and hurled at the head of English literature, science +and art, at every conversational opportunity. The dismay set up by +these sallies encourages him in his belief that he is helping to educate +England. When he finds people chattering harmlessly about Anatole France +and Nietzsche, he devastates them with Matthew Arnold, the Autocrat of +the Breakfast Table, and even Macaulay; and as he is devoutly religious +at bottom, he first leads the unwary, by humorous irreverences, to wave +popular theology out of account in discussing moral questions with him, +and then scatters them in confusion by demanding whether the carrying +out of his ideals of conduct was not the manifest object of God Almighty +in creating honest men and pure women. The engaging freshness of his +personality and the dumbfoundering staleness of his culture make it +extremely difficult to decide whether he is worth knowing; for +whilst his company is undeniably pleasant and enlivening, there is +intellectually nothing new to be got out of him, especially as he +despises politics, and is careful not to talk commercial shop, in which +department he is probably much in advance of his English capitalist +friends. He gets on best with romantic Christians of the amoristic sect: +hence the friendship which has sprung up between him and Octavius. + +In appearance Hector is a neatly built young man of twenty-four, with +a short, smartly trimmed black beard, clear, well shaped eyes, and an +ingratiating vivacity of expression. He is, from the fashionable point +of view, faultlessly dressed. As he comes along the drive from the +house with Mrs Whitefield he is sedulously making himself agreeable +and entertaining, and thereby placing on her slender wit a burden it is +unable to bear. An Englishman would let her alone, accepting boredom and +indifference of their common lot; and the poor lady wants to be either +let alone or let prattle about the things that interest her. + +Ramsden strolls over to inspect the motor car. Octavius joins Hector. + +ANN. [pouncing on her mother joyously] Oh, mamma, what do you think! +Jack is going to take me to Nice in his motor car. Isn't it lovely? I am +the happiest person in London. + +TANNER. [desperately] Mrs Whitefield objects. I am sure she objects. +Doesn't she, Ramsden? + +RAMSDEN. I should think it very likely indeed. + +ANN. You don't object, do you, mother? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. I object! Why should I? I think it will do you good, +Ann. [Trotting over to Tanner] I meant to ask you to take Rhoda out for +a run occasionally: she is too much in the house; but it will do when +you come back. + +TANNER. Abyss beneath abyss of perfidy! + +ANN. [hastily, to distract attention from this outburst] Oh, I forgot: +you have not met Mr Malone. Mr Tanner, my guardian: Mr Hector Malone. + +HECTOR. Pleased to meet you, Mr Tanner. I should like to suggest an +extension of the travelling party to Nice, if I may. + +ANN. Oh, we're all coming. That's understood, isn't it? + +HECTOR. I also am the modest possessor of a motor car. If Miss Robinson +will allow me the privilege of taking her, my car is at her service. + +OCTAVIUS. Violet! + +General constraint. + +ANN. [subduedly] Come, mother: we must leave them to talk over the +arrangements. I must see to my travelling kit. + +Mrs Whitefield looks bewildered; but Ann draws her discreetly away; and +they disappear round the corner towards the house. + +HECTOR. I think I may go so far as to say that I can depend on Miss +Robinson's consent. + +Continued embarrassment. + +OCTAVIUS. I'm afraid we must leave Violet behind, There are +circumstances which make it impossible for her to come on such an +expedition. + +HECTOR. [amused and not at all convinced] Too American, eh? Must the +young lady have a chaperone? + +OCTAVIUS. It's not that, Malone--at least not altogether. + +HECTOR. Indeed! May I ask what other objection applies? + +TANNER. [impatiently] Oh, tell him, tell him. We shall never be able to +keep the secret unless everybody knows what it is. Mr Malone: if you go +to Nice with Violet, you go with another man's wife. She is married. + +HECTOR. [thunderstruck] You don't tell me so! + +TANNER. We do. In confidence. + +RAMSDEN. [with an air of importance, lest Malone should suspect a +misalliance] Her marriage has not yet been made known: she desires that +it shall not be mentioned for the present. + +HECTOR. I shall respect the lady's wishes. Would it be indiscreet to ask +who her husband is, in case I should have an opportunity of consulting +him about this trip? + +TANNER. We don't know who he is. + +HECTOR. [retiring into his shell in a very marked manner] In that case, +I have no more to say. + +They become more embarrassed than ever. + +OCTAVIUS. You must think this very strange. + +HECTOR. A little singular. Pardon me for saving so. + +RAMSDEN. [half apologetic, half huffy] The young lady was married +secretly; and her husband has forbidden her, it seems, to declare +his name. It is only right to tell you, since you are interested in +Miss--er--in Violet. + +OCTAVIUS. [sympathetically] I hope this is not a disappointment to you. + +HECTOR. [softened, coming out of his shell again] Well it is a blow. +I can hardly understand how a man can leave a wife in such a position. +Surely it's not customary. It's not manly. It's not considerate. + +OCTAVIUS. We feel that, as you may imagine, pretty deeply. + +RAMSDEN. [testily] It is some young fool who has not enough experience +to know what mystifications of this kind lead to. + +HECTOR. [with strong symptoms of moral repugnance] I hope so. A man need +be very young and pretty foolish too to be excused for such conduct. +You take a very lenient view, Mr Ramsden. Too lenient to my mind. Surely +marriage should ennoble a man. + +TANNER. [sardonically] Ha! + +HECTOR. Am I to gather from that cacchination that you don't agree with +me, Mr Tanner? + +TANNER. [drily] Get married and try. You may find it delightful for +a while: you certainly won't find it ennobling. The greatest common +measure of a man and a woman is not necessarily greater than the man's +single measure. + +HECTOR. Well, we think in America that a woman's moral number is higher +than a man's, and that the purer nature of a woman lifts a man right out +of himself, and makes him better than he was. + +OCTAVIUS. [with conviction] So it does. + +TANNER. No wonder American women prefer to live in Europe! It's more +comfortable than standing all their lives on an altar to be worshipped. +Anyhow, Violet's husband has not been ennobled. So what's to be done? + +HECTOR. [shaking his head] I can't dismiss that man's conduct as lightly +as you do, Mr Tanner. However, I'll say no more. Whoever he is, he's +Miss Robinson's husband; and I should be glad for her sake to think +better of him. + +OCTAVIUS. [touched; for he divines a secret sorrow] I'm very sorry, +Malone. Very sorry. + +HECTOR. [gratefully] You're a good fellow, Robinson, Thank you. + +TANNER. Talk about something else. Violet's coming from the house. + +HECTOR. I should esteem it a very great favor, men, if you would take +the opportunity to let me have a few words with the lady alone. I shall +have to cry off this trip; and it's rather a delicate-- + +RAMSDEN. [glad to escape] Say no more. Come Tanner, Come, Tavy. [He +strolls away into the park with Octavius and Tanner, past the motor +car]. + +Violet comes down the avenue to Hector. + +VIOLET. Are they looking? + +HECTOR. No. + +She kisses him. + +VIOLET. Have you been telling lies for my sake? + +HECTOR. Lying! Lying hardly describes it. I overdo it. I get carried +away in an ecstasy of mendacity. Violet: I wish you'd let me own up. + +VIOLET. [instantly becoming serious and resolute] No, no. Hector: you +promised me not to. + +HECTOR. I'll keep my promise until you release me from it. But I feel +mean, lying to those men, and denying my wife. Just dastardly. + +VIOLET. I wish your father were not so unreasonable. + +HECTOR. He's not unreasonable. He's right from his point of view. He has +a prejudice against the English middle class. + +VIOLET. It's too ridiculous. You know how I dislike saying such things +to you, Hector; but if I were to--oh, well, no matter. + +HECTOR. I know. If you were to marry the son of an English manufacturer +of office furniture, your friends would consider it a misalliance. And +here's my silly old dad, who is the biggest office furniture man in +the world, would show me the door for marrying the most perfect lady +in England merely because she has no handle to her name. Of course it's +just absurd. But I tell you, Violet, I don't like deceiving him. I feel +as if I was stealing his money. Why won't you let me own up? + +VIOLET. We can't afford it. You can be as romantic as you please about +love, Hector; but you mustn't be romantic about money. + +HECTOR. [divided between his uxoriousness and his habitual elevation +of moral sentiment] That's very English. [Appealing to her impulsively] +Violet: Dad's bound to find us out some day. + +VIOLET. Oh yes, later on of course. But don't let's go over this every +time we meet, dear. You promised-- + +HECTOR. All right, all right, I-- + +VIOLET. [not to be silenced] It is I and not you who suffer by this +concealment; and as to facing a struggle and poverty and all that sort +of thing I simply will not do it. It's too silly. + +HECTOR. You shall not. I'll sort of borrow the money from my dad until I +get on my own feet; and then I can own up and pay up at the same time. + +VIOLET. [alarmed and indignant] Do you mean to work? Do you want to +spoil our marriage? + +HECTOR. Well, I don't mean to let marriage spoil my character. Your +friend Mr Tanner has got the laugh on me a bit already about that; and-- + +VIOLET. The beast! I hate Jack Tanner. + +HECTOR. [magnanimously] Oh, he's all right: he only needs the love of +a good woman to ennoble him. Besides, he's proposed a motoring trip to +Nice; and I'm going to take you. + +VIOLET. How jolly! + +HECTOR. Yes; but how are we going to manage? You see, they've warned +me off going with you, so to speak. They've told me in confidence that +you're married. That's just the most overwhelming confidence I've ever +been honored with. + +Tanner returns with Straker, who goes to his car. + +TANNER. Your car is a great success, Mr Malone. Your engineer is showing +it off to Mr Ramsden. + +HECTOR. [eagerly--forgetting himself] Let's come, Vi. + +VIOLET. [coldly, warning him with her eyes] I beg your pardon, Mr +Malone, I did not quite catch-- + +HECTOR. [recollecting himself] I ask to be allowed the pleasure of +showing you my little American steam car, Miss Robinson. + +VIOLET. I shall be very pleased. [They go off together down the avenue]. + +TANNER. About this trip, Straker. + +STRAKER. [preoccupied with the car] Yes? + +TANNER. Miss Whitefield is supposed to be coming with me. + +STRAKER. So I gather. + +TANNER. Mr Robinson is to be one of the party. + +STRAKER. Yes. + +TANNER. Well, if you can manage so as to be a good deal occupied with +me, and leave Mr Robinson a good deal occupied with Miss Whitefield, he +will be deeply grateful to you. + +STRAKER. [looking round at him] Evidently. + +TANNER. "Evidently!" Your grandfather would have simply winked. + +STRAKER. My grandfather would have touched his at. + +TANNER. And I should have given your good nice respectful grandfather a +sovereign. + +STRAKER. Five shillins, more likely. [He leaves the car and approaches +Tanner]. What about the lady's views? + +TANNER. She is just as willing to be left to Mr Robinson as Mr Robinson +is to be left to her. [Straker looks at his principal with cool +scepticism; then turns to the car whistling his favorite air]. Stop that +aggravating noise. What do you mean by it? [Straker calmly resumes the +melody and finishes it. Tanner politely hears it out before he again +addresses Straker, this time with elaborate seriousness]. Enry: I have +ever been a warm advocate of the spread of music among the masses; but +I object to your obliging the company whenever Miss Whitefield's name is +mentioned. You did it this morning, too. + +STRAKER. [obstinately] It's not a bit o use. Mr Robinson may as well +give it up first as last. + +TANNER. Why? + +STRAKER. Garn! You know why. Course it's not my business; but you +needn't start kiddin me about it. + +TANNER. I am not kidding. I don't know why. + +STRAKER. [Cheerfully sulky] Oh, very well. All right. It ain't my +business. + +TANNER. [impressively] I trust, Enry, that, as between employer and +engineer, I shall always know how to keep my proper distance, and not +intrude my private affairs on you. Even our business arrangements +are subject to the approval of your Trade Union. But don't abuse your +advantages. Let me remind you that Voltaire said that what was too silly +to be said could be sung. + +STRAKER. It wasn't Voltaire: it was Bow Mar Shay. + +TANNER. I stand corrected: Beaumarchais of course. Now you seem to think +that what is too delicate to be said can be whistled. Unfortunately your +whistling, though melodious, is unintelligible. Come! there's nobody +listening: neither my genteel relatives nor the secretary of your +confounded Union. As man to man, Enry, why do you think that my friend +has no chance with Miss Whitefield? + +STRAKER. Cause she's arter summun else. + +TANNER. Bosh! who else? + +STRAKER. You. + +TANNER. Me!!! + +STRAKER. Mean to tell me you didn't know? Oh, come, Mr Tanner! + +TANNER. [in fierce earnest] Are you playing the fool, or do you mean it? + +STRAKER. [with a flash of temper] I'm not playin no fool. [More coolly] +Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face. If you ain't spotted that, +you don't know much about these sort of things. [Serene again] Ex-cuse +me, you know, Mr Tanner; but you asked me as man to man; and I told you +as man to man. + +TANNER. [wildly appealing to the heavens] Then I--I am the bee, the +spider, the marked down victim, the destined prey. + +STRAKER. I dunno about the bee and the spider. But the marked down +victim, that's what you are and no mistake; and a jolly good job for +you, too, I should say. + +TANNER. [momentously] Henry Straker: the moment of your life has +arrived. + +STRAKER. What d'y'mean? + +TANNER. That record to Biskra. + +STRAKER. [eagerly] Yes? + +TANNER. Break it. + +STRAKER. [rising to the height of his destiny] D'y'mean it? + +TANNER. I do. + +STRAKER. When? + +TANNER. Now. Is that machine ready to start? + +STRAKER. [quailing] But you can't-- + +TANNER. [cutting him short by getting into the car] Off we go. First to +the bank for money; then to my rooms for my kit; then to your rooms for +your kit; then break the record from London to Dover or Folkestone; then +across the channel and away like mad to Marseilles, Gibraltar, Genoa, +any port from which we can sail to a Mahometan country where men are +protected from women. + +STRAKER. Garn! you're kiddin. + +TANNER. [resolutely] Stay behind then. If you won't come I'll do it +alone. [He starts the motor]. + +STRAKER. [running after him] Here! Mister! arf a mo! steady on! [he +scrambles in as the car plunges forward]. + + + + +ACT III + +Evening in the Sierra Nevada. Rolling slopes of brown, with olive trees +instead of apple trees in the cultivated patches, and occasional prickly +pears instead of gorse and bracken in the wilds. Higher up, tall stone +peaks and precipices, all handsome and distinguished. No wild nature +here: rather a most aristocratic mountain landscape made by a fastidious +artist-creator. No vulgar profusion of vegetation: even a touch of +aridity in the frequent patches of stones: Spanish magnificence and +Spanish economy everywhere. + +Not very far north of a spot at which the high road over one of the +passes crosses a tunnel on the railway from Malaga to Granada, is one +of the mountain amphitheatres of the Sierra. Looking at it from the wide +end of the horse-shoe, one sees, a little to the right, in the face +of the cliff, a romantic cave which is really an abandoned quarry, and +towards the left a little hill, commanding a view of the road, which +skirts the amphitheatre on the left, maintaining its higher level on +embankments and on an occasional stone arch. On the hill, watching +the road, is a man who is either a Spaniard or a Scotchman. Probably a +Spaniard, since he wears the dress of a Spanish goatherd and seems at +home in the Sierra Nevada, but very like a Scotchman for all that. In +the hollow, on the slope leading to the quarry-cave, are about a dozen +men who, as they recline at their cave round a heap of smouldering white +ashes of dead leaf and brushwood, have an air of being conscious of +themselves as picturesque scoundrels honoring the Sierra by using it as +an effective pictorial background. As a matter of artistic fact they are +not picturesque; and the mountains tolerate them as lions tolerate lice. +An English policeman or Poor Law Guardian would recognize them as a +selected band of tramps and ablebodied paupers. + +This description of them is not wholly contemptuous. Whoever has +intelligently observed the tramp, or visited the ablebodied ward of a +workhouse, will admit that our social failures are not all drunkards and +weaklings. Some of them are men who do not fit the class they were born +into. Precisely the same qualities that make the educated gentleman an +artist may make an uneducated manual laborer an ablebodied pauper. There +are men who fall helplessly into the workhouse because they are good +for nothing; but there are also men who are there because they are +strongminded enough to disregard the social convention (obviously not a +disinterested one on the part of the ratepayer) which bids a man live +by heavy and badly paid drudgery when he has the alternative of walking +into the workhouse, announcing himself as a destitute person, and +legally compelling the Guardians to feed, clothe and house him better +than he could feed, clothe and house himself without great exertion. +When a man who is born a poet refuses a stool in a stockbroker's office, +and starves in a garret, spunging on a poor landlady or on his friends +and relatives rather than work against his grain; or when a lady, +because she is a lady, will face any extremity of parasitic dependence +rather than take a situation as cook or parlormaid, we make large +allowances for them. To such allowances the ablebodied pauper and his +nomadic variant the tramp are equally entitled. + +Further, the imaginative man, if his life is to be tolerable to him, +must have leisure to tell himself stories, and a position which lends +itself to imaginative decoration. The ranks of unskilled labor offer no +such positions. We misuse our laborers horribly; and when a man refuses +to be misused, we have no right to say that he is refusing honest work. +Let us be frank in this matter before we go on with our play; so that we +may enjoy it without hypocrisy. If we were reasoning, farsighted people, +four fifths of us would go straight to the Guardians for relief, +and knock the whole social system to pieces with most beneficial +reconstructive results. The reason we do got do this is because we work +like bees or ants, by instinct or habit, not reasoning about the matter +at all. Therefore when a man comes along who can and does reason, and +who, applying the Kantian test to his conduct, can truly say to us, If +everybody did as I do, the world would be compelled to reform itself +industrially, and abolish slavery and squalor, which exist only because +everybody does as you do, let us honor that man and seriously +consider the advisability of following his example. Such a man is the +able-bodied, able-minded pauper. Were he a gentleman doing his best to +get a pension or a sinecure instead of sweeping a crossing, nobody would +blame him; for deciding that so long as the alternative lies between +living mainly at the expense of the community and allowing the community +to live mainly at his, it would be folly to accept what is to him +personally the greater of the two evils. + +We may therefore contemplate the tramps of the Sierra without prejudice, +admitting cheerfully that our objects--briefly, to be gentlemen of +fortune--are much the same as theirs, and the difference in our position +and methods merely accidental. One or two of them, perhaps, it would be +wiser to kill without malice in a friendly and frank manner; for there +are bipeds, just as there are quadrupeds, who are too dangerous to be +left unchained and unmuzzled; and these cannot fairly expect to have +other men's lives wasted in the work of watching them. But as society +has not the courage to kill them, and, when it catches them, simply +wreaks on them some superstitious expiatory rites of torture and +degradation, and than lets them loose with heightened qualifications for +mischief, it is just as well that they are at large in the Sierra, +and in the hands of a chief who looks as if he might possibly, on +provocation, order them to be shot. + +This chief, seated in the centre of the group on a squared block of +stone from the quarry, is a tall strong man, with a striking cockatoo +nose, glossy black hair, pointed beard, upturned moustache, and a +Mephistophelean affectation which is fairly imposing, perhaps because +the scenery admits of a larger swagger than Piccadilly, perhaps because +of a certain sentimentality in the man which gives him that touch of +grace which alone can excuse deliberate picturesqueness. His eyes and +mouth are by no means rascally; he has a fine voice and a ready wit; and +whether he is really the strongest man in the party, or not, he looks +it. He is certainly, the best fed, the best dressed, and the best +trained. The fact that he speaks English is not unexpected in spite of +the Spanish landscape; for with the exception of one man who might be +guessed as a bullfighter ruined by drink and one unmistakable Frenchman, +they are all cockney or American; therefore, in a land of cloaks and +sombreros, they mostly wear seedy overcoats, woollen mufflers, hard +hemispherical hats, and dirty brown gloves. Only a very few dress after +their leader, whose broad sombrero with a cock's feather in the band, +and voluminous cloak descending to his high boots, are as un-English as +possible. None of them are armed; and the ungloved ones keep their hands +in their pockets because it is their national belief that it must be +dangerously cold in the open air with the night coming on. (It is as +warm an evening as any reasonable man could desire). + +Except the bullfighting inebriate there is only one person in the +company who looks more than, say, thirty-three. He is a small man with +reddish whiskers, weak eyes, and the anxious look of a small tradesman +in difficulties. He wears the only tall hat visible: it shines in the +sunset with the sticky glow of some sixpenny patent hat reviver, often +applied and constantly tending to produce a worse state of the original +surface than the ruin it was applied to remedy. He has a collar and cuff +of celluloid; and his brown Chesterfield overcoat, with velvet collar, +is still presentable. He is pre-eminently the respectable man of the +party, and is certainly over forty, possibly over fifty. He is the +corner man on the leader's right, opposite three men in scarlet ties on +his left. One of these three is the Frenchman. Of the remaining two, who +are both English, one is argumentative, solemn, and obstinate; the other +rowdy and mischievous. + +The chief, with a magnificent fling of the end of his cloak across his +left shoulder, rises to address them. The applause which greets him +shows that he is a favorite orator. + +THE CHIEF. Friends and fellow brigands. I have a proposal to make +to this meeting. We have now spent three evenings in discussing the +question Have Anarchists or Social-Democrats the most personal courage? +We have gone into the principles of Anarchism and Social-Democracy at +great length. The cause of Anarchy has been ably represented by our one +Anarchist, who doesn't know what Anarchism means [laughter]-- + +THE ANARCHIST. [rising] A point of order, Mendoza-- + +MENDOZA. [forcibly] No, by thunder: your last point of order took half +an hour. Besides, Anarchists don't believe in order. + +THE ANARCHIST. [mild, polite but persistent: he is, in fact, the +respectable looking elderly man in the celluloid collar and cuffs] That +is a vulgar error. I can prove-- + +MENDOZA. Order, order. + +THE OTHERS [shouting] Order, order. Sit down. Chair! Shut up. + +The Anarchist is suppressed. + +MENDOZA. On the other hand we have three Social-Democrats among us. They +are not on speaking terms; and they have put before us three distinct +and incompatible views of Social-Democracy. + +THE MAJORITY. [shouting assent] Hear, hear! So we are. Right. + +THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [smarting under oppression] You ain't no +Christian. You're a Sheeny, you are. + +MENDOZA. [with crushing magnanimity] My friend; I am an exception to +all rules. It is true that I have the honor to be a Jew; and, when the +Zionists need a leader to reassemble our race on its historic soil +of Palestine, Mendoza will not be the last to volunteer [sympathetic +applause--hear, hear, etc.]. But I am not a slave to any superstition. +I have swallowed all the formulas, even that of Socialism; though, in a +sense, once a Socialist, always a Socialist. + +THE SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear! + +MENDOZA. But I am well aware that the ordinary man--even the ordinary +brigand, who can scarcely be called an ordinary man [Hear, hear!]--is +not a philosopher. Common sense is good enough for him; and in our +business affairs common sense is good enough for me. Well, what is our +business here in the Sierra Nevada, chosen by the Moors as the fairest +spot in Spain? Is it to discuss abstruse questions of political economy? +No: it is to hold up motor cars and secure a more equitable distribution +of wealth. + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. All made by labor, mind you. + +MENDOZA. [urbanely] Undoubtedly. All made by labor, and on its way to be +squandered by wealthy vagabonds in the dens of vice that disfigure the +sunny shores of the Mediterranean. We intercept that wealth. We restore +it to circulation among the class that produced it and that chiefly +needs it--the working class. We do this at the risk of our lives +and liberties, by the exercise of the virtues of courage, endurance, +foresight, and abstinence--especially abstinence. I myself have eaten +nothing but prickly pears and broiled rabbit for three days. + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [Stubbornly] No more ain't we. + +MENDOZA. [indignantly] Have I taken more than my share? + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [unmoved] Why should you? + +THE ANARCHIST. Why should he not? To each according to his needs: from +each according to his means. + +THE FRENCHMAN. [shaking his fist at the anarchist] Fumiste! + +MENDOZA. [diplomatically] I agree with both of you. + +THE GENUINELY ENGLISH BRIGANDS. Hear, hear! Bravo, Mendoza! + +MENDOZA. What I say is, let us treat one another as gentlemen, and +strive to excel in personal courage only when we take the field. + +THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [derisively] Shikespear. + +A whistle comes from the goatherd on the hill. He springs up and points +excitedly forward along the road to the north. + +THE GOATHERD. Automobile! Automobile! [He rushes down the hill and joins +the rest, who all scramble to their feet]. + +MENDOZA. [in ringing tones] To arms! Who has the gun? + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [handing a rifle to Mendoza] Here. + +MENDOZA. Have the nails been strewn in the road? + +THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Two ahnces of em. + +MENDOZA. Good! [To the Frenchman] With me, Duval. If the nails fail, +puncture their tires with a bullet. [He gives the rifle to Duval, who +follows him up the hill. Mendoza produces an opera glass. The others +hurry across to the road and disappear to the north]. + +MENDOZA. [on the hill, using his glass] Two only, a capitalist and his +chauffeur. They look English. + +DUVAL. Angliche! Aoh yess. Cochons! [Handling the rifle] Faut tire, +n'est-ce-pas? + +MENDOZA. No: the nails have gone home. Their tire is down: they stop. + +DUVAL. [shouting to the others] Fondez sur eux, nom de Dieu! + +MENDOZA. [rebuking his excitement] Du calme, Duval: keep your hair on. +They take it quietly. Let us descend and receive them. + +Mendoza descends, passing behind the fire and coming forward, whilst +Tanner and Straker, in their motoring goggles, leather coats, and caps, +are led in from the road by brigands. + +TANNER. Is this the gentleman you describe as your boss? Does he speak +English? + +THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Course he does. Y'don't suppowz we +Hinglishmen lets ahrselves be bossed by a bloomin Spenniard, do you? + +MENDOZA. [with dignity] Allow me to introduce myself: Mendoza, President +of the League of the Sierra! [Posing loftily] I am a brigand: I live by +robbing the rich. + +TANNER. [promptly] I am a gentleman: I live by robbing the poor. Shake +hands. + +THE ENGLISH SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear! + +General laughter and good humor. Tanner and Mendoza shake hands. The +Brigands drop into their former places. + +STRAKER. Ere! where do I come in? + +TANNER. [introducing] My friend and chauffeur. + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [suspiciously] Well, which is he? friend or +show-foor? It makes all the difference you know. + +MENDOZA. [explaining] We should expect ransom for a friend. A +professional chauffeur is free of the mountains. He even takes a +trifling percentage of his princpal's ransom if he will honor us by +accepting it. + +STRAKER. I see. Just to encourage me to come this way again. Well, I'll +think about it. + +DUVAL. [impulsively rushing across to Straker] Mon frere! [He embraces +him rapturously and kisses him on both cheeks]. + +STRAKER. [disgusted] Ere, git out: don't be silly. Who are you, pray? + +DUVAL. Duval: Social-Democrat. + +STRAKER. Oh, you're a Social-Democrat, are you? + +THE ANARCHIST. He means that he has sold out to the parliamentary +humbugs and the bourgeoisie. Compromise! that is his faith. + +DUVAL. [furiously] I understand what he say. He say Bourgeois. He say +Compromise. Jamais de la vie! Miserable menteur-- + +STRAKER. See here, Captain Mendoza, ow much o this sort o thing do you +put up with here? Are we avin a pleasure trip in the mountains, or are +we at a Socialist meetin? + +THE MAJORITY. Hear, hear! Shut up. Chuck it. Sit down, etc. etc. [The +Social-Democrats and the Anarchist are hurtled into the background. +Straker, after superintending this proceeding with satisfaction, places +himself on Mendoza's left, Tanner being on his right]. + +MENDOZA. Can we offer you anything? Broiled rabbit and prickly pears-- + +TANNER. Thank you: we have dined. + +MENDOZA. [to his followers] Gentlemen: business is over for the day. Go +as you please until morning. + +The Brigands disperse into groups lazily. Some go into the cave. Others +sit down or lie down to sleep in the open. A few produce a pack of cards +and move off towards the road; for it is now starlight; and they know +that motor cars have lamps which can be turned to account for lighting a +card party. + +STRAKER. [calling after them] Don't none of you go fooling with that +car, d'ye hear? + +MENDOZA. No fear, Monsieur le Chauffeur. The first one we captured cured +us of that. + +STRAKER. [interested] What did it do? + +MENDOZA. It carried three brave comrades of ours, who did not know how +to stop it, into Granada, and capsized them opposite the police station. +Since then we never touch one without sending for the chauffeur. Shall +we chat at our ease? + +TANNER. By all means. + +Tanner, Mendoza, and Straker sit down on the turf by the fire. Mendoza +delicately waives his presidential dignity, of which the right to sit on +the squared stone block is the appanage, by sitting on the ground like +his guests, and using the stone only as a support for his back. + +MENDOZA. It is the custom in Spain always to put off business until +to-morrow. In fact, you have arrived out of office hours. However, if +you would prefer to settle the question of ransom at once, I am at your +service. + +TANNER. To-morrow will do for me. I am rich enough to pay anything in +reason. + +MENDOZA. [respectfully, much struck by this admission] You are a +remarkable man, sir. Our guests usually describe themselves as miserably +poor. + +TANNER. Pooh! Miserably poor people don't own motor cars. + +MENDOZA. Precisely what we say to them. + +TANNER. Treat us well: we shall not prove ungrateful. + +STRAKER. No prickly pears and broiled rabbits, you know. Don't tell me +you can't do us a bit better than that if you like. + +MENDOZA. Wine, kids, milk, cheese and bread can be procured for ready +money. + +STRAKER. [graciously] Now you're talking. + +TANNER. Are you all Socialists here, may I ask? + +MENDOZA. [repudiating this humiliating misconception] Oh no, no, no: +nothing of the kind, I assure you. We naturally have modern views as to +the justice of the existing distribution of wealth: otherwise we should +lose our self-respect. But nothing that you could take exception to, +except two or three faddists. + +TANNER. I had no intention of suggesting anything discreditable. In +fact, I am a bit of a Socialist myself. + +STRAKER. [drily] Most rich men are, I notice. + +MENDOZA. Quite so. It has reached us, I admit. It is in the air of the +century. + +STRAKER. Socialism must be looking up a bit if your chaps are taking to +it. + +MENDOZA. That is true, sir. A movement which is confined to philosophers +and honest men can never exercise any real political influence: there +are too few of them. Until a movement shows itself capable of spreading +among brigands, it can never hope for a political majority. + +TANNER. But are your brigands any less honest than ordinary citizens? + +MENDOZA. Sir: I will be frank with you. Brigandage is abnormal. Abnormal +professions attract two classes: those who are not good enough for +ordinary bourgeois life and those who are too good for it. We are dregs +and scum, sir: the dregs very filthy, the scum very superior. + +STRAKER. Take care! some o the dregs'll hear you. + +MENDOZA. It does not matter: each brigand thinks himself scum, and likes +to hear the others called dregs. + +TANNER. Come! you are a wit. [Mendoza inclines his head, flattered]. May +one ask you a blunt question? + +MENDOZA. As blunt as you please. + +TANNER. How does it pay a man of your talent to shepherd such a flock as +this on broiled rabbit and prickly pears? I have seen men less gifted, +and I'll swear less honest, supping at the Savoy on foie gras and +champagne. + +MENDOZA. Pooh! they have all had their turn at the broiled rabbit, just +as I shall have my turn at the Savoy. Indeed, I have had a turn there +already--as waiter. + +TANNER. A waiter! You astonish me! + +MENDOZA. [reflectively] Yes: I, Mendoza of the Sierra, was a waiter. +Hence, perhaps, my cosmopolitanism. [With sudden intensity] Shall I tell +you the story of my life? + +STRAKER. [apprehensively] If it ain't too long, old chap-- + +TANNER. [interrupting him] Tsh-sh: you are a Philistine, Henry: you have +no romance in you. [To Mendoza] You interest me extremely, President. +Never mind Henry: he can go to sleep. + +MENDOZA. The woman I loved-- + +STRAKER. Oh, this is a love story, is it? Right you are. Go on: I was +only afraid you were going to talk about yourself. + +MENDOZA. Myself! I have thrown myself away for her sake: that is why +I am here. No matter: I count the world well lost for her. She had, I +pledge you my word, the most magnificent head of hair I ever saw. She +had humor; she had intellect; she could cook to perfection; and her +highly strung temperament made her uncertain, incalculable, variable, +capricious, cruel, in a word, enchanting. + +STRAKER. A six shillin novel sort o woman, all but the cookin. Er name +was Lady Gladys Plantagenet, wasn't it? + +MENDOZA. No, sir: she was not an earl's daughter. Photography, +reproduced by the half-tone process, has made me familiar with the +appearance of the daughters of the English peerage; and I can honestly +say that I would have sold the lot, faces, dowries, clothes, titles, and +all, for a smile from this woman. Yet she was a woman of the people, +a worker: otherwise--let me reciprocate your bluntness--I should have +scorned her. + +TANNER. Very properly. And did she respond to your love? + +MENDOZA. Should I be here if she did? She objected to marry a Jew. + +TANNER. On religious grounds? + +MENDOZA. No: she was a freethinker. She said that every Jew considers in +his heart that English people are dirty in their habits. + +TANNER. [surprised] Dirty! + +MENDOZA. It showed her extraordinary knowledge of the world; for it +is undoubtedly true. Our elaborate sanitary code makes us unduly +contemptuous of the Gentile. + +TANNER. Did you ever hear that, Henry? + +STRAKER. I've heard my sister say so. She was cook in a Jewish family +once. + +MENDOZA. I could not deny it; neither could I eradicate the impression +it made on her mind. I could have got round any other objection; but +no woman can stand a suspicion of indelicacy as to her person. My +entreaties were in vain: she always retorted that she wasn't good enough +for me, and recommended me to marry an accursed barmaid named Rebecca +Lazarus, whom I loathed. I talked of suicide: she offered me a packet +of beetle poison to do it with. I hinted at murder: she went into +hysterics; and as I am a living man I went to America so that she might +sleep without dreaming that I was stealing upstairs to cut her throat. +In America I went out west and fell in with a man who was wanted by the +police for holding up trains. It was he who had the idea of holding up +motors cars--in the South of Europe: a welcome idea to a desperate and +disappointed man. He gave me some valuable introductions to capitalists +of the right sort. I formed a syndicate; and the present enterprise is +the result. I became leader, as the Jew always becomes leader, by his +brains and imagination. But with all my pride of race I would give +everything I possess to be an Englishman. I am like a boy: I cut her +name on the trees and her initials on the sod. When I am alone I lie +down and tear my wretched hair and cry Louisa-- + +STRAKER. [startled] Louisa! + +MENDOZA. It is her name--Louisa--Louisa Straker-- + +TANNER. Straker! + +STRAKER. [scrambling up on his knees most indignantly] Look here: Louisa +Straker is my sister, see? Wot do you mean by gassin about her like +this? Wot she got to do with you? + +MENDOZA. A dramatic coincidence! You are Enry, her favorite brother! + +STRAKER. Oo are you callin Enry? What call have you to take a liberty +with my name or with hers? For two pins I'd punch your fat ed, so I +would. + +MENDOZA. [with grandiose calm] If I let you do it, will you promise to +brag of it afterwards to her? She will be reminded of her Mendoza: that +is all I desire. + +TANNER. This is genuine devotion, Henry. You should respect it. + +STRAKER. [fiercely] Funk, more likely. + +MENDOZA. [springing to his feet] Funk! Young man: I come of a famous +family of fighters; and as your sister well knows, you would have as +much chance against me as a perambulator against your motor car. + +STRAKER. [secretly daunted, but rising from his knees with an air of +reckless pugnacity] I ain't afraid of you. With your Louisa! Louisa! +Miss Straker is good enough for you, I should think. + +MENDOZA. I wish you could persuade her to think so. + +STRAKER. [exasperated] Here-- + +TANNER. [rising quickly and interposing] Oh come, Henry: even if you +could fight the President you can't fight the whole League of the +Sierra. Sit down again and be friendly. A cat may look at a king; and +even a President of brigands may look at your sister. All this family +pride is really very old fashioned. + +STRAKER. [subdued, but grumbling] Let him look at her. But wot does he +mean by makin out that she ever looked at im? [Reluctantly resuming his +couch on the turf] Ear him talk, one ud think she was keepin company +with him. [He turns his back on them and composes himself to sleep]. + +MENDOZA. [to Tanner, becoming more confidential as he finds himself +virtually alone with a sympathetic listener in the still starlight of +the mountains; for all the rest are asleep by this time] It was just so +with her, sir. Her intellect reached forward into the twentieth century: +her social prejudices and family affections reached back into the dark +ages. Ah, sir, how the words of Shakespear seem to fit every crisis in +our emotions! + + I loved Louisa: 40,000 brothers + Could not with all their quantity of love + Make up my sum. + +And so on. I forget the rest. Call it madness if you will--infatuation. +I am an able man, a strong man: in ten years I should have owned a +first-class hotel. I met her; and you see! I am a brigand, an outcast. +Even Shakespear cannot do justice to what I feel for Louisa. Let me +read you some lines that I have written about her myself. However slight +their literary merit may be, they express what I feel better than any +casual words can. [He produces a packet of hotel bills scrawled with +manuscript, and kneels at the fire to decipher them, poking it with a +stick to make it glow]. + +TANNER. [clapping him rudely on the shoulder] Put them in the fire, +President. + +MENDOZA. [startled] Eh? + +TANNER. You are sacrificing your career to a monomania. + +MENDOZA. I know it. + +TANNER. No you don't. No man would commit such a crime against himself +if he really knew what he was doing. How can you look round at these +august hills, look up at this divine sky, taste this finely tempered +air, and then talk like a literary hack on a second floor in Bloomsbury? + +MENDOZA. [shaking his head] The Sierra is no better than Bloomsbury when +once the novelty has worn off. Besides, these mountains make you dream +of women--of women with magnificent hair. + +TANNER. Of Louisa, in short. They will not make me dream of women, my +friend: I am heartwhole. + +MENDOZA. Do not boast until morning, sir. This is a strange country for +dreams. + +TANNER. Well, we shall see. Goodnight. [He lies down and composes +himself to sleep]. + +Mendoza, with a sigh, follows his example; and for a few moments +there is peace in the Sierra. Then Mendoza sits up suddenly and says +pleadingly to Tanner-- + +MENDOZA. Just allow me to read a few lines before you go to sleep. I +should really like your opinion of them. + +TANNER. [drowsily] Go on. I am listening. + +MENDOZA. I saw thee first in Whitsun week Louisa, Louisa-- + +TANNER. [roaring himself] My dear President, Louisa is a very pretty +name; but it really doesn't rhyme well to Whitsun week. + +MENDOZA. Of course not. Louisa is not the rhyme, but the refrain. + +TANNER. [subsiding] Ah, the refrain. I beg your pardon. Go on. + +MENDOZA. Perhaps you do not care for that one: I think you will like +this better. [He recites, in rich soft tones, and to slow time] + + Louisa, I love thee. + I love thee, Louisa. + Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee. + One name and one phrase make my music, + Louisa. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee. + + + Mendoza thy lover, + Thy lover, Mendoza, + Mendoza adoringly lives for Louisa. + There's nothing but that in the world for Mendoza. + Louisa, Louisa, Mendoza adores thee. + +[Affected] There is no merit in producing beautiful lines upon such a +name. Louisa is an exquisite name, is it not? + +TANNER. [all but asleep, responds with a faint groan]. + +MENDOZA. + + O wert thou, Louisa, + The wife of Mendoza, + Mendoza's Louisa, Louisa Mendoza, + How blest were the life of Louisa's Mendoza! + How painless his longing of love for Louisa! + +That is real poetry--from the heart--from the heart of hearts. Don't you +think it will move her? + +No answer. + +[Resignedly] Asleep, as usual. Doggrel to all the world; heavenly music +to me! Idiot that I am to wear my heart on my sleeve! [He composes +himself to sleep, murmuring] Louisa, I love thee; I love thee, Louisa; +Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I-- + +Straker snores; rolls over on his side; and relapses into sleep. +Stillness settles on the Sierra; and the darkness deepens. The fire +has again buried itself in white ash and ceased to glow. The peaks show +unfathomably dark against the starry firmament; but now the stars dim +and vanish; and the sky seems to steal away out of the universe. Instead +of the Sierra there is nothing; omnipresent nothing. No sky, no peaks, +no light, no sound, no time nor space, utter void. Then somewhere +the beginning of a pallor, and with it a faint throbbing buzz as of a +ghostly violoncello palpitating on the same note endlessly. A couple of +ghostly violins presently take advantage of this bass + +(a staff of music is supplied here) + +and therewith the pallor reveals a man in the void, an incorporeal but +visible man, seated, absurdly enough, on nothing. For a moment he raises +his head as the music passes him by. Then, with a heavy sigh, he droops +in utter dejection; and the violins, discouraged, retrace their melody +in despair and at last give it up, extinguished by wailings from uncanny +wind instruments, thus:-- + +(more music) + +It is all very odd. One recognizes the Mozartian strain; and on this +hint, and by the aid of certain sparkles of violet light in the pallor, +the man's costume explains itself as that of a Spanish nobleman of the +XV-XVI century. Don Juan, of course; but where? why? how? Besides, in +the brief lifting of his face, now hidden by his hat brim, there was +a curious suggestion of Tanner. A more critical, fastidious, handsome +face, paler and colder, without Tanner's impetuous credulity and +enthusiasm, and without a touch of his modern plutocratic vulgarity, but +still a resemblance, even an identity. The name too: Don Juan Tenorio, +John Tanner. Where on earth---or elsewhere--have we got to from the XX +century and the Sierra? + +Another pallor in the void, this time not violet, but a disagreeable +smoky yellow. With it, the whisper of a ghostly clarionet turning this +tune into infinite sadness: + +(Here there is another musical staff.) + +The yellowish pallor moves: there is an old crone wandering in the void, +bent and toothless; draped, as well as one can guess, in the coarse +brown frock of some religious order. She wanders and wanders in her +slow hopeless way, much as a wasp flies in its rapid busy way, until +she blunders against the thing she seeks: companionship. With a sob of +relief the poor old creature clutches at the presence of the man and +addresses him in her dry unlovely voice, which can still express pride +and resolution as well as suffering. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Excuse me; but I am so lonely; and this place is so +awful. + +DON JUAN. A new comer? + +THE OLD WOMAN. Yes: I suppose I died this morning. I confessed; I had +extreme unction; I was in bed with my family about me and my eyes fixed +on the cross. Then it grew dark; and when the light came back it was +this light by which I walk seeing nothing. I have wandered for hours in +horrible loneliness. + +DON JUAN. [sighing] Ah! you have not yet lost the sense of time. One +soon does, in eternity. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Where are we? + +DON JUAN. In hell. + +THE OLD WOMAN [proudly] Hell! I in hell! How dare you? + +DON JUAN. [unimpressed] Why not, Senora? + +THE OLD WOMAN. You do not know to whom you are speaking. I am a lady, +and a faithful daughter of the Church. + +DON JUAN. I do not doubt it. + +THE OLD WOMAN. But how then can I be in hell? Purgatory, perhaps: I have +not been perfect: who has? But hell! oh, you are lying. + +DON JUAN. Hell, Senora, I assure you; hell at its best--that is, its most +solitary--though perhaps you would prefer company. + +THE OLD WOMAN. But I have sincerely repented; I have confessed. + +DON JUAN. How much? + +THE OLD WOMAN. More sins than I really committed. I loved confession. + +DON JUAN. Ah, that is perhaps as bad as confessing too little. At all +events, Senora, whether by oversight or intention, you are certainly +damned, like myself; and there is nothing for it now but to make the +best of it. + +THE OLD WOMAN [indignantly] Oh! and I might have been so much wickeder! +All my good deeds wasted! It is unjust. + +DON JUAN. No: you were fully and clearly warned. For your bad deeds, +vicarious atonement, mercy without justice. For your good deeds, justice +without mercy. We have many good people here. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Were you a good man? + +DON JUAN. I was a murderer. + +THE OLD WOMAN. A murderer! Oh, how dare they send me to herd with +murderers! I was not as bad as that: I was a good woman. There is some +mistake: where can I have it set right? + +DON JUAN. I do not know whether mistakes can be corrected here. Probably +they will not admit a mistake even if they have made one. + +THE OLD WOMAN. But whom can I ask? + +DON JUAN. I should ask the Devil, Senora: he understands the ways of +this place, which is more than I ever could. + +THE OLD WOMAN. The Devil! _I_ speak to the Devil! + +DON JUAN. In hell, Senora, the Devil is the leader of the best society. + +THE OLD WOMAN. I tell you, wretch, I know I am not in hell. + +DON JUAN. How do you know? + +THE OLD WOMAN. Because I feel no pain. + +DON JUAN. Oh, then there is no mistake: you are intentionally damned. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Why do you say that? + +DON JUAN. Because hell, Senora, is a place for the wicked. The wicked +are quite comfortable in it: it was made for them. You tell me you feel +no pain. I conclude you are one of those for whom Hell exists. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Do you feel no pain? + +DON JUAN. I am not one of the wicked, Senora; therefore it bores me, +bores me beyond description, beyond belief. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Not one of the wicked! You said you were a murderer. + +DON JUAN. Only a duel. I ran my sword through an old man who was trying +to run his through me. + +THE OLD WOMAN. If you were a gentleman, that was not a murder. + +DON JUAN. The old man called it murder, because he was, he said, +defending his daughter's honor. By this he meant that because I +foolishly fell in love with her and told her so, she screamed; and he +tried to assassinate me after calling me insulting names. + +THE OLD WOMAN. You were like all men. Libertines and murderers all, all, +all! + +DON JUAN. And yet we meet here, dear lady. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Listen to me. My father was slain by just such a wretch +as you, in just such a duel, for just such a cause. I screamed: it was +my duty. My father drew on my assailant: his honor demanded it. He fell: +that was the reward of honor. I am here: in hell, you tell me that is +the reward of duty. Is there justice in heaven? + +DON JUAN. No; but there is justice in hell: heaven is far above such +idle human personalities. You will be welcome in hell, Senora. Hell +is the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven deadly +virtues. All the wickedness on earth is done in their name: where else +but in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you that the +truly damned are those who are happy in hell? + +THE OLD WOMAN. And are you happy here? + +DON JUAN. [Springing to his feet] No; and that is the enigma on which I +ponder in darkness. Why am I here? I, who repudiated all duty, trampled +honor underfoot, and laughed at justice! + +THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, what do I care why you are here? Why am I here? I, +who sacrificed all my inclinations to womanly virtue and propriety! + +DON JUAN. Patience, lady: you will be perfectly happy and at home here. +As saith the poet, "Hell is a city much like Seville." + +THE OLD WOMAN. Happy! here! where I am nothing! where I am nobody! + +DON JUAN. Not at all: you are a lady; and wherever ladies are is hell. +Do not be surprised or terrified: you will find everything here that a +lady can desire, including devils who will serve you from sheer love of +servitude, and magnify your importance for the sake of dignifying their +service--the best of servants. + +THE OLD WOMAN. My servants will be devils! + +DON JUAN. Have you ever had servants who were not devils? + +THE OLD WOMAN. Never: they were devils, perfect devils, all of them. But +that is only a manner of speaking. I thought you meant that my servants +here would be real devils. + +DON JUAN. No more real devils than you will be a real lady. Nothing is +real here. That is the horror of damnation. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, this is all madness. This is worse than fire and the +worm. + +DON JUAN. For you, perhaps, there are consolations. For instance: how +old were you when you changed from time to eternity? + +THE OLD WOMAN. Do not ask me how old I was as if I were a thing of the +past. I am 77. + +DON JUAN. A ripe age, Senora. But in hell old age is not tolerated. It +is too real. Here we worship Love and Beauty. Our souls being entirely +damned, we cultivate our hearts. As a lady of 77, you would not have a +single acquaintance in hell. + +THE OLD WOMAN. How can I help my age, man? + +DON JUAN. You forget that you have left your age behind you in the realm +of time. You are no more 77 than you are 7 or 17 or 27. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Nonsense! + +DON JUAN. Consider, Senora: was not this true even when you lived on +earth? When you were 70, were you really older underneath your wrinkles +and your grey hairs than when you were 30? + +THE OLD WOMAN. No, younger: at 30 I was a fool. But of what use is it to +feel younger and look older? + +DON JUAN. You see, Senora, the look was only an illusion. Your wrinkles +lied, just as the plump smooth skin of many a stupid girl of 17, with +heavy spirits and decrepit ideas, lies about her age? Well, here we have +no bodies: we see each other as bodies only because we learnt to think +about one another under that aspect when we were alive; and we still +think in that way, knowing no other. But we can appear to one another at +what age we choose. You have but to will any of your old looks back, and +back they will come. + +THE OLD WOMAN. It cannot be true. + +DON JUAN. Try. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Seventeen! + +DON JUAN. Stop. Before you decide, I had better tell you that these +things are a matter of fashion. Occasionally we have a rage for 17; but +it does not last long. Just at present the fashionable age is 40--or say +37; but there are signs of a change. If you were at all good-looking at +27, I should suggest your trying that, and setting a new fashion. + +THE OLD WOMAN. I do not believe a word you are saying. However, 27 be +it. [Whisk! the old woman becomes a young one, and so handsome that in +the radiance into which her dull yellow halo has suddenly lightened one +might almost mistake her for Ann Whitefield]. + +DON JUAN. Dona Ana de Ulloa! + +ANA. What? You know me! + +DON JUAN. And you forget me! + +ANA. I cannot see your face. [He raises his hat]. Don Juan Tenorio! +Monster! You who slew my father! even here you pursue me. + +DON JUAN. I protest I do not pursue you. Allow me to withdraw [going]. + +ANA. [seizing his arm] You shall not leave me alone in this dreadful +place. + +DON JUAN. Provided my staying be not interpreted as pursuit. + +ANA. [releasing him] You may well wonder how I can endure your presence. +My dear, dear father! + +DON JUAN. Would you like to see him? + +ANA. My father HERE!!! + +DON JUAN. No: he is in heaven. + +ANA. I knew it. My noble father! He is looking down on us now. What must +he feel to see his daughter in this place, and in conversation with his +murderer! + +DON JUAN. By the way, if we should meet him-- + +ANA. How can we meet him? He is in heaven. + +DON JUAN. He condescends to look in upon us here from time to time. +Heaven bores him. So let me warn you that if you meet him he will be +mortally offended if you speak of me as his murderer! He maintains that +he was a much better swordsman than I, and that if his foot had not +slipped he would have killed me. No doubt he is right: I was not a good +fencer. I never dispute the point; so we are excellent friends. + +ANA. It is no dishonor to a soldier to be proud of his skill in arms. + +DON JUAN. You would rather not meet him, probably. + +ANA. How dare you say that? + +DON JUAN. Oh, that is the usual feeling here. You may remember that on +earth--though of course we never confessed it--the death of anyone +we knew, even those we liked best, was always mingled with a certain +satisfaction at being finally done with them. + +ANA. Monster! Never, never. + +DON JUAN. [placidly] I see you recognize the feeling. Yes: a funeral was +always a festivity in black, especially the funeral of a relative. At +all events, family ties are rarely kept up here. Your father is quite +accustomed to this: he will not expect any devotion from you. + +ANA. Wretch: I wore mourning for him all my life. + +DON JUAN. Yes: it became you. But a life of mourning is one thing: an +eternity of it quite another. Besides, here you are as dead as he. Can +anything be more ridiculous than one dead person mourning for another? +Do not look shocked, my dear Ana; and do not be alarmed: there is plenty +of humbug in hell (indeed there is hardly anything else); but the humbug +of death and age and change is dropped because here WE are all dead and +all eternal. You will pick up our ways soon. + +ANA. And will all the men call me their dear Ana? + +DON JUAN. No. That was a slip of the tongue. I beg your pardon. + +ANA. [almost tenderly] Juan: did you really love me when you behaved so +disgracefully to me? + +DON JUAN. [impatiently] Oh, I beg you not to begin talking about love. +Here they talk of nothing else but love--its beauty, its holiness, its +spirituality, its devil knows what!--excuse me; but it does so bore me. +They don't know what they're talking about. I do. They think they have +achieved the perfection of love because they have no bodies. Sheer +imaginative debauchery! Faugh! + +ANA. Has even death failed to refine your soul, Juan? Has the terrible +judgment of which my father's statue was the minister taught you no +reverence? + +DON JUAN. How is that very flattering statue, by the way? Does it still +come to supper with naughty people and cast them into this bottomless +pit? + +ANA. It has been a great expense to me. The boys in the monastery school +would not let it alone: the mischievous ones broke it; and the studious +ones wrote their names on it. Three new noses in two years, and fingers +without end. I had to leave it to its fate at last; and now I fear it is +shockingly mutilated. My poor father! + +DON JUAN. Hush! Listen! [Two great chords rolling on syncopated waves of +sound break forth: D minor and its dominant: a round of dreadful joy to +all musicians]. Ha! Mozart's statue music. It is your father. You had +better disappear until I prepare him. [She vanishes]. + +From the void comes a living statue of white marble, designed to +represent a majestic old man. But he waives his majesty with infinite +grace; walks with a feather-like step; and makes every wrinkle in his +war worn visage brim over with holiday joyousness. To his sculptor he +owes a perfectly trained figure, which he carries erect and trim; and +the ends of his moustache curl up, elastic as watchsprings, giving him +an air which, but for its Spanish dignity, would be called jaunty. He is +on the pleasantest terms with Don Juan. His voice, save for a much more +distinguished intonation, is so like the voice of Roebuck Ramsden that +it calls attention to the fact that they are not unlike one another in +spite of their very different fashion of shaving. + +DON JUAN. Ah, here you are, my friend. Why don't you learn to sing the +splendid music Mozart has written for you? + +THE STATUE. Unluckily he has written it for a bass voice. Mine is a +counter tenor. Well: have you repented yet? + +DON JUAN. I have too much consideration for you to repent, Don Gonzalo. +If I did, you would have no excuse for coming from Heaven to argue with +me. + +THE STATUE. True. Remain obdurate, my boy. I wish I had killed you, as I +should have done but for an accident. Then I should have come here; and +you would have had a statue and a reputation for piety to live up to. +Any news? + +DON JUAN. Yes: your daughter is dead. + +THE STATUE. [puzzled] My daughter? [Recollecting] Oh! the one you were +taken with. Let me see: what was her name? + +DON JUAN. Ana. + +THE STATUE. To be sure: Ana. A goodlooking girl, if I recollect aright. +Have you warned Whatshisname--her husband? + +DON JUAN. My friend Ottavio? No: I have not seen him since Ana arrived. + +Ana comes indignantly to light. + +ANA. What does this mean? Ottavio here and YOUR friend! And you, father, +have forgotten my name. You are indeed turned to stone. + +THE STATUE. My dear: I am so much more admired in marble than I ever was +in my own person that I have retained the shape the sculptor gave me. He +was one of the first men of his day: you must acknowledge that. + +ANA. Father! Vanity! personal vanity! from you! + +THE STATUE. Ah, you outlived that weakness, my daughter: you must be +nearly 80 by this time. I was cut off (by an accident) in my 64th year, +and am considerably your junior in consequence. Besides, my child, +in this place, what our libertine friend here would call the farce of +parental wisdom is dropped. Regard me, I beg, as a fellow creature, not +as a father. + +ANA. You speak as this villain speaks. + +THE STATUE. Juan is a sound thinker, Ana. A bad fencer, but a sound +thinker. + +ANA. [horror creeping upon her] I begin to understand. These are devils, +mocking me. I had better pray. + +THE STATUE. [consoling her] No, no, no, my child: do not pray. If you +do, you will throw away the main advantage of this place. Written over +the gate here are the words "Leave every hope behind, ye who enter." +Only think what a relief that is! For what is hope? A form of moral +responsibility. Here there is no hope, and consequently no duty, no +work, nothing to be gained by praying, nothing to be lost by doing what +you like. Hell, in short, is a place where you have nothing to do but +amuse yourself. [Don Juan sighs deeply]. You sigh, friend Juan; but if +you dwelt in heaven, as I do, you would realize your advantages. + +DON JUAN. You are in good spirits to-day, Commander. You are positively +brilliant. What is the matter? + +THE STATUE. I have come to a momentous decision, my boy. But first, +where is our friend the Devil? I must consult him in the matter. And Ana +would like to make his acquaintance, no doubt. + +ANA. You are preparing some torment for me. + +DON JUAN. All that is superstition, Ana. Reassure yourself. Remember: +the devil is not so black as he is painted. + +THE STATUE. Let us give him a call. + +At the wave of the statue's hand the great chords roll out again but +this time Mozart's music gets grotesquely adulterated with Gounod's. +A scarlet halo begins to glow; and into it the Devil rises, very +Mephistophelean, and not at all unlike Mendoza, though not so +interesting. He looks older; is getting prematurely bald; and, in spite +of an effusion of goodnature and friendliness, is peevish and sensitive +when his advances are not reciprocated. He does not inspire much +confidence in his powers of hard work or endurance, and is, on the +whole, a disagreeably self-indulgent looking person; but he is clever +and plausible, though perceptibly less well bred than the two other men, +and enormously less vital than the woman. + +THE DEVIL. [heartily] Have I the pleasure of again receiving a visit +from the illustrious Commander of Calatrava? [Coldly] Don Juan, your +servant. [Politely] And a strange lady? My respects, Senora. + +ANA. Are you-- + +THE DEVIL. [bowing] Lucifer, at your service. + +ANA. I shall go mad. + +THE DEVIL. [gallantly] Ah, Senora, do not be anxious. You come to us +from earth, full of the prejudices and terrors of that priest-ridden +place. You have heard me ill spoken of; and yet, believe me, I have +hosts of friends there. + +ANA. Yes: you reign in their hearts. + +THE DEVIL. [shaking his head] You flatter me, Senora; but you are +mistaken. It is true that the world cannot get on without me; but it +never gives me credit for that: in its heart it mistrusts and hates me. +Its sympathies are all with misery, with poverty, with starvation of the +body and of the heart. I call on it to sympathize with joy, with love, +with happiness, with beauty. + +DON JUAN. [nauseated] Excuse me: I am going. You know I cannot stand +this. + +THE DEVIL. [angrily] Yes: I know that you are no friend of mine. + +THE STATUE. What harm is he doing you, Juan? It seems to me that he was +talking excellent sense when you interrupted him. + +THE DEVIL. [warmly shaking the statue's hand] Thank you, my friend: +thank you. You have always understood me: he has always disparaged and +avoided me. + +DON JUAN. I have treated you with perfect courtesy. + +THE DEVIL. Courtesy! What is courtesy? I care nothing for mere courtesy. +Give me warmth of heart, true sincerity, the bond of sympathy with love +and joy-- + +DON JUAN. You are making me ill. + +THE DEVIL. There! [Appealing to the statue] You hear, sir! Oh, by what +irony of fate was this cold selfish egotist sent to my kingdom, and you +taken to the icy mansions of the sky! + +THE STATUE. I can't complain. I was a hypocrite; and it served me right +to be sent to heaven. + +THE DEVIL. Why, sir, do you not join us, and leave a sphere for which +your temperament is too sympathetic, your heart too warm, your capacity +for enjoyment too generous? + +THE STATUE. I have this day resolved to do so. In future, excellent Son +of the Morning, I am yours. I have left Heaven for ever. + +THE DEVIL. [again grasping his hand] Ah, what an honor for me! What a +triumph for our cause! Thank you, thank you. And now, my friend--I may +call you so at last--could you not persuade HIM to take the place you +have left vacant above? + +THE STATUE. [shaking his head] I cannot conscientiously recommend +anybody with whom I am on friendly terms to deliberately make himself +dull and uncomfortable. + +THE DEVIL. Of course not; but are you sure HE would be uncomfortable? +Of course you know best: you brought him here originally; and we had the +greatest hopes of him. His sentiments were in the best taste of our best +people. You remember how he sang? [He begins to sing in a nasal operatic +baritone, tremulous from an eternity of misuse in the French manner]. + + Vivan le femmine! + Viva il buon vino! + +THE STATUE. [taking up the tune an octave higher in his counter tenor] + + Sostegno a gloria + D'umanita. + +THE DEVIL. Precisely. Well, he never sings for us now. + +DON JUAN. Do you complain of that? Hell is full of musical amateurs: +music is the brandy of the damned. May not one lost soul be permitted to +abstain? + +THE DEVIL. You dare blaspheme against the sublimest of the arts! + +DON JUAN. [with cold disgust] You talk like a hysterical woman fawning +on a fiddler. + +THE DEVIL. I am not angry. I merely pity you. You have no soul; and you +are unconscious of all that you lose. Now you, Senor Commander, are a +born musician. How well you sing! Mozart would be delighted if he were +still here; but he moped and went to heaven. Curious how these clever +men, whom you would have supposed born to be popular here, have turned +out social failures, like Don Juan! + +DON JUAN. I am really very sorry to be a social failure. + +THE DEVIL. Not that we don't admire your intellect, you know. We do. But +I look at the matter from your own point of view. You don't get on with +us. The place doesn't suit you. The truth is, you have--I won't say no +heart; for we know that beneath all your affected cynicism you have a +warm one. + +DON JUAN. [shrinking] Don't, please don't. + +THE DEVIL. [nettled] Well, you've no capacity for enjoyment. Will that +satisfy you? + +DON JUAN. It is a somewhat less insufferable form of cant than the +other. But if you'll allow me, I'll take refuge, as usual, in solitude. + +THE DEVIL. Why not take refuge in Heaven? That's the proper place for +you. [To Ana] Come, Senora! could you not persuade him for his own good +to try a change of air? + +ANA. But can he go to Heaven if he wants to? + +THE DEVIL. What's to prevent him? + +ANA. Can anybody--can I go to Heaven if I want to? + +THE DEVIL. [rather contemptuously] Certainly, if your taste lies that +way. + +ANA. But why doesn't everybody go to Heaven, then? + +THE STATUE. [chuckling] I can tell you that, my dear. It's because +heaven is the most angelically dull place in all creation: that's why. + +THE DEVIL. His excellency the Commander puts it with military bluntness; +but the strain of living in Heaven is intolerable. There is a notion +that I was turned out of it; but as a matter of fact nothing could have +induced me to stay there. I simply left it and organized this place. + +THE STATUE. I don't wonder at it. Nobody could stand an eternity of +heaven. + +THE DEVIL. Oh, it suits some people. Let us be just, Commander: it is +a question of temperament. I don't admire the heavenly temperament: I +don't understand it: I don't know that I particularly want to understand +it; but it takes all sorts to make a universe. There is no accounting +for tastes: there are people who like it. I think Don Juan would like +it. + +DON JUAN. But--pardon my frankness--could you really go back there if +you desired to; or are the grapes sour? + +THE DEVIL. Back there! I often go back there. Have you never read the +book of Job? Have you any canonical authority for assuming that there is +any barrier between our circle and the other one? + +ANA. But surely there is a great gulf fixed. + +THE DEVIL. Dear lady: a parable must not be taken literally. The gulf +is the difference between the angelic and the diabolic temperament. +What more impassable gulf could you have? Think of what you have seen +on earth. There is no physical gulf between the philosopher's class room +and the bull ring; but the bull fighters do not come to the class room +for all that. Have you ever been in the country where I have the largest +following--England? There they have great racecourses, and also concert +rooms where they play the classical compositions of his Excellency's +friend Mozart. Those who go to the racecourses can stay away from them +and go to the classical concerts instead if they like: there is no law +against it; for Englishmen never will be slaves: they are free to do +whatever the Government and public opinion allows them to do. And the +classical concert is admitted to be a higher, more cultivated, poetic, +intellectual, ennobling place than the racecourse. But do the lovers of +racing desert their sport and flock to the concert room? Not they. +They would suffer there all the weariness the Commander has suffered in +heaven. There is the great gulf of the parable between the two places. A +mere physical gulf they could bridge; or at least I could bridge it for +them (the earth is full of Devil's Bridges); but the gulf of dislike +is impassable and eternal. And that is the only gulf that separates my +friends here from those who are invidiously called the blest. + +ANA. I shall go to heaven at once. + +THE STATUE. My child; one word of warning first. Let me complete my +friend Lucifer's similitude of the classical concert. At every one of +those concerts in England you will find rows of weary people who are +there, not because they really like classical music, but because they +think they ought to like it. Well, there is the same thing in heaven. +A number of people sit there in glory, not because they are happy, but +because they think they owe it to their position to be in heaven. They +are almost all English. + +THE DEVIL. Yes: the Southerners give it up and join me just as you +have done. But the English really do not seem to know when they are +thoroughly miserable. An Englishman thinks he is moral when he is only +uncomfortable. + +THE STATUE. In short, my daughter, if you go to Heaven without being +naturally qualified for it, you will not enjoy yourself there. + +ANA. And who dares say that I am not naturally qualified for it? The +most distinguished princes of the Church have never questioned it. I owe +it to myself to leave this place at once. + +THE DEVIL. [offended] As you please, Senora. I should have expected +better taste from you. + +ANA. Father: I shall expect you to come with me. You cannot stay here. +What will people say? + +THE STATUE. People! Why, the best people are here--princes of the church +and all. So few go to Heaven, and so many come here, that the blest, +once called a heavenly host, are a continually dwindling minority. The +saints, the fathers, the elect of long ago are the cranks, the faddists, +the outsiders of to-day. + +THE DEVIL. It is true. From the beginning of my career I knew that I +should win in the long run by sheer weight of public opinion, in spite +of the long campaign of misrepresentation and calumny against me. At +bottom the universe is a constitutional one; and with such a majority as +mine I cannot be kept permanently out of office. + +DON JUAN. I think, Ana, you had better stay here. + +ANA. [jealously] You do not want me to go with you. + +DON JUAN. Surely you do not want to enter Heaven in the company of a +reprobate like me. + +ANA. All souls are equally precious. You repent, do you not? + +DON JUAN. My dear Ana, you are silly. Do you suppose heaven is like +earth, where people persuade themselves that what is done can be undone +by repentance; that what is spoken can be unspoken by withdrawing it; +that what is true can be annihilated by a general agreement to give it +the lie? No: heaven is the home of the masters of reality: that is why I +am going thither. + +ANA. Thank you: I am going to heaven for happiness. I have had quite +enough of reality on earth. + +DON JUAN. Then you must stay here; for hell is the home of the unreal +and of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven, +which is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from +earth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a +nursery in which men and women play at being heros and heroines, saints +and sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool's paradise by +their bodies: hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease, +death above all, make them slaves of reality: thrice a day meals must +be eaten and digested: thrice a century a new generation must be +engendered: ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all driven at +last to have but one prayer, "Make me a healthy animal." But here you +escape the tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not an animal at all: +you are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a convention, deathless, +ageless: in a word, bodiless. There are no social questions here, no +political questions, no religious questions, best of all, perhaps, no +sanitary questions. Here you call your appearance beauty, your emotions +love, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations virtue, just as you did +on earth; but here there are no hard facts to contradict you, no ironic +contrast of your needs with your pretensions, no human comedy, nothing +but a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama. As our German friend put +it in his poem, "the poetically nonsensical here is good sense; and the +Eternal Feminine draws us ever upward and on"--without getting us a step +farther. And yet you want to leave this paradise! + +ANA. But if Hell be so beautiful as this, how glorious must heaven be! + +The Devil, the Statue, and Don Juan all begin to speak at once in +violent protest; then stop, abashed. + +DON JUAN. I beg your pardon. + +THE DEVIL. Not at all. I interrupted you. + +THE STATUE. You were going to say something. + +DON JUAN. After you, gentlemen. + +THE DEVIL. [to Don Juan] You have been so eloquent on the advantages of +my dominions that I leave you to do equal justice to the drawbacks of +the alternative establishment. + +DON JUAN. In Heaven, as I picture it, dear lady, you live and work +instead of playing and pretending. You face things as they are; you +escape nothing but glamor; and your steadfastness and your peril are +your glory. If the play still goes on here and on earth, and all the +world is a stage, Heaven is at least behind the scenes. But Heaven +cannot be described by metaphor. Thither I shall go presently, because +there I hope to escape at last from lies and from the tedious, vulgar +pursuit of happiness, to spend my eons in contemplation-- + +THE STATUE. Ugh! + +DON JUAN. Senor Commander: I do not blame your disgust: a picture +gallery is a dull place for a blind man. But even as you enjoy the +contemplation of such romantic mirages as beauty and pleasure; so would +I enjoy the contemplation of that which interests me above all things +namely, Life: the force that ever strives to attain greater power of +contemplating itself. What made this brain of mine, do you think? Not +the need to move my limbs; for a rat with half my brains moves as well +as I. Not merely the need to do, but the need to know what I do, lest in +my blind efforts to live I should be slaying myself. + +THE STATUE. You would have slain yourself in your blind efforts to fence +but for my foot slipping, my friend. + +DON JUAN. Audacious ribald: your laughter will finish in hideous boredom +before morning. + +THE STATUE. Ha ha! Do you remember how I frightened you when I said +something like that to you from my pedestal in Seville? It sounds rather +flat without my trombones. + +DON JUAN. They tell me it generally sounds flat with them, Commander. + +ANA. Oh, do not interrupt with these frivolities, father. Is there +nothing in Heaven but contemplation, Juan? + +DON JUAN. In the Heaven I seek, no other joy. But there is the work of +helping Life in its struggle upward. Think of how it wastes and scatters +itself, how it raises up obstacles to itself and destroys itself in its +ignorance and blindness. It needs a brain, this irresistible force, lest +in its ignorance it should resist itself. What a piece of work is man! +says the poet. Yes: but what a blunderer! Here is the highest miracle of +organization yet attained by life, the most intensely alive thing that +exists, the most conscious of all the organisms; and yet, how wretched +are his brains! Stupidity made sordid and cruel by the realities learnt +from toil and poverty: Imagination resolved to starve sooner than face +these realities, piling up illusions to hide them, and calling itself +cleverness, genius! And each accusing the other of its own defect: +Stupidity accusing Imagination of folly, and Imagination accusing +Stupidity of ignorance: whereas, alas! Stupidity has all the knowledge, +and Imagination all the intelligence. + +THE DEVIL. And a pretty kettle of fish they make of it between them. Did +I not say, when I was arranging that affair of Faust's, that all Man's +reason has done for him is to make him beastlier than any beast. One +splendid body is worth the brains of a hundred dyspeptic, flatulent +philosophers. + +DON JUAN. You forget that brainless magnificence of body has been tried. +Things immeasurably greater than man in every respect but brain have +existed and perished. The megatherium, the icthyosaurus have paced the +earth with seven-league steps and hidden the day with cloud vast wings. +Where are they now? Fossils in museums, and so few and imperfect at +that, that a knuckle bone or a tooth of one of them is prized beyond the +lives of a thousand soldiers. These things lived and wanted to live; but +for lack of brains they did not know how to carry out their purpose, and +so destroyed themselves. + +THE DEVIL. And is Man any the less destroying himself for all this +boasted brain of his? Have you walked up and down upon the earth lately? +I have; and I have examined Man's wonderful inventions. And I tell you +that in the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts of death +he outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and machinery all +the slaughter of plague, pestilence and famine. The peasant I tempt +to-day eats and drinks what was eaten and drunk by the peasants of ten +thousand years ago; and the house he lives in has not altered as much +in a thousand centuries as the fashion of a lady's bonnet in a score of +weeks. But when he goes out to slay, he carries a marvel of mechanism +that lets loose at the touch of his finger all the hidden molecular +energies, and leaves the javelin, the arrow, the blowpipe of his fathers +far behind. In the arts of peace Man is a bungler. I have seen his +cotton factories and the like, with machinery that a greedy dog could +have invented if it had wanted money instead of food. I know his clumsy +typewriters and bungling locomotives and tedious bicycles: they are toys +compared to the Maxim gun, the submarine torpedo boat. There is nothing +in Man's industrial machinery but his greed and sloth: his heart is in +his weapons. This marvellous force of Life of which you boast is a force +of Death: Man measures his strength by his destructiveness. What is +his religion? An excuse for hating ME. What is his law? An excuse for +hanging YOU. What is his morality? Gentility! an excuse for consuming +without producing. What is his art? An excuse for gloating over pictures +of slaughter. What are his politics? Either the worship of a despot +because a despot can kill, or parliamentary cockfighting. I spent an +evening lately in a certain celebrated legislature, and heard the +pot lecturing the kettle for its blackness, and ministers answering +questions. When I left I chalked up on the door the old nursery +saying--"Ask no questions and you will be told no lies." I bought a +sixpenny family magazine, and found it full of pictures of young men +shooting and stabbing one another. I saw a man die: he was a London +bricklayer's laborer with seven children. He left seventeen pounds +club money; and his wife spent it all on his funeral and went into +the workhouse with the children next day. She would not have spent +sevenpence on her children's schooling: the law had to force her to let +them be taught gratuitously; but on death she spent all she had. Their +imagination glows, their energies rise up at the idea of death, these +people: they love it; and the more horrible it is the more they enjoy +it. Hell is a place far above their comprehension: they derive their +notion of it from two of the greatest fools that ever lived, an Italian +and an Englishman. The Italian described it as a place of mud, frost, +filth, fire, and venomous serpents: all torture. This ass, when he was +not lying about me, was maundering about some woman whom he saw once in +the street. The Englishman described me as being expelled from Heaven +by cannons and gunpowder; and to this day every Briton believes that +the whole of his silly story is in the Bible. What else he says I do not +know; for it is all in a long poem which neither I nor anyone else ever +succeeded in wading through. It is the same in everything. The highest +form of literature is the tragedy, a play in which everybody is +murdered at the end. In the old chronicles you read of earthquakes and +pestilences, and are told that these showed the power and majesty of God +and the littleness of Man. Nowadays the chronicles describe battles. +In a battle two bodies of men shoot at one another with bullets and +explosive shells until one body runs away, when the others chase the +fugitives on horseback and cut them to pieces as they fly. And this, the +chronicle concludes, shows the greatness and majesty of empires, and the +littleness of the vanquished. Over such battles the people run about +the streets yelling with delight, and egg their Governments on to spend +hundreds of millions of money in the slaughter, whilst the strongest +Ministers dare not spend an extra penny in the pound against the poverty +and pestilence through which they themselves daily walk. I could give +you a thousand instances; but they all come to the same thing: the power +that governs the earth is not the power of Life but of Death; and the +inner need that has nerved Life to the effort of organizing itself into +the human being is not the need for higher life but for a more efficient +engine of destruction. The plague, the famine, the earthquake, the +tempest were too spasmodic in their action; the tiger and crocodile were +too easily satiated and not cruel enough: something more constantly, +more ruthlessly, more ingeniously destructive was needed; and that +something was Man, the inventor of the rack, the stake, the gallows, +and the electrocutor; of the sword and gun; above all, of justice, duty, +patriotism and all the other isms by which even those who are clever +enough to be humanely disposed are persuaded to become the most +destructive of all the destroyers. + +DON JUAN. Pshaw! all this is old. Your weak side, my diabolic friend, +is that you have always been a gull: you take Man at his own valuation. +Nothing would flatter him more than your opinion of him. He loves to +think of himself as bold and bad. He is neither one nor the other: he +is only a coward. Call him tyrant, murderer, pirate, bully; and he will +adore you, and swagger about with the consciousness of having the blood +of the old sea kings in his veins. Call him liar and thief; and he will +only take an action against you for libel. But call him coward; and +he will go mad with rage: he will face death to outface that stinging +truth. Man gives every reason for his conduct save one, every excuse for +his crimes save one, every plea for his safety save one; and that one is +his cowardice. Yet all his civilization is founded on his cowardice, on +his abject tameness, which he calls his respectability. There are limits +to what a mule or an ass will stand; but Man will suffer himself to be +degraded until his vileness becomes so loathsome to his oppressors that +they themselves are forced to reform it. + +THE DEVIL. Precisely. And these are the creatures in whom you discover +what you call a Life Force! + +DON JUAN. Yes; for now comes the most surprising part of the whole +business. + +THE STATUE. What's that? + +DON JUAN. Why, that you can make any of these cowards brave by simply +putting an idea into his head. + +THE STATUE. Stuff! As an old soldier I admit the cowardice: it's as +universal as sea sickness, and matters just as little. But that about +putting an idea into a man's head is stuff and nonsense. In a battle all +you need to make you fight is a little hot blood and the knowledge that +it's more dangerous to lose than to win. + +DON JUAN. That is perhaps why battles are so useless. But men never +really overcome fear until they imagine they are fighting to further a +universal purpose--fighting for an idea, as they call it. Why was the +Crusader braver than the pirate? Because he fought, not for himself, but +for the Cross. What force was it that met him with a valor as reckless +as his own? The force of men who fought, not for themselves, but for +Islam. They took Spain from us, though we were fighting for our very +hearths and homes; but when we, too, fought for that mighty idea, a +Catholic Church, we swept them back to Africa. + +THE DEVIL. [ironically] What! you a Catholic, Senor Don Juan! A devotee! +My congratulations. + +THE STATUE. [seriously] Come come! as a soldier, I can listen to nothing +against the Church. + +DON JUAN. Have no fear, Commander: this idea of a Catholic Church will +survive Islam, will survive the Cross, will survive even that vulgar +pageant of incompetent schoolboyish gladiators which you call the Army. + +THE STATUE. Juan: you will force me to call you to account for this. + +DON JUAN. Useless: I cannot fence. Every idea for which Man will die +will be a Catholic idea. When the Spaniard learns at last that he is no +better than the Saracen, and his prophet no better than Mahomet, he will +arise, more Catholic than ever, and die on a barricade across the filthy +slum he starves in, for universal liberty and equality. + +THE STATUE. Bosh! + +DON JUAN. What you call bosh is the only thing men dare die for. +Later on, Liberty will not be Catholic enough: men will die for human +perfection, to which they will sacrifice all their liberty gladly. + +THE DEVIL. Ay: they will never be at a loss for an excuse for killing +one another. + +DON JUAN. What of that? It is not death that matters, but the fear of +death. It is not killing and dying that degrade us, but base living, and +accepting the wages and profits of degradation. Better ten dead men than +one live slave or his master. Men shall yet rise up, father against son +and brother against brother, and kill one another for the great Catholic +idea of abolishing slavery. + +THE DEVIL. Yes, when the Liberty and Equality of which you prate shall +have made free white Christians cheaper in the labor market than by +auction at the block. + +DON JUAN. Never fear! the white laborer shall have his turn too. But +I am not now defending the illusory forms the great ideas take. I am +giving you examples of the fact that this creature Man, who in his own +selfish affairs is a coward to the backbone, will fight for an idea like +a hero. He may be abject as a citizen; but he is dangerous as a fanatic. +He can only be enslaved whilst he is spiritually weak enough to listen +to reason. I tell you, gentlemen, if you can show a man a piece of what +he now calls God's work to do, and what he will later on call by many +new names, you can make him entirely reckless of the consequences to +himself personally. + +ANA. Yes: he shirks all his responsibilities, and leaves his wife to +grapple with them. + +THE STATUE. Well said, daughter. Do not let him talk you out of your +common sense. + +THE DEVIL. Alas! Senor Commander, now that we have got on to the subject +of Woman, he will talk more than ever. However, I confess it is for me +the one supremely interesting subject. + +DON JUAN. To a woman, Senora, man's duties and responsibilities begin +and end with the task of getting bread for her children. To her, Man is +only a means to the end of getting children and rearing them. + +ANA. Is that your idea of a woman's mind? I call it cynical and +disgusting materialism. + +DON JUAN. Pardon me, Ana: I said nothing about a woman's whole mind. I +spoke of her view of Man as a separate sex. It is no more cynical than +her view of herself as above all things a Mother. Sexually, Woman is +Nature's contrivance for perpetuating its highest achievement. Sexually, +Man is Woman's contrivance for fulfilling Nature's behest in the most +economical way. She knows by instinct that far back in the evolutional +process she invented him, differentiated him, created him in order to +produce something better than the single-sexed process can produce. +Whilst he fulfils the purpose for which she made him, he is welcome to +his dreams, his follies, his ideals, his heroisms, provided that the +keystone of them all is the worship of woman, of motherhood, of the +family, of the hearth. But how rash and dangerous it was to invent a +separate creature whose sole function was her own impregnation! For mark +what has happened. First, Man has multiplied on her hands until there +are as many men as women; so that she has been unable to employ for her +purposes more than a fraction of the immense energy she has left at +his disposal by saving him the exhausting labor of gestation. This +superfluous energy has gone to his brain and to his muscle. He has +become too strong to be controlled by her bodily, and too imaginative +and mentally vigorous to be content with mere self-reproduction. He has +created civilization without consulting her, taking her domestic labor +for granted as the foundation of it. + +ANA. THAT is true, at all events. + +THE DEVIL. Yes; and this civilization! what is it, after all? + +DON JUAN. After all, an excellent peg to hang your cynical commonplaces +on; but BEFORE all, it is an attempt on Man's part to make himself +something more than the mere instrument of Woman's purpose. So far, the +result of Life's continual effort not only to maintain itself, but to +achieve higher and higher organization and completer self-consciousness, +is only, at best, a doubtful campaign between its forces and those of +Death and Degeneration. The battles in this campaign are mere blunders, +mostly won, like actual military battles, in spite of the commanders. + +THE STATUE. That is a dig at me. No matter: go on, go on. + +DON JUAN. It is a dig at a much higher power than you, Commander. Still, +you must have noticed in your profession that even a stupid general can +win battles when the enemy's general is a little stupider. + +THE STATUE. [very seriously] Most true, Juan, most true. Some donkeys +have amazing luck. + +DON JUAN. Well, the Life Force is stupid; but it is not so stupid as the +forces of Death and Degeneration. Besides, these are in its pay all +the time. And so Life wins, after a fashion. What mere copiousness of +fecundity can supply and mere greed preserve, we possess. The survival +of whatever form of civilization can produce the best rifle and the best +fed riflemen is assured. + +THE DEVIL. Exactly! the survival, not of the most effective means of +Life but of the most effective means of Death. You always come back to +my point, in spite of your wrigglings and evasions and sophistries, not +to mention the intolerable length of your speeches. + +DON JUAN. Oh come! who began making long speeches? However, if I overtax +your intellect, you can leave us and seek the society of love and beauty +and the rest of your favorite boredoms. + +THE DEVIL. [much offended] This is not fair, Don Juan, and not civil. I +am also on the intellectual plane. Nobody can appreciate it more than +I do. I am arguing fairly with you, and, I think, utterly refuting you. +Let us go on for another hour if you like. + +DON JUAN. Good: let us. + +THE STATUE. Not that I see any prospect of your coming to any point in +particular, Juan. Still, since in this place, instead of merely killing +time we have to kill eternity, go ahead by all means. + +DON JUAN. [somewhat impatiently] My point, you marbleheaded old +masterpiece, is only a step ahead of you. Are we agreed that Life is a +force which has made innumerable experiments in organizing itself; that +the mammoth and the man, the mouse and the megatherium, the flies and +the fleas and the Fathers of the Church, are all more or less successful +attempts to build up that raw force into higher and higher individuals, +the ideal individual being omnipotent, omniscient, infallible, and +withal completely, unilludedly self-conscious: in short, a god? + +THE DEVIL. I agree, for the sake of argument. + +THE STATUE. I agree, for the sake of avoiding argument. + +ANA. I most emphatically disagree as regards the Fathers of the Church; +and I must beg you not to drag them into the argument. + +DON JUAN. I did so purely for the sake of alliteration, Ana; and I +shall make no further allusion to them. And now, since we are, with that +exception, agreed so far, will you not agree with me further that Life +has not measured the success of its attempts at godhead by the beauty or +bodily perfection of the result, since in both these respects the birds, +as our friend Aristophanes long ago pointed out, are so extraordinarily +superior, with their power of flight and their lovely plumage, and, +may I add, the touching poetry of their loves and nestings, that it is +inconceivable that Life, having once produced them, should, if love +and beauty were her object, start off on another line and labor at the +clumsy elephant and the hideous ape, whose grandchildren we are? + +ANA. Aristophanes was a heathen; and you, Juan, I am afraid, are very +little better. + +THE DEVIL. You conclude, then, that Life was driving at clumsiness and +ugliness? + +DON JUAN. No, perverse devil that you are, a thousand times no. Life +was driving at brains--at its darling object: an organ by which it can +attain not only self-consciousness but self-understanding. + +THE STATUE. This is metaphysics, Juan. Why the devil should--[to the +Devil] I BEG your pardon. + +THE DEVIL. Pray don't mention it. I have always regarded the use of my +name to secure additional emphasis as a high compliment to me. It is +quite at your service, Commander. + +THE STATUE. Thank you: that's very good of you. Even in heaven, I never +quite got out of my old military habits of speech. What I was going to +ask Juan was why Life should bother itself about getting a brain. Why +should it want to understand itself? Why not be content to enjoy itself? + +DON JUAN. Without a brain, Commander, you would enjoy yourself without +knowing it, and so lose all the fun. + +THE STATUE. True, most true. But I am quite content with brain enough to +know that I'm enjoying myself. I don't want to understand why. In +fact, I'd rather not. My experience is that one's pleasures don't bear +thinking about. + +DON JUAN. That is why intellect is so unpopular. But to Life, the force +behind the Man, intellect is a necessity, because without it he blunders +into death. Just as Life, after ages of struggle, evolved that wonderful +bodily organ the eye, so that the living organism could see where it +was going and what was coming to help or threaten it, and thus avoid +a thousand dangers that formerly slew it, so it is evolving to-day a +mind's eye that shall see, not the physical world, but the purpose of +Life, and thereby enable the individual to work for that purpose instead +of thwarting and baffling it by setting up shortsighted personal aims as +at present. Even as it is, only one sort of man has ever been happy, has +ever been universally respected among all the conflicts of interests and +illusions. + +THE STATUE. You mean the military man. + +DON JUAN. Commander: I do not mean the military man. When the military +man approaches, the world locks up its spoons and packs off its +womankind. No: I sing, not arms and the hero, but the philosophic man: +he who seeks in contemplation to discover the inner will of the world, +in invention to discover the means of fulfilling that will, and in +action to do that will by the so-discovered means. Of all other sorts +of men I declare myself tired. They're tedious failures. When I was on +earth, professors of all sorts prowled round me feeling for an unhealthy +spot in me on which they could fasten. The doctors of medicine bade me +consider what I must do to save my body, and offered me quack cures for +imaginary diseases. I replied that I was not a hypochondriac; so they +called me Ignoramus and went their way. The doctors of divinity bade +me consider what I must do to save my soul; but I was not a spiritual +hypochondriac any more than a bodily one, and would not trouble myself +about that either; so they called me Atheist and went their way. After +them came the politician, who said there was only one purpose in Nature, +and that was to get him into parliament. I told him I did not care +whether he got into parliament or not; so he called me Mugwump and went +his way. Then came the romantic man, the Artist, with his love songs and +his paintings and his poems; and with him I had great delight for many +years, and some profit; for I cultivated my senses for his sake; and +his songs taught me to hear better, his paintings to see better, and +his poems to feel more deeply. But he led me at last into the worship of +Woman. + +ANA. Juan! + +DON JUAN. Yes: I came to believe that in her voice was all the music of +the song, in her face all the beauty of the painting, and in her soul +all the emotion of the poem. + +ANA. And you were disappointed, I suppose. Well, was it her fault that +you attributed all these perfections to her? + +DON JUAN. Yes, partly. For with a wonderful instinctive cunning, she +kept silent and allowed me to glorify her; to mistake my own visions, +thoughts, and feelings for hers. Now my friend the romantic man was +often too poor or too timid to approach those women who were beautiful +or refined enough to seem to realize his ideal; and so he went to his +grave believing in his dream. But I was more favored by nature and +circumstance. I was of noble birth and rich; and when my person did +not please, my conversation flattered, though I generally found myself +fortunate in both. + +THE STATUE. Coxcomb! + +DON JUAN. Yes; but even my coxcombry pleased. Well, I found that when I +had touched a woman's imagination, she would allow me to persuade myself +that she loved me; but when my suit was granted she never said "I am +happy: my love is satisfied": she always said, first, "At last, the +barriers are down," and second, "When will you come again?" + +ANA. That is exactly what men say. + +DON JUAN. I protest I never said it. But all women say it. Well, these +two speeches always alarmed me; for the first meant that the lady's +impulse had been solely to throw down my fortifications and gain my +citadel; and the second openly announced that henceforth she regarded me +as her property, and counted my time as already wholly at her disposal. + +THE DEVIL. That is where your want of heart came in. + +THE STATUE. [shaking his head] You shouldn't repeat what a woman says, +Juan. + +ANA. [severely] It should be sacred to you. + +THE STATUE. Still, they certainly do always say it. I never minded the +barriers; but there was always a slight shock about the other, unless +one was very hard hit indeed. + +DON JUAN. Then the lady, who had been happy and idle enough before, +became anxious, preoccupied with me, always intriguing, conspiring, +pursuing, watching, waiting, bent wholly on making sure of her prey--I +being the prey, you understand. Now this was not what I had bargained +for. It may have been very proper and very natural; but it was not +music, painting, poetry and joy incarnated in a beautiful woman. I ran +away from it. I ran away from it very often: in fact I became famous for +running away from it. + +ANA. Infamous, you mean. + +DON JUAN. I did not run away from you. Do you blame me for running away +from the others? + +ANA. Nonsense, man. You are talking to a woman of 77 now. If you had had +the chance, you would have run away from me too--if I had let you. You +would not have found it so easy with me as with some of the others. If +men will not be faithful to their home and their duties, they must be +made to be. I daresay you all want to marry lovely incarnations of music +and painting and poetry. Well, you can't have them, because they +don't exist. If flesh and blood is not good enough for you you must +go without: that's all. Women have to put up with flesh-and-blood +husbands--and little enough of that too, sometimes; and you will have to +put up with flesh-and-blood wives. The Devil looks dubious. The Statue +makes a wry face. I see you don't like that, any of you; but it's true, +for all that; so if you don't like it you can lump it. + +DON JUAN. My dear lady, you have put my whole case against romance into +a few sentences. That is just why I turned my back on the romantic man +with the artist nature, as he called his infatuation. I thanked him +for teaching me to use my eyes and ears; but I told him that his beauty +worshipping and happiness hunting and woman idealizing was not worth a +dump as a philosophy of life; so he called me Philistine and went his +way. + +ANA. It seems that Woman taught you something, too, with all her +defects. + +DON JUAN. She did more: she interpreted all the other teaching for me. +Ah, my friends, when the barriers were down for the first time, what +an astounding illumination! I had been prepared for infatuation, for +intoxication, for all the illusions of love's young dream; and lo! never +was my perception clearer, nor my criticism more ruthless. The most +jealous rival of my mistress never saw every blemish in her more keenly +than I. I was not duped: I took her without chloroform. + +ANA. But you did take her. + +DON JUAN. That was the revelation. Up to that moment I had never lost +the sense of being my own master; never consciously taken a single step +until my reason had examined and approved it. I had come to believe that +I was a purely rational creature: a thinker! I said, with the foolish +philosopher, "I think; therefore I am." It was Woman who taught me to +say "I am; therefore I think." And also "I would think more; therefore I +must be more." + +THE STATUE. This is extremely abstract and metaphysical, Juan. If you +would stick to the concrete, and put your discoveries in the form +of entertaining anecdotes about your adventures with women, your +conversation would be easier to follow. + +DON JUAN. Bah! what need I add? Do you not understand that when I stood +face to face with Woman, every fibre in my clear critical brain warned +me to spare her and save myself. My morals said No. My conscience said +No. My chivalry and pity for her said No. My prudent regard for myself +said No. My ear, practised on a thousand songs and symphonies; my eye, +exercised on a thousand paintings; tore her voice, her features, her +color to shreds. I caught all those tell-tale resemblances to her father +and mother by which I knew what she would be like in thirty years time. +I noted the gleam of gold from a dead tooth in the laughing mouth: I +made curious observations of the strange odors of the chemistry of the +nerves. The visions of my romantic reveries, in which I had trod the +plains of heaven with a deathless, ageless creature of coral and ivory, +deserted me in that supreme hour. I remembered them and desperately +strove to recover their illusion; but they now seemed the emptiest of +inventions: my judgment was not to be corrupted: my brain still said No +on every issue. And whilst I was in the act of framing my excuse to the +lady, Life seized me and threw me into her arms as a sailor throws a +scrap of fish into the mouth of a seabird. + +THE STATUE. You might as well have gone without thinking such a lot +about it, Juan. You are like all the clever men: you have more brains +than is good for you. + +THE DEVIL. And were you not the happier for the experience, Senor Don +Juan? + +DON JUAN. The happier, no: the wiser, yes. That moment introduced me for +the first time to myself, and, through myself, to the world. I saw then +how useless it is to attempt to impose conditions on the irresistible +force of Life; to preach prudence, careful selection, virtue, honor, +chastity-- + +ANA. Don Juan: a word against chastity is an insult to me. + +DON JUAN. I say nothing against your chastity, Senora, since it took the +form of a husband and twelve children. What more could you have done had +you been the most abandoned of women? + +ANA. I could have had twelve husbands and no children that's what I +could have done, Juan. And let me tell you that that would have made all +the difference to the earth which I replenished. + +THE STATUE. Bravo Ana! Juan: you are floored, quelled, annihilated. + +DON JUAN. No; for though that difference is the true essential +difference--Dona Ana has, I admit, gone straight to the real point--yet +it is not a difference of love or chastity, or even constancy; for +twelve children by twelve different husbands would have replenished the +earth perhaps more effectively. Suppose my friend Ottavio had died when +you were thirty, you would never have remained a widow: you were too +beautiful. Suppose the successor of Ottavio had died when you were +forty, you would still have been irresistible; and a woman who marries +twice marries three times if she becomes free to do so. Twelve lawful +children borne by one highly respectable lady to three different fathers +is not impossible nor condemned by public opinion. That such a lady may +be more law abiding than the poor girl whom we used to spurn into the +gutter for bearing one unlawful infant is no doubt true; but dare you +say she is less self-indulgent? + +ANA. She is less virtuous: that is enough for me. + +DON JUAN. In that case, what is virtue but the Trade Unionism of the +married? Let us face the facts, dear Ana. The Life Force respects +marriage only because marriage is a contrivance of its own to secure +the greatest number of children and the closest care of them. For honor, +chastity and all the rest of your moral figments it cares not a rap. +Marriage is the most licentious of human institutions-- + +ANA. Juan! + +THE STATUE. [protesting] Really!-- + +DON JUAN. [determinedly] I say the most licentious of human +institutions: that is the secret of its popularity. And a woman seeking +a husband is the most unscrupulous of all the beasts of prey. The +confusion of marriage with morality has done more to destroy the +conscience of the human race than any other single error. Come, Ana! +do not look shocked: you know better than any of us that marriage is +a mantrap baited with simulated accomplishments and delusive +idealizations. When your sainted mother, by dint of scoldings and +punishments, forced you to learn how to play half a dozen pieces on the +spinet which she hated as much as you did--had she any other purpose +than to delude your suitors into the belief that your husband would have +in his home an angel who would fill it with melody, or at least play him +to sleep after dinner? You married my friend Ottavio: well, did you ever +open the spinet from the hour when the Church united him to you? + +ANA. You are a fool, Juan. A young married woman has something else to +do than sit at the spinet without any support for her back; so she gets +out of the habit of playing. + +DON JUAN. Not if she loves music. No: believe me, she only throws away +the bait when the bird is in the net. + +ANA. [bitterly] And men, I suppose, never throw off the mask when +their bird is in the net. The husband never becomes negligent, selfish, +brutal--oh never! + +DON JUAN. What do these recriminations prove, Ana? Only that the hero is +as gross an imposture as the heroine. + +ANA. It is all nonsense: most marriages are perfectly comfortable. + +DON JUAN. "Perfectly" is a strong expression, Ana. What you mean is that +sensible people make the best of one another. Send me to the galleys and +chain me to the felon whose number happens to be next before mine; and I +must accept the inevitable and make the best of the companionship. Many +such companionships, they tell me, are touchingly affectionate; and +most are at least tolerably friendly. But that does not make a chain +a desirable ornament nor the galleys an abode of bliss. Those who talk +most about the blessings of marriage and the constancy of its vows +are the very people who declare that if the chain were broken and +the prisoners left free to choose, the whole social fabric would fly +asunder. You cannot have the argument both ways. If the prisoner is +happy, why lock him in? If he is not, why pretend that he is? + +ANA. At all events, let me take an old woman's privilege again, and tell +you flatly that marriage peoples the world and debauchery does not. + +DON JUAN. How if a time comes when this shall cease to be true? Do you +not know that where there is a will there is a way--that whatever Man +really wishes to do he will finally discover a means of doing? Well, +you have done your best, you virtuous ladies, and others of your way +of thinking, to bend Man's mind wholly towards honorable love as the +highest good, and to understand by honorable love romance and beauty +and happiness in the possession of beautiful, refined, delicate, +affectionate women. You have taught women to value their own youth, +health, shapeliness, and refinement above all things. Well, what place +have squalling babies and household cares in this exquisite paradise of +the senses and emotions? Is it not the inevitable end of it all that the +human will shall say to the human brain: Invent me a means by which I +can have love, beauty, romance, emotion, passion without their wretched +penalties, their expenses, their worries, their trials, their illnesses +and agonies and risks of death, their retinue of servants and nurses and +doctors and schoolmasters. + +THE DEVIL. All this, Senor Don Juan, is realized here in my realm. + +DON JUAN. Yes, at the cost of death. Man will not take it at that price: +he demands the romantic delights of your hell whilst he is still on +earth. Well, the means will be found: the brain will not fail when the +will is in earnest. The day is coming when great nations will find their +numbers dwindling from census to census; when the six roomed villa will +rise in price above the family mansion; when the viciously reckless poor +and the stupidly pious rich will delay the extinction of the race only +by degrading it; whilst the boldly prudent, the thriftily selfish and +ambitious, the imaginative and poetic, the lovers of money and solid +comfort, the worshippers of success, art, and of love, will all oppose +to the Force of Life the device of sterility. + +THE STATUE. That is all very eloquent, my young friend; but if you had +lived to Ana's age, or even to mine, you would have learned that the +people who get rid of the fear of poverty and children and all the other +family troubles, and devote themselves to having a good time of it, +only leave their minds free for the fear of old age and ugliness and +impotence and death. The childless laborer is more tormented by his +wife's idleness and her constant demands for amusement and distraction +than he could be by twenty children; and his wife is more wretched than +he. I have had my share of vanity; for as a young man I was admired by +women; and as a statue I am praised by art critics. But I confess that +had I found nothing to do in the world but wallow in these delights I +should have cut my throat. When I married Ana's mother--or perhaps, +to be strictly correct, I should rather say when I at last gave in and +allowed Ana's mother to marry me--I knew that I was planting thorns +in my pillow, and that marriage for me, a swaggering young officer +thitherto unvanquished, meant defeat and capture. + +ANA. [scandalized] Father! + +THE STATUE. I am sorry to shock you, my love; but since Juan has +stripped every rag of decency from the discussion I may as well tell the +frozen truth. + +ANA. Hmf! I suppose I was one of the thorns. + +THE STATUE. By no means: you were often a rose. You see, your mother had +most of the trouble you gave. + +DON JUAN. Then may I ask, Commander, why you have left Heaven to come +here and wallow, as you express it, in sentimental beatitudes which you +confess would once have driven you to cut your throat? + +THE STATUE. [struck by this] Egad, that's true. + +THE DEVIL. [alarmed] What! You are going back from your word. [To +Don Juan] And all your philosophizing has been nothing but a mask for +proselytizing! [To the Statue] Have you forgotten already the hideous +dulness from which I am offering you a refuge here? [To Don Juan] And +does your demonstration of the approaching sterilization and extinction +of mankind lead to anything better than making the most of those +pleasures of art and love which you yourself admit refined you, elevated +you, developed you? + +DON JUAN. I never demonstrated the extinction of mankind. Life cannot +will its own extinction either in its blind amorphous state or in any +of the forms into which it has organized itself. I had not finished when +His Excellency interrupted me. + +THE STATUE. I begin to doubt whether you ever will finish, my friend. +You are extremely fond of hearing yourself talk. + +DON JUAN. True; but since you have endured so much you may as well +endure to the end. Long before this sterilization which I described +becomes more than a clearly foreseen possibility, the reaction will +begin. The great central purpose of breeding the race, ay, breeding it +to heights now deemed superhuman: that purpose which is now hidden in a +mephitic cloud of love and romance and prudery and fastidiousness, will +break through into clear sunlight as a purpose no longer to be confused +with the gratification of personal fancies, the impossible realization +of boys' and girls' dreams of bliss, or the need of older people for +companionship or money. The plain-spoken marriage services of the +vernacular Churches will no longer be abbreviated and half suppressed +as indelicate. The sober decency, earnestness and authority of their +declaration of the real purpose of marriage will be honored +and accepted, whilst their romantic vowings and pledgings and +until-death-do-us-partings and the like will be expunged as unbearable +frivolities. Do my sex the justice to admit, Senora, that we have always +recognized that the sex relation is not a personal or friendly relation +at all. + +ANA. Not a personal or friendly relation! What relation is more +personal? more sacred? more holy? + +DON JUAN. Sacred and holy, if you like, Ana, but not personally +friendly. Your relation to God is sacred and holy: dare you call it +personally friendly? In the sex relation the universal creative energy, +of which the parties are both the helpless agents, over-rides and +sweeps away all personal considerations and dispenses with all personal +relations. The pair may be utter strangers to one another, speaking +different languages, differing in race and color, in age and +disposition, with no bond between them but a possibility of that +fecundity for the sake of which the Life Force throws them into one +another's arms at the exchange of a glance. Do we not recognize this by +allowing marriages to be made by parents without consulting the woman? +Have you not often expressed your disgust at the immorality of the +English nation, in which women and men of noble birth become acquainted +and court each other like peasants? And how much does even the peasant +know of his bride or she of him before he engages himself? Why, you +would not make a man your lawyer or your family doctor on so slight an +acquaintance as you would fall in love with and marry him! + +ANA. Yes, Juan: we know the libertine's philosophy. Always ignore the +consequences to the woman. + +DON JUAN. The consequences, yes: they justify her fierce grip of the +man. But surely you do not call that attachment a sentimental one. As +well call the policeman's attachment to his prisoner a love relation. + +ANA. You see you have to confess that marriage is necessary, though, +according to you, love is the slightest of all the relations. + +DON JUAN. How do you know that it is not the greatest of all the +relations? far too great to be a personal matter. Could your father have +served his country if he had refused to kill any enemy of Spain unless +he personally hated him? Can a woman serve her country if she refuses to +marry any man she does not personally love? You know it is not so: +the woman of noble birth marries as the man of noble birth fights, on +political and family grounds, not on personal ones. + +THE STATUE. [impressed] A very clever point that, Juan: I must think it +over. You are really full of ideas. How did you come to think of this +one? + +DON JUAN. I learnt it by experience. When I was on earth, and made those +proposals to ladies which, though universally condemned, have made me +so interesting a hero of legend, I was not infrequently met in some such +way as this. The lady would say that she would countenance my advances, +provided they were honorable. On inquiring what that proviso meant, I +found that it meant that I proposed to get possession of her property if +she had any, or to undertake her support for life if she had not; that I +desired her continual companionship, counsel and conversation to the +end of my days, and would bind myself under penalties to be always +enraptured by them; and, above all, that I would turn my back on all +other women for ever for her sake. I did not object to these conditions +because they were exorbitant and inhuman: it was their extraordinary +irrelevance that prostrated me. I invariably replied with perfect +frankness that I had never dreamt of any of these things; that unless +the lady's character and intellect were equal or superior to my own, her +conversation must degrade and her counsel mislead me; that her constant +companionship might, for all I knew, become intolerably tedious to me; +that I could not answer for my feelings for a week in advance, much +less to the end of my life; that to cut me off from all natural and +unconstrained relations with the rest of my fellow creatures would +narrow and warp me if I submitted to it, and, if not, would bring me +under the curse of clandestinity; that, finally, my proposals to her +were wholly unconnected with any of these matters, and were the outcome +of a perfectly simple impulse of my manhood towards her womanhood. + +ANA. You mean that it was an immoral impulse. + +DON JUAN. Nature, my dear lady, is what you call immoral. I blush for +it; but I cannot help it. Nature is a pandar, Time a wrecker, and Death +a murderer. I have always preferred to stand up to those facts and build +institutions on their recognition. You prefer to propitiate the three +devils by proclaiming their chastity, their thrift, and their loving +kindness; and to base your institutions on these flatteries. Is it any +wonder that the institutions do not work smoothly? + +THE STATUE. What used the ladies to say, Juan? + +DON JUAN. Oh, come! Confidence for confidence. First tell me what you +used to say to the ladies. + +THE STATUE. I! Oh, I swore that I would be faithful to the death; that +I should die if they refused me; that no woman could ever be to me what +she was-- + +ANA. She? Who? + +THE STATUE. Whoever it happened to be at the time, my dear. I had +certain things I always said. One of them was that even when I was +eighty, one white hair of the woman I loved would make me tremble more +than the thickest gold tress from the most beautiful young head. Another +was that I could not bear the thought of anyone else being the mother of +my children. + +DON JUAN. [revolted] You old rascal! + +THE STATUE. [Stoutly] Not a bit; for I really believed it with all +my soul at the moment. I had a heart: not like you. And it was this +sincerity that made me successful. + +DON JUAN. Sincerity! To be fool enough to believe a ramping, stamping, +thumping lie: that is what you call sincerity! To be so greedy for +a woman that you deceive yourself in your eagerness to deceive her: +sincerity, you call it! + +THE STATUE. Oh, damn your sophistries! I was a man in love, not a +lawyer. And the women loved me for it, bless them! + +DON JUAN. They made you think so. What will you say when I tell you that +though I played the lawyer so callously, they made me think so too? +I also had my moments of infatuation in which I gushed nonsense and +believed it. Sometimes the desire to give pleasure by saying beautiful +things so rose in me on the flood of emotion that I said them +recklessly. At other times I argued against myself with a devilish +coldness that drew tears. But I found it just as hard to escape in the +one case as in the others. When the lady's instinct was set on me, there +was nothing for it but lifelong servitude or flight. + +ANA. You dare boast, before me and my father, that every woman found you +irresistible. + +DON JUAN. Am I boasting? It seems to me that I cut the most pitiable of +figures. Besides, I said "when the lady's instinct was set on me." +It was not always so; and then, heavens! what transports of virtuous +indignation! what overwhelming defiance to the dastardly seducer! what +scenes of Imogen and Iachimo! + +ANA. I made no scenes. I simply called my father. + +DON JUAN. And he came, sword in hand, to vindicate outraged honor and +morality by murdering me. + +THE STATUE. Murdering! What do you mean? Did I kill you or did you kill +me? + +DON JUAN. Which of us was the better fencer? + +THE STATUE. I was. + +DON JUAN. Of course you were. And yet you, the hero of those scandalous +adventures you have just been relating to us, you had the effrontery to +pose as the avenger of outraged morality and condemn me to death! You +would have slain me but for an accident. + +THE STATUE. I was expected to, Juan. That is how things were arranged +on earth. I was not a social reformer; and I always did what it was +customary for a gentleman to do. + +DON JUAN. That may account for your attacking me, but not for the +revolting hypocrisy of your subsequent proceedings as a statue. + +THE STATUE. That all came of my going to Heaven. + +THE DEVIL. I still fail to see, Senor Don Juan, that these episodes +in your earthly career and in that of the Senor Commander in any way +discredit my view of life. Here, I repeat, you have all that you sought +without anything that you shrank from. + +DON JUAN. On the contrary, here I have everything that disappointed me +without anything that I have not already tried and found wanting. I tell +you that as long as I can conceive something better than myself I cannot +be easy unless I am striving to bring it into existence or clearing the +way for it. That is the law of my life. That is the working within me +of Life's incessant aspiration to higher organization, wider, deeper, +intenser self-consciousness, and clearer self-understanding. It was the +supremacy of this purpose that reduced love for me to the mere pleasure +of a moment, art for me to the mere schooling of my faculties, religion +for me to a mere excuse for laziness, since it had set up a God who +looked at the world and saw that it was good, against the instinct in +me that looked through my eyes at the world and saw that it could be +improved. I tell you that in the pursuit of my own pleasure, my own +health, my own fortune, I have never known happiness. It was not love +for Woman that delivered me into her hands: it was fatigue, exhaustion. +When I was a child, and bruised my head against a stone, I ran to the +nearest woman and cried away my pain against her apron. When I grew up, +and bruised my soul against the brutalities and stupidities with which +I had to strive, I did again just what I had done as a child. I have +enjoyed, too, my rests, my recuperations, my breathing times, my very +prostrations after strife; but rather would I be dragged through all the +circles of the foolish Italian's Inferno than through the pleasures of +Europe. That is what has made this place of eternal pleasures so deadly +to me. It is the absence of this instinct in you that makes you that +strange monster called a Devil. It is the success with which you have +diverted the attention of men from their real purpose, which in one +degree or another is the same as mine, to yours, that has earned you the +name of The Tempter. It is the fact that they are doing your will, or +rather drifting with your want of will, instead of doing their own, that +makes them the uncomfortable, false, restless, artificial, petulant, +wretched creatures they are. + +THE DEVIL. [mortified] Senor Don Juan: you are uncivil to my friends. + +DON JUAN. Pooh! why should I be civil to them or to you? In this Palace +of Lies a truth or two will not hurt you. Your friends are all the +dullest dogs I know. They are not beautiful: they are only decorated. +They are not clean: they are only shaved and starched. They are not +dignified: they are only fashionably dressed. They are not educated +they are only college passmen. They are not religious: they are only +pewrenters. They are not moral: they are only conventional. They are not +virtuous: they are only cowardly. They are not even vicious: they are +only "frail." They are not artistic: they are only lascivious. They are +not prosperous: they are only rich. They are not loyal, they are +only servile; not dutiful, only sheepish; not public spirited, only +patriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome; not determined, only +obstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not self-controlled, only +obtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not kind, only sentimental; not +social, only gregarious; not considerate, only polite; not intelligent, +only opinionated; not progressive, only factious; not imaginative, +only superstitious; not just, only vindictive; not generous, only +propitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and not truthful at +all--liars every one of them, to the very backbone of their souls. + +THE STATUE. Your flow of words is simply amazing, Juan. How I wish I +could have talked like that to my soldiers. + +THE DEVIL. It is mere talk, though. It has all been said before; but +what change has it ever made? What notice has the world ever taken of +it? + +DON JUAN. Yes, it is mere talk. But why is it mere talk? Because, +my friend, beauty, purity, respectability, religion, morality, art, +patriotism, bravery and the rest are nothing but words which I or anyone +else can turn inside out like a glove. Were they realities, you +would have to plead guilty to my indictment; but fortunately for your +self-respect, my diabolical friend, they are not realities. As you +say, they are mere words, useful for duping barbarians into adopting +civilization, or the civilized poor into submitting to be robbed and +enslaved. That is the family secret of the governing caste; and if we +who are of that caste aimed at more Life for the world instead of at +more power and luxury for our miserable selves, that secret would make +us great. Now, since I, being a nobleman, am in the secret too, think +how tedious to me must be your unending cant about all these moralistic +figments, and how squalidly disastrous your sacrifice of your lives to +them! If you even believed in your moral game enough to play it fairly, +it would be interesting to watch; but you don't: you cheat at every +trick; and if your opponent outcheats you, you upset the table and try +to murder him. + +THE DEVIL. On earth there may be some truth in this, because the people +are uneducated and cannot appreciate my religion of love and beauty; but +here-- + +DON JUAN. Oh yes: I know. Here there is nothing but love and beauty. +Ugh! it is like sitting for all eternity at the first act of a +fashionable play, before the complications begin. Never in my worst +moments of superstitious terror on earth did I dream that Hell was so +horrible. I live, like a hairdresser, in the continual contemplation +of beauty, toying with silken tresses. I breathe an atmosphere of +sweetness, like a confectioner's shopboy. Commander: are there any +beautiful women in Heaven? + +THE STATUE. None. Absolutely none. All dowdies. Not two pennorth of +jewellery among a dozen of them. They might be men of fifty. + +DON JUAN. I am impatient to get there. Is the word beauty ever +mentioned; and are there any artistic people? + +THE STATUE. I give you my word they won't admire a fine statue even when +it walks past them. + +DON JUAN. I go. + +THE DEVIL. Don Juan: shall I be frank with you? + +DON JUAN. Were you not so before? + +THE DEVIL. As far as I went, yes. But I will now go further, and confess +to you that men get tired of everything, of heaven no less than of hell; +and that all history is nothing but a record of the oscillations of +the world between these two extremes. An epoch is but a swing of the +pendulum; and each generation thinks the world is progressing because +it is always moving. But when you are as old as I am; when you have a +thousand times wearied of heaven, like myself and the Commander, and +a thousand times wearied of hell, as you are wearied now, you will no +longer imagine that every swing from heaven to hell is an emancipation, +every swing from hell to heaven an evolution. Where you now see reform, +progress, fulfilment of upward tendency, continual ascent by Man on +the stepping stones of his dead selves to higher things, you will +see nothing but an infinite comedy of illusion. You will discover +the profound truth of the saying of my friend Koheleth, that there is +nothing new under the sun. Vanitas vanitatum-- + +DON JUAN. [out of all patience] By Heaven, this is worse than your cant +about love and beauty. Clever dolt that you are, is a man no better than +a worm, or a dog than a wolf, because he gets tired of everything? +Shall he give up eating because he destroys his appetite in the act +of gratifying it? Is a field idle when it is fallow? Can the Commander +expend his hellish energy here without accumulating heavenly energy for +his next term of blessedness? Granted that the great Life Force has hit +on the device of the clockmaker's pendulum, and uses the earth for its +bob; that the history of each oscillation, which seems so novel to us +the actors, is but the history of the last oscillation repeated; nay +more, that in the unthinkable infinitude of time the sun throws off the +earth and catches it again a thousand times as a circus rider throws up +a ball, and that the total of all our epochs is but the moment between +the toss and the catch, has the colossal mechanism no purpose? + +THE DEVIL. None, my friend. You think, because you have a purpose, +Nature must have one. You might as well expect it to have fingers and +toes because you have them. + +DON JUAN. But I should not have them if they served no purpose. And I, +my friend, am as much a part of Nature as my own finger is a part of me. +If my finger is the organ by which I grasp the sword and the mandoline, +my brain is the organ by which Nature strives to understand itself. +My dog's brain serves only my dog's purposes; but my brain labors at a +knowledge which does nothing for me personally but make my body bitter +to me and my decay and death a calamity. Were I not possessed with a +purpose beyond my own I had better be a ploughman than a philosopher; +for the ploughman lives as long as the philosopher, eats more, sleeps +better, and rejoices in the wife of his bosom with less misgiving. This +is because the philosopher is in the grip of the Life Force. This Life +Force says to him "I have done a thousand wonderful things unconsciously +by merely willing to live and following the line of least resistance: +now I want to know myself and my destination, and choose my path; so +I have made a special brain--a philosopher's brain--to grasp this +knowledge for me as the husbandman's hand grasps the plough for me. And +this" says the Life Force to the philosopher "must thou strive to do +for me until thou diest, when I will make another brain and another +philosopher to carry on the work." + +THE DEVIL. What is the use of knowing? + +DON JUAN. Why, to be able to choose the line of greatest advantage +instead of yielding in the direction of the least resistance. Does a +ship sail to its destination no better than a log drifts nowhither? The +philosopher is Nature's pilot. And there you have our difference: to be +in hell is to drift: to be in heaven is to steer. + +THE DEVIL. On the rocks, most likely. + +DON JUAN. Pooh! which ship goes oftenest on the rocks or to the +bottom--the drifting ship or the ship with a pilot on board? + +THE DEVIL. Well, well, go your way, Senor Don Juan. I prefer to be my +own master and not the tool of any blundering universal force. I know +that beauty is good to look at; that music is good to hear; that love is +good to feel; and that they are all good to think about and talk about. +I know that to be well exercised in these sensations, emotions, and +studies is to be a refined and cultivated being. Whatever they may say +of me in churches on earth, I know that it is universally admitted in +good society that the prince of Darkness is a gentleman; and that is +enough for me. As to your Life Force, which you think irresistible, it +is the most resistible thing in the world for a person of any character. +But if you are naturally vulgar and credulous, as all reformers are, it +will thrust you first into religion, where you will sprinkle water on +babies to save their souls from me; then it will drive you from religion +into science, where you will snatch the babies from the water +sprinkling and inoculate them with disease to save them from catching it +accidentally; then you will take to politics, where you will become the +catspaw of corrupt functionaries and the henchman of ambitious humbugs; +and the end will be despair and decrepitude, broken nerve and +shattered hopes, vain regrets for that worst and silliest of wastes +and sacrifices, the waste and sacrifice of the power of enjoyment: in +a word, the punishment of the fool who pursues the better before he has +secured the good. + +DON JUAN. But at least I shall not be bored. The service of the Life +Force has that advantage, at all events. So fare you well, Senor Satan. + +THE DEVIL. [amiably] Fare you well, Don Juan. I shall often think of our +interesting chats about things in general. I wish you every happiness: +Heaven, as I said before, suits some people. But if you should change +your mind, do not forget that the gates are always open here to the +repentant prodigal. If you feel at any time that warmth of heart, +sincere unforced affection, innocent enjoyment, and warm, breathing, +palpitating reality-- + +DON JUAN. Why not say flesh and blood at once, though we have left those +two greasy commonplaces behind us? + +THE DEVIL. [angrily] You throw my friendly farewell back in my teeth, +then, Don Juan? + +DON JUAN. By no means. But though there is much to be learnt from a +cynical devil, I really cannot stand a sentimental one. Senor Commander: +you know the way to the frontier of hell and heaven. Be good enough to +direct me. + +THE STATUE. Oh, the frontier is only the difference between two ways of +looking at things. Any road will take you across it if you really want +to get there. + +DON JUAN. Good. [saluting Dona Ana] Senora: your servant. + +ANA. But I am going with you. + +DON JUAN. I can find my own way to heaven, Ana; but I cannot find yours +[he vanishes]. + +ANA. How annoying! + +THE STATUE. [calling after him] Bon voyage, Juan! [He wafts a final +blast of his great rolling chords after him as a parting salute. A faint +echo of the first ghostly melody comes back in acknowledgment]. Ah! +there he goes. [Puffing a long breath out through his lips] Whew! How he +does talk! They'll never stand it in heaven. + +THE DEVIL. [gloomily] His going is a political defeat. I cannot keep +these Life Worshippers: they all go. This is the greatest loss I have +had since that Dutch painter went--a fellow who would paint a hag of 70 +with as much enjoyment as a Venus of 20. + +THE STATUE. I remember: he came to heaven. Rembrandt. + +THE DEVIL. Ay, Rembrandt. There a something unnatural about these +fellows. Do not listen to their gospel, Senor Commander: it is +dangerous. Beware of the pursuit of the Superhuman: it leads to an +indiscriminate contempt for the Human. To a man, horses and dogs and +cats are mere species, outside the moral world. Well, to the Superman, +men and women are a mere species too, also outside the moral world. This +Don Juan was kind to women and courteous to men as your daughter here +was kind to her pet cats and dogs; but such kindness is a denial of the +exclusively human character of the soul. + +THE STATUE. And who the deuce is the Superman? + +THE DEVIL. Oh, the latest fashion among the Life Force fanatics. Did +you not meet in Heaven, among the new arrivals, that German Polish +madman--what was his name? Nietzsche? + +THE STATUE. Never heard of him. + +THE DEVIL. Well, he came here first, before he recovered his wits. I had +some hopes of him; but he was a confirmed Life Force worshipper. It was +he who raked up the Superman, who is as old as Prometheus; and the 20th +century will run after this newest of the old crazes when it gets tired +of the world, the flesh, and your humble servant. + +THE STATUE. Superman is a good cry; and a good cry is half the battle. I +should like to see this Nietzsche. + +THE DEVIL. Unfortunately he met Wagner here, and had a quarrel with him. + +THE STATUE. Quite right, too. Mozart for me! + +THE DEVIL. Oh, it was not about music. Wagner once drifted into Life +Force worship, and invented a Superman called Siegfried. But he came to +his senses afterwards. So when they met here, Nietzsche denounced him +as a renegade; and Wagner wrote a pamphlet to prove that Nietzsche was +a Jew; and it ended in Nietzsche's going to heaven in a huff. And a +good riddance too. And now, my friend, let us hasten to my palace and +celebrate your arrival with a grand musical service. + +THE STATUE. With pleasure: you're most kind. + +THE DEVIL. This way, Commander. We go down the old trap [he places +himself on the grave trap]. + +THE STATUE. Good. [Reflectively] All the same, the Superman is a fine +conception. There is something statuesque about it. [He places himself +on the grave trap beside The Devil. It begins to descend slowly. Red +glow from the abyss]. Ah, this reminds me of old times. + +THE DEVIL. And me also. + +ANA. Stop! [The trap stops]. + +THE DEVIL. You, Senora, cannot come this way. You will have an +apotheosis. But you will be at the palace before us. + +ANA. That is not what I stopped you for. Tell me where can I find the +Superman? + +THE DEVIL. He is not yet created, Senora. + +THE STATUE. And never will be, probably. Let us proceed: the red fire +will make me sneeze. [They descend]. + +ANA. Not yet created! Then my work is not yet done. [Crossing herself +devoutly] I believe in the Life to Come. [Crying to the universe] A +father--a father for the Superman! + +She vanishes into the void; and again there is nothing: all existence +seems suspended infinitely. Then, vaguely, there is a live human voice +crying somewhere. One sees, with a shock, a mountain peak showing +faintly against a lighter background. The sky has returned from afar; +and we suddenly remember where we were. The cry becomes distinct and +urgent: it says Automobile, Automobile. The complete reality comes +back with a rush: in a moment it is full morning in the Sierra; and the +brigands are scrambling to their feet and making for the road as the +goatherd runs down from the hill, warning them of the approach of +another motor. Tanner and Mendoza rise amazedly and stare at one another +with scattered wits. Straker sits up to yawn for a moment before he gets +on his feet, making it a point of honor not to show any undue interest +in the excitement of the bandits. Mendoza gives a quick look to see that +his followers are attending to the alarm; then exchanges a private word +with Tanner. + +MENDOZA. Did you dream? + +TANNER. Damnably. Did you? + +MENDOZA. Yes. I forget what. You were in it. + +TANNER. So were you. Amazing + +MENDOZA. I warned you. [a shot is heard from the road]. Dolts! they will +play with that gun. [The brigands come running back scared]. Who fired +that shot? [to Duval] Was it you? + +DUVAL. [breathless] I have not shoot. Dey shoot first. + +ANARCHIST. I told you to begin by abolishing the State. Now we are all +lost. + +THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [stampeding across the amphitheatre] Run, +everybody. + +MENDOZA. [collaring him; throwing him on his back; and drawing a knife] +I stab the man who stirs. [He blocks the way. The stampede it checked]. +What has happened? + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT, A motor-- + +THE ANARCHIST. Three men-- + +DUVAL. Deux femmes-- + +MENDOZA. Three men and two women! Why have you not brought them here? +Are you afraid of them? + +THE ROWDY ONE. [getting up] Thyve a hescort. Ow, de-ooh lut's ook it, +Mendowza. + +THE SULKY ONE. Two armored cars full o soldiers at the end o the valley. + +ANARCHIST. The shot was fired in the air. It was a signal. + +Straker whistles his favorite air, which falls on the ears of the +brigands like a funeral march. + +TANNER. It is not an escort, but an expedition to capture you. We were +advised to wait for it; but I was in a hurry. + +THE ROWDY ONE. [in an agony of apprehension] And Ow my good Lord, ere we +are, wytin for em! Lut's tike to the mahntns. + +MENDOZA. Idiot, what do you know about the mountains? Are you a +Spaniard? You would be given up by the first shepherd you met. Besides, +we are already within range of their rifles. + +THE ROWDY ONE. Bat-- + +MENDOZA. Silence. Leave this to me. [To Tanner] Comrade: you will not +betray us. + +STRAKER. Oo are you callin comrade? + +MENDOZA. Last night the advantage was with me. The robber of the poor +was at the mercy of the robber of the rich. You offered your hand: I +took it. + +TANNER. I bring no charge against you, comrade. We have spent a pleasant +evening with you: that is all. + +STRAKER. I gev my and to nobody, see? + +MENDOZA. [turning on him impressively] Young man, if I am tried, I shall +plead guilty, and explain what drove me from England, home and duty. Do +you wish to have the respectable name of Straker dragged through the mud +of a Spanish criminal court? The police will search me. They will find +Louisa's portrait. It will be published in the illustrated papers. You +blench. It will be your doing, remember. + +STRAKER. [with baffled rage] I don't care about the court. It's avin our +name mixed up with yours that I object to, you blackmailin swine, you. + +MENDOZA. Language unworthy of Louisa's brother! But no matter: you are +muzzled: that is enough for us. [He turns to face his own men, who back +uneasily across the amphitheatre towards the cave to take refuge behind +him, as a fresh party, muffled for motoring, comes from the road in +riotous spirits. Ann, who makes straight for Tanner, comes first; then +Violet, helped over the rough ground by Hector holding her right hand +and Ramsden her left. Mendoza goes to his presidential block and seats +himself calmly with his rank and file grouped behind him, and his +Staff, consisting of Duval and the Anarchist on his right and the two +Social-Democrats on his left, supporting him in flank]. + +ANN. It's Jack! + +TANNER. Caught! + +HECTOR. Why, certainly it is. I said it was you, Tanner, We've just been +stopped by a puncture: the road is full of nails. + +VIOLET. What are you doing here with all these men? + +ANN. Why did you leave us without a word of warning? + +HECTOR. I want that bunch of roses, Miss Whitefield. [To Tanner] When +we found you were gone, Miss Whitefield bet me a bunch of roses my car +would not overtake yours before you reached Monte Carlo. + +TANNER. But this is not the road to Monte Carlo. + +HECTOR. No matter. Miss Whitefield tracked you at every stopping place: +she is a regular Sherlock Holmes. + +TANNER. The Life Force! I am lost. + +OCTAVIUS. [Bounding gaily down from the road into the amphitheatre, and +coming between Tanner and Straker] I am so glad you are safe, old chap. +We were afraid you had been captured by brigands. + +RAMSDEN. [who has been staring at Mendoza] I seem to remember the face +of your friend here. [Mendoza rises politely and advances with a smile +between Ann and Ramsden]. + +HECTOR. Why, so do I. + +OCTAVIUS. I know you perfectly well, Sir; but I can't think where I have +met you. + +MENDOZA. [to Violet] Do YOU remember me, madam? + +VIOLET. Oh, quite well; but I am so stupid about names. + +MENDOZA. It was at the Savoy Hotel. [To Hector] You, sir, used to come +with this lady [Violet] to lunch. [To Octavius] You, sir, often brought +this lady [Ann] and her mother to dinner on your way to the Lyceum +Theatre. [To Ramsden] You, sir, used to come to supper, with [dropping +his voice to a confidential but perfectly audible whisper] several +different ladies. + +RAMSDEN. [angrily] Well, what is that to you, pray? + +OCTAVIUS. Why, Violet, I thought you hardly knew one another before this +trip, you and Malone! + +VIOLET. [vexed] I suppose this person was the manager. + +MENDOZA. The waiter, madam. I have a grateful recollection of you all. +I gathered from the bountiful way in which you treated me that you all +enjoyed your visits very much. + +VIOLET. What impertinence! [She turns her back on him, and goes up the +hill with Hector]. + +RAMSDEN. That will do, my friend. You do not expect these ladies to +treat you as an acquaintance, I suppose, because you have waited on them +at table. + +MENDOZA. Pardon me: it was you who claimed my acquaintance. The ladies +followed your example. However, this display of the unfortunate manners +of your class closes the incident. For the future, you will please +address me with the respect due to a stranger and fellow traveller. [He +turns haughtily away and resumes his presidential seat]. + +TANNER. There! I have found one man on my journey capable of reasonable +conversation; and you all instinctively insult him. Even the New Man +is as bad as any of you. Enry: you have behaved just like a miserable +gentleman. + +STRAKER. Gentleman! Not me. + +RAMSDEN. Really, Tanner, this tone-- + +ANN. Don't mind him, Granny: you ought to know him by this time [she +takes his arm and coaxes him away to the hill to join Violet and Hector. +Octavius follows her, doglike]. + +VIOLET. [calling from the hill] Here are the soldiers. They are getting +out of their motors. + +DUVAL. [panicstricken] Oh, nom de Dieu! + +THE ANARCHIST. Fools: the State is about to crush you because you spared +it at the prompting of the political hangers-on of the bourgeoisie. + +THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [argumentative to the last] On the contrary, +only by capturing the State machine-- + +THE ANARCHIST. It is going to capture you. + +THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [his anguish culminating] Ow, chock it. Wot +are we ere for? WOT are we wytin for? + +MENDOZA. [between his teeth] Goon. Talk politics, you idiots: nothing +sounds more respectable. Keep it up, I tell you. + +The soldiers line the road, commanding the amphitheatre with their +rifles. The brigands, struggling with an over-whelming impulse to hide +behind one another, look as unconcerned as they can. Mendoza rises +superbly, with undaunted front. The officer in command steps down from +the road in to the amphitheatre; looks hard at the brigands; and then +inquiringly at Tanner. + +THE OFFICER. Who are these men, Senor Ingles? + +TANNER. My escort. + +Mendoza, with a Mephistophelean smile, bows profoundly. An irrepressible +grin runs from face to face among the brigands. They touch their hats, +except the Anarchist, who defies the State with folded arms. + + + + +ACT IV + +The garden of a villa in Granada. Whoever wishes to know what it is like +must go to Granada and see. One may prosaically specify a group of hills +dotted with villas, the Alhambra on the top of one of the hills, and +a considerable town in the valley, approached by dusty white roads in +which the children, no matter what they are doing or thinking about, +automatically whine for halfpence and reach out little clutching brown +palms for them; but there is nothing in this description except the +Alhambra, the begging, and the color of the roads, that does not fit +Surrey as well as Spain. The difference is that the Surrey hills are +comparatively small and ugly, and should properly be called the Surrey +Protuberances; but these Spanish hills are of mountain stock: the +amenity which conceals their size does not compromise their dignity. + +This particular garden is on a hill opposite the Alhambra; and the villa +is as expensive and pretentious as a villa must be if it is to be let +furnished by the week to opulent American and English visitors. If we +stand on the lawn at the foot of the garden and look uphill, our horizon +is the stone balustrade of a flagged platform on the edge of infinite +space at the top of the hill. Between us and this platform is a flower +garden with a circular basin and fountain in the centre, surrounded +by geometrical flower beds, gravel paths, and clipped yew trees in the +genteelest order. The garden is higher than our lawn; so we reach it +by a few steps in the middle of its embankment. The platform is higher +again than the garden, from which we mount a couple more steps to look +over the balustrade at a fine view of the town up the valley and of the +hills that stretch away beyond it to where, in the remotest distance, +they become mountains. On our left is the villa, accessible by steps +from the left hand corner of the garden. Returning from the platform +through the garden and down again to the lawn (a movement which leaves +the villa behind us on our right) we find evidence of literary interests +on the part of the tenants in the fact that there is no tennis net nor +set of croquet hoops, but, on our left, a little iron garden table with +books on it, mostly yellow-backed, and a chair beside it. A chair on the +right has also a couple of open books upon it. There are no newspapers, +a circumstance which, with the absence of games, might lead an +intelligent spectator to the most far reaching conclusions as to the +sort of people who live in the villa. Such speculations are checked, +however, on this delightfully fine afternoon, by the appearance at +a little gate in a paling on our left, of Henry Straker in his +professional costume. He opens the gate for an elderly gentleman, and +follows him on to the lawn. + +This elderly gentleman defies the Spanish sun in a black frock coat, +tall silk bat, trousers in which narrow stripes of dark grey and lilac +blend into a highly respectable color, and a black necktie tied into a +bow over spotless linen. Probably therefore a man whose social position +needs constant and scrupulous affirmation without regard to climate: +one who would dress thus for the middle of the Sahara or the top of Mont +Blanc. And since he has not the stamp of the class which accepts as its +life-mission the advertizing and maintenance of first rate tailoring and +millinery, he looks vulgar in his finery, though in a working dress of +any kind he would look dignified enough. He is a bullet cheeked man with +a red complexion, stubbly hair, smallish eyes, a hard mouth that folds +down at the corners, and a dogged chin. The looseness of skin that comes +with age has attacked his throat and the laps of his cheeks; but he is +still hard as an apple above the mouth; so that the upper half of his +face looks younger than the lower. He has the self-confidence of one who +has made money, and something of the truculence of one who has made it +in a brutalizing struggle, his civility having under it a perceptible +menace that he has other methods in reserve if necessary. Withal, a man +to be rather pitied when he is not to be feared; for there is something +pathetic about him at times, as if the huge commercial machine which has +worked him into his frock coat had allowed him very little of his own +way and left his affections hungry and baffled. At the first word +that falls from him it is clear that he is an Irishman whose native +intonation has clung to him through many changes of place and rank. One +can only guess that the original material of his speech was perhaps the +surly Kerry brogue; but the degradation of speech that occurs in London, +Glasgow, Dublin and big cities generally has been at work on it so long +that nobody but an arrant cockney would dream of calling it a brogue +now; for its music is almost gone, though its surliness is still +perceptible. Straker, as a very obvious cockney, inspires him with +implacable contempt, as a stupid Englishman who cannot even speak his +own language properly. Straker, on the other hand, regards the old +gentleman's accent as a joke thoughtfully provided by Providence +expressly for the amusement of the British race, and treats him +normally with the indulgence due to an inferior and unlucky species, but +occasionally with indignant alarm when the old gentleman shows signs of +intending his Irish nonsense to be taken seriously. + +STRAKER. I'll go tell the young lady. She said you'd prefer to stay here +[he turns to go up through the garden to the villa]. + +MALONE. [who has been looking round him with lively curiosity] The young +lady? That's Miss Violet, eh? + +STRAKER. [stopping on the steps with sudden suspicion] Well, you know, +don't you? + +MALONE. Do I? + +STRAKER. [his temper rising] Well, do you or don't you? + +MALONE. What business is that of yours? + +Straker, now highly indignant, comes back from the steps and confronts +the visitor. + +STRAKER. I'll tell you what business it is of mine. Miss Robinson-- + +MALONE. [interrupting] Oh, her name is Robinson, is it? Thank you. + +STRAKER. Why, you don't know even her name? + +MALONE. Yes I do, now that you've told me. + +STRAKER. [after a moment of stupefaction at the old man's readiness in +repartee] Look here: what do you mean by gittin into my car and lettin +me bring you here if you're not the person I took that note to? + +MALONE. Who else did you take it to, pray? + +STRAKER. I took it to Mr Ector Malone, at Miss Robinson's request, see? +Miss Robinson is not my principal: I took it to oblige her. I know Mr +Malone; and he ain't you, not by a long chalk. At the hotel they told me +that your name is Ector Malone. + +MALONE. Hector Malone. + +STRAKER. [with calm superiority] Hector in your own country: that's what +comes o livin in provincial places like Ireland and America. Over here +you're Ector: if you avn't noticed it before you soon will. + +The growing strain of the conversation is here relieved by Violet, who +has sallied from the villa and through the garden to the steps, which +she now descends, coming very opportunely between Malone and Straker. + +VIOLET. [to Straker] Did you take my message? + +STRAKER. Yes, miss. I took it to the hotel and sent it up, expecting to +see young Mr Malone. Then out walks this gent, and says it's all right +and he'll come with me. So as the hotel people said he was Mr Ector +Malone, I fetched him. And now he goes back on what he said. But if he +isn't the gentleman you meant, say the word: it's easy enough to fetch +him back again. + +MALONE. I should esteem it a great favor if I might have a short +conversation with you, madam. I am Hector's father, as this bright +Britisher would have guessed in the course of another hour or so. + +STRAKER. [coolly defiant] No, not in another year or so. When we've ad +you as long to polish up as we've ad im, perhaps you'll begin to look a +little bit up to is mark. At present you fall a long way short. You've +got too many aitches, for one thing. [To Violet, amiably] All right, +Miss: you want to talk to him: I shan't intrude. [He nods affably to +Malone and goes out through the little gate in the paling]. + +VIOLET. [very civilly] I am so sorry, Mr Malone, if that man has been +rude to you. But what can we do? He is our chauffeur. + +MALONE. Your what? + +VIOLET. The driver of our automobile. He can drive a motor car at +seventy miles an hour, and mend it when it breaks down. We are dependent +on our motor cars; and our motor cars are dependent on him; so of course +we are dependent on him. + +MALONE. I've noticed, madam, that every thousand dollars an Englishman +gets seems to add one to the number of people he's dependent on. +However, you needn't apologize for your man: I made him talk on purpose. +By doing so I learnt that you're staying here in Grannida with a party +of English, including my son Hector. + +VIOLET. [conversationally] Yes. We intended to go to Nice; but we had to +follow a rather eccentric member of our party who started first and came +here. Won't you sit down? [She clears the nearest chair of the two books +on it]. + +MALONE. [impressed by this attention] Thank you. [He sits down, +examining her curiously as she goes to the iron table to put down the +books. When she turns to him again, he says] Miss Robinson, I believe? + +VIOLET. [sitting down] Yes. + +MALONE. [Taking a letter from his pocket] Your note to Hector runs as +follows [Violet is unable to repress a start. He pauses quietly to take +out and put on his spectacles, which have gold rims]: "Dearest: they +have all gone to the Alhambra for the afternoon. I have shammed headache +and have the garden all to myself. Jump into Jack's motor: Straker will +rattle you here in a jiffy. Quick, quick, quick. Your loving Violet." +[He looks at her; but by this time she has recovered herself, and meets +his spectacles with perfect composure. He continues slowly] Now I don't +know on what terms young people associate in English society; but in +America that note would be considered to imply a very considerable +degree of affectionate intimacy between the parties. + +VIOLET. Yes: I know your son very well, Mr Malone. Have you any +objection? + +MALONE. [somewhat taken aback] No, no objection exactly. Provided it is +understood that my son is altogether dependent on me, and that I have to +be consulted in any important step he may propose to take. + +VIOLET. I am sure you would not be unreasonable with him, Mr Malone. + +MALONE. I hope not, Miss Robinson; but at your age you might think many +things unreasonable that don't seem so to me. + +VIOLET. [with a little shrug] Oh well, I suppose there's no use our +playing at cross purposes, Mr Malone. Hector wants to marry me. + +MALONE. I inferred from your note that he might. Well, Miss Robinson, +he is his own master; but if he marries you he shall not have a rap from +me. [He takes off his spectacles and pockets them with the note]. + +VIOLET. [with some severity] That is not very complimentary to me, Mr +Malone. + +MALONE. I say nothing against you, Miss Robinson: I daresay you are an +amiable and excellent young lady. But I have other views for Hector. + +VIOLET. Hector may not have other views for himself, Mr Malone. + +MALONE. Possibly not. Then he does without me: that's all. I daresay you +are prepared for that. When a young lady writes to a young man to +come to her quick, quick, quick, money seems nothing and love seems +everything. + +VIOLET. [sharply] I beg your pardon, Mr Malone: I do not think anything +so foolish. Hector must have money. + +MALONE. [staggered] Oh, very well, very well. No doubt he can work for +it. + +VIOLET. What is the use of having money if you have to work for it? [She +rises impatiently]. It's all nonsense, Mr Malone: you must enable your +son to keep up his position. It is his right. + +MALONE. [grimly] I should not advise you to marry him on the strength of +that right, Miss Robinson. + +Violet, who has almost lost her temper, controls herself with an effort; +unclenches her fingers; and resumes her seat with studied tranquillity +and reasonableness. + +VIOLET. What objection have you to me, pray? My social position is as +good as Hector's, to say the least. He admits it. + +MALONE. [shrewdly] You tell him so from time to time, eh? Hector's +social position in England, Miss Robinson, is just what I choose to +buy for him. I have made him a fair offer. Let him pick out the most +historic house, castle or abbey that England contains. The day that he +tells me he wants it for a wife worthy of its traditions, I buy it for +him, and give him the means of keeping it up. + +VIOLET. What do you mean by a wife worthy of its traditions? Cannot any +well bred woman keep such a house for him? + +MALONE. No: she must be born to it. + +VIOLET. Hector was not born to it, was he? + +MALONE. His granmother was a barefooted Irish girl that nursed me by a +turf fire. Let him marry another such, and I will not stint her marriage +portion. Let him raise himself socially with my money or raise somebody +else so long as there is a social profit somewhere, I'll regard my +expenditure as justified. But there must be a profit for someone. A +marriage with you would leave things just where they are. + +VIOLET. Many of my relations would object very much to my marrying the +grandson of a common woman, Mr Malone. That may be prejudice; but so is +your desire to have him marry a title prejudice. + +MALONE. [rising, and approaching her with a scrutiny in which there is +a good deal of reluctant respect] You seem a pretty straightforward +downright sort of a young woman. + +VIOLET. I do not see why I should be made miserably poor because I +cannot make profits for you. Why do you want to make Hector unhappy? + +MALONE. He will get over it all right enough. Men thrive better on +disappointments in love than on disappointments in money. I daresay you +think that sordid; but I know what I'm talking about. My father died of +starvation in Ireland in the black 47, Maybe you've heard of it. + +VIOLET. The Famine? + +MALONE. [with smouldering passion] No, the starvation. When a country +is full of food, and exporting it, there can be no famine. My father +was starved dead; and I was starved out to America in my mother's +arms. English rule drove me and mine out of Ireland. Well, you can keep +Ireland. I and my like are coming back to buy England; and we'll buy the +best of it. I want no middle class properties and no middle class women +for Hector. That's straightforward isn't it, like yourself? + +VIOLET. [icily pitying his sentimentality] Really, Mr Malone, I am +astonished to hear a man of your age and good sense talking in that +romantic way. Do you suppose English noblemen will sell their places to +you for the asking? + +MALONE. I have the refusal of two of the oldest family mansions in +England. One historic owner can't afford to keep all the rooms dusted: +the other can't afford the death duties. What do you say now? + +VIOLET. Of course it is very scandalous; but surely you know that the +Government will sooner or later put a stop to all these Socialistic +attacks on property. + +MALONE. [grinning] D'y' think they'll be able to get that done before I +buy the house--or rather the abbey? They're both abbeys. + +VIOLET. [putting that aside rather impatiently] Oh, well, let us talk +sense, Mr Malone. You must feel that we haven't been talking sense so +far. + +MALONE. I can't say I do. I mean all I say. + +VIOLET. Then you don't know Hector as I do. He is romantic and faddy--he +gets it from you, I fancy--and he wants a certain sort of wife to take +care of him. Not a faddy sort of person, you know. + +MALONE. Somebody like you, perhaps? + +VIOLET. [quietly] Well, yes. But you cannot very well ask me to +undertake this with absolutely no means of keeping up his position. + +MALONE. [alarmed] Stop a bit, stop a bit. Where are we getting to? I'm +not aware that I'm asking you to undertake anything. + +VIOLET. Of course, Mr Malone, you can make it very difficult for me to +speak to you if you choose to misunderstand me. + +MALONE. [half bewildered] I don't wish to take any unfair advantage; but +we seem to have got off the straight track somehow. + +Straker, with the air of a man who has been making haste, opens the +little gate, and admits Hector, who, snorting with indignation, comes +upon the lawn, and is making for his father when Violet, greatly +dismayed, springs up and intercepts him. Straker doer not wait; at least +he does not remain visibly within earshot. + +VIOLET. Oh, how unlucky! Now please, Hector, say nothing. Go away until +I have finished speaking to your father. + +HECTOR. [inexorably] No, Violet: I mean to have this thing out, right +away. [He puts her aside; passes her by; and faces his father, whose +cheeks darken as his Irish blood begins to simmer]. Dad: you've not +played this hand straight. + +MALONE. Hwat d'y'mean? + +HECTOR. You've opened a letter addressed to me. You've impersonated me +and stolen a march on this lady. That's dishonorable. + +MALONE. [threateningly] Now you take care what you're saying, Hector. +Take care, I tell you. + +HECTOR. I have taken care. I am taking care. I'm taking care of my honor +and my position in English society. + +MALONE. [hotly] Your position has been got by my money: do you know +that? + +HECTOR. Well, you've just spoiled it all by opening that letter. A +letter from an English lady, not addressed to you--a confidential +letter! a delicate letter! a private letter opened by my father! That's +a sort of thing a man can't struggle against in England. The sooner +we go back together the better. [He appeals mutely to the heavens to +witness the shame and anguish of two outcasts]. + +VIOLET. [snubbing him with an instinctive dislike for scene making] +Don't be unreasonable, Hector. It was quite natural of Mr Malone to open +my letter: his name was on the envelope. + +MALONE. There! You've no common sense, Hector. I thank you, Miss +Robinson. + +HECTOR. I thank you, too. It's very kind of you. My father knows no +better. + +MALONE. [furiously clenching his fists] Hector-- + +HECTOR. [with undaunted moral force] Oh, it's no use hectoring me. A +private letter's a private letter, dad: you can't get over that. + +MALONE [raising his voice] I won't be talked back to by you, d'y' hear? + +VIOLET. Ssh! please, please. Here they all come. + +Father and son, checked, glare mutely at one another as Tanner comes in +through the little gate with Ramsden, followed by Octavius and Ann. + +VIOLET. Back already! + +TANNER. The Alhambra is not open this afternoon. + +VIOLET. What a sell! + +Tanner passes on, and presently finds himself between Hector and a +strange elder, both apparently on the verge of personal combat. He looks +from one to the other for an explanation. They sulkily avoid his eye, +and nurse their wrath in silence. + +RAMSDEN. Is it wise for you to be out in the sunshine with such a +headache, Violet? + +TANNER. Have you recovered too, Malone? + +VIOLET. Oh, I forgot. We have not all met before. Mr Malone: won't you +introduce your father? + +HECTOR. [with Roman firmness] No, I will not. He is no father of mine. + +MALONE. [very angry] You disown your dad before your English friends, do +you? + +VIOLET. Oh please don't make a scene. + +Ann and Octavius, lingering near the gate, exchange an astonished +glance, and discreetly withdraw up the steps to the garden, where they +can enjoy the disturbance without intruding. On their way to the steps +Ann sends a little grimace of mute sympathy to Violet, who is standing +with her back to the little table, looking on in helpless annoyance as +her husband soars to higher and higher moral eminences without the least +regard to the old man's millions. + +HECTOR. I'm very sorry, Miss Robinson; but I'm contending for a +principle. I am a son, and, I hope, a dutiful one; but before everything +I'm a Man!!! And when dad treats my private letters as his own, and +takes it on himself to say that I shan't marry you if I am happy and +fortunate enough to gain your consent, then I just snap my fingers and +go my own way. + +TANNER. Marry Violet! + +RAMSDEN. Are you in your senses? + +TANNER. Do you forget what we told you? + +HECTOR. [recklessly] I don't care what you told me. + +RAMSDEN. [scandalized] Tut tut, sir! Monstrous! [he flings away towards +the gate, his elbows quivering with indignation] + +TANNER. Another madman! These men in love should be locked up. [He gives +Hector up as hopeless, and turns away towards the garden, but Malone, +taking offence in a new direction, follows him and compels him, by the +aggressivenes of his tone, to stop]. + +MALONE. I don't understand this. Is Hector not good enough for this +lady, pray? + +TANNER. My dear sir, the lady is married already. Hector knows it; and +yet he persists in his infatuation. Take him home and lock him up. + +MALONE. [bitterly] So this is the high-born social tone I've spoilt by +my ignorant, uncultivated behavior! Makin love to a married woman! [He +comes angrily between Hector and Violet, and almost bawls into Hector's +left ear] You've picked up that habit of the British aristocracy, have +you? + +HECTOR. That's all right. Don't you trouble yourself about that. I'll +answer for the morality of what I'm doing. + +TANNER. [coming forward to Hector's right hand with flashing eyes] Well +said, Malone! You also see that mere marriage laws are not morality! I +agree with you; but unfortunately Violet does not. + +MALONE. I take leave to doubt that, sir. [Turning on Violet] Let me tell +you, Mrs Robinson, or whatever your right name is, you had no right to +send that letter to my son when you were the wife of another man. + +HECTOR. [outraged] This is the last straw. Dad: you have insulted my +wife. + +MALONE. YOUR wife! + +TANNER. YOU the missing husband! Another moral impostor! [He smites his +brow, and collapses into Malone's chair]. + +MALONE. You've married without my consent! + +RAMSDEN. You have deliberately humbugged us, sir! + +HECTOR. Here: I have had just about enough of being badgered. Violet and +I are married: that's the long and the short of it. Now what have you +got to say--any of you? + +MALONE. I know what I've got to say. She's married a beggar. + +HECTOR. No; she's married a Worker [his American pronunciation imparts +an overwhelming intensity to this simple and unpopular word]. I start to +earn my own living this very afternoon. + +MALONE. [sneering angrily] Yes: you're very plucky now, because you got +your remittance from me yesterday or this morning, I reckon. Wait til +it's spent. You won't be so full of cheek then. + +HECTOR. [producing a letter from his pocketbook] Here it is [thrusting +it on his father]. Now you just take your remittance and yourself out of +my life. I'm done with remittances; and I'm done with you. I don't sell +the privilege of insulting my wife for a thousand dollars. + +MALONE. [deeply wounded and full of concern] Hector: you don't know what +poverty is. + +HECTOR. [fervidly] Well, I want to know what it is. I want'be a Man. +Violet: you come along with me, to your own home: I'll see you through. + +OCTAVIUS. [jumping down from the garden to the lawn and running to +Hector's left hand] I hope you'll shake hands with me before you go, +Hector. I admire and respect you more than I can say. [He is affected +almost to tears as they shake hands]. + +VIOLET. [also almost in tears, but of vexation] Oh don't be an idiot, +Tavy. Hector's about as fit to become a workman as you are. + +TANNER. [rising from his chair on the other ride of Hector] Never fear: +there's no question of his becoming a navvy, Mrs Malone. [To Hector] +There's really no difficulty about capital to start with. Treat me as a +friend: draw on me. + +OCTAVIUS. [impulsively] Or on me. + +MALONE. [with fierce jealousy] Who wants your dirty money? Who should he +draw on but his own father? [Tanner and Octavius recoil, Octavius rather +hurt, Tanner consoled by the solution of the money difficulty. Violet +looks up hopefully]. Hector: don't be rash, my boy. I'm sorry for what I +said: I never meant to insult Violet: I take it all back. She's just the +wife you want: there! + +HECTOR. [Patting him on the shoulder] Well, that's all right, dad. Say +no more: we're friends again. Only, I take no money from anybody. + +MALONE. [pleading abjectly] Don't be hard on me, Hector. I'd rather you +quarrelled and took the money than made friends and starved. You don't +know what the world is: I do. + +HECTOR. No, no, NO. That's fixed: that's not going to change. [He passes +his father inexorably by, and goes to Violet]. Come, Mrs Malone: you've +got to move to the hotel with me, and take your proper place before the +world. + +VIOLET. But I must go in, dear, and tell Davis to pack. Won't you go on +and make them give you a room overlooking the garden for me? I'll join +you in half an hour. + +HECTOR. Very well. You'll dine with us, Dad, won't you? + +MALONE. [eager to conciliate him] Yes, yes. + +HECTOR. See you all later. [He waves his hand to Ann, who has now been +joined by Tanner, Octavius, and Ramsden in the garden, and goes out +through the little gate, leaving his father and Violet together on the +lawn]. + +MALONE. You'll try to bring him to his senses, Violet: I know you will. + +VIOLET. I had no idea he could be so headstrong. If he goes on like +that, what can I do? + +MALONE. Don't be discurridged: domestic pressure may be slow; but it's +sure. You'll wear him down. Promise me you will. + +VIOLET. I will do my best. Of course I think it's the greatest nonsense +deliberately making us poor like that. + +MALONE. Of course it is. + +VIOLET. [after a moment's reflection] You had better give me the +remittance. He will want it for his hotel bill. I'll see whether I can +induce him to accept it. Not now, of course, but presently. + +MALONE. [eagerly] Yes, yes, yes: that's just the thing [he hands her the +thousand dollar bill, and adds cunningly] Y'understand that this is only +a bachelor allowance. + +VIOLET. [Coolly] Oh, quite. [She takes it]. Thank you. By the way, Mr +Malone, those two houses you mentioned--the abbeys. + +MALONE. Yes? + +VIOLET. Don't take one of them until I've seen it. One never knows what +may be wrong with these places. + +MALONE. I won't. I'll do nothing without consulting you, never fear. + +VIOLET. [politely, but without a ray of gratitude] Thanks: that will +be much the best way. [She goes calmly back to the villa, escorted +obsequiously by Malone to the upper end of the garden]. + +TANNER. [drawing Ramsden's attention to Malone's cringing attitude as he +takes leave of Violet] And that poor devil is a billionaire! one of the +master spirits of the age! Led on a string like a pug dog by the first +girl who takes the trouble to despise him. I wonder will it ever come to +that with me. [He comes down to the lawn.] + +RAMSDEN. [following him] The sooner the better for you. + +MALONE. [clapping his hands as he returns through the garden] That'll be +a grand woman for Hector. I wouldn't exchange her for ten duchesses. [He +descends to the lawn and comes between Tanner and Ramsden]. + +RAMSDEN. [very civil to the billionaire] It's an unexpected pleasure to +find you in this corner of the world, Mr Malone. Have you come to buy up +the Alhambra? + +MALONE. Well, I don't say I mightn't. I think I could do better with it +than the Spanish government. But that's not what I came about. To tell +you the truth, about a month ago I overheard a deal between two men over +a bundle of shares. They differed about the price: they were young and +greedy, and didn't know that if the shares were worth what was bid for +them they must be worth what was asked, the margin being too small to +be of any account, you see. To amuse meself, I cut in and bought the +shares. Well, to this day I haven't found out what the business is. The +office is in this town; and the name is Mendoza, Limited. Now whether +Mendoza's a mine, or a steamboat line, or a bank, or a patent article-- + +TANNER. He's a man. I know him: his principles are thoroughly +commercial. Let us take you round the town in our motor, Mr Malone, and +call on him on the way. + +MALONE. If you'll be so kind, yes. And may I ask who-- + +TANNER. Mr Roebuck Ramsden, a very old friend of your daughter-in-law. + +MALONE. Happy to meet you, Mr Ramsden. + +RAMSDEN. Thank you. Mr Tanner is also one of our circle. + +MALONE. Glad to know you also, Mr Tanner. + +TANNER. Thanks. [Malone and Ramsden go out very amicably through the +little gate. Tanner calls to Octavius, who is wandering in the garden +with Ann] Tavy! [Tavy comes to the steps, Tanner whispers loudly to +him] Violet has married a financier of brigands. [Tanner hurries away +to overtake Malone and Ramsden. Ann strolls to the steps with an idle +impulse to torment Octavius]. + +ANN. Won't you go with them, Tavy? + +OCTAVIUS. [tears suddenly flushing his eyes] You cut me to the heart, +Ann, by wanting me to go [he comes down on the lawn to hide his face +from her. She follows him caressingly]. + +ANN. Poor Ricky Ticky Tavy! Poor heart! + +OCTAVIUS. It belongs to you, Ann. Forgive me: I must speak of it. I love +you. You know I love you. + +ANN. What's the good, Tavy? You know that my mother is determined that I +shall marry Jack. + +OCTAVIUS. [amazed] Jack! + +ANN. It seems absurd, doesn't it? + +OCTAVIUS. [with growing resentment] Do you mean to say that Jack has +been playing with me all this time? That he has been urging me not to +marry you because he intends to marry you himself? + +ANN. [alarmed] No no: you mustn't lead him to believe that I said that: +I don't for a moment think that Jack knows his own mind. But it's clear +from my father's will that he wished me to marry Jack. And my mother is +set on it. + +OCTAVIUS. But you are not bound to sacrifice yourself always to the +wishes of your parents. + +ANN. My father loved me. My mother loves me. Surely their wishes are a +better guide than my own selfishness. + +OCTAVIUS. Oh, I know how unselfish you are, Ann. But believe me--though +I know I am speaking in my own interest--there is another side to this +question. Is it fair to Jack to marry him if you do not love him? Is +it fair to destroy my happiness as well as your own if you can bring +yourself to love me? + +ANN. [looking at him with a faint impulse of pity] Tavy, my dear, you +are a nice creature--a good boy. + +OCTAVIUS. [humiliated] Is that all? + +ANN. [mischievously in spite of her pity] That's a great deal, I assure +you. You would always worship the ground I trod on, wouldn't you? + +OCTAVIUS. I do. It sounds ridiculous; but it's no exaggeration. I do; +and I always shall. + +ANN. Always is a long word, Tavy. You see, I shall have to live up +always to your idea of my divinity; and I don't think I could do that if +we were married. But if I marry Jack, you'll never be disillusioned--at +least not until I grow too old. + +OCTAVIUS. I too shall grow old, Ann. And when I am eighty, one white +hair of the woman I love will make me tremble more than the thickest +gold tress from the most beautiful young head. + +ANN. [quite touched] Oh, that's poetry, Tavy, real poetry. It gives +me that strange sudden sense of an echo from a former existence which +always seems to me such a striking proof that we have immortal souls. + +OCTAVIUS. Do you believe that is true? + +ANN. Tavy, if it is to become true you must lose me as well as love me. + +OCTAVIUS. Oh! [he hastily sits down at the little table and covers his +face with his hands]. + +ANN. [with conviction] Tavy: I wouldn't for worlds destroy your +illusions. I can neither take you nor let you go. I can see exactly what +will suit you. You must be a sentimental old bachelor for my sake. + +OCTAVIUS. [desperately] Ann: I'll kill myself. + +ANN. Oh no you won't: that wouldn't be kind. You won't have a bad time. +You will be very nice to women; and you will go a good deal to the +opera. A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London +if he has a comfortable income. + +OCTAVIUS. [considerably cooled, but believing that he is only recovering +his self-control] I know you mean to be kind, Ann. Jack has persuaded +you that cynicism is a good tonic for me. [He rises with quiet dignity]. + +ANN. [studying him slyly] You see, I'm disillusionizing you already. +That's what I dread. + +OCTAVIUS. You do not dread disillusionizing Jack. + +ANN. [her face lighting up with mischievous ecstasy--whispering] I +can't: he has no illusions about me. I shall surprise Jack the other +way. Getting over an unfavorable impression is ever so much easier than +living up to an ideal. Oh, I shall enrapture Jack sometimes! + +OCTAVIUS. [resuming the calm phase of despair, and beginning to enjoy +his broken heart and delicate attitude without knowing it] I don't doubt +that. You will enrapture him always. And he--the fool!--thinks you would +make him wretched. + +ANN. Yes: that's the difficulty, so far. + +OCTAVIUS. [heroically] Shall _I_ tell him that you love him? + +ANN. [quickly] Oh no: he'd run away again. + +OCTAVIUS. [shocked] Ann: would you marry an unwilling man? + +ANN. What a queer creature you are, Tavy! There's no such thing as a +willing man when you really go for him. [She laughs naughtily]. I'm +shocking you, I suppose. But you know you are really getting a sort of +satisfaction already in being out of danger yourself. + +OCTAVIUS [startled] Satisfaction! [Reproachfully] You say that to me! + +ANN. Well, if it were really agony, would you ask for more of it? + +OCTAVIUS. Have I asked for more of it? + +ANN. You have offered to tell Jack that I love him. That's +self-sacrifice, I suppose; but there must be some satisfaction in it. +Perhaps it's because you're a poet. You are like the bird that presses +its breast against the sharp thorn to make itself sing. + +OCTAVIUS. It's quite simple. I love you; and I want you to be happy. You +don't love me; so I can't make you happy myself; but I can help another +man to do it. + +ANN. Yes: it seems quite simple. But I doubt if we ever know why we do +things. The only really simple thing is to go straight for what you want +and grab it. I suppose I don't love you, Tavy; but sometimes I feel +as if I should like to make a man of you somehow. You are very foolish +about women. + +OCTAVIUS. [almost coldly] I am content to be what I am in that respect. + +ANN. Then you must keep away from them, and only dream about them. I +wouldn't marry you for worlds, Tavy. + +OCTAVIUS. I have no hope, Ann: I accept my ill luck. But I don't think +you quite know how much it hurts. + +ANN. You are so softhearted! It's queer that you should be so different +from Violet. Violet's as hard as nails. + +OCTAVIUS. Oh no. I am sure Violet is thoroughly womanly at heart. + +ANN. [with some impatience] Why do you say that? Is it unwomanly to be +thoughtful and businesslike and sensible? Do you want Violet to be an +idiot--or something worse, like me? + +OCTAVIUS. Something worse--like you! What do you mean, Ann? + +ANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect +for Violet. She gets her own way always. + +OCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you. + +ANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing--without having to +make people sentimental about her. + +OCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental +about Violet, I think, pretty as she is. + +ANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them. + +OCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on +men's instincts in that way. + +ANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven +help the woman who marries you! + +OCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say +that? Don't torment me. I don't understand. + +ANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men? + +OCTAVIUS. Do you think _I_ could marry such a woman--I, who have known and +loved you? + +ANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise. So +that's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive me, and +that the subject is closed. + +OCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And if +the wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed. + +ANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear. [She pats his check; +has an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of distaste which +prevents her; finally runs away through the garden and into the villa]. + +Octavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on his arms +and sobbing softly. Mrs Whitefield, who has been pottering round the +Granada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her hand, comes +in through the gate and sees him. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [running to him and lifting his head] What's the matter, +Tavy? Are you ill? + +OCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [still holding his head, anxiously] But you're crying. +Is it about Violet's marriage? + +OCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [restoring the head to its owner] I met Roebuck and that +awful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not ill? What's the matter? + +OCTAVIUS. [affectionately] It's nothing--only a man's broken heart. +Doesn't that sound ridiculous? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything to +you? + +OCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't think for a moment that I +blame you. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [startled] For what? + +OCTAVIUS. [pressing her hand consolingly] For nothing. I said I didn't +blame you. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. But I haven't done anything. What's the matter? + +OCTAVIUS. [smiling sadly] Can't you guess? I daresay you are right to +prefer Jack to me as a husband for Ann; but I love Ann; and it hurts +rather. [He rises and moves away from her towards the middle of the +lawn]. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [following him hastily] Does Ann say that I want her to +marry Jack? + +OCTAVIUS. Yes: she has told me. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [thoughtfully] Then I'm very sorry for you, Tavy. It's +only her way of saying SHE wants to marry Jack. Little she cares what _I_ +say or what I want! + +OCTAVIUS. But she would not say it unless she believed it. Surely you +don't suspect Ann of--of DECEIT!! + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Well, never mind, Tavy. I don't know which is best for a +young man: to know too little, like you, or too much, like Jack. + +Tanner returns. + +TANNER. Well, I've disposed of old Malone. I've introduced him to +Mendoza, Limited; and left the two brigands together to talk it out. +Hullo, Tavy! anything wrong? + +OCTAVIUS. I must go wash my face, I see. [To Mrs Whitefield] Tell him +what you wish. [To Tanner] You may take it from me, Jack, that Ann +approves of it. + +TANNER. [puzzled by his manner] Approves of what? + +OCTAVIUS. Of what Mrs Whitefield wishes. [He goes his way with sad +dignity to the villa]. + +TANNER. [to Mrs Whitefield] This is very mysterious. What is it you +wish? It shall be done, whatever it is. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [with snivelling gratitude] Thank you, Jack. [She sits +down. Tanner brings the other chair from the table and sits close to her +with his elbows on his knees, giving her his whole attention]. I don't +know why it is that other people's children are so nice to me, and that +my own have so little consideration for me. It's no wonder I don't seem +able to care for Ann and Rhoda as I do for you and Tavy and Violet. It's +a very queer world. It used to be so straightforward and simple; and +now nobody seems to think and feel as they ought. Nothing has been right +since that speech that Professor Tyndall made at Belfast. + +TANNER. Yes: life is more complicated than we used to think. But what am +I to do for you? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. That's just what I want to tell you. Of course you'll +marry Ann whether I like it myself or not-- + +TANNER. [starting] It seems to me that I shall presently be married to +Ann whether I like it myself or not. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [peacefully] Oh, very likely you will: you know what she +is when she has set her mind on anything. But don't put it on me: that's +all I ask. Tavy has just let out that she's been saying that I am making +her marry you; and the poor boy is breaking his heart about it; for he +is in love with her himself, though what he sees in her so wonderful, +goodness knows: _I_ don't. It's no use telling Tavy that Ann puts things +into people's heads by telling them that I want them when the thought of +them never crossed my mind. It only sets Tavy against me. But you know +better than that. So if you marry her, don't put the blame on me. + +TANNER. [emphatically] I haven't the slightest intention of marrying +her. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [slyly] She'd suit you better than Tavy. She'd meet her +match in you, Jack. I'd like to see her meet her match. + +TANNER. No man is a match for a woman, except with a poker and a pair of +hobnailed boots. Not always even then. Anyhow, I can't take the poker to +her. I should be a mere slave. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. No: she's afraid of you. At all events, you would tell +her the truth about herself. She wouldn't be able to slip out of it as +she does with me. + +TANNER. Everybody would call me a brute if I told Ann the truth about +herself in terms of her own moral code. To begin with, Ann says things +that are not strictly true. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. I'm glad somebody sees she is not an angel. + +TANNER. In short--to put it as a husband would put it when exasperated +to the point of speaking out--she is a liar. And since she has plunged +Tavy head over ears in love with her without any intention of marrying +him, she is a coquette, according to the standard definition of +a coquette as a woman who rouses passions she has no intention of +gratifying. And as she has now reduced you to the point of being willing +to sacrifice me at the altar for the mere satisfaction of getting me to +call her a liar to her face, I may conclude that she is a bully as +well. She can't bully men as she bullies women; so she habitually +and unscrupulously uses her personal fascination to make men give her +whatever she wants. That makes her almost something for which I know no +polite name. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [in mild expostulation] Well, you can't expect +perfection, Jack. + +TANNER. I don't. But what annoys me is that Ann does. I know perfectly +well that all this about her being a liar and a bully and a coquette and +so forth is a trumped-up moral indictment which might be brought against +anybody. We all lie; we all bully as much as we dare; we all bid for +admiration without the least intention of earning it; we all get as much +rent as we can out of our powers of fascination. If Ann would admit this +I shouldn't quarrel with her. But she won't. If she has children she'll +take advantage of their telling lies to amuse herself by whacking them. +If another woman makes eyes at me, she'll refuse to know a coquette. She +will do just what she likes herself whilst insisting on everybody else +doing what the conventional code prescribes. In short, I can stand +everything except her confounded hypocrisy. That's what beats me. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [carried away by the relief of hearing her own opinion +so eloquently expressed] Oh, she is a hypocrite. She is: she is. Isn't +she? + +TANNER. Then why do you want to marry me to her? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [querulously] There now! put it on me, of course. I +never thought of it until Tavy told me she said I did. But, you know, +I'm very fond of Tavy: he's a sort of son to me; and I don't want him to +be trampled on and made wretched. + +TANNER. Whereas I don't matter, I suppose. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, you are different, somehow: you are able to take +care of yourself. You'd serve her out. And anyhow, she must marry +somebody. + +TANNER. Aha! there speaks the life instinct. You detest her; but you +feel that you must get her married. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [rising, shocked] Do you mean that I detest my own +daughter! Surely you don't believe me to be so wicked and unnatural as +that, merely because I see her faults. + +TANNER. [cynically] You love her, then? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Why, of course I do. What queer things you say, Jack! We +can't help loving our own blood relations. + +TANNER. Well, perhaps it saves unpleasantness to say so. But for my +part, I suspect that the tables of consanguinity have a natural basis in +a natural repugnance [he rises]. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. You shouldn't say things like that, Jack. I hope you +won't tell Ann that I have been speaking to you. I only wanted to +set myself right with you and Tavy. I couldn't sit mumchance and have +everything put on me. + +TANNER. [politely] Quite so. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [dissatisfied] And now I've only made matters worse. +Tavy's angry with me because I don't worship Ann. And when it's been put +into my head that Ann ought to marry you, what can I say except that it +would serve her right? + +TANNER. Thank you. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Now don't be silly and twist what I say into something I +don't mean. I ought to have fair play-- + +Ann comes from the villa, followed presently by Violet, who is dressed +for driving. + +ANN. [coming to her mother's right hand with threatening suavity] Well, +mamma darling, you seem to be having a delightful chat with Jack. We can +hear you all over the place. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [appalled] Have you overheard-- + +TANNER. Never fear: Ann is only--well, we were discussing that habit of +hers just now. She hasn't heard a word. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [stoutly] I don't care whether she has or not: I have a +right to say what I please. + +VIOLET. [arriving on the lawn and coming between Mrs Whitefield and +Tanner] I've come to say goodbye. I'm off for my honeymoon. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [crying] Oh don't say that, Violet. And no wedding, no +breakfast, no clothes, nor anything. + +VIOLET. [petting her] It won't be for long. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Don't let him take you to America. Promise me that you +won't. + +VIOLET. [very decidedly] I should think not, indeed. Don't cry, dear: +I'm only going to the hotel. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. But going in that dress, with your luggage, makes one +realize--[she chokes, and then breaks out again] How I wish you were my +daughter, Violet! + +VIOLET. [soothing her] There, there: so I am. Ann will be jealous. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Ann doesn't care a bit for me. + +ANN. Fie, mother! Come, now: you mustn't cry any more: you know Violet +doesn't like it [Mrs Whitefield dries her eyes, and subsides]. + +VIOLET. Goodbye, Jack. + +TANNER. Goodbye, Violet. + +VIOLET. The sooner you get married too, the better. You will be much +less misunderstood. + +TANNER. [restively] I quite expect to get married in the course of the +afternoon. You all seem to have set your minds on it. + +VIOLET. You might do worse. [To Mrs Whitefield: putting her arm round +her] Let me take you to the hotel with me: the drive will do you good. +Come in and get a wrap. [She takes her towards the villa]. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. [as they go up through the garden] I don't know what I +shall do when you are gone, with no one but Ann in the house; and she +always occupied with the men! It's not to be expected that your husband +will care to be bothered with an old woman like me. Oh, you needn't +tell me: politeness is all very well; but I know what people think--[She +talks herself and Violet out of sight and hearing]. + +Ann, musing on Violet's opportune advice, approaches Tanner; examines +him humorously for a moment from toe to top; and finally delivers her +opinion. + +ANN. Violet is quite right. You ought to get married. + +TANNER. [explosively] Ann: I will not marry you. Do you hear? I won't, +won't, won't, won't, WON'T marry you. + +ANN. [placidly] Well, nobody axd you, sir she said, sir she said, sir +she said. So that's settled. + +TANNER. Yes, nobody has asked me; but everybody treats the thing as +settled. It's in the air. When we meet, the others go away on absurd +pretexts to leave us alone together. Ramsden no longer scowls at me: his +eye beams, as if he were already giving you away to me in church. Tavy +refers me to your mother and gives me his blessing. Straker openly +treats you as his future employer: it was he who first told me of it. + +ANN. Was that why you ran away? + +TANNER. Yes, only to be stopped by a lovesick brigand and run down like +a truant schoolboy. + +ANN. Well, if you don't want to be married, you needn't be [she turns +away from him and sits down, much at her ease]. + +TANNER. [following her] Does any man want to be hanged? Yet men let +themselves be hanged without a struggle for life, though they could at +least give the chaplain a black eye. We do the world's will, not our +own. I have a frightful feeling that I shall let myself be married +because it is the world's will that you should have a husband. + +ANN. I daresay I shall, someday. + +TANNER. But why me--me of all men? Marriage is to me apostasy, +profanation of the sanctuary of my soul, violation of my manhood, +sale of my birthright, shameful surrender, ignominious capitulation, +acceptance of defeat. I shall decay like a thing that has served its +purpose and is done with; I shall change from a man with a future to +a man with a past; I shall see in the greasy eyes of all the other +husbands their relief at the arrival of a new prisoner to share their +ignominy. The young men will scorn me as one who has sold out: to the +young women I, who have always been an enigma and a possibility, +shall be merely somebody else's property--and damaged goods at that: a +secondhand man at best. + +ANN. Well, your wife can put on a cap and make herself ugly to keep you +in countenance, like my grandmother. + +TANNER. So that she may make her triumph more insolent by publicly +throwing away the bait the moment the trap snaps on the victim! + +ANN. After all, though, what difference would it make? Beauty is all +very well at first sight; but who ever looks at it when it has been +in the house three days? I thought our pictures very lovely when papa +bought them; but I haven't looked at them for years. You never bother +about my looks: you are too well used to me. I might be the umbrella +stand. + +TANNER. You lie, you vampire: you lie. + +ANN. Flatterer. Why are you trying to fascinate me, Jack, if you don't +want to marry me? + +TANNER. The Life Force. I am in the grip of the Life Force. + +ANN. I don't understand in the least: it sounds like the Life Guards. + +TANNER. Why don't you marry Tavy? He is willing. Can you not be +satisfied unless your prey struggles? + +ANN. [turning to him as if to let him into a secret] Tavy will never +marry. Haven't you noticed that that sort of man never marries? + +TANNER. What! a man who idolizes women! who sees nothing in nature but +romantic scenery for love duets! Tavy, the chivalrous, the faithful, the +tenderhearted and true! Tavy never marry! Why, he was born to be swept +up by the first pair of blue eyes he meets in the street. + +ANN. Yes, I know. All the same, Jack, men like that always live in +comfortable bachelor lodgings with broken hearts, and are adored +by their landladies, and never get married. Men like you always get +married. + +TANNER. [Smiting his brow] How frightfully, horribly true! It has been +staring me in the face all my life; and I never saw it before. + +ANN. Oh, it's the same with women. The poetic temperament's a very nice +temperament, very amiable, very harmless and poetic, I daresay; but it's +an old maid's temperament. + +TANNER. Barren. The Life Force passes it by. + +ANN. If that's what you mean by the Life Force, yes. + +TANNER. You don't care for Tavy? + +ANN. [looking round carefully to make sure that Tavy is not within +earshot] No. + +TANNER. And you do care for me? + +ANN. [rising quietly and shaking her finger at him] Now Jack! Behave +yourself. + +TANNER. Infamous, abandoned woman! Devil! + +ANN. Boa-constrictor! Elephant! + +TANNER. Hypocrite! + +ANN. [Softly] I must be, for my future husband's sake. + +TANNER. For mine! [Correcting himself savagely] I mean for his. + +ANN.[ignoring the correction] Yes, for yours. You had better marry what +you call a hypocrite, Jack. Women who are not hypocrites go about in +rational dress and are insulted and get into all sorts of hot water. And +then their husbands get dragged in too, and live in continual dread of +fresh complications. Wouldn't you prefer a wife you could depend on? + +TANNER. No, a thousand times no: hot water is the revolutionist's +element. You clean men as you clean milkpails, by scalding them. + +ANN. Cold water has its uses too. It's healthy. + +TANNER. [despairingly] Oh, you are witty: at the supreme moment the Life +Force endows you with every quality. Well, I too can be a hypocrite. +Your father's will appointed me your guardian, not your suitor. I shall +be faithful to my trust. + +ANN. [in low siren tones] He asked me who would I have as my guardian +before he made that will. I chose you! + +TANNER. The will is yours then! The trap was laid from the beginning. + +ANN. [concentrating all her magic] From the beginning--from our +childhood--for both of us--by the Life Force. + +TANNER. I will not marry you. I will not marry you. + +ANN. Oh, you will, you will. + +TANNER. I tell you, no, no, no. + +ANN. I tell you, yes, yes, yes. + +TANNER. NO. + +ANN. [coaxing--imploring--almost exhausted] Yes. Before it is too late +for repentance. Yes. + +TANNER. [struck by the echo from the past] When did all this happen to +me before? Are we two dreaming? + +ANN. [suddenly losing her courage, with an anguish that she does not +conceal] No. We are awake; and you have said no: that is all. + +TANNER. [brutally] Well? + +ANN. Well, I made a mistake: you do not love me. + +TANNER. [seizing her in his arms] It is false: I love you. The Life +Force enchants me: I have the whole world in my arms when I clasp you. +But I am fighting for my freedom, for my honor, for myself, one and +indivisible. + +ANN. Your happiness will be worth them all. + +TANNER. You would sell freedom and honor and self for happiness? + +ANN. It will not be all happiness for me. Perhaps death. + +TANNER. [groaning] Oh, that clutch holds and hurts. What have you +grasped in me? Is there a father's heart as well as a mother's? + +ANN. Take care, Jack: if anyone comes while we are like this, you will +have to marry me. + +TANNER. If we two stood now on the edge of a precipice, I would hold you +tight and jump. + +ANN. [panting, failing more and more under the strain] Jack: let me go. +I have dared so frightfully--it is lasting longer than I thought. Let me +go: I can't bear it. + +TANNER. Nor I. Let it kill us. + +ANN. Yes: I don't care. I am at the end of my forces. I don't care. I +think I am going to faint. + +At this moment Violet and Octavius come from the villa with Mrs +Whitefield, who is wrapped up for driving. Simultaneously Malone and +Ramsden, followed by Mendoza and Straker, come in through the little +gate in the paling. Tanner shamefacedly releases Ann, who raises her +hand giddily to her forehead. + +MALONE. Take care. Something's the matter with the lady. + +RAMSDEN. What does this mean? + +VIOLET. [running between Ann and Tanner] Are you ill? + +ANN. [reeling, with a supreme effort] I have promised to marry Jack. +[She swoons. Violet kneels by her and chafes her hand. Tanner runs round +to her other hand, and tries to lift her bead. Octavius goes to Violet's +assistance, but does not know what to do. Mrs Whitefield hurries back +into the villa. Octavius, Malone and Ramsden run to Ann and crowd round +her, stooping to assist. Straker coolly comes to Ann's feet, and Mendoza +to her head, both upright and self-possessed]. + +STRAKER. Now then, ladies and gentlemen: she don't want a crowd round +her: she wants air--all the air she can git. If you please, gents-- +[Malone and Ramsden allow him to drive them gently past Ann and up +the lawn towards the garden, where Octavius, who has already become +conscious of his uselessness, joins them. Straker, following them up, +pauses for a moment to instruct Tanner]. Don't lift er ed, Mr Tanner: +let it go flat so's the blood can run back into it. + +MENDOZA. He is right, Mr Tanner. Trust to the air of the Sierra. [He +withdraws delicately to the garden steps]. + +TANNER. [rising] I yield to your superior knowledge of physiology, +Henry. [He withdraws to the corner of the lawn; and Octavius immediately +hurries down to him]. + +TAVY. [aside to Tanner, grasping his hand] Jack: be very happy. + +TANNER. [aside to Tavy] I never asked her. It is a trap for me. [He goes +up the lawn towards the garden. Octavius remains petrified]. + +MENDOZA. [intercepting Mrs Whitefield, who comes from the villa with a +glass of brandy] What is this, madam [he takes it from her]? + +MRS WHITEFIELD. A little brandy. + +MENDOZA. The worst thing you could give her. Allow me. [He swallows it]. +Trust to the air of the Sierra, madam. + +For a moment the men all forget Ann and stare at Mendoza. + +ANN. [in Violet's ear, clutching her round the neck] Violet, did Jack +say anything when I fainted? + +VIOLET. No. + +ANN. Ah! [with a sigh of intense relief she relapses]. + +MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, she's fainted again. + +They are about to rush back to her; but Mendoza stops them with a +warning gesture. + +ANN. [supine] No I haven't. I'm quite happy. + +TANNER. [suddenly walking determinedly to her, and snatching her hand +from Violet to feel her pulse] Why, her pulse is positively bounding. +Come, get up. What nonsense! Up with you. [He gets her up summarily]. + +ANN. Yes: I feel strong enough now. But you very nearly killed me, Jack, +for all that. + +MALONE. A rough wooer, eh? They're the best sort, Miss Whitefield. +I congratulate Mr Tanner; and I hope to meet you and him as frequent +guests at the Abbey. + +ANN. Thank you. [She goes past Malone to Octavius] Ricky Ticky Tavy: +congratulate me. [Aside to him] I want to make you cry for the last +time. + +TAVY. [steadfastly] No more tears. I am happy in your happiness. And I +believe in you in spite of everything. + +RAMSDEN. [coming between Malone and Tanner] You are a happy man, Jack +Tanner. I envy you. + +MENDOZA. [advancing between Violet and Tanner] Sir: there are two +tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is +to get it. Mine and yours, sir. + +TANNER. Mr Mendoza: I have no heart's desires. Ramsden: it is very easy +for you to call me a happy man: you are only a spectator. I am one of +the principals; and I know better. Ann: stop tempting Tavy, and come +back to me. + +ANN. [complying] You are absurd, Jack. [She takes his proffered arm]. + +TANNER. [continuing] I solemnly say that I am not a happy man. Ann looks +happy; but she is only triumphant, successful, victorious. That is not +happiness, but the price for which the strong sell their happiness. What +we have both done this afternoon is to renounce tranquillity, above all +renounce the romantic possibilities of an unknown future, for the cares +of a household and a family. I beg that no man may seize the occasion to +get half drunk and utter imbecile speeches and coarse pleasantries at my +expense. We propose to furnish our own house according to our own taste; +and I hereby give notice that the seven or eight travelling clocks, +the four or five dressing cases, the salad bowls, the carvers and +fish slices, the copy of Tennyson in extra morocco, and all the other +articles you are preparing to heap upon us, will be instantly sold, and +the proceeds devoted to circulating free copies of the Revolutionist's +Handbook. The wedding will take place three days after our return +to England, by special license, at the office of the district +superintendent registrar, in the presence of my solicitor and his clerk, +who, like his clients, will be in ordinary walking dress. + +VIOLET. [with intense conviction] You are a brute, Jack. + +ANN. [looking at him with fond pride and caressing his arm] Never mind +her, dear. Go on talking. + +TANNER. Talking! + +Universal laughter. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Man And Superman, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN AND SUPERMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 3328.txt or 3328.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/2/3328/ + +Produced by Eve Sobol + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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