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diff --git a/old/overr10.txt b/old/overr10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8edfa49 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/overr10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2127 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Overruled, by George Bernard Shaw. +#24 in our series by George Bernard Shaw. + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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The enormous majority of cases in real life are those of +people in that position. Those who deliberately and +conscientiously profess what are oddly called advanced views by +those others who believe them to be retrograde, are often, and +indeed mostly, the last people in the world to engage in +unconventional adventures of any kind, not only because they have +neither time nor disposition for them, but because the friction +set up between the individual and the community by the expression +of unusual views of any sort is quite enough hindrance to the +heretic without being complicated by personal scandals. Thus the +theoretic libertine is usually a person of blameless family life, +whilst the practical libertine is mercilessly severe on all other +libertines, and excessively conventional in professions of social +principle. + +What is more, these professions are not hypocritical: they are +for the most part quite sincere. The common libertine, like the +drunkard, succumbs to a temptation which he does not defend, and +against which he warns others with an earnestness proportionate +to the intensity of his own remorse. He (or she) may be a liar +and a humbug, pretending to be better than the detected +libertines, and clamoring for their condign punishment; but this +is mere self-defence. No reasonable person expects the burglar to +confess his pursuits, or to refrain from joining in the cry of +Stop Thief when the police get on the track of another burglar. +If society chooses to penalize candor, it has itself to thank if +its attack is countered by falsehood. The clamorous virtue of the +libertine is therefore no more hypocritical than the plea of Not +Guilty which is allowed to every criminal. But one result is that +the theorists who write most sincerely and favorably about +polygamy know least about it; and the practitioners who know most +about it keep their knowledge very jealously to themselves. Which +is hardly fair to the practice. + + +INACCESSIBILITY OF THE FACTS. + +Also it is impossible to estimate its prevalence. A practice to +which nobody confesses may be both universal and unsuspected, +just as a virtue which everybody is expected, under heavy +penalties, to claim, may have no existence. It is often assumed-- +indeed it is the official assumption of the Churches and the +divorce courts that a gentleman and a lady cannot be alone +together innocently. And that is manifest blazing nonsense, +though many women have been stoned to death in the east, and +divorced in the west, on the strength of it. On the other hand, +the innocent and conventional people who regard the gallant +adventures as crimes of so horrible a nature that only the most +depraved and desperate characters engage in them or would listen +to advances in that direction without raising an alarm with the +noisiest indignation, are clearly examples of the fact that most +sections of society do not know how the other sections live. +Industry is the most effective check on gallantry. Women may, as +Napoleon said, be the occupation of the idle man just as men are +the preoccupation of the idle woman; but the mass of mankind is +too busy and too poor for the long and expensive sieges which the +professed libertine lays to virtue. Still, wherever there is +idleness or even a reasonable supply of elegant leisure there is +a good deal of coquetry and philandering. It is so much +pleasanter to dance on the edge of a precipice than to go over it +that leisured society is full of people who spend a great part of +their lives in flirtation, and conceal nothing but the +humiliating secret that they have never gone any further. For +there is no pleasing people in the matter of reputation in this +department: every insult is a flattery; every testimonial is a +disparagement: Joseph is despised and promoted, Potiphar's wife +admired and condemned: in short, you are never on solid ground +until you get away from the subject altogether. There is a +continual and irreconcilable conflict between the natural and +conventional sides of the case, between spontaneous human +relations between independent men and women on the one hand and +the property relation between husband and wife on the other, not +to mention the confusion under the common name of love of a +generous natural attraction and interest with the murderous +jealousy that fastens on and clings to its mate (especially a +hated mate) as a tiger fastens on a carcase. And the confusion is +natural; for these extremes are extremes of the same passion; and +most cases lie somewhere on the scale between them, and are so +complicated by ordinary likes and dislikes, by incidental wounds +to vanity or gratifications of it, and by class feeling, that A +will be jealous of B and not of C, and will tolerate infidelities +on the part of D whilst being furiously angry when they are +committed by E. + + +THE CONVENTION OF JEALOUSY + +That jealousy is independent of sex is shown by its intensity in +children, and by the fact that very jealous people are jealous of +everybody without regard to relationship or sex, and cannot bear +to hear the person they "love" speak favorably of anyone under +any circumstances (many women, for instance, are much more +jealous of their husbands' mothers and sisters than of unrelated +women whom they suspect him of fancying); but it is seldom +possible to disentangle the two passions in practice. Besides, +jealousy is an inculcated passion, forced by society on people in +whom it would not occur spontaneously. In Brieux's Bourgeois aux +Champs, the benevolent hero finds himself detested by the +neighboring peasants and farmers, not because he preserves game, +and sets mantraps for poachers, and defends his legal rights over +his land to the extremest point of unsocial savagery, but +because, being an amiable and public-spirited person, he refuses +to do all this, and thereby offends and disparages the sense of +property in his neighbors. The same thing is true of matrimonial +jealousy; the man who does not at least pretend to feel it and +behave as badly as if he really felt it is despised and insulted; +and many a man has shot or stabbed a friend or been shot or +stabbed by him in a duel, or disgraced himself and ruined his own +wife in a divorce scandal, against his conscience, against his +instinct, and to the destruction of his home, solely because +Society conspired to drive him to keep its own lower morality in +countenance in this miserable and undignified manner. + +Morality is confused in such matters. In an elegant plutocracy, a +jealous husband is regarded as a boor. Among the tradesmen who +supply that plutocracy with its meals, a husband who is not +jealous, and refrains from assailing his rival with his fists, is +regarded as a ridiculous, contemptible and cowardly cuckold. And +the laboring class is divided into the respectable section which +takes the tradesman's view, and the disreputable section which +enjoys the license of the plutocracy without its money: creeping +below the law as its exemplars prance above it; cutting down all +expenses of respectability and even decency; and frankly +accepting squalor and disrepute as the price of anarchic self- +indulgence. The conflict between Malvolio and Sir Toby, between +the marquis and the bourgeois, the cavalier and the puritan, the +ascetic and the voluptuary, goes on continually, and goes on not +only between class and class and individual and individual, but +in the selfsame breast in a series of reactions and revulsions in +which the irresistible becomes the unbearable, and the unbearable +the irresistible, until none of us can say what our characters +really are in this respect. + + +THE MISSING DATA OF A SCIENTIFIC NATURAL HISTORY OF MARRIAGE. + +Of one thing I am persuaded: we shall never attain to a +reasonable healthy public opinion on sex questions until we +offer, as the data for that opinion, our actual conduct and our +real thoughts instead of a moral fiction which we agree to call +virtuous conduct, and which we then--and here comes in the +mischief--pretend is our conduct and our thoughts. If the result +were that we all believed one another to be better than we really +are, there would be something to be said for it; but the actual +result appears to be a monstrous exaggeration of the power and +continuity of sexual passion. The whole world shares the fate of +Lucrezia Borgia, who, though she seems on investigation to have +been quite a suitable wife for a modern British Bishop, has been +invested by the popular historical imagination with all the +extravagances of a Messalina or a Cenci. Writers of belles +lettres who are rash enough to admit that their whole life is not +one constant preoccupation with adored members of the opposite +sex, and who even countenance La Rochefoucauld's remark that very +few people would ever imagine themselves in love if they had +never read anything about it, are gravely declared to be abnormal +or physically defective by critics of crushing unadventurousness +and domestication. French authors of saintly temperament are +forced to include in their retinue countesses of ardent +complexion with whom they are supposed to live in sin. +Sentimental controversies on the subject are endless; but they +are useless, because nobody tells the truth. Rousseau did it by +an extraordinary effort, aided by a superhuman faculty for human +natural history, but the result was curiously disconcerting +because, though the facts were so conventionally shocking that +people felt that they ought to matter a great deal, they actually +mattered very little. And even at that everybody pretends not to +believe him. + + +ARTIFICIAL RETRIBUTION. + +The worst of that is that busybodies with perhaps rather more +than a normal taste for mischief are continually trying to make +negligible things matter as much in fact as they do in convention +by deliberately inflicting injuries--sometimes atrocious +injuries--on the parties concerned. Few people have any knowledge +of the savage punishments that are legally inflicted for +aberrations and absurdities to which no sanely instructed +community would call any attention. We create an artificial +morality, and consequently an artificial conscience, by +manufacturing disastrous consequences for events which, left to +themselves, would do very little harm (sometimes not any) and be +forgotten in a few days. + +But the artificial morality is not therefore to be condemned +offhand. In many cases it may save mischief instead of making it: +for example, though the hanging of a murderer is the duplication +of a murder, yet it may be less murderous than leaving the matter +to be settled by blood feud or vendetta. As long as human nature +insists on revenge, the official organization and satisfaction of +revenge by the State may be also its minimization. The mischief +begins when the official revenge persists after the passion it +satisfies has died out of the race. Stoning a woman to death in +the east because she has ventured to marry again after being +deserted by her husband may be more merciful than allowing her to +be mobbed to death; but the official stoning or burning of an +adulteress in the west would be an atrocity because few of us +hate an adulteress to the extent of desiring such a penalty, or +of being prepared to take the law into our own hands if it were +withheld. Now what applies to this extreme case applies also in +due degree to the other cases. Offences in which sex is concerned +are often needlessly magnified by penalties, ranging from various +forms of social ostracism to long sentences of penal servitude, +which would be seen to be monstrously disproportionate to the +real feeling against them if the removal of both the penalties +and the taboo on their discussion made it possible for us to +ascertain their real prevalence and estimation. Fortunately there +is one outlet for the truth. We are permitted to discuss in jest +what we may not discuss in earnest. A serious comedy about sex is +taboo: a farcical comedy is privileged. + + +THE FAVORITE SUBJECT OF FARCICAL COMEDY. + +The little piece which follows this preface accordingly takes the +form of a farcical comedy, because it is a contribution to the +very extensive dramatic literature which takes as its special +department the gallantries of married people. The stage has been +preoccupied by such affairs for centuries, not only in the +jesting vein of Restoration Comedy and Palais Royal farce, but in +the more tragically turned adulteries of the Parisian school +which dominated the stage until Ibsen put them out of countenance +and relegated them to their proper place as articles of commerce. +Their continued vogue in that department maintains the tradition +that adultery is the dramatic subject par excellence, and indeed +that a play that is not about adultery is not a play at all. I +was considered a heresiarch of the most extravagant kind when I +expressed my opinion at the outset of my career as a playwright, +that adultery is the dullest of themes on the stage, and that +from Francesca and Paolo down to the latest guilty couple of the +school of Dumas fils, the romantic adulterers have all been +intolerable bores. + + +THE PSEUDO SEX PLAY. + +Later on, I had occasion to point out to the defenders of sex as +the proper theme of drama, that though they were right in ranking +sex as an intensely interesting subject, they were wrong in +assuming that sex is an indispensable motive in popular plays. +The plays of Moliere are, like the novels of the Victorian epoch +or Don Quixote, as nearly sexless as anything not absolutely +inhuman can be; and some of Shakespear's plays are sexually on a +par with the census: they contain women as well as men, and that +is all. This had to be admitted; but it was still assumed that +the plays of the XIX century Parisian school are, in contrast +with the sexless masterpieces, saturated with sex; and this I +strenuously denied. A play about the convention that a man should +fight a duel or come to fisticuffs with his wife's lover if she +has one, or the convention that he should strangle her like +Othello, or turn her out of the house and never see her or allow +her to see her children again, or the convention that she should +never be spoken to again by any decent person and should finally +drown herself, or the convention that persons involved in scenes +of recrimination or confession by these conventions should call +each other certain abusive names and describe their conduct as +guilty and frail and so on: all these may provide material for +very effective plays; but such plays are not dramatic studies of +sex: one might as well say that Romeo and Juliet is a dramatic +study of pharmacy because the catastrophe is brought about +through an apothecary. Duels are not sex; divorce cases are not +sex; the Trade Unionism of married women is not sex. Only the +most insignificant fraction of the gallantries of married people +produce any of the conventional results; and plays occupied +wholly with the conventional results are therefore utterly +unsatisfying as sex plays, however interesting they may be as +plays of intrigue and plot puzzles. + +The world is finding this out rapidly. The Sunday papers, which +in the days when they appealed almost exclusively to the lower +middle class were crammed with police intelligence, and more +especially with divorce and murder cases, now lay no stress on +them; and police papers which confined themselves entirely to +such matters, and were once eagerly read, have perished through +the essential dulness of their topics. And yet the interest in +sex is stronger than ever: in fact, the literature that has +driven out the journalism of the divorce courts is a literature +occupied with sex to an extent and with an intimacy and frankness +that would have seemed utterly impossible to Thackeray or Dickens +if they had been told that the change would complete itself +within fifty years of their own time. + + +ART AND MORALITY. + +It is ridiculous to say, as inconsiderate amateurs of the arts +do, that art has nothing to do with morality. What is true is +that the artist's business is not that of the policeman; and that +such factitious consequences and put-up jobs as divorces and +executions and the detective operations that lead up to them are +no essential part of life, though, like poisons and buttered +slides and red-hot pokers, they provide material for plenty of +thrilling or amusing stories suited to people who are incapable +of any interest in psychology. But the fine artists must keep the +policeman out of his studies of sex and studies of crime. It is +by clinging nervously to the policeman that most of the pseudo +sex plays convince me that the writers have either never had any +serious personal experience of their ostensible subject, or else +have never conceived it possible that the stage door present the +phenomena of sex as they appear in nature. + + +THE LIMITS OF STAGE PRESENTATION. + +But the stage presents much more shocking phenomena than those of +sex. There is, of course, a sense in which you cannot present sex +on the stage, just as you cannot present murder. Macbeth must no +more really kill Duncan than he must himself be really slain by +Macduff. But the feelings of a murderer can be expressed in a +certain artistic convention; and a carefully prearranged sword +exercise can be gone through with sufficient pretence of +earnestness to be accepted by the willing imaginations of the +younger spectators as a desperate combat. + +The tragedy of love has been presented on the stage in the same +way. In Tristan and Isolde, the curtain does not, as in Romeo and +Juliet, rise with the lark: the whole night of love is played +before the spectators. The lovers do not discuss marriage in an +elegantly sentimental way: they utter the visions and feelings +that come to lovers at the supreme moments of their love, totally +forgetting that there are such things in the world as husbands +and lawyers and duelling codes and theories of sin and notions of +propriety and all the other irrelevancies which provide +hackneyed and bloodless material for our so-called plays of +passion. + + +PRUDERIES OF THE FRENCH STAGE. + +To all stage presentations there are limits. If Macduff were to +stab Macbeth, the spectacle would be intolerable; and even the +pretence which we allow on our stage is ridiculously destructive +to the illusion of the scene. Yet pugilists and gladiators will +actually fight and kill in public without sham, even as a +spectacle for money. But no sober couple of lovers of any +delicacy could endure to be watched. We in England, accustomed to +consider the French stage much more licentious than the British, +are always surprised and puzzled when we learn, as we may do any +day if we come within reach of such information, that French +actors are often scandalized by what they consider the indecency +of the English stage, and that French actresses who desire a +greater license in appealing to the sexual instincts than the +French stage allows them, learn and establish themselves on the +English stage. The German and Russian stages are in the same +relation to the French and perhaps more or less all the Latin +stages. The reason is that, partly from a want of respect for the +theatre, partly from a sort of respect for art in general which +moves them to accord moral privileges to artists, partly from the +very objectionable tradition that the realm of art is Alsatia and +the contemplation of works of art a holiday from the burden of +virtue, partly because French prudery does not attach itself to +the same points of behavior as British prudery, and has a +different code of the mentionable and the unmentionable, and +for many other reasons the French tolerate plays which are never +performed in England until they have been spoiled by a process of +bowdlerization; yet French taste is more fastidious than ours as +to the exhibition and treatment on the stage of the physical +incidents of sex. On the French stage a kiss is as obvious a +convention as the thrust under the arm by which Macduff runs +Macbeth through. It is even a purposely unconvincing convention: +the actors rather insisting that it shall be impossible for any +spectator to mistake a stage kiss for a real one. In England, on +the contrary, realism is carried to the point at which nobody +except the two performers can perceive that the caress is not +genuine. And here the English stage is certainly in the right; +for whatever question there arises as to what incidents are +proper for representation on the stage or not, my experience as a +playgoer leaves me in no doubt that once it is decided to +represent an incident, it will be offensive, no matter whether it +be a prayer or a kiss, unless it is presented with a convincing +appearance of sincerity. + + +OUR DISILLUSIVE SCENERY. + +For example, the main objection to the use of illusive scenery +(in most modern plays scenery is not illusive; everything visible +is as real as in your drawing room at home) is that it is +unconvincing; whilst the imaginary scenery with which the +audience provides a platform or tribune like the Elizabethan +stage or the Greek stage used by Sophocles, is quite convincing. +In fact, the more scenery you have the less illusion you produce. +The wise playwright, when he cannot get absolute reality of +presentation, goes to the other extreme, and aims at atmosphere +and suggestion of mood rather than at direct simulative illusion. +The theatre, as I first knew it, was a place of wings and flats +which destroyed both atmosphere and illusion. This was tolerated, +and even intensely enjoyed, but not in the least because nothing +better was possible; for all the devices employed in the +productions of Mr. Granville Barker or Max Reinhardt or the +Moscow Art Theatre were equally available for Colley Cibber and +Garrick, except the intensity of our artificial light. When +Garrick played Richard II in slashed trunk hose and plumes, it +was not because he believed that the Plantagenets dressed like +that, or because the costumes could not have made him a XV +century dress as easily as a nondescript combination of the state +robes of George III with such scraps of older fashions as seemed +to playgoers for some reason to be romantic. The charm of the +theatre in those days was its makebelieve. It has that charm +still, not only for the amateurs, who are happiest when they are +most unnatural and impossible and absurd, but for audiences as +well. I have seen performances of my own plays which were to me +far wilder burlesques than Sheridan's Critic or Buckingham's +Rehearsal; yet they have produced sincere laughter and tears such +as the most finished metropolitan productions have failed to +elicit. Fielding was entirely right when he represented Partridge +as enjoying intensely the performance of the king in Hamlet +because anybody could see that the king was an actor, and +resenting Garrick's Hamlet because it might have been a real man. +Yet we have only to look at the portraits of Garrick to see that +his performances would nowadays seem almost as extravagantly +stagey as his costumes. In our day Calve's intensely real Carmen +never pleased the mob as much as the obvious fancy ball +masquerading of suburban young ladies in the same character. + + +HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO NATURE. + +Theatrical art begins as the holding up to Nature of a distorting +mirror. In this phase it pleases people who are childish enough +to believe that they can see what they look like and what they +are when they look at a true mirror. Naturally they think that a +true mirror can teach them nothing. Only by giving them back some +monstrous image can the mirror amuse them or terrify them. It is +not until they grow up to the point at which they learn that they +know very little about themselves, and that they do not see +themselves in a true mirror as other people see them, that they +become consumed with curiosity as to what they really are like, +and begin to demand that the stage shall be a mirror of such +accuracy and intensity of illumination that they shall be able to +get glimpses of their real selves in it, and also learn a little +how they appear to other people. + +For audiences of this highly developed class, sex can no longer +be ignored or conventionalized or distorted by the playwright who +makes the mirror. The old sentimental extravagances and the old +grossnesses are of no further use to him. Don Giovanni and +Zerlina are not gross: Tristan and Isolde are not extravagant or +sentimental. They say and do nothing that you cannot bear to hear +and see; and yet they give you, the one pair briefly and +slightly, and the other fully and deeply, what passes in the +minds of lovers. The love depicted may be that of a philosophic +adventurer tempting an ignorant country girl, or of a tragically +serious poet entangled with a woman of noble capacity in a +passion which has become for them the reality of the whole +universe. No matter: the thing is dramatized and dramatized +directly, not talked about as something that happened before the +curtain rose, or that will happen after it falls. + + +FARCICAL COMEDY SHIRKING ITS SUBJECT. + +Now if all this can be done in the key of tragedy and philosophic +comedy, it can, I have always contended, be done in the key of +farcical comedy; and Overruled is a trifling experiment in that +manner. Conventional farcical comedies are always finally tedious +because the heart of them, the inevitable conjugal infidelity, is +always evaded. Even its consequences are evaded. Mr. Granville +Barker has pointed out rightly that if the third acts of our +farcical comedies dared to describe the consequences that would +follow from the first and second in real life, they would end as +squalid tragedies; and in my opinion they would be greatly +improved thereby even as entertainments; for I have never seen a +three-act farcical comedy without being bored and tired by the +third act, and observing that the rest of the audience were in +the same condition, though they were not vigilantly introspective +enough to find that out, and were apt to blame one another, +especially the husbands and wives, for their crossness. But it is +happily by no means true that conjugal infidelities always +produce tragic consequences, or that they need produce even the +unhappiness which they often do produce. Besides, the more +momentous the consequences, the more interesting become the +impulses and imaginations and reasonings, if any, of the people +who disregard them. If I had an opportunity of conversing with +the ghost of an executed murderer, I have no doubt he would begin +to tell me eagerly about his trial, with the names of the +distinguished ladies and gentlemen who honored him with their +presence on that occasion, and then about his execution. All of +which would bore me exceedingly. I should say, "My dear sir: such +manufactured ceremonies do not interest me in the least. I know +how a man is tried, and how he is hanged. I should have had you +killed in a much less disgusting, hypocritical, and unfriendly +manner if the matter had been in my hands. What I want to know +about is the murder. How did you feel when you committed it? Why +did you do it? What did you say to yourself about it? If, like +most murderers, you had not been hanged, would you have committed +other murders? Did you really dislike the victim, or did you want +his money, or did you murder a person whom you did not dislike, +and from whose death you had nothing to gain, merely for the sake +of murdering? If so, can you describe the charm to me? Does it +come upon you periodically; or is it chronic? Has curiosity +anything to do with it?" I would ply him with all manner of +questions to find out what murder is really like; and I should +not be satisfied until I had realized that I, too, might commit a +murder, or else that there is some specific quality present in a +murderer and lacking in me. And, if so, what that quality is. + +In just the same way, I want the unfaithful husband or the +unfaithful wife in a farcical comedy not to bother me with their +divorce cases or the stratagems they employ to avoid a divorce +case, but to tell me how and why married couples are unfaithful. +I don't want to hear the lies they tell one another to conceal +what they have done, but the truths they tell one another when +they have to face what they have done without concealment or +excuse. No doubt prudent and considerate people conceal such +adventures, when they can, from those who are most likely to be +wounded by them; but it is not to be presumed that, when found +out, they necessarily disgrace themselves by irritating lies and +transparent subterfuges. + +My playlet, which I offer as a model to all future writers of +farcical comedy, may now, I hope, be read without shock. I may +just add that Mr. Sibthorpe Juno's view that morality demands, +not that we should behave morally (an impossibility to our sinful +nature) but that we shall not attempt to defend our immoralities, +is a standard view in England, and was advanced in all seriousness +by an earnest and distinguished British moralist shortly after +the first performance of Overruled. My objection to that aspect +of the doctrine of original sin is that no necessary and +inevitable operation of human nature can reasonably be regarded +as sinful at all, and that a morality which assumes the contrary +is an absurd morality, and can be kept in countenance only by +hypocrisy. When people were ashamed of sanitary problems, and +refused to face them, leaving them to solve themselves +clandestinely in dirt and secrecy, the solution arrived at was +the Black Death. A similar policy as to sex problems has solved +itself by an even worse plague than the Black Death; and the +remedy for that is not Salvarsan, but sound moral hygiene, the +first foundation of which is the discontinuance of our habit of +telling not only the comparatively harmless lies that we know we +ought not to tell, but the ruinous lies that we foolishly think +we ought to tell. + + + +OVERRULED. + +A lady and gentleman are sitting together on a chesterfield in a +retired corner of the lounge of a seaside hotel. It is a summer +night: the French window behind them stands open. The terrace +without overlooks a moonlit harbor. The lounge is dark. The +chesterfield, upholstered in silver grey, and the two figures on +it in evening dress, catch the light from an arc lamp somewhere; +but the walls, covered with a dark green paper, are in gloom. +There are two stray chairs, one on each side. On the gentleman's +right, behind him up near the window, is an unused fireplace. +Opposite it on the lady's left is a door. The gentleman is on the +lady's right. + +The lady is very attractive, with a musical voice and soft +appealing manners. She is young: that is, one feels sure that she +is under thirty-five and over twenty-four. The gentleman does not +look much older. He is rather handsome, and has ventured as far +in the direction of poetic dandyism in the arrangement of his +hair as any man who is not a professional artist can afford to in +England. He is obviously very much in love with the lady, and is, +in fact, yielding to an irresistible impulse to throw his arms +around her. + + +THE LADY. Don't--oh don't be horrid. Please, Mr. Lunn [she rises +from the lounge and retreats behind it]! Promise me you won't be +horrid. + +GREGORY LUNN. I'm not being horrid, Mrs. Juno. I'm not going to +be horrid. I love you: that's all. I'm extraordinarily happy. + +MRS. JUNO. You will really be good? + +GREGORY. I'll be whatever you wish me to be. I tell you I love +you. I love loving you. I don't want to be tired and sorry, as I +should be if I were to be horrid. I don't want you to be tired +and sorry. Do come and sit down again. + +MRS. JUNO [coming back to her seat]. You're sure you don't want +anything you oughtn't to? + +GREGORY. Quite sure. I only want you [she recoils]. Don't be +alarmed. I like wanting you. As long as I have a want, I have a +reason for living. Satisfaction is death. + +MRS. JUNO. Yes; but the impulse to commit suicide is sometimes +irresistible. + +GREGORY. Not with you. + +MRS. JUNO. What! + +GREGORY. Oh, it sounds uncomplimentary; but it isn't really. Do +you know why half the couples who find themselves situated as we +are now behave horridly? + +MRS. JUNO. Because they can't help it if they let things go too +far. + +GREGORY. Not a bit of it. It's because they have nothing else to +do, and no other way of entertaining each other. You don't know +what it is to be alone with a woman who has little beauty and +less conversation. What is a man to do? She can't talk +interestingly; and if he talks that way himself she doesn't +understand him. He can't look at her: if he does, he only finds +out that she isn't beautiful. Before the end of five minutes they +are both hideously bored. There's only one thing that can save +the situation; and that's what you call being horrid. With a +beautiful, witty, kind woman, there's no time for such follies. +It's so delightful to look at her, to listen to her voice, to +hear all she has to say, that nothing else happens. That is why +the woman who is supposed to have a thousand lovers seldom has +one; whilst the stupid, graceless animals of women have dozens. + +MRS. JUNO. I wonder! It's quite true that when one feels in +danger one talks like mad to stave it off, even when one doesn't +quite want to stave it off. + +GREGORY. One never does quite want to stave it off. Danger is +delicious. But death isn't. We court the danger; but the real +delight is in escaping, after all. + +MRS. JUNO. I don't think we'll talk about it any more. Danger is +all very well when you do escape; but sometimes one doesn't. I +tell you frankly I don't feel as safe as you do--if you really +do. + +GREGORY. But surely you can do as you please without injuring +anyone, Mrs. Juno. That is the whole secret of your extraordinary +charm for me. + +MRS. JUNO. I don't understand. + +GREGORY. Well, I hardly know how to begin to explain. But the +root of the matter is that I am what people call a good man. + +MRS. JUNO. I thought so until you began making love to me. + +GREGORY. But you knew I loved you all along. + +MRS. JUNO. Yes, of course; but I depended on you not to tell me +so; because I thought you were good. Your blurting it out spoilt +it. And it was wicked besides. + +GREGORY. Not at all. You see, it's a great many years since I've +been able to allow myself to fall in love. I know lots of +charming women; but the worst of it is, they're all married. +Women don't become charming, to my taste, until they're fully +developed; and by that time, if they're really nice, they're +snapped up and married. And then, because I am a good man, I have +to place a limit to my regard for them. I may be fortunate enough +to gain friendship and even very warm affection from them; but my +loyalty to their husbands and their hearths and their happiness +obliges me to draw a line and not overstep it. Of course I value +such affectionate regard very highly indeed. I am surrounded with +women who are most dear to me. But every one of them has a post +sticking up, if I may put it that way, with the inscription +Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. How we all loathe that notice! In +every lovely garden, in every dell full of primroses, on every +fair hillside, we meet that confounded board; and there is always +a gamekeeper round the corner. But what is that to the horror of +meeting it on every beautiful woman, and knowing that there is a +husband round the corner? I have had this accursed board standing +between me and every dear and desirable woman until I thought I +had lost the power of letting myself fall really and +wholeheartedly in love. + +MRS. JUNO. Wasn't there a widow? + +GREGORY. No. Widows are extraordinarily scarce in modern society. +Husbands live longer than they used to; and even when they do +die, their widows have a string of names down for their next. + +MRS. JUNO. Well, what about the young girls? + +GREGORY. Oh, who cares for young girls? They're sympathetic. +They're beginners. They don't attract me. I'm afraid of them. + +MRS. JUNO. That's the correct thing to say to a woman of my age. +But it doesn't explain why you seem to have put your scruples in +your pocket when you met me. + +GREGORY. Surely that's quite clear. I-- + +MRS. JUNO. No: please don't explain. I don't want to know. I take +your word for it. Besides, it doesn't matter now. Our voyage is +over; and to-morrow I start for the north to my poor father's +place. + +GREGORY [surprised]. Your poor father! I thought he was alive. + +MRS. JUNO. So he is. What made you think he wasn't? + +GREGORY. You said your POOR father. + +MRS. JUNO. Oh, that's a trick of mine. Rather a silly trick, I +Suppose; but there's something pathetic to me about men: I find +myself calling them poor So-and-So when there's nothing whatever +the matter with them. + +GREGORY [who has listened in growing alarm]. But--I--is?-- +wa--? Oh, Lord! + +MRS. JUNO. What's the matter? + +GREGORY. Nothing. + +MRS. JUNO. Nothing! [Rising anxiously]. Nonsense: you're ill. + +GREGORY. No. It was something about your late husband-- + +MRS. JUNO. My LATE husband! What do you mean? [clutching him, +horror-stricken]. Don't tell me he's dead. + +GREGORY [rising, equally appalled]. Don't tell me he's alive. + +MRS. JUNO. Oh, don't frighten me like this. Of course he's +alive--unless you've heard anything. + +GREGORY. The first day we met--on the boat--you spoke to me of +your poor dear husband. + +MRS. JUNO [releasing him, quite reassured]. Is that all? + +GREGORY. Well, afterwards you called him poor Tops. Always poor +Tops, Our poor dear Tops. What could I think? + +MRS. JUNO [sitting down again]. I wish you hadn't given me such a +shock about him; for I haven't been treating him at all well. +Neither have you. + +GREGORY [relapsing into his seat, overwhelmed]. And you mean to +tell me you're not a widow! + +MRS. JUNO. Gracious, no! I'm not in black. + +GREGORY. Then I have been behaving like a blackguard. I have +broken my promise to my mother. I shall never have an easy +conscience again. + +MRS. JUNO. I'm sorry. I thought you knew. + +GREGORY. You thought I was a libertine? + +MRS. JUNO. No: of course I shouldn't have spoken to you if I had +thought that. I thought you liked me, but that you knew, and +would be good. + +GREGORY [stretching his hands towards her breast]. I thought the +burden of being good had fallen from my soul at last. I saw +nothing there but a bosom to rest on: the bosom of a lovely woman +of whom I could dream without guilt. What do I see now? + +MRS. JUNO. Just what you saw before. + +GREGORY [despairingly]. No, no. + +MRS. JUNO. What else? + +GREGORY. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted: Trespassers Will Be +Prosecuted. + +MRS. JUNO. They won't if they hold their tongues. Don't be such a +coward. My husband won't eat you. + +GREGORY. I'm not afraid of your husband. I'm afraid of my +conscience. + +MRS. JUNO [losing patience]. Well! I don't consider myself at all +a badly behaved woman; for nothing has passed between us that was +not perfectly nice and friendly; but really! to hear a grown-up +man talking about promises to his mother! + +GREGORY [interrupting her]. Yes, Yes: I know all about that. It's +not romantic: it's not Don Juan: it's not advanced; but we feel +it all the same. It's far deeper in our blood and bones than all +the romantic stuff. My father got into a scandal once: that was +why my mother made me promise never to make love to a married +woman. And now I've done it I can't feel honest. Don't pretend to +despise me or laugh at me. You feel it too. You said just now +that your own conscience was uneasy when you thought of your +husband. What must it be when you think of my wife? + +MRS. JUNO [rising aghast]. Your wife!!! You don't dare sit there +and tell me coolly that you're a married man! + +GREGORY. I never led you to believe I was unmarried. + +MRS. JUNO. Oh! You never gave me the faintest hint that you had a +wife. + +GREGORY. I did indeed. I discussed things with you that only +married people really understand. + +MRS. JUNO. Oh!! + +GREGORY. I thought it the most delicate way of letting you know. + +MRS. JUNO. Well, you ARE a daisy, I must say. I suppose that's +vulgar; but really! really!! You and your goodness! However, now +we've found one another out there's only one thing to be done. +Will you please go? + +GREGORY [rising slowly]. I OUGHT to go. + +MRS. JUNO. Well, go. + +GREGORY. Yes. Er--[he tries to go]. I--I somehow can't. [He sits +down again helplessly]. My conscience is active: my will is +paralyzed. This is really dreadful. Would you mind ringing the +bell and asking them to throw me out? You ought to, you know. + +MRS. JUNO. What! make a scandal in the face of the whole hotel! +Certainly not. Don't be a fool. + +GREGORY. Yes; but I can't go. + +MRS. JUNO. Then I can. Goodbye. + +GREGORY [clinging to her hand]. Can you really? + +MRS. JUNO. Of course I--[she wavers]. Oh, dear! [They contemplate +one another helplessly]. I can't. [She sinks on the lounge, hand +in hand with him]. + +GREGORY. For heaven's sake pull yourself together. It's a +question of self-control. + +MRS. JUNO [dragging her hand away and retreating to the end of +the chesterfield]. No: it's a question of distance. Self-control +is all very well two or three yards off, or on a ship, with +everybody looking on. Don't come any nearer. + +GREGORY. This is a ghastly business. I want to go away; and I +can't. + +MRS. JUNO. I think you ought to go [he makes an effort; and she +adds quickly] but if you try I shall grab you round the neck and +disgrace myself. I implore you to sit still and be nice. + +GREGORY. I implore you to run away. I believe I can trust myself +to let you go for your own sake. But it will break my heart. + +MRS. JUNO. I don't want to break your heart. I can't bear to +think of your sitting here alone. I can't bear to think of +sitting alone myself somewhere else. It's so senseless--so +ridiculous--when we might be so happy. I don't want to be wicked, +or coarse. But I like you very much; and I do want to be +affectionate and human. + +GREGORY. I ought to draw a line. + +MRS. JUNO. So you shall, dear. Tell me: do you really like me? I +don't mean LOVE me: you might love the housemaid-- + +GREGORY [vehemently]. No! + +MRS. JUNO. Oh, yes you might; and what does that matter, anyhow? +Are you really fond of me? Are we friends--comrades? Would you be +sorry if I died? + +GREGORY [shrinking]. Oh, don't. + +MRS. JUNO. Or was it the usual aimless man's lark: a mere +shipboard flirtation? + +GREGORY. Oh, no, no: nothing half so bad, so vulgar, so wrong. I +assure you I only meant to be agreeable. It grew on me before I +noticed it. + +MRS. JUNO. And you were glad to let it grow? + +GREGORY. I let it grow because the board was not up. + +MRS. JUNO. Bother the board! I am just as fond of Sibthorpe as-- + +GREGORY. Sibthorpe! + +MRS. JUNO. Sibthorpe is my husband's Christian name. I oughtn't +to call him Tops to you now. + +GREGORY [chuckling]. It sounded like something to drink. But I +have no right to laugh at him. My Christian name is Gregory, +which sounds like a powder. + +MRS. JUNO [chilled]. That is so like a man! I offer you my +heart's warmest friendliest feeling; and you think of nothing but +a silly joke. A quip like that makes you forget me. + +GREGORY. Forget you! Oh, if I only could! + +MRS. JUNO. If you could, would you? + +GREGORY [burying his shamed face in his hands]. No: I'd die +first. Oh, I hate myself. + +MRS. JUNO. I glory in myself. It's so jolly to be reckless. CAN a +man be reckless, I wonder. + +GREGORY [straightening himself desperately]. No. I'm not +reckless. I know what I'm doing: my conscience is awake. Oh, +where is the intoxication of love? the delirium? the madness that +makes a man think the world well lost for the woman he adores? I +don't think anything of the sort: I see that it's not worth it: I +know that it's wrong: I have never in my life been cooler, more +businesslike. + +MRS. JUNO. [opening her arms to him] But you can't resist me. + +GREGORY. I must. I ought [throwing himself into her arms]. Oh, my +darling, my treasure, we shall be sorry for this. + +MRS. JUNO. We can forgive ourselves. Could we forgive ourselves +if we let this moment slip? + +GREGORY. I protest to the last. I'm against this. I have been +pushed over a precipice. I'm innocent. This wild joy, this +exquisite tenderness, this ascent into heaven can thrill me to +the uttermost fibre of my heart [with a gesture of ecstasy she +hides her face on his shoulder]; but it can't subdue my mind or +corrupt my conscience, which still shouts to the skies that I'm +not a willing party to this outrageous conduct. I repudiate the +bliss with which you are filling me. + +MRS. JUNO. Never mind your conscience. Tell me how happy you are. + +GREGORY. No, I recall you to your duty. But oh, I will give you +my life with both hands if you can tell me that you feel for me +one millionth part of what I feel for you now. + +MRS. JUNO. Oh, yes, yes. Be satisfied with that. Ask for no more. +Let me go. + +GREGORY. I can't. I have no will. Something stronger than either +of us is in command here. Nothing on earth or in heaven can part +us now. You know that, don't you? + +MRS. JUNO. Oh, don't make me say it. Of course I know. Nothing-- +not life nor death nor shame nor anything can part us. + +A MATTER-OF-FACT MALE VOICE IN THE CORRIDOR. All right. This must +be it. + +The two recover with a violent start; release one another; and +spring back to opposite sides of the lounge. + +GREGORY. That did it. + +MRS. JUNO [in a thrilling whisper] Sh--sh--sh! That was my +husband's voice. + +GREGORY. Impossible: it's only our guilty fancy. + +A WOMAN'S VOICE. This is the way to the lounge. I know it. + +GREGORY. Great Heaven! we're both mad. That's my wife's voice. + +MRS. JUNO. Ridiculous! Oh! we're dreaming it all. We [the door +opens; and Sibthorpe Juno appears in the roseate glow of the +corridor (which happens to be papered in pink) with Mrs. Lunn, +like Tannhauser in the hill of Venus. He is a fussily energetic +little man, who gives himself an air of gallantry by greasing the +points of his moustaches and dressing very carefully. She is a +tall, imposing, handsome, languid woman, with flashing dark eyes +and long lashes. They make for the chesterfield, not noticing the +two palpitating figures blotted against the walls in the gloom on +either side. The figures flit away noiselessly through the window +and disappear]. + +JUNO [officiously] Ah: here we are. [He leads the way to the +sofa]. Sit down: I'm sure you're tired. [She sits]. That's right. +[He sits beside her on her left]. Hullo! [he rises] this sofa's +quite warm. + +MRS. LUNN [bored] Is it? I don't notice it. I expect the sun's +been on it. + +JUNO. I felt it quite distinctly: I'm more thinly clad than you. +[He sits down again, and proceeds, with a sigh of satisfaction]. +What a relief to get off the ship and have a private room! That's +the worst of a ship. You're under observation all the time. + +MRS. LUNN. But why not? + +JUNO. Well, of course there's no reason: at least I suppose not. +But, you know, part of the romance of a journey is that a man +keeps imagining that something might happen; and he can't do that +if there are a lot of people about and it simply can't happen. + +MRS. LUNN. Mr. Juno: romance is all very well on board ship; but +when your foot touches the soil of England there's an end of it. + +JUNO. No: believe me, that's a foreigner's mistake: we are the +most romantic people in the world, we English. Why, my very +presence here is a romance. + +MRS. LUNN [faintly ironical] Indeed? + +JUNO. Yes. You've guessed, of course, that I'm a married man. + +MRS. LUNN. Oh, that's all right. I'm a married woman. + +JUNO. Thank Heaven for that! To my English mind, passion is not +real passion without guilt. I am a red-blooded man, Mrs. Lunn: I +can't help it. The tragedy of my life is that I married, when +quite young, a woman whom I couldn't help being very fond of. I +longed for a guilty passion--for the real thing--the wicked +thing; and yet I couldn't care twopence for any other woman when +my wife was about. Year after year went by: I felt my youth +slipping away without ever having had a romance in my life; for +marriage is all very well; but it isn't romance. There's nothing +wrong in it, you see. + +MRS. LUNN. Poor man! How you must have suffered! + +JUNO. No: that was what was so tame about it. I wanted to suffer. +You get so sick of being happily married. It's always the happy +marriages that break up. At last my wife and I agreed that we +ought to take a holiday. + +MRS. LUNN. Hadn't you holidays every year? + +JUNO. Oh, the seaside and so on! That's not what we meant. We +meant a holiday from one another. + +MRS. LUNN. How very odd! + +JUNO. She said it was an excellent idea; that domestic felicity +was making us perfectly idiotic; that she wanted a holiday, too. +So we agreed to go round the world in opposite directions. I +started for Suez on the day she sailed for New York. + +MRS. LUNN [suddenly becoming attentive] That's precisely what +Gregory and I did. Now I wonder did he want a holiday from me! +What he said was that he wanted the delight of meeting me after a +long absence. + +JUNO. Could anything be more romantic than that? Would anyone +else than an Englishman have thought of it? I daresay my +temperament seems tame to your boiling southern blood-- + +MRS. LUNN. My what! + +JUNO. Your southern blood. Don't you remember how you told me, +that night in the saloon when I sang "Farewell and adieu to you +dear Spanish ladies," that you were by birth a lady of Spain? +Your splendid Andalusian beauty speaks for itself. + +MRS. LUNN. Stuff! I was born in Gibraltar. My father was Captain +Jenkins. In the artillery. + +JUNO [ardently] It is climate and not race that determines the +temperament. The fiery sun of Spain blazed on your cradle; and it +rocked to the roar of British cannon. + +MRS. LUNN. What eloquence! It reminds me of my husband when he +was in love before we were married. Are you in love? + +JUNO. Yes; and with the same woman. + +MRS. LUNN. Well, of course, I didn't suppose you were in love +with two women. + +JUNO. I don't think you quite understand. I meant that I am in +love with you. + +MRS. LUNN [relapsing into deepest boredom] Oh, that! Men do fall +in love with me. They all seem to think me a creature with +volcanic passions: I'm sure I don't know why; for all the +volcanic women I know are plain little creatures with sandy hair. +I don't consider human volcanoes respectable. And I'm so tired of +the subject! Our house is always full of women who are in love +with my husband and men who are in love with me. We encourage it +because it's pleasant to have company. + +JUNO. And is your husband as insensible as yourself? + +MRS. LUNN. Oh, Gregory's not insensible: very far from it; but I +am the only woman in the world for him. + +JUNO. But you? Are you really as insensible as you say you are? + +MRS. LUNN. I never said anything of the kind. I'm not at all +insensible by nature; but (I don't know whether you've noticed +it) I am what people call rather a fine figure of a woman. + +JUNO [passionately] Noticed it! Oh, Mrs. Lunn! Have I been able +to notice anything else since we met? + +MRS. LUNN. There you go, like all the rest of them! I ask you, +how do you expect a woman to keep up what you call her +sensibility when this sort of thing has happened to her about +three times a week ever since she was seventeen? It used to upset +me and terrify me at first. Then I got rather a taste for it. It +came to a climax with Gregory: that was why I married him. Then +it became a mild lark, hardly worth the trouble. After that I +found it valuable once or twice as a spinal tonic when I was run +down; but now it's an unmitigated bore. I don't mind your +declaration: I daresay it gives you a certain pleasure to make +it. I quite understand that you adore me; but (if you don't mind) +I'd rather you didn't keep on saying so. + +JUNO. Is there then no hope for me? + +MRS. LUNN. Oh, yes. Gregory has an idea that married women keep +lists of the men they'll marry if they become widows. I'll put +your name down, if that will satisfy you. + +JUNO. Is the list a long one? + +MRS. LUNN. Do you mean the real list? Not the one I show to +Gregory: there are hundreds of names on that; but the little +private list that he'd better not see? + +JUNO. Oh, will you really put me on that? Say you will. + +MRS. LUNN. Well, perhaps I will. [He kisses her hand]. Now don't +begin abusing the privilege. + +JUNO. May I call you by your Christian name? + +MRS. LUNN. No: it's too long. You can't go about calling a woman +Seraphita. + +JUNO [ecstatically] Seraphita! + +MRS. LUNN. I used to be called Sally at home; but when I married +a man named Lunn, of course that became ridiculous. That's my one +little pet joke. Call me Mrs. Lunn for short. And change the +subject, or I shall go to sleep. + +JUNO. I can't change the subject. For me there is no other +subject. Why else have you put me on your list? + +MRS. LUNN. Because you're a solicitor. Gregory's a solicitor. I'm +accustomed to my husband being a solicitor and telling me things +he oughtn't to tell anybody. + +JUNO [ruefully] Is that all? Oh, I can't believe that the voice +of love has ever thoroughly awakened you. + +MRS. LUNN. No: it sends me to sleep. [Juno appeals against this +by an amorous demonstration]. It's no use, Mr. Juno: I'm +hopelessly respectable: the Jenkinses always were. Don't you +realize that unless most women were like that, the world couldn't +go on as it does? + +JUNO [darkly] You think it goes on respectably; but I can tell +you as a solicitor-- + +MRS. LUNN. Stuff! of course all the disreputable people who get +into trouble go to you, just as all the sick people go to the +doctors; but most people never go to a solicitor. + +JUNO [rising, with a growing sense of injury] Look here, Mrs. +Lunn: do you think a man's heart is a potato? or a turnip? or a +ball of knitting wool? that you can throw it away like this? + +MRS. LUNN. I don't throw away balls of knitting wool. A man's +heart seems to me much like a sponge: it sops up dirty water as +well as clean. + +JUNO. I have never been treated like this in my life. Here am I, +a married man, with a most attractive wife: a wife I adore, and +who adores me, and has never as much as looked at any other man +since we were married. I come and throw all this at your feet. +I! I, a solicitor! braving the risk of your husband putting me +into the divorce court and making me a beggar and an outcast! I +do this for your sake. And you go on as if I were making no +sacrifice: as if I had told you it's a fine evening, or asked you +to have a cup of tea. It's not human. It's not right. Love has +its rights as well as respectability [he sits down again, aloof +and sulky]. + +MRS. LUNN. Nonsense! Here, here's a flower [she gives him one]. +Go and dream over it until you feel hungry. Nothing brings people +to their senses like hunger. + +JUNO [contemplating the flower without rapture] What good's this? + +MRS. LUNN [snatching it from him] Oh! you don't love me a bit. + +JUNO. Yes I do. Or at least I did. But I'm an Englishman; and I +think you ought to respect the conventions of English life. + +MRS. LUNN. But I am respecting them; and you're not. + +JUNO. Pardon me. I may be doing wrong; but I'm doing it in a +proper and customary manner. You may be doing right; but you're +doing it in an unusual and questionable manner. I am not prepared +to put up with that. I can stand being badly treated: I'm no +baby, and can take care of myself with anybody. And of course I +can stand being well treated. But the thing I can't stand is +being unexpectedly treated, It's outside my scheme of life. So +come now! you've got to behave naturally and straightforwardly +with me. You can leave husband and child, home, friends, and +country, for my sake, and come with me to some southern isle--or +say South America--where we can be all in all to one another. Or +you can tell your husband and let him jolly well punch my head if +he can. But I'm damned if I'm going to stand any eccentricity. +It's not respectable. + +GREGORY [coming in from the terrace and advancing with dignity to +his wife's end of the chesterfield]. Will you have the goodness, +sir, in addressing this lady, to keep your temper and refrain +from using profane language? + +MRS. LUNN [rising, delighted] Gregory! Darling [she enfolds him +in a copious embrace]! + +JUNO [rising] You make love to another man to my face! + +MRS. LUNN. Why, he's my husband. + +JUNO. That takes away the last rag of excuse for such conduct. A +nice world it would be if married people were to carry on their +endearments before everybody! + +GREGORY. This is ridiculous. What the devil business is it of +yours what passes between my wife and myself? You're not her +husband, are you? + +JUNO. Not at present; but I'm on the list. I'm her prospective +husband: you're only her actual one. I'm the anticipation: you're +the disappointment. + +MRS. LUNN. Oh, my Gregory is not a disappointment. [Fondly] Are +you, dear? + +GREGORY. You just wait, my pet. I'll settle this chap for you. +[He disengages himself from her embrace, and faces Juno. She sits +down placidly]. You call me a disappointment, do you? Well, I +suppose every husband's a disappointment. What about yourself? +Don't try to look like an unmarried man. I happen to know the +lady you disappointed. I travelled in the same ship with her; +and-- + +JUNO. And you fell in love with her. + +GREGORY [taken aback] Who told you that? + +JUNO. Aha! you confess it. Well, if you want to know, nobody told +me. Everybody falls in love with my wife. + +GREGORY. And do you fall in love with everybody's wife? + +JUNO. Certainly not. Only with yours. + +MRS. LUNN. But what's the good of saying that, Mr. Juno? I'm +married to him; and there's an end of it. + +JUNO. Not at all. You can get a divorce. + +MRS. LUNN. What for? + +JUNO. For his misconduct with my wife. + +GREGORY [deeply indignant] How dare you, sir, asperse the +character of that sweet lady? a lady whom I have taken under my +protection. + +JUNO. Protection! + +MRS. JUNO [returning hastily] Really you must be more careful +what you say about me, Mr. Lunn. + +JUNO. My precious! [He embraces her]. Pardon this betrayal of my +feeling; but I've not seen my wife for several weeks; and she is +very dear to me. + +GREGORY. I call this cheek. Who is making love to his own wife +before people now, pray? + +MRS. LUNN. Won't you introduce me to your wife, Mr. Juno? + +MRS. JUNO. How do you do? [They shake hands; and Mrs. Juno sits +down beside Mrs. Lunn, on her left]. + +MRS. LUNN. I'm so glad to find you do credit to Gregory's taste. +I'm naturally rather particular about the women he falls in love +with. + +JUNO [sternly] This is no way to take your husband's +unfaithfulness. [To Lunn] You ought to teach your wife better. +Where's her feelings? It's scandalous. + +GREGORY. What about your own conduct, pray? + +JUNO. I don't defend it; and there's an end of the matter. + +GREGORY. Well, upon my soul! What difference does your not +defending it make? + +JUNO. A fundamental difference. To serious people I may appear +wicked. I don't defend myself: I am wicked, though not bad at +heart. To thoughtless people I may even appear comic. Well, laugh +at me: I have given myself away. But Mrs. Lunn seems to have no +opinion at all about me. She doesn't seem to know whether I'm +wicked or comic. She doesn't seem to care. She has no more sense. +I say it's not right. I repeat, I have sinned; and I'm prepared +to suffer. + +MRS. JUNO. Have you really sinned, Tops? + +MRS. LUNN [blandly] I don't remember your sinning. I have a +shocking bad memory for trifles; but I think I should remember +that--if you mean me. + +JUNO [raging] Trifles! I have fallen in love with a monster. + +GREGORY. Don't you dare call my wife a monster. + +MRS. JUNO [rising quickly and coming between them]. Please don't +lose your temper, Mr. Lunn: I won't have my Tops bullied. + +GREGORY. Well, then, let him not brag about sinning with my wife. +[He turns impulsively to his wife; makes her rise; and takes her +proudly on his arm]. What pretension has he to any such honor? + +JUNO. I sinned in intention. [Mrs. Juno abandons him and resumes +her seat, chilled]. I'm as guilty as if I had actually sinned. +And I insist on being treated as a sinner, and not walked over as +if I'd done nothing, by your wife or any other man. + +MRS. LUNN. Tush! [She sits down again contemptuously]. + +JUNO [furious] I won't be belittled. + +MRS. LUNN [to Mrs. Juno] I hope you'll come and stay with us now +that you and Gregory are such friends, Mrs. Juno. + +JUNO. This insane magnanimity-- + +MRS. LUNN. Don't you think you've said enough, Mr. Juno? This is +a matter for two women to settle. Won't you take a stroll on the +beach with my Gregory while we talk it over. Gregory is a +splendid listener. + +JUNO. I don't think any good can come of a conversation between +Mr. Lunn and myself. We can hardly be expected to improve one +another's morals. [He passes behind the chesterfield to Mrs. +Lunn's end; seizes a chair; deliberately pushes it between +Gregory and Mrs. Lunn; and sits down with folded arms, resolved +not to budge]. + +GREGORY. Oh! Indeed! Oh, all right. If you come to that--[he +crosses to Mrs. Juno; plants a chair by her side; and sits down +with equal determination]. + +JUNO. Now we are both equally guilty. + +GREGORY. Pardon me. I'm not guilty. + +JUNO. In intention. Don't quibble. You were guilty in intention, +as I was. + +GREGORY. No. I should rather describe myself guilty in fact, but +not in intention. + +JUNO { rising and } What! +MRS. JUNO { exclaiming } No, really-- +MRS. LUNN { simultaneously } Gregory! + +GREGORY. Yes: I maintain that I am responsible for my intentions +only, and not for reflex actions over which I have no control. +[Mrs. Juno sits down, ashamed]. I promised my mother that I would +never tell a lie, and that I would never make love to a married +woman. I never have told a lie-- + +MRS. LUNN [remonstrating] Gregory! [She sits down again]. + +GREGORY. I say never. On many occasions I have resorted to +prevarication; but on great occasions I have always told the +truth. I regard this as a great occasion; and I won't be +intimidated into breaking my promise. I solemnly declare that I +did not know until this evening that Mrs. Juno was married. She +will bear me out when I say that from that moment my intentions +were strictly and resolutely honorable; though my conduct, which +I could not control and am therefore not responsible for, was +disgraceful--or would have been had this gentleman not walked in +and begun making love to my wife under my very nose. + +JUNO [flinging himself back into his chair] Well, I like this! + +MRS. LUNN. Really, darling, there's no use in the pot calling +the kettle black. + +GREGORY. When you say darling, may I ask which of us you are +addressing? + +MRS. LUNN. I really don't know. I'm getting hopelessly confused. + +JUNO. Why don't you let my wife say something? I don't think she +ought to be thrust into the background like this. + +MRS. LUNN. I'm sorry, I'm sure. Please excuse me, dear. + +MRS. JUNO [thoughtfully] I don't know what to say. I must think +over it. I have always been rather severe on this sort of thing; +but when it came to the point I didn't behave as I thought I +should behave. I didn't intend to be wicked; but somehow or +other, Nature, or whatever you choose to call it, didn't take +much notice of my intentions. [Gregory instinctively seeks her +hand and presses it]. And I really did think, Tops, that I was +the only woman in the world for you. + +JUNO [cheerfully] Oh, that's all right, my precious. Mrs. Lunn +thought she was the only woman in the world for him. + +GREGORY [reflectively] So she is, in a sort of a way. + +JUNO [flaring up] And so is my wife. Don't you set up to be a +better husband than I am; for you're not. I've owned I'm wrong. +You haven't. + +MRS. LUNN. Are you sorry, Gregory? + +GREGORY [perplexed] Sorry? + +MRS. LUNN. Yes, sorry. I think it's time for you to say you're +sorry, and to make friends with Mr. Juno before we all dine +together. + +GREGORY. Seraphita: I promised my mother-- + +MRS. JUNO [involuntarily] Oh, bother your mother! [Recovering +herself] I beg your pardon. + +GREGORY. A promise is a promise. I can't tell a deliberate lie. I +know I ought to be sorry; but the flat fact is that I'm not +sorry. I find that in this business, somehow or other, there is a +disastrous separation between my moral principles and my +conduct. + +JUNO. There's nothing disastrous about it. It doesn't matter +about your principles if your conduct is all right. + +GREGORY. Bosh! It doesn't matter about your principles if your +conduct is all right. + +JUNO. But your conduct isn't all right; and my principles are. + +GREGORY. What's the good of your principles being right if they +won't work? + +JUNO. They WILL work, sir, if you exercise self-sacrifice. + +GREGORY. Oh yes: if, if, if. You know jolly well that +self-sacrifice doesn't work either when you really want a thing. +How much have you sacrificed yourself, pray? + +MRS. LUNN. Oh, a great deal, Gregory. Don't be rude. Mr. Juno is +a very nice man: he has been most attentive to me on the voyage. + +GREGORY. And Mrs. Juno's a very nice woman. She oughtn't to be; +but she is. + +JUNO. Why oughtn't she to be a nice woman, pray? + +GREGORY. I mean she oughtn't to be nice to me. And you oughtn't +to be nice to my wife. And your wife oughtn't to like me. And my +wife oughtn't to like you. And if they do, they oughtn't to go on +liking us. And I oughtn't to like your wife; and you oughtn't to +like mine; and if we do we oughtn't to go on liking them. But we +do, all of us. We oughtn't; but we do. + +JUNO. But, my dear boy, if we admit we are in the wrong where's +the harm of it? We're not perfect; but as long as we keep the +ideal before us-- + +GREGORY. How? + +JUNO. By admitting we were wrong. + +MRS. LUNN [springing up, out of patience, and pacing round the +lounge intolerantly] Well, really, I must have my dinner. These +two men, with their morality, and their promises to their +mothers, and their admissions that they were wrong, and their +sinning and suffering, and their going on at one another as if it +meant anything, or as if it mattered, are getting on my nerves. +[Stooping over the back of the chesterfield to address Mrs. Juno] +If you will be so very good, my dear, as to take my sentimental +husband off my hands occasionally, I shall be more than obliged +to you: I'm sure you can stand more male sentimentality than I +can. [Sweeping away to the fireplace] I, on my part, will do my +best to amuse your excellent husband when you find him tiresome. + +JUNO. I call this polyandry. + +MRS. LUNN. I wish you wouldn't call innocent things by offensive +names, Mr. Juno. What do you call your own conduct? + +JUNO [rising] I tell you I have admitted-- + +GREGORY { } What's the good of keeping on at that? +MRS. JUNO { together } Oh, not that again, please. +MRS. LUNN { } Tops: I'll scream if you say that again. + +JUNO. Oh, well, if you won't listen to me--! [He sits down +again]. + +MRS. JUNO. What is the position now exactly? [Mrs. Lunn shrugs +her shoulders and gives up the conundrum. Gregory looks at Juno. +Juno turns away his head huffily]. I mean, what are we going to +do? + +MRS. LUNN. What would you advise, Mr. Juno? + +JUNO. I should advise you to divorce your husband. + +MRS. LUNN. Do you want me to drag your wife into court and +disgrace her? + +JUNO. No: I forgot that. Excuse me; but for the moment I thought +I was married to you. + +GREGORY. I think we had better let bygones be bygones. [To Mrs. +Juno, very tenderly] You will forgive me, won't you? Why should +you let a moment's forgetfulness embitter all our future life? + +MRS. JUNO. But it's Mrs. Lunn who has to forgive you. + +GREGORY. Oh, dash it, I forgot. This is getting ridiculous. + +MRS. LUNN. I'm getting hungry. + +MRS. JUNO. Do you really mind, Mrs. Lunn? + +MRS. LUNN. My dear Mrs. Juno, Gregory is one of those terribly +uxorious men who ought to have ten wives. If any really nice +woman will take him off my hands for a day or two occasionally, I +shall be greatly obliged to her. + +GREGORY. Seraphita: you cut me to the soul [he weeps]. + +MRs. LUNN. Serve you right! You'd think it quite proper if it cut +me to the soul. + +MRS. JUNO. Am I to take Sibthorpe off your hands too, Mrs. Lunn? + +JUNO [rising] Do you suppose I'll allow this? + +MRS. JUNO. You've admitted that you've done wrong, Tops. What's +the use of your allowing or not allowing after that? + +JUNO. I do not admit that I have done wrong. I admit that what I +did was wrong. + +GREGORY. Can you explain the distinction? + +JUNO. It's quite plain to anyone but an imbecile. If you tell me +I've done something wrong you insult me. But if you say that +something that I did is wrong you simply raise a question of +morals. I tell you flatly if you say I did anything wrong you +will have to fight me. In fact I think we ought to fight anyhow. +I don't particularly want to; but I feel that England expects us +to. + +GREGORY. I won't fight. If you beat me my wife would share my +humiliation. If I beat you, she would sympathize with you and +loathe me for my brutality. + +MRS. LUNN. Not to mention that as we are human beings and not +reindeer or barndoor fowl, if two men presumed to fight for us we +couldn't decently ever speak to either of them again. + +GREGORY. Besides, neither of us could beat the other, as we +neither of us know how to fight. We should only blacken each +other's eyes and make fools of ourselves. + +JUNO. I don't admit that. Every Englishman can use his fists. + +GREGORY. You're an Englishman. Can you use yours? + +JUNO. I presume so: I never tried. + +MRS. JUNO. You never told me you couldn't fight, Tops. I thought +you were an accomplished boxer. + +JUNO. My precious: I never gave you any ground for such a belief. + +MRS. JUNO. You always talked as if it were a matter of course. +You spoke with the greatest contempt of men who didn't kick other +men downstairs. + +JUNO. Well, I can't kick Mr. Lunn downstairs. We're on the ground +floor. + +MRS. JUNO. You could throw him into the harbor. + +GREGORY. Do you want me to be thrown into the harbor? + +MRS. JUNO. No: I only want to show Tops that he's making a +ghastly fool of himself. + +GREGORY [rising and prowling disgustedly between the chesterfield +and the windows] We're all making fools of ourselves. + +JUNO [following him] Well, if we're not to fight, I must insist +at least on your never speaking to my wife again. + +GREGORY. Does my speaking to your wife do you any harm? + +JUNO. No. But it's the proper course to take. [Emphatically]. We +MUST behave with some sort of decency. + +MRS. LUNN. And are you never going to speak to me again, Mr. +Juno? + +JUNO. I'm prepared to promise never to do so. I think your +husband has a right to demand that. Then if I speak to you after, +it will not be his fault. It will be a breach of my promise; and +I shall not attempt to defend my conduct. + +GREGORY [facing him] I shall talk to your wife as often as she'll +let me. + +MRS. JUNO. I have no objection to your speaking to me, Mr. Lunn. + +JUNO. Then I shall take steps. + +GREGORY. What steps? + +Juno. Steps. Measures. Proceedings. What steps as may seem +advisable. + +MRS. LUNN [to Mrs. Juno] Can your husband afford a scandal, Mrs. +Juno? + +MRS. JUNO. No. + +MRS. LUNN. Neither can mine. + +GREGORY. Mrs. Juno: I'm very sorry I let you in for all this. I +don't know how it is that we contrive to make feelings like ours, +which seems to me to be beautiful and sacred feelings, and which +lead to such interesting and exciting adventures, end in vulgar +squabbles and degrading scenes. + +JUNO. I decline to admit that my conduct has been vulgar or +degrading. + +GREGORY. I promised-- + +JUNO. Look here, old chap: I don't say a word against your +mother; and I'm sorry she's dead; but really, you know, most +women are mothers; and they all die some time or other; yet that +doesn't make them infallible authorities on morals, does it? + +GREGORY. I was about to say so myself. Let me add that if you do +things merely because you think some other fool expects you to do +them, and he expects you to do them because he thinks you expect +him to expect you to do them, it will end in everybody doing what +nobody wants to do, which is in my opinion a silly state of +things. + +JUNO. Lunn: I love your wife; and that's all about it. + +GREGORY. Juno: I love yours. What then? + +JUNO. Clearly she must never see you again. + +MRS. JUNO. Why not? + +JUNO. Why not! My love: I'm surprised at you. + +MRS. JUNO. Am I to speak only to men who dislike me? + +JUNO. Yes: I think that is, properly speaking, a married woman's +duty. + +MRS. JUNO. Then I won't do it: that's flat. I like to be liked. I +like to be loved. I want everyone round me to love me. I don't +want to meet or speak to anyone who doesn't like me. + +JUNO. But, my precious, this is the most horrible immorality. + +MRS. LUNN. I don't intend to give up meeting you, Mr. Juno. You +amuse me very much. I don't like being loved: it bores me. But I +do like to be amused. + +JUNO. I hope we shall meet very often. But I hope also we shall +not defend our conduct. + +MRS. JUNO [rising] This is unendurable. We've all been flirting. +Need we go on footling about it? + +JUNO [huffily] I don't know what you call footling-- + +MRS. JUNO [cutting him short] You do. You're footling. Mr. Lunn +is footling. Can't we admit that we're human and have done with +it? + +JUNO. I have admitted it all along. I-- + +MRS. JUNO [almost screaming] Then stop footling. + +The dinner gong sounds. + +MRS. LUNN [rising] Thank heaven! Let's go in to dinner. Gregory: +take in Mrs. Juno. + +GREGORY. But surely I ought to take in our guest, and not my own +wife. + +MRS. LUNN. Well, Mrs. Juno is not your wife, is she? + +GREGORY. Oh, of course: I beg your pardon. I'm hopelessly +confused. [He offers his arm to Mrs. Juno, rather +apprehensively]. + +MRS. JUNO. You seem quite afraid of me [she takes his arm]. + +GREGORY. I am. I simply adore you. [They go out together; and as +they pass through the door he turns and says in a ringing voice +to the other couple] I have said to Mrs. Juno that I simply adore +her. [He takes her out defiantly]. + +MRS. LUNN [calling after him] Yes, dear. She's a darling. [To +Juno] Now, Sibthorpe. + +JUNO [giving her his arm gallantly] You have called me +Sibthorpe! Thank you. I think Lunn's conduct fully justifies me +in allowing you to do it. + +MRS. LUNN. Yes: I think you may let yourself go now. + +JUNO. Seraphita: I worship you beyond expression. + +MRS. LUNN. Sibthorpe: you amuse me beyond description. Come. +[They go in to dinner together]. + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Overruled, by George Bernard Shaw. + |