{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3328/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3328","id":"gutenberg_3328","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3328","summary":null,"tags":["Banned Books from Anne Haight's list","Category: British Literature","Category: Humour","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","English drama","Man-woman relationships -- Drama","Nobel Prizes in Literature"],"text":"Produced by Eve Sobol\n\n\n\n\n\nMAN AND SUPERMAN\n\nA COMEDY AND A PHILOSOPHY\n\nBy Bernard Shaw\n\n\n\n\nEPISTLE DEDICATORY TO ARTHUR BINGHAM WALKLEY\n\nMy dear Walkley:\n\nYou once asked me why I did not write a Don Juan play. The levity with\nwhich you assumed this frightful responsibility has probably by this\ntime enabled you to forget it; but the day of reckoning has arrived:\nhere is your play! I say your play, because qui facit per alium facit\nper se. Its profits, like its labor, belong to me: its morals, its\nmanners, its philosophy, its influence on the young, are for you to\njustify. You were of mature age when you made the suggestion; and you\nknew your man. It is hardly fifteen years since, as twin pioneers of\nthe New Journalism of that time, we two, cradled in the same new sheets,\nmade an epoch in the criticism of the theatre and the opera house by\nmaking it a pretext for a propaganda of our own views of life. So you\ncannot plead ignorance of the character of the force you set in motion.\nYou meant me to epater le bourgeois; and if he protests, I hereby refer\nhim to you as the accountable party.\n\nI warn you that if you attempt to repudiate your responsibility, I shall\nsuspect you of finding the play too decorous for your taste. The\nfifteen years have made me older and graver. In you I can detect no such\nbecoming change. Your levities and audacities are like the loves and\ncomforts prayed for by Desdemona: they increase, even as your days do\ngrow. No mere pioneering journal dares meddle with them now: the stately\nTimes itself is alone sufficiently above suspicion to act as your\nchaperone; and even the Times must sometimes thank its stars that\nnew plays are not produced every day, since after each such event\nits gravity is compromised, its platitude turned to epigram, its\nportentousness to wit, its propriety to elegance, and even its decorum\ninto naughtiness by criticisms which the traditions of the paper do not\nallow you to sign at the end, but which you take care to sign with the\nmost extravagant flourishes between the lines. I am not sure that this\nis not a portent of Revolution. In eighteenth century France the end was\nat hand when men bought the Encyclopedia and found Diderot there. When\nI buy the Times and find you there, my prophetic ear catches a rattle of\ntwentieth century tumbrils.\n\nHowever, that is not my present anxiety. The question is, will you not\nbe disappointed with a Don Juan play in which not one of that hero's\nmille e tre adventures is brought upon the stage? To propitiate you, let\nme explain myself. You will retort that I never do anything else: it\nis your favorite jibe at me that what I call drama is nothing but\nexplanation. But you must not expect me to adopt your inexplicable,\nfantastic, petulant, fastidious ways: you must take me as I am, a\nreasonable, patient, consistent, apologetic, laborious person, with the\ntemperament of a schoolmaster and the pursuits of a vestryman. No doubt\nthat literary knack of mine which happens to amuse the British public\ndistracts attention from my character; but the character is there none\nthe less, solid as bricks. I have a conscience; and conscience is\nalways anxiously explanatory. You, on the contrary, feel that a man who\ndiscusses his conscience is much like a woman who discusses her modesty.\nThe only moral force you condescend to parade is the force of your\nwit: the only demand you make in public is the demand of your artistic\ntemperament for symmetry, elegance, style, grace, refinement, and the\ncleanliness which comes next to godliness if not before it. But my\nconscience is the genuine pulpit article: it annoys me to see people\ncomfortable when they ought to be uncomfortable; and I insist on making\nthem think in order to bring them to conviction of sin. If you don't\nlike my preaching you must lump it. I really cannot help it.\n\nIn the preface to my Plays for Puritans I explained the predicament of\nour contemporary English drama, forced to deal almost exclusively with\ncases of sexual attraction, and yet forbidden to exhibit the incidents\nof that attraction or even to discuss its nature. Your suggestion that\nI should write a Don Juan play was virtually a challenge to me to treat\nthis subject myself dramatically. The challenge was difficult enough\nto be worth accepting, because, when you come to think of it, though we\nhave plenty of dramas with heroes and heroines who are in love and must\naccordingly marry or perish at the end of the play, or about people\nwhose relations with one another have been complicated by the marriage\nlaws, not to mention the looser sort of plays which trade on the\ntradition that illicit love affairs are at once vicious and delightful,\nwe have no modern English plays in which the natural attraction of the\nsexes for one another is made the mainspring of the action. That is\nwhy we insist on beauty in our performers, differing herein from the\ncountries our friend William Archer holds up as examples of seriousness\nto our childish theatres. There the Juliets and Isoldes, the Romeos and\nTristans, might be our mothers and fathers. Not so the English actress.\nThe heroine she impersonates is not allowed to discuss the elemental\nrelations of men and women: all her romantic twaddle about novelet-made\nlove, all her purely legal dilemmas as to whether she was married\nor \"betrayed,\" quite miss our hearts and worry our minds. To console\nourselves we must just look at her. We do so; and her beauty feeds our\nstarving emotions. Sometimes we grumble ungallantly at the lady because\nshe does not act as well as she looks. But in a drama which, with all\nits preoccupation with sex, is really void of sexual interest, good\nlooks are more desired than histrionic skill.\n\nLet me press this point on you, since you are too clever to raise the\nfool's cry of paradox whenever I take hold of a stick by the right\ninstead of the wrong end. Why are our occasional attempts to deal with\nthe sex problem on the stage so repulsive and dreary that even those\nwho are most determined that sex questions shall be held open and their\ndiscussion kept free, cannot pretend to relish these joyless attempts at\nsocial sanitation? Is it not because at bottom they are utterly sexless?\nWhat is the usual formula for such plays? A woman has, on some past\noccasion, been brought into conflict with the law which regulates the\nrelations of the sexes. A man, by falling in love with her, or\nmarrying her, is brought into conflict with the social convention which\ndiscountenances the woman. Now the conflicts of individuals with law and\nconvention can be dramatized like all other human conflicts; but they\nare purely judicial; and the fact that we are much more curious about\nthe suppressed relations between the man and the woman than about the\nrelations between both and our courts of law and private juries of\nmatrons, produces that sensation of evasion, of dissatisfaction, of\nfundamental irrelevance, of shallowness, of useless disagreeableness,\nof total failure to edify and partial failure to interest, which is as\nfamiliar to you in the theatres as it was to me when I, too, frequented\nthose uncomfortable buildings, and found our popular playwrights in the\nmind to (as they thought) emulate Ibsen.\n\nI take it that when you asked me for a Don Juan play you did not want\nthat sort of thing. Nobody does: the successes such plays sometimes\nobtain are due to the incidental conventional melodrama with which the\nexperienced popular author instinctively saves himself from failure.\nBut what did you want? Owing to your unfortunate habit--you now, I\nhope, feel its inconvenience--of not explaining yourself, I have had to\ndiscover this for myself. First, then, I have had to ask myself, what\nis a Don Juan? Vulgarly, a libertine. But your dislike of vulgarity\nis pushed to the length of a defect (universality of character is\nimpossible without a share of vulgarity); and even if you could acquire\nthe taste, you would find yourself overfed from ordinary sources\nwithout troubling me. So I took it that you demanded a Don Juan in the\nphilosophic sense.\n\nPhilosophically, Don Juan is a man who, though gifted enough to be\nexceptionally capable of distinguishing between good and evil, follows\nhis own instincts without regard to the common statute, or canon law;\nand therefore, whilst gaining the ardent sympathy of our rebellious\ninstincts (which are flattered by the brilliancies with which Don\nJuan associates them) finds himself in mortal conflict with existing\ninstitutions, and defends himself by fraud and farce as unscrupulously\nas a farmer defends his crops by the same means against vermin. The\nprototypic Don Juan, invented early in the XVI century by a Spanish\nmonk, was presented, according to the ideas of that time, as the enemy\nof God, the approach of whose vengeance is felt throughout the drama,\ngrowing in menace from minute to minute. No anxiety is caused on Don\nJuan's account by any minor antagonist: he easily eludes the police,\ntemporal and spiritual; and when an indignant father seeks private\nredress with the sword, Don Juan kills him without an effort. Not until\nthe slain father returns from heaven as the agent of God, in the form\nof his own statue, does he prevail against his slayer and cast him into\nhell. The moral is a monkish one: repent and reform now; for to-morrow\nit may be too late. This is really the only point on which Don Juan is\nsceptical; for he is a devout believer in an ultimate hell, and risks\ndamnation only because, as he is young, it seems so far off that\nrepentance can be postponed until he has amused himself to his heart's\ncontent.\n\nBut the lesson intended by an author is hardly ever the lesson the world\nchooses to learn from his book. What attracts and impresses us in El\nBurlador de Sevilla is not the immediate urgency of repentance, but\nthe heroism of daring to be the enemy of God. From Prometheus to my own\nDevil's Disciple, such enemies have always been popular. Don Juan became\nsuch a pet that the world could not bear his damnation. It reconciled\nhim sentimentally to God in a second version, and clamored for\nhis canonization for a whole century, thus treating him as English\njournalism has treated that comic foe of the gods, Punch. Moliere's Don\nJuan casts back to the original in point of impenitence; but in piety he\nfalls off greatly. True, he also proposes to repent; but in what terms?\n\"Oui, ma foi! il faut s'amender. Encore vingt ou trente ans de cette\nvie-ci, et puis nous songerons a nous.\" After Moliere comes the\nartist-enchanter, the master of masters, Mozart, who reveals the hero's\nspirit in magical harmonies, elfin tones, and elate darting rhythms as\nof summer lightning made audible. Here you have freedom in love and in\nmorality mocking exquisitely at slavery to them, and interesting you,\nattracting you, tempting you, inexplicably forcing you to range the hero\nwith his enemy the statue on a transcendant plane, leaving the prudish\ndaughter and her priggish lover on a crockery shelf below to live\npiously ever after.\n\nAfter these completed works Byron's fragment does not count for much\nphilosophically. Our vagabond libertines are no more interesting from\nthat point of view than the sailor who has a wife in every port, and\nByron's hero is, after all, only a vagabond libertine. And he is dumb:\nhe does not discuss himself with a Sganarelle-Leporello or with the\nfathers or brothers of his mistresses: he does not even, like Casanova,\ntell his own story. In fact he is not a true Don Juan at all; for he is\nno more an enemy of God than any romantic and adventurous young sower of\nwild oats. Had you and I been in his place at his age, who knows whether\nwe might not have done as he did, unless indeed your fastidiousness\nhad saved you from the empress Catherine. Byron was as little of a\nphilosopher as Peter the Great: both were instances of that rare and\nuseful, but unedifying variation, an energetic genius born without\nthe prejudices or superstitions of his contemporaries. The resultant\nunscrupulous freedom of thought made Byron a greater poet than\nWordsworth just as it made Peter a greater king than George III; but\nas it was, after all, only a negative qualification, it did not prevent\nPeter from being an appalling blackguard and an arrant poltroon, nor did\nit enable Byron to become a religious force like Shelley. Let us, then,\nleave Byron's Don Juan out of account. Mozart's is the last of the true\nDon Juans; for by the time he was of age, his cousin Faust had, in the\nhands of Goethe, taken his place and carried both his warfare and his\nreconciliation with the gods far beyond mere lovemaking into politics,\nhigh art, schemes for reclaiming new continents from the ocean, and\nrecognition of an eternal womanly principle in the universe. Goethe's\nFaust and Mozart's Don Juan were the last words of the XVIII century\non the subject; and by the time the polite critics of the XIX century,\nignoring William Blake as superficially as the XVIII had ignored Hogarth\nor the XVII Bunyan, had got past the Dickens-Macaulay Dumas-Guizot stage\nand the Stendhal-Meredith-Turgenieff stage, and were confronted with\nphilosophic fiction by such pens as Ibsen's and Tolstoy's, Don Juan had\nchanged his sex and become Dona Juana, breaking out of the Doll's House\nand asserting herself as an individual instead of a mere item in a moral\npageant.\n\nNow it is all very well for you at the beginning of the XX century to\nask me for a Don Juan play; but you will see from the foregoing survey\nthat Don Juan is a full century out of date for you and for me; and\nif there are millions of less literate people who are still in the\neighteenth century, have they not Moliere and Mozart, upon whose art no\nhuman hand can improve? You would laugh at me if at this time of day I\ndealt in duels and ghosts and \"womanly\" women. As to mere libertinism,\nyou would be the first to remind me that the Festin de Pierre of\nMoliere is not a play for amorists, and that one bar of the voluptuous\nsentimentality of Gounod or Bizet would appear as a licentious stain on\nthe score of Don Giovanni. Even the more abstract parts of the Don Juan\nplay are dilapidated past use: for instance, Don Juan's supernatural\nantagonist hurled those who refuse to repent into lakes of burning\nbrimstone, there to be tormented by devils with horns and tails. Of that\nantagonist, and of that conception of repentance, how much is left that\ncould be used in a play by me dedicated to you? On the other hand, those\nforces of middle class public opinion which hardly existed for a\nSpanish nobleman in the days of the first Don Juan, are now triumphant\neverywhere. Civilized society is one huge bourgeoisie: no nobleman\ndares now shock his greengrocer. The women, \"marchesane, principesse,\ncameriere, cittadine\" and all, are become equally dangerous: the sex\nis aggressive, powerful: when women are wronged they do not group\nthemselves pathetically to sing \"Protegga il giusto cielo\": they grasp\nformidable legal and social weapons, and retaliate. Political parties\nare wrecked and public careers undone by a single indiscretion. A man\nhad better have all the statues in London to supper with him, ugly as\nthey are, than be brought to the bar of the Nonconformist Conscience by\nDonna Elvira. Excommunication has become almost as serious a business as\nit was in the X century.\n\nAs a result, Man is no longer, like Don Juan, victor in the duel of\nsex. Whether he has ever really been may be doubted: at all events\nthe enormous superiority of Woman's natural position in this matter is\ntelling with greater and greater force. As to pulling the Nonconformist\nConscience by the beard as Don Juan plucked the beard of the\nCommandant's statue in the convent of San Francisco, that is out of the\nquestion nowadays: prudence and good manners alike forbid it to a hero\nwith any mind. Besides, it is Don Juan's own beard that is in danger of\nplucking. Far from relapsing into hypocrisy, as Sganarelle feared,\nhe has unexpectedly discovered a moral in his immorality. The growing\nrecognition of his new point of view is heaping responsibility on him.\nHis former jests he has had to take as seriously as I have had to take\nsome of the jests of Mr W. S. Gilbert. His scepticism, once his least\ntolerated quality, has now triumphed so completely that he can no\nlonger assert himself by witty negations, and must, to save himself from\ncipherdom, find an affirmative position. His thousand and three affairs\nof gallantry, after becoming, at most, two immature intrigues leading to\nsordid and prolonged complications and humiliations, have been discarded\naltogether as unworthy of his philosophic dignity and compromising to\nhis newly acknowledged position as the founder of a school. Instead of\npretending to read Ovid he does actually read Schopenhaur and Nietzsche,\nstudies Westermarck, and is concerned for the future of the race instead\nof for the freedom of his own instincts. Thus his profligacy and his\ndare-devil airs have gone the way of his sword and mandoline into the\nrag shop of anachronisms and superstitions. In fact, he is now more\nHamlet than Don Juan; for though the lines put into the actor's mouth to\nindicate to the pit that Hamlet is a philosopher are for the most\npart mere harmonious platitude which, with a little debasement of the\nword-music, would be properer to Pecksniff, yet if you separate the real\nhero, inarticulate and unintelligible to himself except in flashes of\ninspiration, from the performer who has to talk at any cost through\nfive acts; and if you also do what you must always do in Shakespear's\ntragedies: that is, dissect out the absurd sensational incidents and\nphysical violences of the borrowed story from the genuine Shakespearian\ntissue, you will get a true Promethean foe of the gods, whose\ninstinctive attitude towards women much resembles that to which Don Juan\nis now driven. From this point of view Hamlet was a developed Don Juan\nwhom Shakespear palmed off as a reputable man just as he palmed poor\nMacbeth off as a murderer. To-day the palming off is no longer necessary\n(at least on your plane and mine) because Don Juanism is no longer\nmisunderstood as mere Casanovism. Don Juan himself is almost ascetic in\nhis desire to avoid that misunderstanding; and so my attempt to bring\nhim up to date by launching him as a modern Englishman into a modern\nEnglish environment has produced a figure superficially quite unlike the\nhero of Mozart.\n\nAnd yet I have not the heart to disappoint you wholly of another glimpse\nof the Mozartian dissoluto punito and his antagonist the statue. I feel\nsure you would like to know more of that statue--to draw him out when he\nis off duty, so to speak. To gratify you, I have resorted to the trick\nof the strolling theatrical manager who advertizes the pantomime of\nSinbad the Sailor with a stock of second-hand picture posters designed\nfor Ali Baba. He simply thrusts a few oil jars into the valley of\ndiamonds, and so fulfils the promise held out by the hoardings to\nthe public eye. I have adapted this simple device to our occasion by\nthrusting into my perfectly modern three-act play a totally extraneous\nact in which my hero, enchanted by the air of the Sierra, has a dream in\nwhich his Mozartian ancestor appears and philosophizes at great length\nin a Shavio-Socratic dialogue with the lady, the statue, and the devil.\n\nBut this pleasantry is not the essence of the play. Over this essence\nI have no control. You propound a certain social substance, sexual\nattraction to wit, for dramatic distillation; and I distil it for you.\nI do not adulterate the product with aphrodisiacs nor dilute it with\nromance and water; for I am merely executing your commission, not\nproducing a popular play for the market. You must therefore (unless,\nlike most wise men, you read the play first and the preface afterwards)\nprepare yourself to face a trumpery story of modern London life, a life\nin which, as you know, the ordinary man's main business is to get means\nto keep up the position and habits of a gentleman, and the ordinary\nwoman's business is to get married. In 9,999 cases out of 10,000, you\ncan count on their doing nothing, whether noble or base, that conflicts\nwith these ends; and that assurance is what you rely on as their\nreligion, their morality, their principles, their patriotism, their\nreputation, their honor and so forth.\n\nOn the whole, this is a sensible and satisfactory foundation for\nsociety. Money means nourishment and marriage means children; and that\nmen should put nourishment first and women children first is, broadly\nspeaking, the law of Nature and not the dictate of personal ambition.\nThe secret of the prosaic man's success, such as it is, is the\nsimplicity with which he pursues these ends: the secret of the artistic\nman's failure, such as that is, is the versatility with which he strays\nin all directions after secondary ideals. The artist is either a poet\nor a scallawag: as poet, he cannot see, as the prosaic man does, that\nchivalry is at bottom only romantic suicide: as scallawag, he cannot see\nthat it does not pay to spunge and beg and lie and brag and neglect\nhis person. Therefore do not misunderstand my plain statement of the\nfundamental constitution of London society as an Irishman's reproach to\nyour nation. From the day I first set foot on this foreign soil I knew\nthe value of the prosaic qualities of which Irishmen teach Englishmen to\nbe ashamed as well as I knew the vanity of the poetic qualities of which\nEnglishmen teach Irishmen to be proud. For the Irishman instinctively\ndisparages the quality which makes the Englishman dangerous to him; and\nthe Englishman instinctively flatters the fault that makes the Irishman\nharmless and amusing to him. What is wrong with the prosaic Englishman\nis what is wrong with the prosaic men of all countries: stupidity. The\nvitality which places nourishment and children first, heaven and hell\na somewhat remote second, and the health of society as an organic whole\nnowhere, may muddle successfully through the comparatively tribal stages\nof gregariousness; but in nineteenth century nations and twentieth\ncentury empires the determination of every man to be rich at all costs,\nand of every woman to be married at all costs, must, without a highly\nscientific social organization, produce a ruinous development of\npoverty, celibacy, prostitution, infant mortality, adult degeneracy, and\neverything that wise men most dread. In short, there is no future for\nmen, however brimming with crude vitality, who are neither intelligent\nnor politically educated enough to be Socialists. So do not\nmisunderstand me in the other direction either: if I appreciate the\nvital qualities of the Englishman as I appreciate the vital qualities of\nthe bee, I do not guarantee the Englishman against being, like the\nbee (or the Canaanite) smoked out and unloaded of his honey by beings\ninferior to himself in simple acquisitiveness, combativeness, and\nfecundity, but superior to him in imagination and cunning.\n\nThe Don Juan play, however, is to deal with sexual attraction, and not\nwith nutrition, and to deal with it in a society in which the serious\nbusiness of sex is left by men to women, as the serious business of\nnutrition is left by women to men. That the men, to protect themselves\nagainst a too aggressive prosecution of the women's business, have set\nup a feeble romantic convention that the initiative in sex business must\nalways come from the man, is true; but the pretence is so shallow that\neven in the theatre, that last sanctuary of unreality, it imposes only\non the inexperienced. In Shakespear's plays the woman always takes the\ninitiative. In his problem plays and his popular plays alike the love\ninterest is the interest of seeing the woman hunt the man down. She may\ndo it by blandishment, like Rosalind, or by stratagem, like Mariana; but\nin every case the relation between the woman and the man is the same:\nshe is the pursuer and contriver, he the pursued and disposed of. When\nshe is baffled, like Ophelia, she goes mad and commits suicide; and the\nman goes straight from her funeral to a fencing match. No doubt Nature,\nwith very young creatures, may save the woman the trouble of scheming:\nProspero knows that he has only to throw Ferdinand and Miranda together\nand they will mate like a pair of doves; and there is no need for\nPerdita to capture Florizel as the lady doctor in All's Well That Ends\nWell (an early Ibsenite heroine) captures Bertram. But the mature\ncases all illustrate the Shakespearian law. The one apparent exception,\nPetruchio, is not a real one: he is most carefully characterized as\na purely commercial matrimonial adventurer. Once he is assured that\nKatharine has money, he undertakes to marry her before he has seen her.\nIn real life we find not only Petruchios, but Mantalinis and Dobbins who\npursue women with appeals to their pity or jealousy or vanity, or cling\nto them in a romantically infatuated way. Such effeminates do not count\nin the world scheme: even Bunsby dropping like a fascinated bird into\nthe jaws of Mrs MacStinger is by comparison a true tragic object of\npity and terror. I find in my own plays that Woman, projecting herself\ndramatically by my hands (a process over which I assure you I have no\nmore real control than I have over my wife), behaves just as Woman did\nin the plays of Shakespear.\n\nAnd so your Don Juan has come to birth as a stage projection of the\ntragi-comic love chase of the man by the woman; and my Don Juan is the\nquarry instead of the huntsman. Yet he is a true Don Juan, with a sense\nof reality that disables convention, defying to the last the fate which\nfinally overtakes him. The woman's need of him to enable her to carry\non Nature's most urgent work, does not prevail against him until his\nresistance gathers her energy to a climax at which she dares to throw\naway her customary exploitations of the conventional affectionate and\ndutiful poses, and claim him by natural right for a purpose that far\ntranscends their mortal personal purposes.\n\nAmong the friends to whom I have read this play in manuscript are some\nof our own sex who are shocked at the \"unscrupulousness,\" meaning\nthe total disregard of masculine fastidiousness, with which the woman\npursues her purpose. It does not occur to them that if women were as\nfastidious as men, morally or physically, there would be an end of the\nrace. Is there anything meaner then to throw necessary work upon other\npeople and then disparage it as unworthy and indelicate. We laugh at the\nhaughty American nation because it makes the negro clean its boots and\nthen proves the moral and physical inferiority of the negro by the fact\nthat he is a shoeblack; but we ourselves throw the whole drudgery of\ncreation on one sex, and then imply that no female of any womanliness\nor delicacy would initiate any effort in that direction. There are no\nlimits to male hypocrisy in this matter. No doubt there are moments when\nman's sexual immunities are made acutely humiliating to him. When\nthe terrible moment of birth arrives, its supreme importance and its\nsuperhuman effort and peril, in which the father has no part, dwarf\nhim into the meanest insignificance: he slinks out of the way of the\nhumblest petticoat, happy if he be poor enough to be pushed out of the\nhouse to outface his ignominy by drunken rejoicings. But when the\ncrisis is over he takes his revenge, swaggering as the breadwinner, and\nspeaking of Woman's \"sphere\" with condescension, even with chivalry, as\nif the kitchen and the nursery were less important than the office in\nthe city. When his swagger is exhausted he drivels into erotic poetry\nor sentimental uxoriousness; and the Tennysonian King Arthur posing as\nGuinevere becomes Don Quixote grovelling before Dulcinea. You must admit\nthat here Nature beats Comedy out of the field: the wildest hominist or\nfeminist farce is insipid after the most commonplace \"slice of life.\"\nThe pretence that women do not take the initiative is part of the farce.\nWhy, the whole world is strewn with snares, traps, gins and pitfalls\nfor the capture of men by women. Give women the vote, and in five years\nthere will be a crushing tax on bachelors. Men, on the other hand,\nattach penalties to marriage, depriving women of property, of the\nfranchise, of the free use of their limbs, of that ancient symbol of\nimmortality, the right to make oneself at home in the house of God by\ntaking off the hat, of everything that he can force Woman to dispense\nwith without compelling himself to dispense with her. All in vain. Woman\nmust marry because the race must perish without her travail: if the risk\nof death and the certainty of pain, danger and unutterable discomforts\ncannot deter her, slavery and swaddled ankles will not. And yet we\nassume that the force that carries women through all these perils and\nhardships, stops abashed before the primnesses of our behavior for young\nladies. It is assumed that the woman must wait, motionless, until she is\nwooed. Nay, she often does wait motionless. That is how the spider waits\nfor the fly. But the spider spins her web. And if the fly, like my hero,\nshows a strength that promises to extricate him, how swiftly does she\nabandon her pretence of passiveness, and openly fling coil after coil\nabout him until he is secured for ever!\n\nIf the really impressive books and other art-works of the world were\nproduced by ordinary men, they would express more fear of women's\npursuit than love of their illusory beauty. But ordinary men cannot\nproduce really impressive art-works. Those who can are men of genius:\nthat is, men selected by Nature to carry on the work of building up an\nintellectual consciousness of her own instinctive purpose. Accordingly,\nwe observe in the man of genius all the unscrupulousness and all the\n\"self-sacrifice\" (the two things are the same) of Woman. He will risk\nthe stake and the cross; starve, when necessary, in a garret all his\nlife; study women and live on their work and care as Darwin studied\nworms and lived upon sheep; work his nerves into rags without payment,\na sublime altruist in his disregard of himself, an atrocious egotist in\nhis disregard of others. Here Woman meets a purpose as impersonal, as\nirresistible as her own; and the clash is sometimes tragic. When it is\ncomplicated by the genius being a woman, then the game is one for a king\nof critics: your George Sand becomes a mother to gain experience for\nthe novelist and to develop her, and gobbles up men of genius, Chopins,\nMussets and the like, as mere hors d'oeuvres.\n\nI state the extreme case, of course; but what is true of the great man\nwho incarnates the philosophic consciousness of Life and the woman who\nincarnates its fecundity, is true in some degree of all geniuses and\nall women. Hence it is that the world's books get written, its pictures\npainted, its statues modelled, its symphonies composed, by people who\nare free of the otherwise universal dominion of the tyranny of sex.\nWhich leads us to the conclusion, astonishing to the vulgar, that art,\ninstead of being before all things the expression of the normal sexual\nsituation, is really the only department in which sex is a superseded\nand secondary power, with its consciousness so confused and its purpose\nso perverted, that its ideas are mere fantasy to common men. Whether the\nartist becomes poet or philosopher, moralist or founder of a religion,\nhis sexual doctrine is nothing but a barren special pleading for\npleasure, excitement, and knowledge when he is young, and for\ncontemplative tranquillity when he is old and satiated. Romance and\nAsceticism, Amorism and Puritanism are equally unreal in the great\nPhilistine world. The world shown us in books, whether the books be\nconfessed epics or professed gospels, or in codes, or in political\norations, or in philosophic systems, is not the main world at all: it\nis only the self-consciousness of certain abnormal people who have the\nspecific artistic talent and temperament. A serious matter this for you\nand me, because the man whose consciousness does not correspond to that\nof the majority is a madman; and the old habit of worshipping madmen is\ngiving way to the new habit of locking them up. And since what we call\neducation and culture is for the most part nothing but the substitution\nof reading for experience, of literature for life, of the obsolete\nfictitious for the contemporary real, education, as you no doubt\nobserved at Oxford, destroys, by supplantation, every mind that is not\nstrong enough to see through the imposture and to use the great Masters\nof Arts as what they really are and no more: that is, patentees of\nhighly questionable methods of thinking, and manufacturers of highly\nquestionable, and for the majority but half valid representations of\nlife. The schoolboy who uses his Homer to throw at his fellow's head\nmakes perhaps the safest and most rational use of him; and I observe\nwith reassurance that you occasionally do the same, in your prime, with\nyour Aristotle.\n\nFortunately for us, whose minds have been so overwhelmingly\nsophisticated by literature, what produces all these treatises and poems\nand scriptures of one sort or another is the struggle of Life to become\ndivinely conscious of itself instead of blindly stumbling hither and\nthither in the line of least resistance. Hence there is a driving\ntowards truth in all books on matters where the writer, though\nexceptionally gifted is normally constituted, and has no private axe to\ngrind. Copernicus had no motive for misleading his fellowmen as to the\nplace of the sun in the solar system: he looked for it as honestly as a\nshepherd seeks his path in a mist. But Copernicus would not have written\nlove stories scientifically. When it comes to sex relations, the man of\ngenius does not share the common man's danger of capture, nor the woman\nof genius the common woman's overwhelming specialization. And that is\nwhy our scriptures and other art works, when they deal with love, turn\nfrom honest attempts at science in physics to romantic nonsense, erotic\necstasy, or the stern asceticism of satiety (\"the road of excess leads\nto the palace of wisdom\" said William Blake; for \"you never know what is\nenough unless you know what is more than enough\").\n\nThere is a political aspect of this sex question which is too big for my\ncomedy, and too momentous to be passed over without culpable frivolity.\nIt is impossible to demonstrate that the initiative in sex transactions\nremains with Woman, and has been confirmed to her, so far, more and more\nby the suppression of rapine and discouragement of importunity,\nwithout being driven to very serious reflections on the fact that this\ninitiative is politically the most important of all the initiatives,\nbecause our political experiment of democracy, the last refuge of cheap\nmisgovernment, will ruin us if our citizens are ill bred.\n\nWhen we two were born, this country was still dominated by a selected\nclass bred by political marriages. The commercial class had not then\ncompleted the first twenty-five years of its new share of political\npower; and it was itself selected by money qualification, and bred, if\nnot by political marriage, at least by a pretty rigorous class marriage.\nAristocracy and plutocracy still furnish the figureheads of politics;\nbut they are now dependent on the votes of the promiscuously bred\nmasses. And this, if you please, at the very moment when the political\nproblem, having suddenly ceased to mean a very limited and occasional\ninterference, mostly by way of jobbing public appointments, in the\nmismanagement of a tight but parochial little island, with occasional\nmeaningless prosecution of dynastic wars, has become the industrial\nreorganization of Britain, the construction of a practically\ninternational Commonwealth, and the partition of the whole of Africa and\nperhaps the whole of Asia by the civilized Powers. Can you believe that\nthe people whose conceptions of society and conduct, whose power of\nattention and scope of interest, are measured by the British theatre as\nyou know it to-day, can either handle this colossal task themselves, or\nunderstand and support the sort of mind and character that is (at least\ncomparatively) capable of handling it? For remember: what our voters are\nin the pit and gallery they are also in the polling booth. We are\nall now under what Burke called \"the hoofs of the swinish multitude.\"\nBurke's language gave great offence because the implied exceptions to\nits universal application made it a class insult; and it certainly was\nnot for the pot to call the kettle black. The aristocracy he defended,\nin spite of the political marriages by which it tried to secure breeding\nfor itself, had its mind undertrained by silly schoolmasters and\ngovernesses, its character corrupted by gratuitous luxury, its\nself-respect adulterated to complete spuriousness by flattery and\nflunkeyism. It is no better to-day and never will be any better: our\nvery peasants have something morally hardier in them that culminates\noccasionally in a Bunyan, a Burns, or a Carlyle. But observe, this\naristocracy, which was overpowered from 1832 to 1885 by the middle\nclass, has come back to power by the votes of \"the swinish multitude.\"\nTom Paine has triumphed over Edmund Burke; and the swine are now courted\nelectors. How many of their own class have these electors sent to\nparliament? Hardly a dozen out of 670, and these only under the\npersuasion of conspicuous personal qualifications and popular eloquence.\nThe multitude thus pronounces judgment on its own units: it admits\nitself unfit to govern, and will vote only for a man morphologically\nand generically transfigured by palatial residence and equipage, by\ntranscendent tailoring, by the glamor of aristocratic kinship. Well, we\ntwo know these transfigured persons, these college passmen, these well\ngroomed monocular Algys and Bobbies, these cricketers to whom age brings\ngolf instead of wisdom, these plutocratic products of \"the nail and\nsarspan business as he got his money by.\" Do you know whether to laugh\nor cry at the notion that they, poor devils! will drive a team of\ncontinents as they drive a four-in-hand; turn a jostling anarchy of\ncasual trade and speculation into an ordered productivity; and federate\nour colonies into a world-Power of the first magnitude? Give these\npeople the most perfect political constitution and the soundest\npolitical program that benevolent omniscience can devise for them, and\nthey will interpret it into mere fashionable folly or canting charity as\ninfallibly as a savage converts the philosophical theology of a Scotch\nmissionary into crude African idolatry.\n\nI do not know whether you have any illusions left on the subject of\neducation, progress, and so forth. I have none. Any pamphleteer can show\nthe way to better things; but when there is no will there is no way. My\nnurse was fond of remarking that you cannot make a silk purse out of\na sow's ear, and the more I see of the efforts of our churches and\nuniversities and literary sages to raise the mass above its own level,\nthe more convinced I am that my nurse was right. Progress can do nothing\nbut make the most of us all as we are, and that most would clearly not\nbe enough even if those who are already raised out of the lowest\nabysses would allow the others a chance. The bubble of Heredity has been\npricked: the certainty that acquirements are negligible as elements in\npractical heredity has demolished the hopes of the educationists as well\nas the terrors of the degeneracy mongers; and we know now that there is\nno hereditary \"governing class\" any more than a hereditary hooliganism.\nWe must either breed political capacity or be ruined by Democracy,\nwhich was forced on us by the failure of the older alternatives. Yet\nif Despotism failed only for want of a capable benevolent despot, what\nchance has Democracy, which requires a whole population of capable\nvoters: that is, of political critics who, if they cannot govern in\nperson for lack of spare energy or specific talent for administration,\ncan at least recognize and appreciate capacity and benevolence in\nothers, and so govern through capably benevolent representatives? Where\nare such voters to be found to-day? Nowhere. Promiscuous breeding has\nproduced a weakness of character that is too timid to face the full\nstringency of a thoroughly competitive struggle for existence and\ntoo lazy and petty to organize the commonwealth co-operatively. Being\ncowards, we defeat natural selection under cover of philanthropy: being\nsluggards, we neglect artificial selection under cover of delicacy and\nmorality.\n\nYet we must get an electorate of capable critics or collapse as Rome\nand Egypt collapsed. At this moment the Roman decadent phase of panem\net circenses is being inaugurated under our eyes. Our newspapers and\nmelodramas are blustering about our imperial destiny; but our eyes and\nhearts turn eagerly to the American millionaire. As his hand goes down\nto his pocket, our fingers go up to the brims of our hats by instinct.\nOur ideal prosperity is not the prosperity of the industrial north, but\nthe prosperity of the Isle of Wight, of Folkestone and Ramsgate, of Nice\nand Monte Carlo. That is the only prosperity you see on the stage, where\nthe workers are all footmen, parlourmaids, comic lodging-letters\nand fashionable professional men, whilst the heroes and heroines are\nmiraculously provided with unlimited dividends, and eat gratuitously,\nlike the knights in Don Quixote's books of chivalry.\n\nThe city papers prate of the competition of Bombay with Manchester and\nthe like. The real competition is the competition of Regent Street with\nthe Rue de Rivoli, of Brighton and the south coast with the Riviera, for\nthe spending money of the American Trusts. What is all this growing\nlove of pageantry, this effusive loyalty, this officious rising\nand uncovering at a wave from a flag or a blast from a brass band?\nImperialism: Not a bit of it. Obsequiousness, servility, cupidity roused\nby the prevailing smell of money. When Mr Carnegie rattled his millions\nin his pockets all England became one rapacious cringe. Only, when\nRhodes (who had probably been reading my Socialism for Millionaires)\nleft word that no idler was to inherit his estate, the bent backs\nstraightened mistrustfully for a moment. Could it be that the Diamond\nKing was no gentleman after all? However, it was easy to ignore a rich\nman's solecism. The ungentlemanly clause was not mentioned again; and\nthe backs soon bowed themselves back into their natural shape.\n\nBut I hear you asking me in alarm whether I have actually put all this\ntub thumping into a Don Juan comedy. I have not. I have only made my Don\nJuan a political pamphleteer, and given you his pamphlet in full by way\nof appendix. You will find it at the end of the book. I am sorry to say\nthat it is a common practice with romancers to announce their hero as\na man of extraordinary genius, and to leave his works entirely to the\nreader's imagination; so that at the end of the book you whisper to\nyourself ruefully that but for the author's solemn preliminary assurance\nyou should hardly have given the gentleman credit for ordinary good\nsense. You cannot accuse me of this pitiable barrenness, this feeble\nevasion. I not only tell you that my hero wrote a revolutionists'\nhandbook: I give you the handbook at full length for your edification if\nyou care to read it. And in that handbook you will find the politics of\nthe sex question as I conceive Don Juan's descendant to understand them.\nNot that I disclaim the fullest responsibility for his opinions and for\nthose of all my characters, pleasant and unpleasant. They are all right\nfrom their several points of view; and their points of view are, for the\ndramatic moment, mine also. This may puzzle the people who believe that\nthere is such a thing as an absolutely right point of view, usually\ntheir own. It may seem to them that nobody who doubts this can be in a\nstate of grace. However that may be, it is certainly true that nobody\nwho agrees with them can possibly be a dramatist, or indeed anything\nelse that turns upon a knowledge of mankind. Hence it has been pointed\nout that Shakespear had no conscience. Neither have I, in that sense.\n\nYou may, however, remind me that this digression of mine into politics\nwas preceded by a very convincing demonstration that the artist never\ncatches the point of view of the common man on the question of sex,\nbecause he is not in the same predicament. I first prove that anything I\nwrite on the relation of the sexes is sure to be misleading; and then I\nproceed to write a Don Juan play. Well, if you insist on asking me why\nI behave in this absurd way, I can only reply that you asked me to,\nand that in any case my treatment of the subject may be valid for the\nartist, amusing to the amateur, and at least intelligible and therefore\npossibly suggestive to the Philistine. Every man who records his\nillusions is providing data for the genuinely scientific psychology\nwhich the world still waits for. I plank down my view of the existing\nrelations of men to women in the most highly civilized society for what\nit is worth. It is a view like any other view and no more, neither true\nnor false, but, I hope, a way of looking at the subject which throws\ninto the familiar order of cause and effect a sufficient body of fact\nand experience to be interesting to you, if not to the play-going public\nof London. I have certainly shown little consideration for that public\nin this enterprise; but I know that it has the friendliest disposition\ntowards you and me as far as it has any consciousness of our existence,\nand quite understands that what I write for you must pass at a\nconsiderable height over its simple romantic head. It will take my books\nas read and my genius for granted, trusting me to put forth work of such\nquality as shall bear out its verdict. So we may disport ourselves on\nour own plane to the top of our bent; and if any gentleman points out\nthat neither this epistle dedicatory nor the dream of Don Juan in the\nthird act of the ensuing comedy is suitable for immediate production at\na popular theatre we need not contradict him. Napoleon provided Talma\nwith a pit of kings, with what effect on Talma's acting is not recorded.\nAs for me, what I have always wanted is a pit of philosophers; and this\nis a play for such a pit.\n\nI should make formal acknowledgment to the authors whom I have pillaged\nin the following pages if I could recollect them all. The theft of the\nbrigand-poetaster from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is deliberate; and the\nmetamorphosis of Leporello into Enry Straker, motor engineer and New\nMan, is an intentional dramatic sketch for the contemporary embryo of\nMr H. G. Wells's anticipation of the efficient engineering class\nwhich will, he hopes, finally sweep the jabberers out of the way of\ncivilization. Mr Barrio has also, whilst I am correcting my proofs,\ndelighted London with a servant who knows more than his masters. The\nconception of Mendoza Limited I trace back to a certain West Indian\ncolonial secretary, who, at a period when he and I and Mr Sidney\nWebb were sowing our political wild oats as a sort of Fabian Three\nMusketeers, without any prevision of the surprising respectability\nof the crop that followed, recommended Webb, the encyclopedic and\ninexhaustible, to form himself into a company for the benefit of the\nshareholders. Octavius I take over unaltered from Mozart; and I hereby\nauthorize any actor who impersonates him, to sing \"Dalla sua pace\" (if\nhe can) at any convenient moment during the representation. Ann was\nsuggested to me by the fifteenth century Dutch morality called Everyman,\nwhich Mr William Poel has lately resuscitated so triumphantly. I\ntrust he will work that vein further, and recognize that Elizabethan\nRenascence fustian is no more bearable after medieval poesy than Scribe\nafter Ibsen. As I sat watching Everyman at the Charterhouse, I said to\nmyself Why not Everywoman? Ann was the result: every woman is not Ann;\nbut Ann is Everywoman.\n\nThat the author of Everyman was no mere artist, but an\nartist-philosopher, and that the artist-philosophers are the only sort\nof artists I take quite seriously, will be no news to you. Even Plato\nand Boswell, as the dramatists who invented Socrates and Dr Johnson,\nimpress me more deeply than the romantic playwrights. Ever since, as\na boy, I first breathed the air of the transcendental regions at a\nperformance of Mozart's Zauberflote, I have been proof against the\ngarish splendors and alcoholic excitements of the ordinary stage\ncombinations of Tappertitian romance with the police intelligence.\nBunyan, Blake, Hogarth and Turner (these four apart and above all the\nEnglish Classics), Goethe, Shelley, Schopenhaur, Wagner, Ibsen, Morris,\nTolstoy, and Nietzsche are among the writers whose peculiar sense of\nthe world I recognize as more or less akin to my own. Mark the word\npeculiar. I read Dickens and Shakespear without shame or stint;\nbut their pregnant observations and demonstrations of life are not\nco-ordinated into any philosophy or religion: on the contrary, Dickens's\nsentimental assumptions are violently contradicted by his observations;\nand Shakespear's pessimism is only his wounded humanity. Both have the\nspecific genius of the fictionist and the common sympathies of human\nfeeling and thought in pre-eminent degree. They are often saner and\nshrewder than the philosophers just as Sancho-Panza was often saner and\nshrewder than Don Quixote. They clear away vast masses of oppressive\ngravity by their sense of the ridiculous, which is at bottom a\ncombination of sound moral judgment with lighthearted good humor. But\nthey are concerned with the diversities of the world instead of with its\nunities: they are so irreligious that they exploit popular religion for\nprofessional purposes without delicacy or scruple (for example, Sydney\nCarton and the ghost in Hamlet!): they are anarchical, and cannot\nbalance their exposures of Angelo and Dogberry, Sir Leicester Dedlock\nand Mr Tite Barnacle, with any portrait of a prophet or a worthy leader:\nthey have no constructive ideas: they regard those who have them as\ndangerous fanatics: in all their fictions there is no leading thought or\ninspiration for which any man could conceivably risk the spoiling of\nhis hat in a shower, much less his life. Both are alike forced to borrow\nmotives for the more strenuous actions of their personages from\nthe common stockpot of melodramatic plots; so that Hamlet has to\nbe stimulated by the prejudices of a policeman and Macbeth by the\ncupidities of a bushranger. Dickens, without the excuse of having to\nmanufacture motives for Hamlets and Macbeths, superfluously punt his\ncrew down the stream of his monthly parts by mechanical devices which I\nleave you to describe, my own memory being quite baffled by the simplest\nquestion as to Monks in Oliver Twist, or the long lost parentage of\nSmike, or the relations between the Dorrit and Clennam families so\ninopportunely discovered by Monsieur Rigaud Blandois. The truth is, the\nworld was to Shakespear a great \"stage of fools\" on which he was utterly\nbewildered. He could see no sort of sense in living at all; and Dickens\nsaved himself from the despair of the dream in The Chimes by taking the\nworld for granted and busying himself with its details. Neither of them\ncould do anything with a serious positive character: they could place a\nhuman figure before you with perfect verisimilitude; but when the moment\ncame for making it live and move, they found, unless it made them laugh,\nthat they had a puppet on their hands, and had to invent some artificial\nexternal stimulus to make it work. This is what is the matter with\nHamlet all through: he has no will except in his bursts of temper.\nFoolish Bardolaters make a virtue of this after their fashion:\nthey declare that the play is the tragedy of irresolution; but all\nShakespear's projections of the deepest humanity he knew have the same\ndefect: their characters and manners are lifelike; but their actions\nare forced on them from without, and the external force is grotesquely\ninappropriate except when it is quite conventional, as in the case of\nHenry V. Falstaff is more vivid than any of these serious reflective\ncharacters, because he is self-acting: his motives are his own appetites\nand instincts and humors. Richard III, too, is delightful as the\nwhimsical comedian who stops a funeral to make love to the corpse's\nwidow; but when, in the next act, he is replaced by a stage villain who\nsmothers babies and offs with people's heads, we are revolted at the\nimposture and repudiate the changeling. Faulconbridge, Coriolanus,\nLeontes are admirable descriptions of instinctive temperaments: indeed\nthe play of Coriolanus is the greatest of Shakespear's comedies; but\ndescription is not philosophy; and comedy neither compromises the author\nnor reveals him. He must be judged by those characters into which he\nputs what he knows of himself, his Hamlets and Macbeths and Lears and\nProsperos. If these characters are agonizing in a void about factitious\nmelodramatic murders and revenges and the like, whilst the comic\ncharacters walk with their feet on solid ground, vivid and amusing,\nyou know that the author has much to show and nothing to teach. The\ncomparison between Falstaff and Prospero is like the comparison\nbetween Micawber and David Copperfield. At the end of the book you know\nMicawber, whereas you only know what has happened to David, and are not\ninterested enough in him to wonder what his politics or religion might\nbe if anything so stupendous as a religious or political idea, or a\ngeneral idea of any sort, were to occur to him. He is tolerable as a\nchild; but he never becomes a man, and might be left out of his own\nbiography altogether but for his usefulness as a stage confidant, a\nHoratio or \"Charles his friend\" what they call on the stage a feeder.\n\nNow you cannot say this of the works of the artist-philosophers.\nYou cannot say it, for instance, of The Pilgrim's Progress. Put your\nShakespearian hero and coward, Henry V and Pistol or Parolles, beside\nMr Valiant and Mr Fearing, and you have a sudden revelation of the abyss\nthat lies between the fashionable author who could see nothing in the\nworld but personal aims and the tragedy of their disappointment or the\ncomedy of their incongruity, and the field preacher who achieved virtue\nand courage by identifying himself with the purpose of the world as\nhe understood it. The contrast is enormous: Bunyan's coward stirs your\nblood more than Shakespear's hero, who actually leaves you cold and\nsecretly hostile. You suddenly see that Shakespear, with all his flashes\nand divinations, never understood virtue and courage, never conceived\nhow any man who was not a fool could, like Bunyan's hero, look back\nfrom the brink of the river of death over the strife and labor of his\npilgrimage, and say \"yet do I not repent me\"; or, with the panache of\na millionaire, bequeath \"my sword to him that shall succeed me in my\npilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it.\" This\nis the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by\nyourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you\nare thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a\nfeverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that\nthe world will not devote itself to making you happy. And also the only\nreal tragedy in life is the being used by personally minded men for\npurposes which you recognize to be base. All the rest is at worst mere\nmisfortune or mortality: this alone is misery, slavery, hell on earth;\nand the revolt against it is the only force that offers a man's work\nto the poor artist, whom our personally minded rich people would so\nwillingly employ as pandar, buffoon, beauty monger, sentimentalizer and\nthe like.\n\nIt may seem a long step from Bunyan to Nietzsche; but the difference\nbetween their conclusions is purely formal. Bunyan's perception that\nrighteousness is filthy rags, his scorn for Mr Legality in the village\nof Morality, his defiance of the Church as the supplanter of religion,\nhis insistence on courage as the virtue of virtues, his estimate of the\ncareer of the conventionally respectable and sensible Worldly Wiseman\nas no better at bottom than the life and death of Mr Badman: all\nthis, expressed by Bunyan in the terms of a tinker's theology, is what\nNietzsche has expressed in terms of post-Darwinian, post-Schopenhaurian\nphilosophy; Wagner in terms of polytheistic mythology; and Ibsen in\nterms of mid-XIX century Parisian dramaturgy. Nothing is new in these\nmatters except their novelties: for instance, it is a novelty to\ncall Justification by Faith \"Wille,\" and Justification by Works\n\"Vorstellung.\" The sole use of the novelty is that you and I buy and\nread Schopenhaur's treatise on Will and Representation when we should\nnot dream of buying a set of sermons on Faith versus Works. At bottom\nthe controversy is the same, and the dramatic results are the same.\nBunyan makes no attempt to present his pilgrims as more sensible or\nbetter conducted than Mr Worldly Wiseman. Mr W. W.'s worst enemies, as\nMr Embezzler, Mr Never-go-to-Church-on-Sunday, Mr Bad Form, Mr Murderer,\nMr Burglar, Mr Co-respondent, Mr Blackmailer, Mr Cad, Mr Drunkard, Mr\nLabor Agitator and so forth, can read the Pilgrim's Progress without\nfinding a word said against them; whereas the respectable people who\nsnub them and put them in prison, such as Mr W.W. himself and his young\nfriend Civility; Formalist and Hypocrisy; Wildhead, Inconsiderate, and\nPragmatick (who were clearly young university men of good family\nand high feeding); that brisk lad Ignorance, Talkative, By-Ends of\nFairspeech and his mother-in-law Lady Feigning, and other reputable\ngentlemen and citizens, catch it very severely. Even Little Faith,\nthough he gets to heaven at last, is given to understand that it served\nhim right to be mobbed by the brothers Faint Heart, Mistrust, and\nGuilt, all three recognized members of respectable society and veritable\npillars of the law. The whole allegory is a consistent attack on\nmorality and respectability, without a word that one can remember\nagainst vice and crime. Exactly what is complained of in Nietzsche and\nIbsen, is it not? And also exactly what would be complained of in all\nthe literature which is great enough and old enough to have attained\ncanonical rank, officially or unofficially, were it not that books are\nadmitted to the canon by a compact which confesses their greatness in\nconsideration of abrogating their meaning; so that the reverend rector\ncan agree with the prophet Micah as to his inspired style without being\ncommitted to any complicity in Micah's furiously Radical opinions. Why,\neven I, as I force myself; pen in hand, into recognition and civility,\nfind all the force of my onslaught destroyed by a simple policy of\nnon-resistance. In vain do I redouble the violence of the language in\nwhich I proclaim my heterodoxies. I rail at the theistic credulity of\nVoltaire, the amoristic superstition of Shelley, the revival of tribal\nsoothsaying and idolatrous rites which Huxley called Science and\nmistook for an advance on the Pentateuch, no less than at the welter\nof ecclesiastical and professional humbug which saves the face of the\nstupid system of violence and robbery which we call Law and Industry.\nEven atheists reproach me with infidelity and anarchists with nihilism\nbecause I cannot endure their moral tirades. And yet, instead of\nexclaiming \"Send this inconceivable Satanist to the stake,\" the\nrespectable newspapers pith me by announcing \"another book by this\nbrilliant and thoughtful writer.\" And the ordinary citizen, knowing that\nan author who is well spoken of by a respectable newspaper must be all\nright, reads me, as he reads Micah, with undisturbed edification from\nhis own point of view. It is narrated that in the eighteen-seventies an\nold lady, a very devout Methodist, moved from Colchester to a house in\nthe neighborhood of the City Road, in London, where, mistaking the Hall\nof Science for a chapel, she sat at the feet of Charles Bradlaugh\nfor many years, entranced by his eloquence, without questioning\nhis orthodoxy or moulting a feather of her faith. I fear I small be\ndefrauded of my just martyrdom in the same way.\n\nHowever, I am digressing, as a man with a grievance always does. And\nafter all, the main thing in determining the artistic quality of a book\nis not the opinions it propagates, but the fact that the writer has\nopinions. The old lady from Colchester was right to sun her simple soul\nin the energetic radiance of Bradlaugh's genuine beliefs and disbeliefs\nrather than in the chill of such mere painting of light and heat as\nelocution and convention can achieve. My contempt for belles lettres,\nand for amateurs who become the heroes of the fanciers of literary\nvirtuosity, is not founded on any illusion of mind as to the permanence\nof those forms of thought (call them opinions) by which I strive to\ncommunicate my bent to my fellows. To younger men they are already\noutmoded; for though they have no more lost their logic than an\neighteenth century pastel has lost its drawing or its color, yet, like\nthe pastel, they grow indefinably shabby, and will grow shabbier until\nthey cease to count at all, when my books will either perish, or, if\nthe world is still poor enough to want them, will have to stand, with\nBunyan's, by quite amorphous qualities of temper and energy. With this\nconviction I cannot be a bellettrist. No doubt I must recognize, as even\nthe Ancient Mariner did, that I must tell my story entertainingly if I\nam to hold the wedding guest spellbound in spite of the siren sounds of\nthe loud bassoon. But \"for art's sake\" alone I would not face the toil\nof writing a single sentence. I know that there are men who, having\nnothing to say and nothing to write, are nevertheless so in love with\noratory and with literature that they keep desperately repeating as much\nas they can understand of what others have said or written aforetime.\nI know that the leisurely tricks which their want of conviction leaves\nthem free to play with the diluted and misapprehended message supply\nthem with a pleasant parlor game which they call style. I can pity their\ndotage and even sympathize with their fancy. But a true original style\nis never achieved for its own sake: a man may pay from a shilling to a\nguinea, according to his means, to see, hear, or read another man's act\nof genius; but he will not pay with his whole life and soul to become a\nmere virtuoso in literature, exhibiting an accomplishment which will not\neven make money for him, like fiddle playing. Effectiveness of assertion\nis the Alpha and Omega of style. He who has nothing to assert has no\nstyle and can have none: he who has something to assert will go as far\nin power of style as its momentousness and his conviction will carry\nhim. Disprove his assertion after it is made, yet its style remains.\nDarwin has no more destroyed the style of Job nor of Handel than Martin\nLuther destroyed the style of Giotto. All the assertions get disproved\nsooner or later; and so we find the world full of a magnificent debris\nof artistic fossils, with the matter-of-fact credibility gone clean out\nof them, but the form still splendid. And that is why the old masters\nplay the deuce with our mere susceptibles. Your Royal Academician thinks\nhe can get the style of Giotto without Giotto's beliefs, and correct\nhis perspective into the bargain. Your man of letters thinks he can\nget Bunyan's or Shakespear's style without Bunyan's conviction or\nShakespear's apprehension, especially if he takes care not to split\nhis infinitives. And so with your Doctors of Music, who, with their\ncollections of discords duly prepared and resolved or retarded or\nanticipated in the manner of the great composers, think they can learn\nthe art of Palestrina from Cherubim's treatise. All this academic art\nis far worse than the trade in sham antique furniture; for the man who\nsells me an oaken chest which he swears was made in the XIII century,\nthough as a matter of fact he made it himself only yesterday, at least\ndoes not pretend that there are any modern ideas in it, whereas your\nacademic copier of fossils offers them to you as the latest outpouring\nof the human spirit, and, worst of all, kidnaps young people as pupils\nand persuades them that his limitations are rules, his observances\ndexterities, his timidities good taste, and his emptinesses purities.\nAnd when he declares that art should not be didactic, all the people who\nhave nothing to teach and all the people who don't want to learn agree\nwith him emphatically.\n\nI pride myself on not being one of these susceptible: If you study\nthe electric light with which I supply you in that Bumbledonian public\ncapacity of mine over which you make merry from time to time, you will\nfind that your house contains a great quantity of highly susceptible\ncopper wire which gorges itself with electricity and gives you no light\nwhatever. But here and there occurs a scrap of intensely insusceptible,\nintensely resistant material; and that stubborn scrap grapples with the\ncurrent and will not let it through until it has made itself useful to\nyou as those two vital qualities of literature, light and heat. Now if I\nam to be no mere copper wire amateur but a luminous author, I must also\nbe a most intensely refractory person, liable to go out and to go wrong\nat inconvenient moments, and with incendiary possibilities. These are\nthe faults of my qualities; and I assure you that I sometimes dislike\nmyself so much that when some irritable reviewer chances at that moment\nto pitch into me with zest, I feel unspeakably relieved and obliged. But\nI never dream of reforming, knowing that I must take myself as I am and\nget what work I can out of myself. All this you will understand; for\nthere is community of material between us: we are both critics of life\nas well as of art; and you have perhaps said to yourself when I have\npassed your windows, \"There, but for the grace of God, go I.\" An awful\nand chastening reflection, which shall be the closing cadence of this\nimmoderately long letter from yours faithfully,\n\nG. BERNARD SHAW.\n\nWOKING, 1903\n\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nRoebuck Ramsden is in his study, opening the morning letters. The study,\nhandsomely and solidly furnished, proclaims the man of means. Not\na speck of dust is visible: it is clear that there are at least two\nhousemaids and a parlormaid downstairs, and a housekeeper upstairs who\ndoes not let them spare elbow-grease. Even the top of Roebuck's head is\npolished: on a sunshiny day he could heliograph his orders to distant\ncamps by merely nodding. In no other respect, however, does he suggest\nthe military man. It is in active civil life that men get his broad air\nof importance, his dignified expectation of deference, his determinate\nmouth disarmed and refined since the hour of his success by the\nwithdrawal of opposition and the concession of comfort and precedence\nand power. He is more than a highly respectable man: he is marked out\nas a president of highly respectable men, a chairman among directors,\nan alderman among councillors, a mayor among aldermen. Four tufts of\niron-grey hair, which will soon be as white as isinglass, and are in\nother respects not at all unlike it, grow in two symmetrical pairs above\nhis ears and at the angles of his spreading jaws. He wears a black frock\ncoat, a white waistcoat (it is bright spring weather), and trousers,\nneither black nor perceptibly blue, of one of those indefinitely mixed\nhues which the modern clothier has produced to harmonize with the\nreligions of respectable men. He has not been out of doors yet to-day;\nso he still wears his slippers, his boots being ready for him on the\nhearthrug. Surmising that he has no valet, and seeing that he has no\nsecretary with a shorthand notebook and a typewriter, one meditates\non how little our great burgess domesticity has been disturbed by new\nfashions and methods, or by the enterprise of the railway and hotel\ncompanies which sell you a Saturday to Monday of life at Folkestone as a\nreal gentleman for two guineas, first class fares both ways included.\n\nHow old is Roebuck? The question is important on the threshold of a\ndrama of ideas; for under such circumstances everything depends on\nwhether his adolescence belonged to the sixties or to the eighties. He\nwas born, as a matter of fact, in 1839, and was a Unitarian and Free\nTrader from his boyhood, and an Evolutionist from the publication of\nthe Origin of Species. Consequently he has always classed himself as an\nadvanced thinker and fearlessly outspoken reformer.\n\nSitting at his writing table, he has on his right the windows giving\non Portland Place. Through these, as through a proscenium, the curious\nspectator may contemplate his profile as well as the blinds will permit.\nOn his left is the inner wall, with a stately bookcase, and the door\nnot quite in the middle, but somewhat further from him. Against the wall\nopposite him are two busts on pillars: one, to his left, of John Bright;\nthe other, to his right, of Mr Herbert Spencer. Between them hang an\nengraved portrait of Richard Cobden; enlarged photographs of Martineau,\nHuxley, and George Eliot; autotypes of allegories by Mr G.F. Watts (for\nRoebuck believed in the fine arts with all the earnestness of a man who\ndoes not understand them), and an impression of Dupont's engraving of\nDelaroche's Beaux Artes hemicycle, representing the great men of\nall ages. On the wall behind him, above the mantelshelf, is a family\nportrait of impenetrable obscurity.\n\nA chair stands near the writing table for the convenience of business\nvisitors. Two other chairs are against the wall between the busts.\n\nA parlormaid enters with a visitor's card. Roebuck takes it, and nods,\npleased. Evidently a welcome caller.\n\nRAMSDEN. Show him up.\n\nThe parlormaid goes out and returns with the visitor.\n\nTHE MAID. Mr Robinson.\n\nMr Robinson is really an uncommonly nice looking young fellow. He must,\none thinks, be the jeune premier; for it is not in reason to suppose\nthat a second such attractive male figure should appear in one story.\nThe slim shapely frame, the elegant suit of new mourning, the small head\nand regular features, the pretty little moustache, the frank clear eyes,\nthe wholesome bloom and the youthful complexion, the well brushed glossy\nhair, not curly, but of fine texture and good dark color, the arch of\ngood nature in the eyebrows, the erect forehead and neatly pointed chin,\nall announce the man who will love and suffer later on. And that he will\nnot do so without sympathy is guaranteed by an engaging sincerity and\neager modest serviceableness which stamp him as a man of amiable nature.\nThe moment he appears, Ramsden's face expands into fatherly liking and\nwelcome, an expression which drops into one of decorous grief as the\nyoung man approaches him with sorrow in his face as well as in his black\nclothes. Ramsden seems to know the nature of the bereavement. As the\nvisitor advances silently to the writing table, the old man rises and\nshakes his hand across it without a word: a long, affectionate shake\nwhich tells the story of a recent sorrow common to both.\n\nRAMSDEN. [concluding the handshake and cheering up] Well, well,\nOctavius, it's the common lot. We must all face it someday. Sit down.\n\nOctavius takes the visitor's chair. Ramsden replaces himself in his own.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes: we must face it, Mr Ramsden. But I owed him a great deal.\nHe did everything for me that my father could have done if he had lived.\n\nRAMSDEN. He had no son of his own, you see.\n\nOCTAVIUS. But he had daughters; and yet he was as good to my sister as\nto me. And his death was so sudden! I always intended to thank him--to\nlet him know that I had not taken all his care of me as a matter\nof course, as any boy takes his father's care. But I waited for an\nopportunity and now he is dead--dropped without a moment's warning. He\nwill never know what I felt. [He takes out his handkerchief and cries\nunaffectedly].\n\nRAMSDEN. How do we know that, Octavius? He may know it: we cannot\ntell. Come! Don't grieve. [Octavius masters himself and puts up his\nhandkerchief]. That's right. Now let me tell you something to console\nyou. The last time I saw him--it was in this very room--he said to me:\n\"Tavy is a generous lad and the soul of honor; and when I see how little\nconsideration other men get from their sons, I realize how much better\nthan a son he's been to me.\" There! Doesn't that do you good?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Mr Ramsden: he used to say to me that he had met only one man\nin the world who was the soul of honor, and that was Roebuck Ramsden.\n\nRAMSDEN. Oh, that was his partiality: we were very old friends, you\nknow. But there was something else he used to say about you. I wonder\nwhether I ought to tell you or not!\n\nOCTAVIUS. You know best.\n\nRAMSDEN. It was something about his daughter.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [eagerly] About Ann! Oh, do tell me that, Mr Ramsden.\n\nRAMSDEN. Well, he said he was glad, after all, you were not his son,\nbecause he thought that someday Annie and you--[Octavius blushes\nvividly]. Well, perhaps I shouldn't have told you. But he was in\nearnest.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Oh, if only I thought I had a chance! You know, Mr Ramsden, I\ndon't care about money or about what people call position; and I can't\nbring myself to take an interest in the business of struggling for them.\nWell, Ann has a most exquisite nature; but she is so accustomed to be\nin the thick of that sort of thing that she thinks a man's character\nincomplete if he is not ambitious. She knows that if she married me she\nwould have to reason herself out of being ashamed of me for not being a\nbig success of some kind.\n\nRAMSDEN. [Getting up and planting himself with his back to the\nfireplace] Nonsense, my boy, nonsense! You're too modest. What does she\nknow about the real value of men at her age? [More seriously] Besides,\nshe's a wonderfully dutiful girl. Her father's wish would be sacred to\nher. Do you know that since she grew up to years of discretion, I don't\nbelieve she has ever once given her own wish as a reason for doing\nanything or not doing it. It's always \"Father wishes me to,\" or \"Mother\nwouldn't like it.\" It's really almost a fault in her. I have often told\nher she must learn to think for herself.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [shaking his head] I couldn't ask her to marry me because her\nfather wished it, Mr Ramsden.\n\nRAMSDEN. Well, perhaps not. No: of course not. I see that. No: you\ncertainly couldn't. But when you win her on your own merits, it will be\na great happiness to her to fulfil her father's desire as well as her\nown. Eh? Come! you'll ask her, won't you?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [with sad gaiety] At all events I promise you I shall never\nask anyone else.\n\nRAMSDEN. Oh, you shan't need to. She'll accept you, my boy--although\n[here he suddenly becomes very serious indeed] you have one great\ndrawback.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [anxiously] What drawback is that, Mr Ramsden? I should rather\nsay which of my many drawbacks?\n\nRAMSDEN. I'll tell you, Octavius. [He takes from the table a book bound\nin red cloth]. I have in my hand a copy of the most infamous, the most\nscandalous, the most mischievous, the most blackguardly book that ever\nescaped burning at the hands of the common hangman. I have not read\nit: I would not soil my mind with such filth; but I have read what the\npapers say of it. The title is quite enough for me. [He reads it]. The\nRevolutionist's Handbook and Pocket Companion by John Tanner, M.I.R.C.,\nMember of the Idle Rich Class.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [smiling] But Jack--\n\nRAMSDEN. [testily] For goodness' sake, don't call him Jack under my\nroof [he throws the book violently down on the table, Then, somewhat\nrelieved, he comes past the table to Octavius, and addresses him at\nclose quarters with impressive gravity]. Now, Octavius, I know that my\ndead friend was right when he said you were a generous lad. I know that\nthis man was your schoolfellow, and that you feel bound to stand by\nhim because there was a boyish friendship between you. But I ask you\nto consider the altered circumstances. You were treated as a son in my\nfriend's house. You lived there; and your friends could not be turned\nfrom the door. This Tanner was in and out there on your account almost\nfrom his childhood. He addresses Annie by her Christian name as freely\nas you do. Well, while her father was alive, that was her father's\nbusiness, not mine. This man Tanner was only a boy to him: his opinions\nwere something to be laughed at, like a man's hat on a child's head.\nBut now Tanner is a grown man and Annie a grown woman. And her father\nis gone. We don't as yet know the exact terms of his will; but he often\ntalked it over with me; and I have no more doubt than I have that you're\nsitting there that the will appoints me Annie's trustee and guardian.\n[Forcibly] Now I tell you, once for all, I can't and I won't have Annie\nplaced in such a position that she must, out of regard for you, suffer\nthe intimacy of this fellow Tanner. It's not fair: it's not right: it's\nnot kind. What are you going to do about it?\n\nOCTAVIUS. But Ann herself has told Jack that whatever his opinions are,\nhe will always be welcome because he knew her dear father.\n\nRAMSDEN. [out of patience] That girl's mad about her duty to her\nparents. [He starts off like a goaded ox in the direction of John\nBright, in whose expression there is no sympathy for him. As he speaks,\nhe fumes down to Herbert Spencer, who receives him still more coldly]\nExcuse me, Octavius; but there are limits to social toleration. You\nknow that I am not a bigoted or prejudiced man. You know that I am plain\nRoebuck Ramsden when other men who have done less have got handles to\ntheir names, because I have stood for equality and liberty of conscience\nwhile they were truckling to the Church and to the aristocracy.\nWhitefield and I lost chance after chance through our advanced opinions.\nBut I draw the line at Anarchism and Free Love and that sort of thing.\nIf I am to be Annie's guardian, she will have to learn that she has a\nduty to me. I won't have it: I will not have it. She must forbid John\nTanner the house; and so must you.\n\nThe parlormaid returns.\n\nOCTAVIUS. But--\n\nRAMSDEN. [calling his attention to the servant] Ssh! Well?\n\nTHE MAID. Mr Tanner wishes to see you, sir.\n\nRAMSDEN. Mr Tanner!\n\nOCTAVIUS. Jack!\n\nRAMSDEN. How dare Mr Tanner call on me! Say I cannot see him.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [hurt] I am sorry you are turning my friend from your door\nlike that.\n\nTHE MAID. [calmly] He's not at the door, sir. He's upstairs in the\ndrawingroom with Miss Ramsden. He came with Mrs Whitefield and Miss Ann\nand Miss Robinson, sir.\n\nRamsden's feelings are beyond words.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [grinning] That's very like Jack, Mr Ramsden. You must see\nhim, even if it's only to turn him out.\n\nRAMSDEN. [hammering out his words with suppressed fury] Go upstairs and\nask Mr Tanner to be good enough to step down here. [The parlormaid goes\nout; and Ramsden returns to the fireplace, as to a fortified position].\nI must say that of all the confounded pieces of impertinence--well, if\nthese are Anarchist manners I hope you like them. And Annie with him!\nAnnie! A-- [he chokes].\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes: that's what surprises me. He's so desperately afraid of\nAnn. There must be something the matter.\n\nMr John Tanner suddenly opens the door and enters. He is too young to be\ndescribed simply as a big man with a beard. But it is already plain that\nmiddle life will find him in that category. He has still some of the\nslimness of youth; but youthfulness is not the effect he aims at: his\nfrock coat would befit a prime minister; and a certain high chested\ncarriage of the shoulders, a lofty pose of the head, and the Olympian\nmajesty with which a mane, or rather a huge wisp, of hazel colored\nhair is thrown back from an imposing brow, suggest Jupiter rather than\nApollo. He is prodigiously fluent of speech, restless, excitable (mark\nthe snorting nostril and the restless blue eye, just the thirty-secondth\nof an inch too wide open), possibly a little mad. He is carefully\ndressed, not from the vanity that cannot resist finery, but from a sense\nof the importance of everything he does which leads him to make as\nmuch of paying a call as other men do of getting married or laying a\nfoundation stone. A sensitive, susceptible, exaggerative, earnest man: a\nmegalomaniac, who would be lost without a sense of humor.\n\nJust at present the sense of humor is in abeyance. To say that he is\nexcited is nothing: all his moods are phases of excitement. He is now in\nthe panic-stricken phase; and he walks straight up to Ramsden as if with\nthe fixed intention of shooting him on his own hearthrug. But what he\npulls from his breast pocket is not a pistol, but a foolscap document\nwhich he thrusts under the indignant nose of Ramsden as he exclaims--\n\nTANNER. Ramsden: do you know what that is?\n\nRAMSDEN. [loftily] No, Sir.\n\nTANNER. It's a copy of Whitefield's will. Ann got it this morning.\n\nRAMSDEN. When you say Ann, you mean, I presume, Miss Whitefield.\n\nTANNER. I mean our Ann, your Ann, Tavy's Ann, and now, Heaven help me,\nmy Ann!\n\nOCTAVIUS. [rising, very pale] What do you mean?\n\nTANNER. Mean! [He holds up the will]. Do you know who is appointed Ann's\nguardian by this will?\n\nRAMSDEN. [coolly] I believe I am.\n\nTANNER. You! You and I, man. I! I!! I!!! Both of us! [He flings the will\ndown on the writing table].\n\nRAMSDEN. You! Impossible.\n\nTANNER. It's only too hideously true. [He throws himself into Octavius's\nchair]. Ramsden: get me out of it somehow. You don't know Ann as well\nas I do. She'll commit every crime a respectable woman can; and\nshe'll justify every one of them by saying that it was the wish of\nher guardians. She'll put everything on us; and we shall have no more\ncontrol over her than a couple of mice over a cat.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Jack: I wish you wouldn't talk like that about Ann.\n\nTANNER. This chap's in love with her: that's another complication. Well,\nshe'll either jilt him and say I didn't approve of him, or marry him\nand say you ordered her to. I tell you, this is the most staggering blow\nthat has ever fallen on a man of my age and temperament.\n\nRAMSDEN. Let me see that will, sir. [He goes to the writing table and\npicks it up]. I cannot believe that my old friend Whitefield would have\nshown such a want of confidence in me as to associate me with-- [His\ncountenance falls as he reads].\n\nTANNER. It's all my own doing: that's the horrible irony of it. He told\nme one day that you were to be Ann's guardian; and like a fool I began\narguing with him about the folly of leaving a young woman under the\ncontrol of an old man with obsolete ideas.\n\nRAMSDEN. [stupended] My ideas obsolete!!!!!\n\nTANNER. Totally. I had just finished an essay called Down with\nGovernment by the Greyhaired; and I was full of arguments and\nillustrations. I said the proper thing was to combine the experience of\nan old hand with the vitality of a young one. Hang me if he didn't take\nme at my word and alter his will--it's dated only a fortnight after that\nconversation--appointing me as joint guardian with you!\n\nRAMSDEN. [pale and determined] I shall refuse to act.\n\nTANNER. What's the good of that? I've been refusing all the way from\nRichmond; but Ann keeps on saying that of course she's only an orphan;\nand that she can't expect the people who were glad to come to the house\nin her father's time to trouble much about her now. That's the latest\ngame. An orphan! It's like hearing an ironclad talk about being at the\nmercy of the winds and waves.\n\nOCTAVIUS. This is not fair, Jack. She is an orphan. And you ought to\nstand by her.\n\nTANNER. Stand by her! What danger is she in? She has the law on her\nside; she has popular sentiment on her side; she has plenty of money\nand no conscience. All she wants with me is to load up all her moral\nresponsibilities on me, and do as she likes at the expense of my\ncharacter. I can't control her; and she can compromise me as much as she\nlikes. I might as well be her husband.\n\nRAMSDEN. You can refuse to accept the guardianship. I shall certainly\nrefuse to hold it jointly with you.\n\nTANNER. Yes; and what will she say to that? what does she say to it?\nJust that her father's wishes are sacred to her, and that she shall\nalways look up to me as her guardian whether I care to face the\nresponsibility or not. Refuse! You might as well refuse to accept the\nembraces of a boa constrictor when once it gets round your neck.\n\nOCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is not kind to me, Jack.\n\nTANNER. [rising and going to Octavius to console him, but still\nlamenting] If he wanted a young guardian, why didn't he appoint Tavy?\n\nRAMSDEN. Ah! why indeed?\n\nOCTAVIUS. I will tell you. He sounded me about it; but I refused the\ntrust because I loved her. I had no right to let myself be forced on her\nas a guardian by her father. He spoke to her about it; and she said I\nwas right. You know I love her, Mr Ramsden; and Jack knows it too. If\nJack loved a woman, I would not compare her to a boa constrictor in his\npresence, however much I might dislike her [he sits down between the\nbusts and turns his face to the wall].\n\nRAMSDEN. I do not believe that Whitefield was in his right senses\nwhen he made that will. You have admitted that he made it under your\ninfluence.\n\nTANNER. You ought to be pretty well obliged to me for my influence. He\nleaves you two thousand five hundred for your trouble. He leaves Tavy a\ndowry for his sister and five thousand for himself.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [his tears flowing afresh] Oh, I can't take it. He was too\ngood to us.\n\nTANNER. You won't get it, my boy, if Ramsden upsets the will.\n\nRAMSDEN. Ha! I see. You have got me in a cleft stick.\n\nTANNER. He leaves me nothing but the charge of Ann's morals, on the\nground that I have already more money than is good for me. That shows\nthat he had his wits about him, doesn't it?\n\nRAMSDEN. [grimly] I admit that.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [rising and coming from his refuge by the wall] Mr Ramsden:\nI think you are prejudiced against Jack. He is a man of honor, and\nincapable of abusing--\n\nTANNER. Don't, Tavy: you'll make me ill. I am not a man of honor: I am\na man struck down by a dead hand. Tavy: you must marry her after all and\ntake her off my hands. And I had set my heart on saving you from her!\n\nOCTAVIUS. Oh, Jack, you talk of saving me from my highest happiness.\n\nTANNER. Yes, a lifetime of happiness. If it were only the first half\nhour's happiness, Tavy, I would buy it for you with my last penny. But\na lifetime of happiness! No man alive could bear it: it would be hell on\nearth.\n\nRAMSDEN. [violently] Stuff, sir. Talk sense; or else go and waste\nsomeone else's time: I have something better to do than listen to your\nfooleries [he positively kicks his way to his table and resumes his\nseat].\n\nTANNER. You hear him, Tavy! Not an idea in his head later than\neighteen-sixty. We can't leave Ann with no other guardian to turn to.\n\nRAMSDEN. I am proud of your contempt for my character and opinions, sir.\nYour own are set forth in that book, I believe.\n\nTANNER. [eagerly going to the table] What! You've got my book! What do\nyou think of it?\n\nRAMSDEN. Do you suppose I would read such a book, sir?\n\nTANNER. Then why did you buy it?\n\nRAMSDEN. I did not buy it, sir. It has been sent me by some foolish\nlady who seems to admire your views. I was about to dispose of it when\nOctavius interrupted me. I shall do so now, with your permission. [He\nthrows the book into the waste paper basket with such vehemence that\nTanner recoils under the impression that it is being thrown at his\nhead].\n\nTANNER. You have no more manners than I have myself. However, that saves\nceremony between us. [He sits down again]. What do you intend to do\nabout this will?\n\nOCTAVIUS. May I make a suggestion?\n\nRAMSDEN. Certainly, Octavius.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Aren't we forgetting that Ann herself may have some wishes in\nthis matter?\n\nRAMSDEN. I quite intend that Annie's wishes shall be consulted in every\nreasonable way. But she is only a woman, and a young and inexperienced\nwoman at that.\n\nTANNER. Ramsden: I begin to pity you.\n\nRAMSDEN. [hotly] I don't want to know how you feel towards me, Mr\nTanner.\n\nTANNER. Ann will do just exactly what she likes. And what's more, she'll\nforce us to advise her to do it; and she'll put the blame on us if it\nturns out badly. So, as Tavy is longing to see her--\n\nOCTAVIUS. [shyly] I am not, Jack.\n\nTANNER. You lie, Tavy: you are. So let's have her down from the\ndrawing-room and ask her what she intends us to do. Off with you, Tavy,\nand fetch her. [Tavy turns to go]. And don't be long for the strained\nrelations between myself and Ramsden will make the interval rather\npainful [Ramsden compresses his lips, but says nothing--].\n\nOCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Mr Ramsden. He's not serious. [He goes out].\n\nRAMSDEN [very deliberately] Mr Tanner: you are the most impudent person\nI have ever met.\n\nTANNER. [seriously] I know it, Ramsden. Yet even I cannot wholly conquer\nshame. We live in an atmosphere of shame. We are ashamed of everything\nthat is real about us; ashamed of ourselves, of our relatives, of our\nincomes, of our accents, of our opinions, of our experience, just as\nwe are ashamed of our naked skins. Good Lord, my dear Ramsden, we are\nashamed to walk, ashamed to ride in an omnibus, ashamed to hire a hansom\ninstead of keeping a carriage, ashamed of keeping one horse instead of\ntwo and a groom-gardener instead of a coachman and footman. The more\nthings a man is ashamed of, the more respectable he is. Why, you're\nashamed to buy my book, ashamed to read it: the only thing you're not\nashamed of is to judge me for it without having read it; and even that\nonly means that you're ashamed to have heterodox opinions. Look at the\neffect I produce because my fairy godmother withheld from me this gift\nof shame. I have every possible virtue that a man can have except--\n\nRAMSDEN. I am glad you think so well of yourself.\n\nTANNER. All you mean by that is that you think I ought to be ashamed of\ntalking about my virtues. You don't mean that I haven't got them: you\nknow perfectly well that I am as sober and honest a citizen as yourself,\nas truthful personally, and much more truthful politically and morally.\n\nRAMSDEN. [touched on his most sensitive point] I deny that. I will\nnot allow you or any man to treat me as if I were a mere member of\nthe British public. I detest its prejudices; I scorn its narrowness; I\ndemand the right to think for myself. You pose as an advanced man. Let\nme tell you that I was an advanced man before you were born.\n\nTANNER. I knew it was a long time ago.\n\nRAMSDEN. I am as advanced as ever I was. I defy you to prove that I have\never hauled down the flag. I am more advanced than ever I was. I grow\nmore advanced every day.\n\nTANNER. More advanced in years, Polonius.\n\nRAMSDEN. Polonius! So you are Hamlet, I suppose.\n\nTANNER. No: I am only the most impudent person you've ever met. That's\nyour notion of a thoroughly bad character. When you want to give me a\npiece of your mind, you ask yourself, as a just and upright man, what\nis the worst you can fairly say of me. Thief, liar, forger, adulterer,\nperjurer, glutton, drunkard? Not one of these names fit me. You have\nto fall back on my deficiency in shame. Well, I admit it. I even\ncongratulate myself; for if I were ashamed of my real self, I should\ncut as stupid a figure as any of the rest of you. Cultivate a little\nimpudence, Ramsden; and you will become quite a remarkable man.\n\nRAMSDEN. I have no--\n\nTANNER. You have no desire for that sort of notoriety. Bless you, I knew\nthat answer would come as well as I know that a box of matches will come\nout of an automatic machine when I put a penny in the slot: you would be\nashamed to say anything else.\n\nThe crushing retort for which Ramsden has been visibly collecting his\nforces is lost for ever; for at this point Octavius returns with Miss\nAnn Whitefield and her mother; and Ramsden springs up and hurries to the\ndoor to receive them. Whether Ann is good-looking or not depends upon\nyour taste; also and perhaps chiefly on your age and sex. To Octavius\nshe is an enchantingly beautiful woman, in whose presence the world\nbecomes transfigured, and the puny limits of individual consciousness\nare suddenly made infinite by a mystic memory of the whole life of the\nrace to its beginnings in the east, or even back to the paradise from\nwhich it fell. She is to him the reality of romance, the leaner good\nsense of nonsense, the unveiling of his eyes, the freeing of his soul,\nthe abolition of time, place and circumstance, the etherealization of\nhis blood into rapturous rivers of the very water of life itself,\nthe revelation of all the mysteries and the sanctification of all the\ndogmas. To her mother she is, to put it as moderately as possible,\nnothing whatever of the kind. Not that Octavius's admiration is in any\nway ridiculous or discreditable. Ann is a well formed creature, as far\nas that goes; and she is perfectly ladylike, graceful, and comely, with\nensnaring eyes and hair. Besides, instead of making herself an eyesore,\nlike her mother, she has devised a mourning costume of black and\nviolet silk which does honor to her late father and reveals the family\ntradition of brave unconventionality by which Ramsden sets such store.\n\nBut all this is beside the point as an explanation of Ann's charm.\nTurn up her nose, give a cast to her eye, replace her black and violet\nconfection by the apron and feathers of a flower girl, strike all the\naitches out of her speech, and Ann would still make men dream. Vitality\nis as common as humanity; but, like humanity, it sometimes rises to\ngenius; and Ann is one of the vital geniuses. Not at all, if you please,\nan oversexed person: that is a vital defect, not a true excess. She is\na perfectly respectable, perfectly self-controlled woman, and looks\nit; though her pose is fashionably frank and impulsive. She inspires\nconfidence as a person who will do nothing she does not mean to do; also\nsome fear, perhaps, as a woman who will probably do everything she means\nto do without taking more account of other people than may be necessary\nand what she calls right. In short, what the weaker of her own sex\nsometimes call a cat.\n\nNothing can be more decorous than her entry and her reception by\nRamsden, whom she kisses. The late Mr Whitefield would be gratified\nalmost to impatience by the long faces of the men (except Tanner, who is\nfidgety), the silent handgrasps, the sympathetic placing of chairs, the\nsniffing of the widow, and the liquid eye of the daughter, whose heart,\napparently, will not let her control her tongue to speech. Ramsden and\nOctavius take the two chairs from the wall, and place them for the two\nladies; but Ann comes to Tanner and takes his chair, which he offers\nwith a brusque gesture, subsequently relieving his irritation by sitting\ndown on the corner of the writing table with studied indecorum. Octavius\ngives Mrs Whitefield a chair next Ann, and himself takes the vacant\none which Ramsden has placed under the nose of the effigy of Mr Herbert\nSpencer.\n\nMrs Whitefield, by the way, is a little woman, whose faded flaxen hair\nlooks like straw on an egg. She has an expression of muddled shrewdness,\na squeak of protest in her voice, and an odd air of continually elbowing\naway some larger person who is crushing her into a corner. One guesses\nher as one of those women who are conscious of being treated as silly\nand negligible, and who, without having strength enough to assert\nthemselves effectually, at any rate never submit to their fate. There\nis a touch of chivalry in Octavius's scrupulous attention to her, even\nwhilst his whole soul is absorbed by Ann.\n\nRamsden goes solemnly back to his magisterial seat at the writing table,\nignoring Tanner, and opens the proceedings.\n\nRAMSDEN. I am sorry, Annie, to force business on you at a sad time like\nthe present. But your poor dear father's will has raised a very serious\nquestion. You have read it, I believe?\n\n[Ann assents with a nod and a catch of her breath, too much affected to\nspeak].\n\nI must say I am surprised to find Mr Tanner named as joint guardian\nand trustee with myself of you and Rhoda. [A pause. They all look\nportentous; but they have nothing to say. Ramsden, a little ruffled by\nthe lack of any response, continues] I don't know that I can consent to\nact under such conditions. Mr Tanner has, I understand, some objection\nalso; but I do not profess to understand its nature: he will no doubt\nspeak for himself. But we are agreed that we can decide nothing until we\nknow your views. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to choose between\nmy sole guardianship and that of Mr Tanner; for I fear it is impossible\nfor us to undertake a joint arrangement.\n\nANN. [in a low musical voice] Mamma--\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [hastily] Now, Ann, I do beg you not to put it on me. I\nhave no opinion on the subject; and if I had, it would probably not be\nattended to. I am quite with whatever you three think best.\n\nTanner turns his head and looks fixedly at Ramsden, who angrily refuses\nto receive this mute communication.\n\nANN. [resuming in the same gentle voice, ignoring her mother's bad\ntaste] Mamma knows that she is not strong enough to bear the whole\nresponsibility for me and Rhoda without some help and advice. Rhoda\nmust have a guardian; and though I am older, I do not think any young\nunmarried woman should be left quite to her own guidance. I hope you\nagree with me, Granny?\n\nTANNER. [starting] Granny! Do you intend to call your guardians Granny?\n\nANN. Don't be foolish, Jack. Mr Ramsden has always been Grandpapa\nRoebuck to me: I am Granny's Annie; and he is Annie's Granny. I\nchristened him so when I first learned to speak.\n\nRAMSDEN. [sarcastically] I hope you are satisfied, Mr Tanner. Go on,\nAnnie: I quite agree with you.\n\nANN. Well, if I am to have a guardian, CAN I set aside anybody whom my\ndear father appointed for me?\n\nRAMSDEN. [biting his lip] You approve of your father's choice, then?\n\nANN. It is not for me to approve or disapprove. I accept it. My father\nloved me and knew best what was good for me.\n\nRAMSDEN. Of course I understand your feeling, Annie. It is what I should\nhave expected of you; and it does you credit. But it does not settle the\nquestion so completely as you think. Let me put a case to you. Suppose\nyou were to discover that I had been guilty of some disgraceful\naction--that I was not the man your poor dear father took me for. Would\nyou still consider it right that I should be Rhoda's guardian?\n\nANN. I can't imagine you doing anything disgraceful, Granny.\n\nTANNER. [to Ramsden] You haven't done anything of the sort, have you?\n\nRAMSDEN. [indignantly] No sir.\n\nMRS. WHITEFIELD. [placidly] Well, then, why suppose it?\n\nANN. You see, Granny, Mamma would not like me to suppose it.\n\nRAMSDEN. [much perplexed] You are both so full of natural and\naffectionate feeling in these family matters that it is very hard to put\nthe situation fairly before you.\n\nTANNER. Besides, my friend, you are not putting the situation fairly\nbefore them.\n\nRAMSDEN. [sulkily] Put it yourself, then.\n\nTANNER. I will. Ann: Ramsden thinks I am not fit be your guardian; and I\nquite agree with him. He considers that if your father had read my book,\nhe wouldn't have appointed me. That book is the disgraceful action he\nhas been talking about. He thinks it's your duty for Rhoda's sake to ask\nhim to act alone and to make me withdraw. Say the word and I will.\n\nANN. But I haven't read your book, Jack.\n\nTANNER. [diving at the waste-paper basket and fishing the book out for\nher] Then read it at once and decide.\n\nRAMSDEN. If I am to be your guardian, I positively forbid you to read\nthat book, Annie. [He smites the table with his fist and rises].\n\nANN. Of course, if you don't wish it. [She puts the book on the table].\n\nTANNER. If one guardian is to forbid you to read the other guardian's\nbook, how are we to settle it? Suppose I order you to read it! What\nabout your duty to me?\n\nANN. [gently] I am sure you would never purposely force me into a\npainful dilemma, Jack.\n\nRAMSDEN. [irritably] Yes, yes, Annie: this is all very well, and, as I\nsaid, quite natural and becoming. But you must make a choice one way or\nthe other. We are as much in a dilemma as you.\n\nANN. I feel that I am too young, too inexperienced, to decide. My\nfather's wishes are sacred to me.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. If you two men won't carry them out I must say it is\nrather hard that you should put the responsibility on Ann. It seems to\nme that people are always putting things on other people in this world.\n\nRAMSDEN. I am sorry you take it that way.\n\nANN. [touchingly] Do you refuse to accept me as your ward, Granny?\n\nRAMSDEN. No: I never said that. I greatly object to act with Mr Tanner:\nthat's all.\n\nMRS. WHITEFIELD. Why? What's the matter with poor Jack?\n\nTANNER. My views are too advanced for him.\n\nRAMSDEN. [indignantly] They are not. I deny it.\n\nANN. Of course not. What nonsense! Nobody is more advanced than Granny.\nI am sure it is Jack himself who has made all the difficulty. Come,\nJack! Be kind to me in my sorrow. You don't refuse to accept me as your\nward, do you?\n\nTANNER. [gloomily] No. I let myself in for it; so I suppose I must face\nit. [He turns away to the bookcase, and stands there, moodily studying\nthe titles of the volumes].\n\nANN. [rising and expanding with subdued but gushing delight] Then we are\nall agreed; and my dear father's will is to be carried out. You don't\nknow what a joy that is to me and to my mother! [She goes to Ramsden and\npresses both his hands, saying] And I shall have my dear Granny to help\nand advise me. [She casts a glance at Tanner over her shoulder]. And\nJack the Giant Killer. [She goes past her mother to Octavius]. And\nJack's inseparable friend Ricky-ticky-tavy [he blushes and looks\ninexpressibly foolish].\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [rising and shaking her widow's weeds straight] Now that\nyou are Ann's guardian, Mr Ramsden, I wish you would speak to her about\nher habit of giving people nicknames. They can't be expected to like it.\n[She moves towards the door].\n\nANN. How can you say such a thing, Mamma! [Glowing with affectionate\nremorse] Oh, I wonder can you be right! Have I been inconsiderate? [She\nturns to Octavius, who is sitting astride his chair with his elbows on\nthe back of it. Putting her hand on his forehead she turns his face up\nsuddenly]. Do you want to be treated like a grown up man? Must I call\nyou Mr Robinson in future?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [earnestly] Oh please call me Ricky-ticky-tavy, \"Mr Robinson\"\nwould hurt me cruelly. [She laughs and pats his cheek with her finger;\nthen comes back to Ramsden]. You know I'm beginning to think that Granny\nis rather a piece of impertinence. But I never dreamt of its hurting\nyou.\n\nRAMSDEN. [breezily, as he pats her affectionately on the back] My dear\nAnnie, nonsense. I insist on Granny. I won't answer to any other name\nthan Annie's Granny.\n\nANN. [gratefully] You all spoil me, except Jack.\n\nTANNER. [over his shoulder, from the bookcase] I think you ought to call\nme Mr Tanner.\n\nANN. [gently] No you don't, Jack. That's like the things you say on\npurpose to shock people: those who know you pay no attention to them.\nBut, if you like, I'll call you after your famous ancestor Don Juan.\n\nRAMSDEN. Don Juan!\n\nANN. [innocently] Oh, is there any harm in it? I didn't know. Then I\ncertainly won't call you that. May I call you Jack until I can think of\nsomething else?\n\nTANKER. Oh, for Heaven's sake don't try to invent anything worse. I\ncapitulate. I consent to Jack. I embrace Jack. Here endeth my first and\nlast attempt to assert my authority.\n\nANN. You see, Mamma, they all really like to have pet names.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Well, I think you might at least drop them until we are\nout of mourning.\n\nANN. [reproachfully, stricken to the soul] Oh, how could you remind me,\nmother? [She hastily leaves the room to conceal her emotion].\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Of course. My fault as usual! [She follows Ann].\n\nTANNER. [coming from the bockcase] Ramsden: we're\nbeaten--smashed--nonentitized, like her mother.\n\nRAMSDEN. Stuff, Sir. [He follows Mrs Whitefield out of the room].\n\nTANNER. [left alone with Octavius, stares whimsically at him] Tavy: do\nyou want to count for something in the world?\n\nOCTAVIUS. I want to count for something as a poet: I want to write a\ngreat play.\n\nTANNER. With Ann as the heroine?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes: I confess it.\n\nTANNER. Take care, Tavy. The play with Ann as the heroine is all right;\nbut if you're not very careful, by Heaven she'll marry you.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [sighing] No such luck, Jack!\n\nTANNER. Why, man, your head is in the lioness's mouth: you are half\nswallowed already--in three bites--Bite One, Ricky; Bite Two, Ticky;\nBite Three, Tavy; and down you go.\n\nOCTAVIUS. She is the same to everybody, Jack: you know her ways.\n\nTANNER. Yes: she breaks everybody's back with the stroke of her paw; but\nthe question is, which of us will she eat? My own opinion is that she\nmeans to eat you.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [rising, pettishly] It's horrible to talk like that about her\nwhen she is upstairs crying for her father. But I do so want her to eat\nme that I can bear your brutalities because they give me hope.\n\nTANNER. Tavy; that's the devilish side of a woman's fascination: she\nmakes you will your own destruction.\n\nOCTAVIUS. But it's not destruction: it's fulfilment.\n\nTANNER. Yes, of HER purpose; and that purpose is neither her happiness\nnor yours, but Nature's. Vitality in a woman is a blind fury of\ncreation. She sacrifices herself to it: do you think she will hesitate\nto sacrifice you?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Why, it is just because she is self-sacrificing that she will\nnot sacrifice those she loves.\n\nTANNER. That is the profoundest of mistakes, Tavy. It is the\nself-sacrificing women that sacrifice others most recklessly. Because\nthey are unselfish, they are kind in little things. Because they have a\npurpose which is not their own purpose, but that of the whole universe,\na man is nothing to them but an instrument of that purpose.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Don't be ungenerous, Jack. They take the tenderest care of us.\n\nTANNER. Yes, as a soldier takes care of his rifle or a musician of his\nviolin. But do they allow us any purpose or freedom of our own? Will\nthey lend us to one another? Can the strongest man escape from them when\nonce he is appropriated? They tremble when we are in danger, and weep\nwhen we die; but the tears are not for us, but for a father wasted, a\nson's breeding thrown away. They accuse us of treating them as a mere\nmeans to our pleasure; but how can so feeble and transient a folly as\na man's selfish pleasure enslave a woman as the whole purpose of Nature\nembodied in a woman can enslave a man?\n\nOCTAVIUS. What matter, if the slavery makes us happy?\n\nTANNER. No matter at all if you have no purpose of your own, and are,\nlike most men, a mere breadwinner. But you, Tavy, are an artist: that\nis, you have a purpose as absorbing and as unscrupulous as a woman's\npurpose.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Not unscrupulous.\n\nTANNER. Quite unscrupulous. The true artist will let his wife starve,\nhis children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at\nseventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half\nvivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to\nstudy them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their\ninmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest\ncreative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see\nvisions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades\nwomen that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means\nthem to do it for his. He steals the mother's milk and blackens it to\nmake printer's ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He\npretends to spare her the pangs of childbearing so that he may have\nfor himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her\nchildren. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a\nbad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a bloodsucker, a\nhypocrite and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if\nonly the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint\na finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder\nphilosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist's work is to show us\nourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of\nourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as\nsurely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he\nis as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and\nas horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so\ntreacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man\nand the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue\nbetween them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist\ncant, they love one another.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Even if it were so--and I don't admit it for a moment--it is\nout of the deadliest struggles that we get the noblest characters.\n\nTANNER. Remember that the next time you meet a grizzly bear or a Bengal\ntiger, Tavy.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I meant where there is love, Jack.\n\nTANNER. Oh, the tiger will love you. There is no love sincerer than the\nlove of food. I think Ann loves you that way: she patted your cheek as\nif it were a nicely underdone chop.\n\nOCTAVIUS. You know, Jack, I should have to run away from you if I did\nnot make it a fixed rule not to mind anything you say. You come out with\nperfectly revolting things sometimes.\n\nRamsden returns, followed by Ann. They come in quickly, with their\nformer leisurely air of decorous grief changed to one of genuine\nconcern, and, on Ramsden's part, of worry. He comes between the two men,\nintending to address Octavius, but pulls himself up abruptly as he sees\nTanner.\n\nRAMSDEN. I hardly expected to find you still here, Mr Tanner.\n\nTANNER. Am I in the way? Good morning, fellow guardian [he goes towards\nthe door].\n\nANN. Stop, Jack. Granny: he must know, sooner or later.\n\nRAMSDEN. Octavius: I have a very serious piece of news for you. It is of\nthe most private and delicate nature--of the most painful nature too, I\nam sorry to say. Do you wish Mr Tanner to be present whilst I explain?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [turning pale] I have no secrets from Jack.\n\nRAMSDEN. Before you decide that finally, let me say that the news\nconcerns your sister, and that it is terrible news.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Violet! What has happened? Is she--dead?\n\nRAMSDEN. I am not sure that it is not even worse than that.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Is she badly hurt? Has there been an accident?\n\nRAMSDEN. No: nothing of that sort.\n\nTANNER. Ann: will you have the common humanity to tell us what the\nmatter is?\n\nANN. [half whispering] I can't. Violet has done something dreadful. We\nshall have to get her away somewhere. [She flutters to the writing\ntable and sits in Ramsden's chair, leaving the three men to fight it out\nbetween them].\n\nOCTAVIUS. [enlightened] Is that what you meant, Mr Ramsden?\n\nRAMSDEN. Yes. [Octavius sinks upon a chair, crushed]. I am afraid there\nis no doubt that Violet did not really go to Eastbourne three weeks ago\nwhen we thought she was with the Parry Whitefields. And she called on a\nstrange doctor yesterday with a wedding ring on her finger. Mrs. Parry\nWhitefield met her there by chance; and so the whole thing came out.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [rising with his fists clenched] Who is the scoundrel?\n\nANN. She won't tell us.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [collapsing upon his chair again] What a frightful thing!\n\nTANNER. [with angry sarcasm] Dreadful. Appalling. Worse than death, as\nRamsden says. [He comes to Octavius]. What would you not give, Tavy, to\nturn it into a railway accident, with all her bones broken or something\nequally respectable and deserving of sympathy?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Don't be brutal, Jack.\n\nTANNER. Brutal! Good Heavens, man, what are you crying for? Here is\na woman whom we all supposed to be making bad water color sketches,\npractising Grieg and Brahms, gadding about to concerts and parties,\nwasting her life and her money. We suddenly learn that she has turned\nfrom these sillinesses to the fulfilment of her highest purpose and\ngreatest function--to increase, multiply and replenish the earth. And\ninstead of admiring her courage and rejoicing in her instinct; instead\nof crowning the completed womanhood and raising the triumphal strain of\n\"Unto us a child is born: unto us a son is given,\" here you are--you who\nhave been as merry as Brigs in your mourning for the dead--all pulling\nlong faces and looking as ashamed and disgraced as if the girl had\ncommitted the vilest of crimes.\n\nRAMSDEN. [roaring with rage] I will not have these abominations uttered\nin my house [he smites the writing table with his fist].\n\nTANNER. Look here: if you insult me again I'll take you at your word and\nleave your house. Ann: where is Violet now?\n\nANN. Why? Are you going to her?\n\nTANNER. Of course I am going to her. She wants help; she wants money;\nshe wants respect and congratulation. She wants every chance for her\nchild. She does not seem likely to get it from you: she shall from me.\nWhere is she?\n\nANN. Don't be so headstrong, Jack. She's upstairs.\n\nTANNER. What! Under Ramsden's sacred roof! Go and do your miserable\nduty, Ramsden. Hunt her out into the street. Cleanse your threshold from\nher contamination. Vindicate the purity of your English home. I'll go\nfor a cab.\n\nANN. [alarmed] Oh, Granny, you mustn't do that.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [broken-heartedly, rising] I'll take her away, Mr Ramsden. She\nhad no right to come to your house.\n\nRAMSDEN. [indignantly] But I am only too anxious to help her. [turning\non Tanner] How dare you, sir, impute such monstrous intentions to me?\nI protest against it. I am ready to put down my last penny to save her\nfrom being driven to run to you for protection.\n\nTANNER. [subsiding] It's all right, then. He's not going to act up to\nhis principles. It's agreed that we all stand by Violet.\n\nOCTAVIUS. But who is the man? He can make reparation by marrying her;\nand he shall, or he shall answer for it to me.\n\nRAMSDEN. He shall, Octavius. There you speak like a man.\n\nTANNER. Then you don't think him a scoundrel, after all?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Not a scoundrel! He is a heartless scoundrel.\n\nRAMSDEN. A damned scoundrel. I beg your pardon, Annie; but I can say no\nless.\n\nTANNER. So we are to marry your sister to a damned scoundrel by way of\nreforming her character! On my soul, I think you are all mad.\n\nANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Of course you are quite right, Tavy; but we\ndon't know who he is: Violet won't tell us.\n\nTANNER. What on earth does it matter who he is? He's done his part; and\nViolet must do the rest.\n\nRAMSDEN. [beside himself] Stuff! lunacy! There is a rascal in our midst,\na libertine, a villain worse than a murderer; and we are not to\nlearn who he is! In our ignorance we are to shake him by the hand; to\nintroduce him into our homes; to trust our daughters with him; to--to--\n\nANN. [coaxingly] There, Granny, don't talk so loud. It's most shocking:\nwe must all admit that; but if Violet won't tell us, what can we do?\nNothing. Simply nothing.\n\nRAMSDEN. Hmph! I'm not so sure of that. If any man has paid Violet any\nspecial attention, we can easily find that out. If there is any man of\nnotoriously loose principles among us--\n\nTANNER. Ahem!\n\nRAMSDEN. [raising his voice] Yes sir, I repeat, if there is any man of\nnotoriously loose principles among us--\n\nTANNER. Or any man notoriously lacking in self-control.\n\nRAMSDEN. [aghast] Do you dare to suggest that I am capable of such an\nact?\n\nTANNER. My dear Ramsden, this is an act of which every man is capable.\nThat is what comes of getting at cross purposes with Nature. The\nsuspicion you have just flung at me clings to us all. It's a sort of mud\nthat sticks to the judge's ermine or the cardinal's robe as fast as to\nthe rags of the tramp. Come, Tavy: don't look so bewildered: it might\nhave been me: it might have been Ramsden; just as it might have been\nanybody. If it had, what could we do but lie and protest as Ramsden is\ngoing to protest.\n\nRAMSDEN. [choking] I--I--I--\n\nTANNER. Guilt itself could not stammer more confusedly, And yet you know\nperfectly well he's innocent, Tavy.\n\nRAMSDEN. [exhausted] I am glad you admit that, sir. I admit, myself,\nthat there is an element of truth in what you say, grossly as you\nmay distort it to gratify your malicious humor. I hope, Octavius, no\nsuspicion of me is possible in your mind.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Of you! No, not for a moment.\n\nTANNER. [drily] I think he suspects me just a little.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Jack: you couldn't--you wouldn't--\n\nTANNER. Why not?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [appalled] Why not!\n\nTANNER. Oh, well, I'll tell you why not. First, you would feel bound\nto quarrel with me. Second, Violet doesn't like me. Third, if I had\nthe honor of being the father of Violet's child, I should boast of it\ninstead of denying it. So be easy: our Friendship is not in danger.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I should have put away the suspicion with horror if only you\nwould think and feel naturally about it. I beg your pardon.\n\nTANNER. MY pardon! nonsense! And now let's sit down and have a family\ncouncil. [He sits down. The rest follow his example, more or less under\nprotest]. Violet is going to do the State a service; consequently she\nmust be packed abroad like a criminal until it's over. What's happening\nupstairs?\n\nANN. Violet is in the housekeeper's room--by herself, of course.\n\nTANNER. Why not in the drawingroom?\n\nANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Miss Ramsden is in the drawingroom with my\nmother, considering what to do.\n\nTANNER. Oh! the housekeeper's room is the penitentiary, I suppose; and\nthe prisoner is waiting to be brought before her judges. The old cats!\n\nANN. Oh, Jack!\n\nRAMSDEN. You are at present a guest beneath the roof of one of the old\ncats, sir. My sister is the mistress of this house.\n\nTANNER. She would put me in the housekeeper's room, too, if she dared,\nRamsden. However, I withdraw cats. Cats would have more sense. Ann: as\nyour guardian, I order you to go to Violet at once and be particularly\nkind to her.\n\nANN. I have seen her, Jack. And I am sorry to say I am afraid she is\ngoing to be rather obstinate about going abroad. I think Tavy ought to\nspeak to her about it.\n\nOCTAVIUS. How can I speak to her about such a thing [he breaks down]?\n\nANN. Don't break down, Ricky. Try to bear it for all our sakes.\n\nRAMSDEN. Life is not all plays and poems, Octavius. Come! face it like a\nman.\n\nTANNER. [chafing again] Poor dear brother! Poor dear friends of the\nfamily! Poor dear Tabbies and Grimalkins. Poor dear everybody except the\nwoman who is going to risk her life to create another life! Tavy: don't\nyou be a selfish ass. Away with you and talk to Violet; and bring her\ndown here if she cares to come. [Octavius rises]. Tell her we'll stand\nby her.\n\nRAMSDEN. [rising] No, sir--\n\nTANNER. [rising also and interrupting him] Oh, we understand: it's\nagainst your conscience; but still you'll do it.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I assure you all, on my word, I never meant to be selfish.\nIt's so hard to know what to do when one wishes earnestly to do right.\n\nTANNER. My dear Tavy, your pious English habit of regarding the world\nas a moral gymnasium built expressly to strengthen your character in,\noccasionally leads you to think about your own confounded principles\nwhen you should be thinking about other people's necessities. The need\nof the present hour is a happy mother and a healthy baby. Bend your\nenergies on that; and you will see your way clearly enough.\n\nOctavius, much perplexed, goes out.\n\nRAMSDEN. [facing Tanner impressively] And Morality, sir? What is to\nbecome of that?\n\nTANNER. Meaning a weeping Magdalen and an innocent child branded with\nher shame. Not in our circle, thank you. Morality can go to its father\nthe devil.\n\nRAMSDEN. I thought so, sir. Morality sent to the devil to please our\nlibertines, male and female. That is to be the future of England, is it?\n\nTANNER. Oh, England will survive your disapproval. Meanwhile, I\nunderstand that you agree with me as to the practical course we are to\ntake?\n\nRAMSDEN. Not in your spirit sir. Not for your reasons.\n\nTANNER. You can explain that if anybody calls you to account, here or\nhereafter. [He turns away, and plants himself in front of Mr Herbert\nSpencer, at whom he stares gloomily].\n\nANN. [rising and coming to Ramsden] Granny: hadn't you better go up to\nthe drawingroom and tell them what we intend to do?\n\nRAMSDEN. [looking pointedly at Tanner] I hardly like to leave you alone\nwith this gentleman. Will you not come with me?\n\nANN. Miss Ramsden would not like to speak about it before me, Granny. I\nought not to be present.\n\nRAMSDEN. You are right: I should have thought of that. You are a good\ngirl, Annie.\n\nHe pats her on the shoulder. She looks up at him with beaming eyes and\nhe goes out, much moved. Having disposed of him, she looks at Tanner.\nHis back being turned to her, she gives a moment's attention to her\npersonal appearance, then softly goes to him and speaks almost into his\near.\n\nANN. Jack [he turns with a start]: are you glad that you are my\nguardian? You don't mind being made responsible for me, I hope.\n\nTANNER. The latest addition to your collection of scapegoats, eh?\n\nANN. Oh, that stupid old joke of yours about me! Do please drop it. Why\ndo you say things that you know must pain me? I do my best to please\nyou, Jack: I suppose I may tell you so now that you are my guardian. You\nwill make me so unhappy if you refuse to be friends with me.\n\nTANNER. [studying her as gloomily as he studied the dust] You need not\ngo begging for my regard. How unreal our moral judgments are! You seem\nto me to have absolutely no conscience--only hypocrisy; and you can't\nsee the difference--yet there is a sort of fascination about you. I\nalways attend to you, somehow. I should miss you if I lost you.\n\nANN. [tranquilly slipping her arm into his and walking about with him]\nBut isn't that only natural, Jack? We have known each other since we\nwere children. Do you remember?\n\nTANNER. [abruptly breaking loose] Stop! I remember EVERYTHING.\n\nANN. Oh, I daresay we were often very silly; but--\n\nTANNER. I won't have it, Ann. I am no more that schoolboy now than I\nam the dotard of ninety I shall grow into if I live long enough. It is\nover: let me forget it.\n\nANN. Wasn't it a happy time? [She attempts to take his arm again].\n\nTANNER. Sit down and behave yourself. [He makes her sit down in the\nchair next the writing table]. No doubt it was a happy time for you. You\nwere a good girl and never compromised yourself. And yet the wickedest\nchild that ever was slapped could hardly have had a better time. I can\nunderstand the success with which you bullied the other girls: your\nvirtue imposed on them. But tell me this: did you ever know a good boy?\n\nANN. Of course. All boys are foolish sometimes; but Tavy was always a\nreally good boy.\n\nTANNER. [struck by this] Yes: you're right. For some reason you never\ntempted Tavy.\n\nANN. Tempted! Jack!\n\nTANNER. Yes, my dear Lady Mephistopheles, tempted. You were insatiably\ncurious as to what a boy might be capable of, and diabolically clever at\ngetting through his guard and surprising his inmost secrets.\n\nANN. What nonsense! All because you used to tell me long stories of the\nwicked things you had done--silly boys tricks! And you call such things\ninmost secrets: Boys' secrets are just like men's; and you know what\nthey are!\n\nTANNER. [obstinately] No I don't. What are they, pray?\n\nANN. Why, the things they tell everybody, of course.\n\nTANNER. Now I swear I told you things I told no one else. You lured me\ninto a compact by which we were to have no secrets from one another. We\nwere to tell one another everything, I didn't notice that you never told\nme anything.\n\nANN. You didn't want to talk about me, Jack. You wanted to talk about\nyourself.\n\nTANNER. Ah, true, horribly true. But what a devil of a child you must\nhave been to know that weakness and to play on it for the satisfaction\nof your own curiosity! I wanted to brag to you, to make myself\ninteresting. And I found myself doing all sorts of mischievous things\nsimply to have something to tell you about. I fought with boys I didn't\nhate; I lied about things I might just as well have told the truth\nabout; I stole things I didn't want; I kissed little girls I didn't care\nfor. It was all bravado: passionless and therefore unreal.\n\nANN. I never told of you, Jack.\n\nTANNER. No; but if you had wanted to stop me you would have told of me.\nYou wanted me to go on.\n\nANN. [flashing out] Oh, that's not true: it's NOT true, Jack. I never\nwanted you to do those dull, disappointing, brutal, stupid, vulgar\nthings. I always hoped that it would be something really heroic at last.\n[Recovering herself] Excuse me, Jack; but the things you did were never\na bit like the things I wanted you to do. They often gave me great\nuneasiness; but I could not tell on you and get you into trouble. And\nyou were only a boy. I knew you would grow out of them. Perhaps I was\nwrong.\n\nTANNER. [sardonically] Do not give way to remorse, Ann. At least\nnineteen twentieths of the exploits I confessed to you were pure lies. I\nsoon noticed that you didn't like the true stories.\n\nANN. Of course I knew that some of the things couldn't have happened.\nBut--\n\nTANNER. You are going to remind me that some of the most disgraceful\nones did.\n\nANN. [fondly, to his great terror] I don't want to remind you of\nanything. But I knew the people they happened to, and heard about them.\n\nTANNER. Yes; but even the true stories were touched up for telling.\nA sensitive boy's humiliations may be very good fun for ordinary\nthickskinned grown-ups; but to the boy himself they are so acute,\nso ignominious, that he cannot confess them--cannot but deny them\npassionately. However, perhaps it was as well for me that I romanced a\nbit; for, on the one occasion when I told you the truth, you threatened\nto tell of me.\n\nANN. Oh, never. Never once.\n\nTANNER. Yes, you did. Do you remember a dark-eyed girl named Rachel\nRosetree? [Ann's brows contract for an instant involuntarily]. I got up\na love affair with her; and we met one night in the garden and walked\nabout very uncomfortably with our arms round one another, and kissed at\nparting, and were most conscientiously romantic. If that love affair had\ngone on, it would have bored me to death; but it didn't go on; for the\nnext thing that happened was that Rachel cut me because she found out\nthat I had told you. How did she find it out? From you. You went to her\nand held the guilty secret over her head, leading her a life of abject\nterror and humiliation by threatening to tell on her.\n\nANN. And a very good thing for her, too. It was my duty to stop her\nmisconduct; and she is thankful to me for it now.\n\nTANNER. Is she?\n\nANN. She ought to be, at all events.\n\nTANNER. It was not your duty to stop my misconduct, I suppose.\n\nANN. I did stop it by stopping her.\n\nTANNER. Are you sure of that? You stopped my telling you about my\nadventures; but how do you know that you stopped the adventures?\n\nANN. Do you mean to say that you went on in the same way with other\ngirls?\n\nTANNER. No. I had enough of that sort of romantic tomfoolery with\nRachel.\n\nANN. [unconvinced] Then why did you break off our confidences and become\nquite strange to me?\n\nTANNER. [enigmatically] It happened just then that I got something that\nI wanted to keep all to myself instead of sharing it with you.\n\nANN. I am sure I shouldn't have asked for any of it if you had grudged\nit.\n\nTANNER. It wasn't a box of sweets, Ann. It was something you'd never\nhave let me call my own.\n\nANN. [incredulously] What?\n\nTANNER. My soul.\n\nANN. Oh, do be sensible, Jack. You know you're talking nonsense.\n\nTANNER. The most solemn earnest, Ann. You didn't notice at that time\nthat you were getting a soul too. But you were. It was not for nothing\nthat you suddenly found you had a moral duty to chastise and reform\nRachel. Up to that time you had traded pretty extensively in being a\ngood child; but you had never set up a sense of duty to others. Well, I\nset one up too. Up to that time I had played the boy buccaneer with no\nmore conscience than a fox in a poultry farm. But now I began to have\nscruples, to feel obligations, to find that veracity and honor were no\nlonger goody-goody expressions in the mouths of grown up people, but\ncompelling principles in myself.\n\nANN. [quietly] Yes, I suppose you're right. You were beginning to be a\nman, and I to be a woman.\n\nTANNER. Are you sure it was not that we were beginning to be something\nmore? What does the beginning of manhood and womanhood mean in most\npeople's mouths? You know: it means the beginning of love. But love\nbegan long before that for me. Love played its part in the earliest\ndreams and follies and romances I can remember--may I say the earliest\nfollies and romances we can remember?--though we did not understand it\nat the time. No: the change that came to me was the birth in me of moral\npassion; and I declare that according to my experience moral passion is\nthe only real passion.\n\nANN. All passions ought to be moral, Jack.\n\nTANNER. Ought! Do you think that anything is strong enough to impose\noughts on a passion except a stronger passion still?\n\nANN. Our moral sense controls passion, Jack. Don't be stupid.\n\nTANNER. Our moral sense! And is that not a passion? Is the devil to\nhave all the passions as well as all the good times? If it were not a\npassion--if it were not the mightiest of the passions, all the other\npassions would sweep it away like a leaf before a hurricane. It is the\nbirth of that passion that turns a child into a man.\n\nANN. There are other passions, Jack. Very strong ones.\n\nTANNER. All the other passions were in me before; but they were idle\nand aimless--mere childish greedinesses and cruelties, curiosities\nand fancies, habits and superstitions, grotesque and ridiculous to the\nmature intelligence. When they suddenly began to shine like newly lit\nflames it was by no light of their own, but by the radiance of the\ndawning moral passion. That passion dignified them, gave them conscience\nand meaning, found them a mob of appetites and organized them into an\narmy of purposes and principles. My soul was born of that passion.\n\nANN. I noticed that you got more sense. You were a dreadfully\ndestructive boy before that.\n\nTANNER. Destructive! Stuff! I was only mischievous.\n\nANN. Oh Jack, you were very destructive. You ruined all the young fir\ntrees by chopping off their leaders with a wooden sword. You broke all\nthe cucumber frames with your catapult. You set fire to the common: the\npolice arrested Tavy for it because he ran away when he couldn't stop\nyou. You--\n\nTANNER. Pooh! pooh! pooh! these were battles, bombardments, stratagems\nto save our scalps from the red Indians. You have no imagination, Ann. I\nam ten times more destructive now than I was then. The moral passion has\ntaken my destructiveness in hand and directed it to moral ends. I have\nbecome a reformer, and, like all reformers, an iconoclast. I no longer\nbreak cucumber frames and burn gorse bushes: I shatter creeds and\ndemolish idols.\n\nANN. [bored] I am afraid I am too feminine to see any sense in\ndestruction. Destruction can only destroy.\n\nTANNER. Yes. That is why it is so useful. Construction cumbers the\nground with institutions made by busybodies. Destruction clears it and\ngives us breathing space and liberty.\n\nANN. It's no use, Jack. No woman will agree with you there.\n\nTANNER. That's because you confuse construction and destruction with\ncreation and murder. They're quite different: I adore creation and abhor\nmurder. Yes: I adore it in tree and flower, in bird and beast, even\nin you. [A flush of interest and delight suddenly clears the growing\nperplexity and boredom from her face]. It was the creative instinct that\nled you to attach me to you by bonds that have left their mark on me\nto this day. Yes, Ann: the old childish compact between us was an\nunconscious love compact.\n\nANN. Jack!\n\nTANNER. Oh, don't be alarmed--\n\nANN. I am not alarmed.\n\nTANNER. [whimsically] Then you ought to be: where are your principles?\n\nANN. Jack: are you serious or are you not?\n\nTANNER. Do you mean about the moral passion?\n\nANN. No, no; the other one. [Confused] Oh! you are so silly; one never\nknows how to take you.\n\nTANNER. You must take me quite seriously. I am your guardian; and it is\nmy duty to improve your mind.\n\nANN. The love compact is over, then, is it? I suppose you grew tired of\nme?\n\nTANNER. No; but the moral passion made our childish relations\nimpossible. A jealous sense of my new individuality arose in me.\n\nANN. You hated to be treated as a boy any longer. Poor Jack!\n\nTANNER. Yes, because to be treated as a boy was to be taken on the old\nfooting. I had become a new person; and those who knew the old person\nlaughed at me. The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor: he took\nmy measure anew every time he saw me, whilst all the rest went on with\ntheir old measurements and expected them to fit me.\n\nANN. You became frightfully self-conscious.\n\nTANNER. When you go to heaven, Ann, you will be frightfully conscious of\nyour wings for the first year or so. When you meet your relatives there,\nand they persist in treating you as if you were still a mortal, you will\nnot be able to bear them. You will try to get into a circle which has\nnever known you except as an angel.\n\nANN. So it was only your vanity that made you run away from us after\nall?\n\nTANNER. Yes, only my vanity, as you call it.\n\nANN. You need not have kept away from ME on that account.\n\nTANNER. From you above all others. You fought harder than anybody\nagainst my emancipation.\n\nANN. [earnestly] Oh, how wrong you are! I would have done anything for\nyou.\n\nTANNER. Anything except let me get loose from you. Even then you had\nacquired by instinct that damnable woman's trick of heaping obligations\non a man, of placing yourself so entirely and helplessly at his mercy\nthat at last he dare not take a step without running to you for leave.\nI know a poor wretch whose one desire in life is to run away from his\nwife. She prevents him by threatening to throw herself in front of the\nengine of the train he leaves her in. That is what all women do. If we\ntry to go where you do not want us to go there is no law to prevent us,\nbut when we take the first step your breasts are under our foot as it\ndescends: your bodies are under our wheels as we start. No woman shall\never enslave me in that way.\n\nANN. But, Jack, you cannot get through life without considering other\npeople a little.\n\nTANNER. Ay; but what other people? It is this consideration of other\npeople or rather this cowardly fear of them which we call consideration\nthat makes us the sentimental slaves we are. To consider you, as you\ncall it, is to substitute your will for my own. How if it be a baser\nwill than mine? Are women taught better than men or worse? Are mobs of\nvoters taught better than statesmen or worse? Worse, of course, in both\ncases. And then what sort of world are you going to get, with its public\nmen considering its voting mobs, and its private men considering their\nwives? What does Church and State mean nowadays? The Woman and the\nRatepayer.\n\nANN. [placidly] I am so glad you understand politics, Jack: it will\nbe most useful to you if you go into parliament [he collapses like a\npricked bladder]. But I am sorry you thought my influence a bad one.\n\nTANNER. I don't say it was a bad one. But bad or good, I didn't choose\nto be cut to your measure. And I won't be cut to it.\n\nANN. Nobody wants you to, Jack. I assure you--really on my word--I\ndon't mind your queer opinions one little bit. You know we have all been\nbrought up to have advanced opinions. Why do you persist in thinking me\nso narrow minded?\n\nTANNER. That's the danger of it. I know you don't mind, because you've\nfound out that it doesn't matter. The boa constrictor doesn't mind the\nopinions of a stag one little bit when once she has got her coils round\nit.\n\nANN. [rising in sudden enlightenment] O-o-o-o-oh! NOW I understand why\nyou warned Tavy that I am a boa constrictor. Granny told me. [She laughs\nand throws her boa around her neck]. Doesn't it feel nice and soft,\nJack?\n\nTANNER. [in the toils] You scandalous woman, will you throw away even\nyour hypocrisy?\n\nANN. I am never hypocritical with you, Jack. Are you angry? [She\nwithdraws the boa and throws it on a chair]. Perhaps I shouldn't have\ndone that.\n\nTANNER. [contemptuously] Pooh, prudery! Why should you not, if it amuses\nyou?\n\nANN. [Shyly] Well, because--because I suppose what you really meant by\nthe boa constrictor was THIS [she puts her arms round his neck].\n\nTANNER. [Staring at her] Magnificent audacity! [She laughs and pats his\ncheeks]. Now just to think that if I mentioned this episode not a soul\nwould believe me except the people who would cut me for telling, whilst\nif you accused me of it nobody would believe my denial.\n\nANN. [taking her arms away with perfect dignity] You are incorrigible,\nJack. But you should not jest about our affection for one another.\nNobody could possibly misunderstand it. YOU do not misunderstand it, I\nhope.\n\nTANNER. My blood interprets for me, Ann. Poor Ricky Tiky Tavy!\n\nANN. [looking quickly at him as if this were a new light] Surely you are\nnot so absurd as to be jealous of Tavy.\n\nTANNER. Jealous! Why should I be? But I don't wonder at your grip of\nhim. I feel the coils tightening round my very self, though you are only\nplaying with me.\n\nANN. Do you think I have designs on Tavy?\n\nTANNER. I know you have.\n\nANN. [earnestly] Take care, Jack. You may make Tavy very happy if you\nmislead him about me.\n\nTANNER. Never fear: he will not escape you.\n\nANN. I wonder are you really a clever man!\n\nTANNER. Why this sudden misgiving on the subject?\n\nANN. You seem to understand all the things I don't understand; but you\nare a perfect baby in the things I do understand.\n\nTANNER. I understand how Tavy feels for you, Ann; you may depend on\nthat, at all events.\n\nANN. And you think you understand how I feel for Tavy, don't you?\n\nTANNER. I know only too well what is going to happen to poor Tavy.\n\nANN. I should laugh at you, Jack, if it were not for poor papa's death.\nMind! Tavy will be very unhappy.\n\nTANNER. Yes; but he won't know it, poor devil. He is a thousand times\ntoo good for you. That's why he is going to make the mistake of his life\nabout you.\n\nANN. I think men make more mistakes by being too clever than by being\ntoo good [she sits down, with a trace of contempt for the whole male sex\nin the elegant carriage of her shoulders].\n\nTANNER. Oh, I know you don't care very much about Tavy. But there is\nalways one who kisses and one who only allows the kiss. Tavy will kiss;\nand you will only turn the cheek. And you will throw him over if anybody\nbetter turns up.\n\nANN. [offended] You have no right to say such things, Jack. They are not\ntrue, and not delicate. If you and Tavy choose to be stupid about me,\nthat is not my fault.\n\nTANNER. [remorsefully] Forgive my brutalities, Ann. They are levelled\nat this wicked world, not at you. [She looks up at him, pleased and\nforgiving. He becomes cautious at once]. All the same, I wish Ramsden\nwould come back. I never feel safe with you: there is a devilish\ncharm--or no: not a charm, a subtle interest [she laughs]. Just so: you\nknow it; and you triumph in it. Openly and shamelessly triumph in it!\n\nANN. What a shocking flirt you are, Jack!\n\nTANNER. A flirt!! I!!\n\nANN. Yes, a flirt. You are always abusing and offending people, but you\nnever really mean to let go your hold of them.\n\nTANNER. I will ring the bell. This conversation has already gone further\nthan I intended.\n\nRamsden and Octavius come back with Miss Ramsden, a hardheaded old\nmaiden lady in a plain brown silk gown, with enough rings, chains and\nbrooches to show that her plainness of dress is a matter of principle,\nnot of poverty. She comes into the room very determinedly: the two men,\nperplexed and downcast, following her. Ann rises and goes eagerly to\nmeet her. Tanner retreats to the wall between the busts and pretends\nto study the pictures. Ramsden goes to his table as usual; and Octavius\nclings to the neighborhood of Tanner.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. [almost pushing Ann aside as she comes to Mr. Whitefield's\nchair and plants herself there resolutely] I wash my hands of the whole\naffair.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [very wretched] I know you wish me to take Violet away, Miss\nRamsden. I will. [He turns irresolutely to the door].\n\nRAMSDEN. No no--\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. What is the use of saying no, Roebuck? Octavius knows that\nI would not turn any truly contrite and repentant woman from your doors.\nBut when a woman is not only wicked, but intends to go on being wicked,\nshe and I part company.\n\nANN. Oh, Miss Ramsden, what do you mean? What has Violet said?\n\nRAMSDEN. Violet is certainly very obstinate. She won't leave London. I\ndon't understand her.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. I do. It's as plain as the nose on your face, Roebuck,\nthat she won't go because she doesn't want to be separated from this\nman, whoever he is.\n\nANN. Oh, surely, surely! Octavius: did you speak to her?\n\nOCTAVIUS. She won't tell us anything. She won't make any arrangement\nuntil she has consulted somebody. It can't be anybody else than the\nscoundrel who has betrayed her.\n\nTANNER. [to Octavius] Well, let her consult him. He will be glad enough\nto have her sent abroad. Where is the difficulty?\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. [Taking the answer out of Octavius's mouth]. The\ndifficulty, Mr Jack, is that when he offered to help her I didn't offer\nto become her accomplice in her wickedness. She either pledges her word\nnever to see that man again, or else she finds some new friends; and the\nsooner the better.\n\n[The parlormaid appears at the door. Ann hastily resumes her seat, and\nlooks as unconcerned as possible. Octavius instinctively imitates her].\n\nTHE MAID. The cab is at the door, ma'am.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. What cab?\n\nTHE MAID. For Miss Robinson.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. Oh! [Recovering herself] All right. [The maid withdraws].\nShe has sent for a cab.\n\nTANNER. I wanted to send for that cab half an hour ago.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. I am glad she understands the position she has placed\nherself in.\n\nRAMSDEN. I don't like her going away in this fashion, Susan. We had\nbetter not do anything harsh.\n\nOCTAVIUS. No: thank you again and again; but Miss Ramsden is quite\nright. Violet cannot expect to stay.\n\nANN. Hadn't you better go with her, Tavy?\n\nOCTAVIUS. She won't have me.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. Of course she won't. She's going straight to that man.\n\nTANNER. As a natural result of her virtuous reception here.\n\nRAMSDEN. [much troubled] There, Susan! You hear! and there's some truth\nin it. I wish you could reconcile it with your principles to be a little\npatient with this poor girl. She's very young; and there's a time for\neverything.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. Oh, she will get all the sympathy she wants from the men.\nI'm surprised at you, Roebuck.\n\nTANNER. So am I, Ramsden, most favorably.\n\nViolet appears at the door. She is as impenitent and self-assured a\nyoung lady as one would desire to see among the best behaved of her sex.\nHer small head and tiny resolute mouth and chin; her haughty crispness\nof speech and trimness of carriage; the ruthless elegance of her\nequipment, which includes a very smart hat with a dead bird in it, mark\na personality which is as formidable as it is exquisitely pretty. She is\nnot a siren, like Ann: admiration comes to her without any compulsion\nor even interest on her part; besides, there is some fun in Ann, but in\nthis woman none, perhaps no mercy either: if anything restrains her, it\nis intelligence and pride, not compassion. Her voice might be the\nvoice of a schoolmistress addressing a class of girls who had disgraced\nthemselves, as she proceeds with complete composure and some disgust to\nsay what she has come to say.\n\nVIOLET. I have only looked in to tell Miss Ramsden that she will find\nher birthday present to me, the filagree bracelet, in the housekeeper's\nroom.\n\nTANNER. Do come in, Violet, and talk to us sensibly.\n\nVIOLET. Thank you: I have had quite enough of the family conversation\nthis morning. So has your mother, Ann: she has gone home crying. But\nat all events, I have found out what some of my pretended friends are\nworth. Good bye.\n\nTANNER. No, no: one moment. I have something to say which I beg you\nto hear. [She looks at him without the slightest curiosity, but waits,\napparently as much to finish getting her glove on as to hear what he\nhas to say]. I am altogether on your side in this matter. I congratulate\nyou, with the sincerest respect, on having the courage to do what you\nhave done. You are entirely in the right; and the family is entirely in\nthe wrong.\n\nSensation. Ann and Miss Ramsden rise and turn toward the two. Violet,\nmore surprised than any of the others, forgets her glove, and comes\nforward into the middle of the room, both puzzled and displeased.\nOctavius alone does not move or raise his head; he is overwhelmed with\nshame.\n\nANN. [pleading to Tanner to be sensible] Jack!\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. [outraged] Well, I must say!\n\nVIOLET. [sharply to Tanner] Who told you?\n\nTANNER. Why, Ramsden and Tavy of course. Why should they not?\n\nVIOLET. But they don't know.\n\nTANNER. Don't know what?\n\nVIOLET. They don't know that I am in the right, I mean.\n\nTANNER. Oh, they know it in their hearts, though they think themselves\nbound to blame you by their silly superstitions about morality and\npropriety and so forth. But I know, and the whole world really knows,\nthough it dare not say so, that you were right to follow your instinct;\nthat vitality and bravery are the greatest qualities a woman can have,\nand motherhood her solemn initiation into womanhood; and that the fact\nof your not being legally married matters not one scrap either to your\nown worth or to our real regard for you.\n\nVIOLET. [flushing with indignation] Oh! You think me a wicked woman,\nlike the rest. You think I have not only been vile, but that I share\nyour abominable opinions. Miss Ramsden: I have borne your hard words\nbecause I knew you would be sorry for them when you found out the truth.\nBut I won't bear such a horrible insult as to be complimented by Jack on\nbeing one of the wretches of whom he approves. I have kept my marriage\na secret for my husband's sake. But now I claim my right as a married\nwoman not to be insulted.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [raising his head with inexpressible relief] You are married!\n\nVIOLET. Yes; and I think you might have guessed it. What business had\nyou all to take it for granted that I had no right to wear my wedding\nring? Not one of you even asked me: I cannot forget that.\n\nTANNER. [in ruins] I am utterly crushed. I meant well--I\napologize--abjectly apologize.\n\nVIOLET. I hope you will be more careful in future about the things\nyou say. Of course one does not take them seriously. But they are very\ndisagreeable, and rather in bad taste.\n\nTANNER. [bowing to the storm] I have no defence: I shall know better in\nfuture than to take any woman's part. We have all disgraced ourselves in\nyour eyes, I am afraid, except Ann, SHE befriended you. For Ann's sake,\nforgive us.\n\nVIOLET. Yes: Ann has been very kind; but then Ann knew.\n\nTANNER. Oh!\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. [stiffly] And who, pray, is the gentleman who does not\nacknowledge his wife?\n\nVIOLET. [promptly] That is my business, Miss Ramsden, and not yours. I\nhave my reasons for keeping my marriage a secret for the present.\n\nRAMSDEN. All I can say is that we are extremely sorry, Violet. I am\nshocked to think of how we have treated you.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [awkwardly] I beg your pardon, Violet. I can say no more.\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. [still loth to surrender] Of course what you say puts\na very different complexion on the matter. All the same, I owe it to\nmyself--\n\nVIOLET. [cutting her short] You owe me an apology, Miss Ramsden: that's\nwhat you owe both to yourself and to me. If you were a married woman you\nwould not like sitting in the housekeeper's room and being treated like\na naughty child by young girls and old ladies without any serious duties\nand responsibilities.\n\nTANNER. Don't hit us when we're down, Violet. We seem to have made fools\nof ourselves; but really it was you who made fools of us.\n\nVIOLET. It was no business of yours, Jack, in any case.\n\nTANNER. No business of mine! Why, Ramsden as good as accused me of being\nthe unknown gentleman.\n\nRamsden makes a frantic demonstration; but Violet's cool keen anger\nextinguishes it.\n\nVIOLET. You! Oh, how infamous! how abominable! How disgracefully you\nhave all been talking about me! If my husband knew it he would never let\nme speak to any of you again. [To Ramsden] I think you might have spared\nme, at least.\n\nRAMSDEN. But I assure you I never--at least it is a monstrous perversion\nof something I said that--\n\nMISS RAMSDEN. You needn't apologize, Roebuck. She brought it all on\nherself. It is for her to apologize for having deceived us.\n\nVIOLET. I can make allowances for you, Miss Ramsden: you cannot\nunderstand how I feel on this subject though I should have expected\nrather better taste from people of greater experience. However, I quite\nfeel that you have all placed yourselves in a very painful position;\nand the most truly considerate thing for me to do is to go at once. Good\nmorning.\n\nShe goes, leaving them staring.\n\nMiss RAMSDEN. Well, I must say--!\n\nRAMSDEN. [plaintively] I don't think she is quite fair to us.\n\nTANNER. You must cower before the wedding ring like the rest of us,\nRamsden. The cup of our ignominy is full.\n\n\n\n\nACT II\n\nOn the carriage drive in the park of a country house near Richmond a\nmotor car has broken down. It stands in front of a clump of trees round\nwhich the drive sweeps to the house, which is partly visible through\nthem: indeed Tanner, standing in the drive with the car on his right\nhand, could get an unobstructed view of the west corner of the house on\nhis left were he not far too much interested in a pair of supine legs\nin blue serge trousers which protrude from beneath the machine. He is\nwatching them intently with bent back and hands supported on his knees.\nHis leathern overcoat and peaked cap proclaim him one of the dismounted\npassengers.\n\nTHE LEGS. Aha! I got him.\n\nTANNER. All right now?\n\nTHE LEGS. All right now.\n\nTanner stoops and takes the legs by the ankles, drawing their owner\nforth like a wheelbarrow, walking on his hands, with a hammer in his\nmouth. He is a young man in a neat suit of blue serge, clean shaven,\ndark eyed, square fingered, with short well brushed black hair and\nrather irregular sceptically turned eyebrows. When he is manipulating\nthe car his movements are swift and sudden, yet attentive and\ndeliberate. With Tanner and Tanner's friends his manner is not in the\nleast deferential, but cool and reticent, keeping them quite effectually\nat a distance whilst giving them no excuse for complaining of him.\nNevertheless he has a vigilant eye on them always, and that, too, rather\ncynically, like a man who knows the world well from its seamy side. He\nspeaks slowly and with a touch of sarcasm; and as he does not at all\naffect the gentleman in his speech, it may be inferred that his smart\nappearance is a mark of respect to himself and his own class, not to\nthat which employs him.\n\nHe now gets into the car to test his machinery and put his cap and\novercoat on again. Tanner takes off his leather overcoat and pitches\nit into the car. The chauffeur (or automobilist or motoreer or whatever\nEngland may presently decide to call him) looks round inquiringly in the\nact of stowing away his hammer.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. Had enough of it, eh?\n\nTANNER. I may as well walk to the house and stretch my legs and calm my\nnerves a little. [Looking at his watch] I suppose you know that we have\ncome from Hyde Park Corner to Richmond in twenty-one minutes.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. I'd have done it under fifteen if I'd had a clear road\nall the way.\n\nTANNER. Why do you do it? Is it for love of sport or for the fun of\nterrifying your unfortunate employer?\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. What are you afraid of?\n\nTANNER. The police, and breaking my neck.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. Well, if you like easy going, you can take a bus, you\nknow. It's cheaper. You pay me to save your time and give you the value\nof your thousand pound car. [He sits down calmly].\n\nTANNER. I am the slave of that car and of you too. I dream of the\naccursed thing at night.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. You'll get over that. If you're going up to the house,\nmay I ask how long you're goin to stay there? Because if you mean to\nput in the whole morning talkin to the ladies, I'll put the car in the\nstables and make myself comfortable. If not, I'll keep the car on the go\nabout here til you come.\n\nTANNER. Better wait here. We shan't be long. There's a young American\ngentleman, a Mr Malone, who is driving Mr Robinson down in his new\nAmerican steam car.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. [springing up and coming hastily out of the car to\nTanner] American steam car! Wot! racin us down from London!\n\nTANNER. Perhaps they're here already.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. If I'd known it! [with deep reproach] Why didn't you tell\nme, Mr Tanner?\n\nTANNER. Because I've been told that this car is capable of 84 miles an\nhour; and I already know what YOU are capable of when there is a rival\ncar on the road. No, Henry: there are things it is not good for you to\nknow; and this was one of them. However, cheer up: we are going to have\na day after your own heart. The American is to take Mr Robinson and his\nsister and Miss Whitefield. We are to take Miss Rhoda.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. [consoled, and musing on another matter] That's Miss\nWhitefield's sister, isn't it?\n\nTANNER. Yes.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. And Miss Whitefield herself is goin in the other car? Not\nwith you?\n\nTANNER. Why the devil should she come with me? Mr Robinson will be in\nthe other car. [The Chauffeur looks at Tanner with cool incredulity, and\nturns to the car, whistling a popular air softly to himself. Tanner,\na little annoyed, is about to pursue the subject when he hears the\nfootsteps of Octavius on the gravel. Octavius is coming from the house,\ndressed for motoring, but without his overcoat]. We've lost the race,\nthank Heaven: here's Mr Robinson. Well, Tavy, is the steam car a\nsuccess?\n\nOCTAVIUS. I think so. We came from Hyde Park Corner here in seventeen\nminutes. [The Chauffeur, furious, kicks the car with a groan of\nvexation]. How long were you?\n\nTANNER. Oh, about three quarters of an hour or so.\n\nTHE CHAUFFEUR. [remonstrating] Now, now, Mr Tanner, come now! We could\nha done it easy under fifteen.\n\nTANNER. By the way, let me introduce you. Mr Octavius Robinson: Mr Enry\nStraker.\n\nSTRAKER. Pleased to meet you, sir. Mr Tanner is gittin at you with his\nEnry Straker, you know. You call it Henery. But I don't mind, bless you.\n\nTANNER. You think it's simply bad taste in me to chaff him, Tavy. But\nyou're wrong. This man takes more trouble to drop his aiches than ever\nhis father did to pick them up. It's a mark of caste to him. I have\nnever met anybody more swollen with the pride of class than Enry is.\n\nSTRAKER. Easy, easy! A little moderation, Mr Tanner.\n\nTANNER. A little moderation, Tavy, you observe. You would tell me to\ndraw it mild, But this chap has been educated. What's more, he knows\nthat we haven't. What was that board school of yours, Straker?\n\nSTRAKER. Sherbrooke Road.\n\nTANNER. Sherbrooke Road! Would any of us say Rugby! Harrow! Eton! in\nthat tone of intellectual snobbery? Sherbrooke Road is a place where\nboys learn something; Eton is a boy farm where we are sent because we\nare nuisances at home, and because in after life, whenever a Duke is\nmentioned, we can claim him as an old schoolfellow.\n\nSTRAKER. You don't know nothing about it, Mr. Tanner. It's not the Board\nSchool that does it: it's the Polytechnic.\n\nTANNER. His university, Octavius. Not Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, Dublin\nor Glasgow. Not even those Nonconformist holes in Wales. No, Tavy.\nRegent Street, Chelsea, the Borough--I don't know half their confounded\nnames: these are his universities, not mere shops for selling class\nlimitations like ours. You despise Oxford, Enry, don't you?\n\nSTRAKER. No, I don't. Very nice sort of place, Oxford, I should\nthink, for people that like that sort of place. They teach you to be a\ngentleman there. In the Polytechnic they teach you to be an engineer or\nsuch like. See?\n\nTANNER. Sarcasm, Tavy, sarcasm! Oh, if you could only see into Enry's\nsoul, the depth of his contempt for a gentleman, the arrogance of his\npride in being an engineer, would appal you. He positively likes the car\nto break down because it brings out my gentlemanly helplessness and his\nworkmanlike skill and resource.\n\nSTRAKER. Never you mind him, Mr Robinson. He likes to talk. We know him,\ndon't we?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [earnestly] But there's a great truth at the bottom of what he\nsays. I believe most intensely in the dignity of labor.\n\nSTRAKER. [unimpressed] That's because you never done any, Mr Robinson.\nMy business is to do away with labor. You'll get more out of me and a\nmachine than you will out of twenty laborers, and not so much to drink\neither.\n\nTANNER. For Heaven's sake, Tavy, don't start him on political economy.\nHe knows all about it; and we don't. You're only a poetic Socialist,\nTavy: he's a scientific one.\n\nSTRAKER. [unperturbed] Yes. Well, this conversation is very improvin;\nbut I've got to look after the car; and you two want to talk about your\nladies. I know. [He retires to busy himself about the car; and presently\nsaunters off towards the house].\n\nTANNER. That's a very momentous social phenomenon.\n\nOCTAVIUS. What is?\n\nTANNER. Straker is. Here have we literary and cultured persons been\nfor years setting up a cry of the New Woman whenever some unusually old\nfashioned female came along; and never noticing the advent of the New\nMan. Straker's the New Man.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I see nothing new about him, except your way of chaffing\nhim. But I don't want to talk about him just now. I want to speak to you\nabout Ann.\n\nTANNER. Straker knew even that. He learnt it at the Polytechnic,\nprobably. Well, what about Ann? Have you proposed to her?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [self-reproachfully] I was brute enough to do so last night.\n\nTANNER. Brute enough! What do you mean?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [dithyrambically] Jack: we men are all coarse. We never\nunderstand how exquisite a woman's sensibilities are. How could I have\ndone such a thing!\n\nTANNER. Done what, you maudlin idiot?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes, I am an idiot. Jack: if you had heard her voice! if you\nhad seen her tears! I have lain awake all night thinking of them. If she\nhad reproached me, I could have borne it better.\n\nTANNER. Tears! that's dangerous. What did she say?\n\nOCTAVIUS. She asked me how she could think of anything now but her dear\nfather. She stifled a sob--[he breaks down].\n\nTANNER. [patting him on the back] Bear it like a man, Tavy, even if you\nfeel it like an ass. It's the old game: she's not tired of playing with\nyou yet.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [impatiently] Oh, don't be a fool, Jack. Do you suppose this\neternal shallow cynicism of yours has any real bearing on a nature like\nhers?\n\nTANNER. Hm! Did she say anything else?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes; and that is why I expose myself and her to your ridicule\nby telling you what passed.\n\nTANNER. [remorsefully] No, dear Tavy, not ridicule, on my honor!\nHowever, no matter. Go on.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Her sense of duty is so devout, so perfect, so--\n\nTANNER. Yes: I know. Go on.\n\nOCTAVIUS. You see, under this new arrangement, you and Ramsden are her\nguardians; and she considers that all her duty to her father is now\ntransferred to you. She said she thought I ought to have spoken to you\nboth in the first instance. Of course she is right; but somehow it seems\nrather absurd that I am to come to you and formally ask to be received\nas a suitor for your ward's hand.\n\nTANNER. I am glad that love has not totally extinguished your sense of\nhumor, Tavy.\n\nOCTAVIUS. That answer won't satisfy her.\n\nTANNER. My official answer is, obviously, Bless you, my children: may\nyou be happy!\n\nOCTAVIUS. I wish you would stop playing the fool about this. If it is\nnot serious to you, it is to me, and to her.\n\nTANNER. You know very well that she is as free to choose as you. She\ndoes not think so.\n\nOCTAVIUS. She does not think so.\n\nTANNER. Oh, doesn't she! just! However, say what you want me to do.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I want you to tell her sincerely and earnestly what you think\nabout me. I want you to tell her that you can trust her to me--that is,\nif you feel you can.\n\nTANNER. I have no doubt that I can trust her to you. What worries me is\nthe idea of trusting you to her. Have you read Maeterlinck's book about\nthe bee?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [keeping his temper with difficulty] I am not discussing\nliterature at present.\n\nTANNER. Be just a little patient with me. I am not discussing\nliterature: the book about the bee is natural history. It's an awful\nlesson to mankind. You think that you are Ann's suitor; that you are the\npursuer and she the pursued; that it is your part to woo, to persuade,\nto prevail, to overcome. Fool: it is you who are the pursued, the marked\ndown quarry, the destined prey. You need not sit looking longingly\nat the bait through the wires of the trap: the door is open, and will\nremain so until it shuts behind you for ever.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I wish I could believe that, vilely as you put it.\n\nTANNER. Why, man, what other work has she in life but to get a husband?\nIt is a woman's business to get married as soon as possible, and a\nman's to keep unmarried as long as he can. You have your poems and your\ntragedies to work at: Ann has nothing.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I cannot write without inspiration. And nobody can give me\nthat except Ann.\n\nTANNER. Well, hadn't you better get it from her at a safe distance?\nPetrarch didn't see half as much of Laura, nor Dante of Beatrice, as you\nsee of Ann now; and yet they wrote first-rate poetry--at least so\nI'm told. They never exposed their idolatry to the test of domestic\nfamiliarity; and it lasted them to their graves. Marry Ann and at\nthe end of a week you'll find no more inspiration than in a plate of\nmuffins.\n\nOCTAVIUS. You think I shall tire of her.\n\nTANNER. Not at all: you don't get tired of muffins. But you don't find\ninspiration in them; and you won't in her when she ceases to be a poet's\ndream and becomes a solid eleven stone wife. You'll be forced to dream\nabout somebody else; and then there will be a row.\n\nOCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is no use, Jack. You don't understand. You\nhave never been in love.\n\nTANNER. I! I have never been out of it. Why, I am in love even with Ann.\nBut I am neither the slave of love nor its dupe. Go to the bee, thou\npoet: consider her ways and be wise. By Heaven, Tavy, if women could do\nwithout our work, and we ate their children's bread instead of making\nit, they would kill us as the spider kills her mate or as the bees kill\nthe drone. And they would be right if we were good for nothing but love.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Ah, if we were only good enough for Love! There is nothing\nlike Love: there is nothing else but Love: without it the world would be\na dream of sordid horror.\n\nTANNER. And this--this is the man who asks me to give him the hand of my\nward! Tavy: I believe we were changed in our cradles, and that you are\nthe real descendant of Don Juan.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I beg you not to say anything like that to Ann.\n\nTANNER. Don't be afraid. She has marked you for her own; and nothing\nwill stop her now. You are doomed. [Straker comes back with a\nnewspaper]. Here comes the New Man, demoralizing himself with a\nhalfpenny paper as usual.\n\nSTRAKER. Now, would you believe it: Mr Robinson, when we're out motoring\nwe take in two papers, the Times for him, the Leader or the Echo for me.\nAnd do you think I ever see my paper? Not much. He grabs the Leader and\nleaves me to stodge myself with his Times.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Are there no winners in the Times?\n\nTANNER. Enry don't old with bettin, Tavy. Motor records are his\nweakness. What's the latest?\n\nSTRAKER. Paris to Biskra at forty mile an hour average, not countin the\nMediterranean.\n\nTANNER. How many killed?\n\nSTRAKER. Two silly sheep. What does it matter? Sheep don't cost such a\nlot: they were glad to ave the price without the trouble o sellin em\nto the butcher. All the same, d'y'see, there'll be a clamor agin it\npresently; and then the French Government'll stop it; an our chance will\nbe gone see? That what makes me fairly mad: Mr Tanner won't do a good\nrun while he can.\n\nTANNER. Tavy: do you remember my uncle James?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes. Why?\n\nTANNER. Uncle James had a first rate cook: he couldn't digest anything\nexcept what she cooked. Well, the poor man was shy and hated society.\nBut his cook was proud of her skill, and wanted to serve up dinners to\nprinces and ambassadors. To prevent her from leaving him, that poor\nold man had to give a big dinner twice a month, and suffer agonies of\nawkwardness. Now here am I; and here is this chap Enry Straker, the New\nMan. I loathe travelling; but I rather like Enry. He cares for nothing\nbut tearing along in a leather coat and goggles, with two inches of dust\nall over him, at sixty miles an hour and the risk of his life and mine.\nExcept, of course, when he is lying on his back in the mud under the\nmachine trying to find out where it has given way. Well, if I don't give\nhim a thousand mile run at least once a fortnight I shall lose him. He\nwill give me the sack and go to some American millionaire; and I shall\nhave to put up with a nice respectful groom-gardener-amateur, who will\ntouch his hat and know his place. I am Enry's slave, just as Uncle James\nwas his cook's slave.\n\nSTRAKER. [exasperated] Garn! I wish I had a car that would go as fast\nas you can talk, Mr Tanner. What I say is that you lose money by a motor\ncar unless you keep it workin. Might as well ave a pram and a nussmaid\nto wheel you in it as that car and me if you don't git the last inch out\nof us both.\n\nTANNER. [soothingly] All right, Henry, all right. We'll go out for half\nan hour presently.\n\nSTRAKER. [in disgust] Arf an ahr! [He returns to his machine; seats\nhimself in it; and turns up a fresh page of his paper in search of more\nnews].\n\nOCTAVIUS. Oh, that reminds me. I have a note for you from Rhoda. [He\ngives Tanner a note].\n\nTANNER. [opening it] I rather think Rhoda is heading for a row with Ann.\nAs a rule there is only one person an English girl hates more than she\nhates her mother; and that's her eldest sister. But Rhoda positively\nprefers her mother to Ann. She--[indignantly] Oh, I say!\n\nOCTAVIUS. What's the matter?\n\nTANNER. Rhoda was to have come with me for a ride in the motor car. She\nsays Ann has forbidden her to go out with me.\n\nStraker suddenly begins whistling his favorite air with remarkable\ndeliberation. Surprised by this burst of larklike melody, and jarred by\na sardonic note in its cheerfulness, they turn and look inquiringly at\nhim. But he is busy with his paper; and nothing comes of their movement.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [recovering himself] Does she give any reason?\n\nTANNER. Reason! An insult is not a reason. Ann forbids her to be alone\nwith me on any occasion. Says I am not a fit person for a young girl to\nbe with. What do you think of your paragon now?\n\nOCTAVIUS. You must remember that she has a very heavy responsibility now\nthat her father is dead. Mrs Whitefield is too weak to control Rhoda.\n\nTANNER. [staring at him] In short, you agree with Ann.\n\nOCTAVIUS. No; but I think I understand her. You must admit that your\nviews are hardly suited for the formation of a young girl's mind and\ncharacter.\n\nTANNER. I admit nothing of the sort. I admit that the formation of a\nyoung lady's mind and character usually consists in telling her lies;\nbut I object to the particular lie that I am in the habit of abusing the\nconfidence of girls.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Ann doesn't say that, Jack.\n\nTANNER. What else does she mean?\n\nSTRAKER. [catching sight of Ann coming from the house] Miss Whitefield,\ngentlemen. [He dismounts and strolls away down the avenue with the air\nof a man who knows he is no longer wanted].\n\nANN. [coming between Octavius and Tanner]. Good morning, Jack. I have\ncome to tell you that poor Rhoda has got one of her headaches and cannot\ngo out with you to-day in the car. It is a cruel disappointment to her,\npoor child!\n\nTANNER. What do you say now, Tavy.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Surely you cannot misunderstand, Jack. Ann is showing you the\nkindest consideration, even at the cost of deceiving you.\n\nANN. What do you mean?\n\nTANNER. Would you like to cure Rhoda's headache, Ann?\n\nANN. Of course.\n\nTANNER. Then tell her what you said just now; and add that you arrived\nabout two minutes after I had received her letter and read it.\n\nANN. Rhoda has written to you!\n\nTANNER. With full particulars.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Ann. You were right, quite right. Ann was only\ndoing her duty, Jack; and you know it. Doing it in the kindest way, too.\n\nANN. [going to Octavius] How kind you are, Tavy! How helpful! How well\nyou understand!\n\nOctavius beams.\n\nTANNER. Ay: tighten the coils. You love her, Tavy, don't you?\n\nOCTAVIUS. She knows I do.\n\nANN. Hush. For shame, Tavy!\n\nTANNER. Oh, I give you leave. I am your guardian; and I commit you to\nTavy's care for the next hour.\n\nANN. No, Jack. I must speak to you about Rhoda. Ricky: will you go back\nto the house and entertain your American friend? He's rather on Mamma's\nhands so early in the morning. She wants to finish her housekeeping.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I fly, dearest Ann [he kisses her hand].\n\nANN. [tenderly] Ricky Ticky Tavy!\n\nHe looks at her with an eloquent blush, and runs off.\n\nTANNER. [bluntly] Now look here, Ann. This time you've landed yourself;\nand if Tavy were not in love with you past all salvation he'd have found\nout what an incorrigible liar you are.\n\nANN. You misunderstand, Jack. I didn't dare tell Tavy the truth.\n\nTANNER. No: your daring is generally in the opposite direction. What the\ndevil do you mean by telling Rhoda that I am too vicious to associate\nwith her? How can I ever have any human or decent relations with her\nagain, now that you have poisoned her mind in that abominable way?\n\nANN. I know you are incapable of behaving badly.\n\nTANNER. Then why did you lie to her?\n\nANN. I had to.\n\nTANNER. Had to!\n\nANN. Mother made me.\n\nTANNER. [his eye flashing] Ha! I might have known it. The mother! Always\nthe mother!\n\nANN. It was that dreadful book of yours. You know how timid mother is.\nAll timid women are conventional: we must be conventional, Jack, or we\nare so cruelly, so vilely misunderstood. Even you, who are a man, cannot\nsay what you think without being misunderstood and vilified--yes: I\nadmit it: I have had to vilify you. Do you want to have poor Rhoda\nmisunderstood and vilified to the same way? Would it be right for mother\nto let her expose herself to such treatment before she is old enough to\njudge for herself?\n\nTANNER. In short, the way to avoid misunderstanding is for everybody to\nlie and slander and insinuate and pretend as hard as they can. That is\nwhat obeying your mother comes to.\n\nANN. I love my mother, Jack.\n\nTANNER. [working himself up into a sociological rage] Is that any reason\nwhy you are not to call your soul your own? Oh, I protest against this\nvile abjection of youth to age! look at fashionable society as you know\nit. What does it pretend to be? An exquisite dance of nymphs. What is\nit? A horrible procession of wretched girls, each in the claws of a\ncynical, cunning, avaricious, disillusioned, ignorantly experienced,\nfoul-minded old woman whom she calls mother, and whose duty it is\nto corrupt her mind and sell her to the highest bidder. Why do these\nunhappy slaves marry anybody, however old and vile, sooner than not\nmarry at all? Because marriage is their only means of escape from these\ndecrepit fiends who hide their selfish ambitions, their jealous hatreds\nof the young rivals who have supplanted them, under the mask of maternal\nduty and family affection. Such things are abominable: the voice of\nnature proclaims for the daughter a father's care and for the son a\nmother's. The law for father and son and mother and daughter is not\nthe law of love: it is the law of revolution, of emancipation, of final\nsupersession of the old and worn-out by the young and capable. I\ntell you, the first duty of manhood and womanhood is a Declaration of\nIndependence: the man who pleads his father's authority is no man: the\nwoman who pleads her mother's authority is unfit to bear citizens to a\nfree people.\n\nANN. [watching him with quiet curiosity] I suppose you will go in\nseriously for politics some day, Jack.\n\nTANNER. [heavily let down] Eh? What? Wh--? [Collecting his scattered\nwits] What has that got to do with what I have been saying?\n\nANN. You talk so well.\n\nTANNER. Talk! Talk! It means nothing to you but talk. Well, go back\nto your mother, and help her to poison Rhoda's imagination as she has\npoisoned yours. It is the tame elephants who enjoy capturing the wild\nones.\n\nANN. I am getting on. Yesterday I was a boa constrictor: to-day I am an\nelephant.\n\nTANNER. Yes. So pack your trunk and begone; I have no more to say to\nyou.\n\nANN. You are so utterly unreasonable and impracticable. What can I do?\n\nTANNER. Do! Break your chains. Go your way according to your own\nconscience and not according to your mother's. Get your mind clean\nand vigorous; and learn to enjoy a fast ride in a motor car instead of\nseeing nothing in it but an excuse for a detestable intrigue. Come with\nme to Marseilles and across to Algiers and to Biskra, at sixty miles\nan hour. Come right down to the Cape if you like. That will be a\nDeclaration of Independence with a vengeance. You can write a book about\nit afterwards. That will finish your mother and make a woman of you.\n\nANN. [thoughtfully] I don't think there would be any harm in that, Jack.\nYou are my guardian: you stand in my father's place, by his own wish.\nNobody could say a word against our travelling together. It would be\ndelightful: thank you a thousand times, Jack. I'll come.\n\nTANNER. [aghast] You'll come!!!\n\nANN. Of course.\n\nTANNER. But-- [he stops, utterly appalled; then resumes feebly] No: look\nhere, Ann: if there's no harm in it there's no point in doing it.\n\nANN. How absurd you are! You don't want to compromise me, do you?\n\nTANNER. Yes: that's the whole sense of my proposal.\n\nANN. You are talking the greatest nonsense; and you know it. You would\nnever do anything to hurt me.\n\nTANNER. Well, if you don't want to be compromised, don't come.\n\nANN. [with simple earnestness] Yes, I will come, Jack, since you wish\nit. You are my guardian; and think we ought to see more of one another\nand come to know one another better. [Gratefully] It's very thoughtful\nand very kind of you, Jack, to offer me this lovely holiday, especially\nafter what I said about Rhoda. You really are good--much better than you\nthink. When do we start?\n\nTANNER. But--\n\nThe conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Whitefield from\nthe house. She is accompanied by the American gentleman, and followed by\nRamsden and Octavius.\n\nHector Malone is an Eastern American; but he is not at all ashamed of\nhis nationality. This makes English people of fashion think well of\nhim, as of a young fellow who is manly enough to confess to an obvious\ndisadvantage without any attempt to conceal or extenuate it. They feel\nthat he ought not to be made to suffer for what is clearly not his\nfault, and make a point of being specially kind to him. His chivalrous\nmanners to women, and his elevated moral sentiments, being both\ngratuitous and unusual, strike them as being a little unfortunate;\nand though they find his vein of easy humor rather amusing when it has\nceased to puzzle them (as it does at first), they have had to make\nhim understand that he really must not tell anecdotes unless they\nare strictly personal and scandalous, and also that oratory is an\naccomplishment which belongs to a cruder stage of civilization than that\nin which his migration has landed him. On these points Hector is not\nquite convinced: he still thinks that the British are apt to make merits\nof their stupidities, and to represent their various incapacities as\npoints of good breeding. English life seems to him to suffer from a lack\nof edifying rhetoric (which he calls moral tone); English behavior to\nshow a want of respect for womanhood; English pronunciation to fail\nvery vulgarly in tackling such words as world, girl, bird, etc.; English\nsociety to be plain spoken to an extent which stretches occasionally to\nintolerable coarseness; and English intercourse to need enlivening by\ngames and stories and other pastimes; so he does not feel called upon to\nacquire these defects after taking great paths to cultivate himself in a\nfirst rate manner before venturing across the Atlantic. To this culture\nhe finds English people either totally indifferent as they very commonly\nare to all culture, or else politely evasive, the truth being that\nHector's culture is nothing but a state of saturation with our literary\nexports of thirty years ago, reimported by him to be unpacked at a\nmoment's notice and hurled at the head of English literature, science\nand art, at every conversational opportunity. The dismay set up by\nthese sallies encourages him in his belief that he is helping to educate\nEngland. When he finds people chattering harmlessly about Anatole France\nand Nietzsche, he devastates them with Matthew Arnold, the Autocrat of\nthe Breakfast Table, and even Macaulay; and as he is devoutly religious\nat bottom, he first leads the unwary, by humorous irreverences, to wave\npopular theology out of account in discussing moral questions with him,\nand then scatters them in confusion by demanding whether the carrying\nout of his ideals of conduct was not the manifest object of God Almighty\nin creating honest men and pure women. The engaging freshness of his\npersonality and the dumbfoundering staleness of his culture make it\nextremely difficult to decide whether he is worth knowing; for\nwhilst his company is undeniably pleasant and enlivening, there is\nintellectually nothing new to be got out of him, especially as he\ndespises politics, and is careful not to talk commercial shop, in which\ndepartment he is probably much in advance of his English capitalist\nfriends. He gets on best with romantic Christians of the amoristic sect:\nhence the friendship which has sprung up between him and Octavius.\n\nIn appearance Hector is a neatly built young man of twenty-four, with\na short, smartly trimmed black beard, clear, well shaped eyes, and an\ningratiating vivacity of expression. He is, from the fashionable point\nof view, faultlessly dressed. As he comes along the drive from the\nhouse with Mrs Whitefield he is sedulously making himself agreeable\nand entertaining, and thereby placing on her slender wit a burden it is\nunable to bear. An Englishman would let her alone, accepting boredom and\nindifference of their common lot; and the poor lady wants to be either\nlet alone or let prattle about the things that interest her.\n\nRamsden strolls over to inspect the motor car. Octavius joins Hector.\n\nANN. [pouncing on her mother joyously] Oh, mamma, what do you think!\nJack is going to take me to Nice in his motor car. Isn't it lovely? I am\nthe happiest person in London.\n\nTANNER. [desperately] Mrs Whitefield objects. I am sure she objects.\nDoesn't she, Ramsden?\n\nRAMSDEN. I should think it very likely indeed.\n\nANN. You don't object, do you, mother?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. I object! Why should I? I think it will do you good,\nAnn. [Trotting over to Tanner] I meant to ask you to take Rhoda out for\na run occasionally: she is too much in the house; but it will do when\nyou come back.\n\nTANNER. Abyss beneath abyss of perfidy!\n\nANN. [hastily, to distract attention from this outburst] Oh, I forgot:\nyou have not met Mr Malone. Mr Tanner, my guardian: Mr Hector Malone.\n\nHECTOR. Pleased to meet you, Mr Tanner. I should like to suggest an\nextension of the travelling party to Nice, if I may.\n\nANN. Oh, we're all coming. That's understood, isn't it?\n\nHECTOR. I also am the modest possessor of a motor car. If Miss Robinson\nwill allow me the privilege of taking her, my car is at her service.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Violet!\n\nGeneral constraint.\n\nANN. [subduedly] Come, mother: we must leave them to talk over the\narrangements. I must see to my travelling kit.\n\nMrs Whitefield looks bewildered; but Ann draws her discreetly away; and\nthey disappear round the corner towards the house.\n\nHECTOR. I think I may go so far as to say that I can depend on Miss\nRobinson's consent.\n\nContinued embarrassment.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I'm afraid we must leave Violet behind, There are\ncircumstances which make it impossible for her to come on such an\nexpedition.\n\nHECTOR. [amused and not at all convinced] Too American, eh? Must the\nyoung lady have a chaperone?\n\nOCTAVIUS. It's not that, Malone--at least not altogether.\n\nHECTOR. Indeed! May I ask what other objection applies?\n\nTANNER. [impatiently] Oh, tell him, tell him. We shall never be able to\nkeep the secret unless everybody knows what it is. Mr Malone: if you go\nto Nice with Violet, you go with another man's wife. She is married.\n\nHECTOR. [thunderstruck] You don't tell me so!\n\nTANNER. We do. In confidence.\n\nRAMSDEN. [with an air of importance, lest Malone should suspect a\nmisalliance] Her marriage has not yet been made known: she desires that\nit shall not be mentioned for the present.\n\nHECTOR. I shall respect the lady's wishes. Would it be indiscreet to ask\nwho her husband is, in case I should have an opportunity of consulting\nhim about this trip?\n\nTANNER. We don't know who he is.\n\nHECTOR. [retiring into his shell in a very marked manner] In that case,\nI have no more to say.\n\nThey become more embarrassed than ever.\n\nOCTAVIUS. You must think this very strange.\n\nHECTOR. A little singular. Pardon me for saving so.\n\nRAMSDEN. [half apologetic, half huffy] The young lady was married\nsecretly; and her husband has forbidden her, it seems, to declare\nhis name. It is only right to tell you, since you are interested in\nMiss--er--in Violet.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [sympathetically] I hope this is not a disappointment to you.\n\nHECTOR. [softened, coming out of his shell again] Well it is a blow.\nI can hardly understand how a man can leave a wife in such a position.\nSurely it's not customary. It's not manly. It's not considerate.\n\nOCTAVIUS. We feel that, as you may imagine, pretty deeply.\n\nRAMSDEN. [testily] It is some young fool who has not enough experience\nto know what mystifications of this kind lead to.\n\nHECTOR. [with strong symptoms of moral repugnance] I hope so. A man need\nbe very young and pretty foolish too to be excused for such conduct.\nYou take a very lenient view, Mr Ramsden. Too lenient to my mind. Surely\nmarriage should ennoble a man.\n\nTANNER. [sardonically] Ha!\n\nHECTOR. Am I to gather from that cacchination that you don't agree with\nme, Mr Tanner?\n\nTANNER. [drily] Get married and try. You may find it delightful for\na while: you certainly won't find it ennobling. The greatest common\nmeasure of a man and a woman is not necessarily greater than the man's\nsingle measure.\n\nHECTOR. Well, we think in America that a woman's moral number is higher\nthan a man's, and that the purer nature of a woman lifts a man right out\nof himself, and makes him better than he was.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [with conviction] So it does.\n\nTANNER. No wonder American women prefer to live in Europe! It's more\ncomfortable than standing all their lives on an altar to be worshipped.\nAnyhow, Violet's husband has not been ennobled. So what's to be done?\n\nHECTOR. [shaking his head] I can't dismiss that man's conduct as lightly\nas you do, Mr Tanner. However, I'll say no more. Whoever he is, he's\nMiss Robinson's husband; and I should be glad for her sake to think\nbetter of him.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [touched; for he divines a secret sorrow] I'm very sorry,\nMalone. Very sorry.\n\nHECTOR. [gratefully] You're a good fellow, Robinson, Thank you.\n\nTANNER. Talk about something else. Violet's coming from the house.\n\nHECTOR. I should esteem it a very great favor, men, if you would take\nthe opportunity to let me have a few words with the lady alone. I shall\nhave to cry off this trip; and it's rather a delicate--\n\nRAMSDEN. [glad to escape] Say no more. Come Tanner, Come, Tavy. [He\nstrolls away into the park with Octavius and Tanner, past the motor\ncar].\n\nViolet comes down the avenue to Hector.\n\nVIOLET. Are they looking?\n\nHECTOR. No.\n\nShe kisses him.\n\nVIOLET. Have you been telling lies for my sake?\n\nHECTOR. Lying! Lying hardly describes it. I overdo it. I get carried\naway in an ecstasy of mendacity. Violet: I wish you'd let me own up.\n\nVIOLET. [instantly becoming serious and resolute] No, no. Hector: you\npromised me not to.\n\nHECTOR. I'll keep my promise until you release me from it. But I feel\nmean, lying to those men, and denying my wife. Just dastardly.\n\nVIOLET. I wish your father were not so unreasonable.\n\nHECTOR. He's not unreasonable. He's right from his point of view. He has\na prejudice against the English middle class.\n\nVIOLET. It's too ridiculous. You know how I dislike saying such things\nto you, Hector; but if I were to--oh, well, no matter.\n\nHECTOR. I know. If you were to marry the son of an English manufacturer\nof office furniture, your friends would consider it a misalliance. And\nhere's my silly old dad, who is the biggest office furniture man in\nthe world, would show me the door for marrying the most perfect lady\nin England merely because she has no handle to her name. Of course it's\njust absurd. But I tell you, Violet, I don't like deceiving him. I feel\nas if I was stealing his money. Why won't you let me own up?\n\nVIOLET. We can't afford it. You can be as romantic as you please about\nlove, Hector; but you mustn't be romantic about money.\n\nHECTOR. [divided between his uxoriousness and his habitual elevation\nof moral sentiment] That's very English. [Appealing to her impulsively]\nViolet: Dad's bound to find us out some day.\n\nVIOLET. Oh yes, later on of course. But don't let's go over this every\ntime we meet, dear. You promised--\n\nHECTOR. All right, all right, I--\n\nVIOLET. [not to be silenced] It is I and not you who suffer by this\nconcealment; and as to facing a struggle and poverty and all that sort\nof thing I simply will not do it. It's too silly.\n\nHECTOR. You shall not. I'll sort of borrow the money from my dad until I\nget on my own feet; and then I can own up and pay up at the same time.\n\nVIOLET. [alarmed and indignant] Do you mean to work? Do you want to\nspoil our marriage?\n\nHECTOR. Well, I don't mean to let marriage spoil my character. Your\nfriend Mr Tanner has got the laugh on me a bit already about that; and--\n\nVIOLET. The beast! I hate Jack Tanner.\n\nHECTOR. [magnanimously] Oh, he's all right: he only needs the love of\na good woman to ennoble him. Besides, he's proposed a motoring trip to\nNice; and I'm going to take you.\n\nVIOLET. How jolly!\n\nHECTOR. Yes; but how are we going to manage? You see, they've warned\nme off going with you, so to speak. They've told me in confidence that\nyou're married. That's just the most overwhelming confidence I've ever\nbeen honored with.\n\nTanner returns with Straker, who goes to his car.\n\nTANNER. Your car is a great success, Mr Malone. Your engineer is showing\nit off to Mr Ramsden.\n\nHECTOR. [eagerly--forgetting himself] Let's come, Vi.\n\nVIOLET. [coldly, warning him with her eyes] I beg your pardon, Mr\nMalone, I did not quite catch--\n\nHECTOR. [recollecting himself] I ask to be allowed the pleasure of\nshowing you my little American steam car, Miss Robinson.\n\nVIOLET. I shall be very pleased. [They go off together down the avenue].\n\nTANNER. About this trip, Straker.\n\nSTRAKER. [preoccupied with the car] Yes?\n\nTANNER. Miss Whitefield is supposed to be coming with me.\n\nSTRAKER. So I gather.\n\nTANNER. Mr Robinson is to be one of the party.\n\nSTRAKER. Yes.\n\nTANNER. Well, if you can manage so as to be a good deal occupied with\nme, and leave Mr Robinson a good deal occupied with Miss Whitefield, he\nwill be deeply grateful to you.\n\nSTRAKER. [looking round at him] Evidently.\n\nTANNER. \"Evidently!\" Your grandfather would have simply winked.\n\nSTRAKER. My grandfather would have touched his at.\n\nTANNER. And I should have given your good nice respectful grandfather a\nsovereign.\n\nSTRAKER. Five shillins, more likely. [He leaves the car and approaches\nTanner]. What about the lady's views?\n\nTANNER. She is just as willing to be left to Mr Robinson as Mr Robinson\nis to be left to her. [Straker looks at his principal with cool\nscepticism; then turns to the car whistling his favorite air]. Stop that\naggravating noise. What do you mean by it? [Straker calmly resumes the\nmelody and finishes it. Tanner politely hears it out before he again\naddresses Straker, this time with elaborate seriousness]. Enry: I have\never been a warm advocate of the spread of music among the masses; but\nI object to your obliging the company whenever Miss Whitefield's name is\nmentioned. You did it this morning, too.\n\nSTRAKER. [obstinately] It's not a bit o use. Mr Robinson may as well\ngive it up first as last.\n\nTANNER. Why?\n\nSTRAKER. Garn! You know why. Course it's not my business; but you\nneedn't start kiddin me about it.\n\nTANNER. I am not kidding. I don't know why.\n\nSTRAKER. [Cheerfully sulky] Oh, very well. All right. It ain't my\nbusiness.\n\nTANNER. [impressively] I trust, Enry, that, as between employer and\nengineer, I shall always know how to keep my proper distance, and not\nintrude my private affairs on you. Even our business arrangements\nare subject to the approval of your Trade Union. But don't abuse your\nadvantages. Let me remind you that Voltaire said that what was too silly\nto be said could be sung.\n\nSTRAKER. It wasn't Voltaire: it was Bow Mar Shay.\n\nTANNER. I stand corrected: Beaumarchais of course. Now you seem to think\nthat what is too delicate to be said can be whistled. Unfortunately your\nwhistling, though melodious, is unintelligible. Come! there's nobody\nlistening: neither my genteel relatives nor the secretary of your\nconfounded Union. As man to man, Enry, why do you think that my friend\nhas no chance with Miss Whitefield?\n\nSTRAKER. Cause she's arter summun else.\n\nTANNER. Bosh! who else?\n\nSTRAKER. You.\n\nTANNER. Me!!!\n\nSTRAKER. Mean to tell me you didn't know? Oh, come, Mr Tanner!\n\nTANNER. [in fierce earnest] Are you playing the fool, or do you mean it?\n\nSTRAKER. [with a flash of temper] I'm not playin no fool. [More coolly]\nWhy, it's as plain as the nose on your face. If you ain't spotted that,\nyou don't know much about these sort of things. [Serene again] Ex-cuse\nme, you know, Mr Tanner; but you asked me as man to man; and I told you\nas man to man.\n\nTANNER. [wildly appealing to the heavens] Then I--I am the bee, the\nspider, the marked down victim, the destined prey.\n\nSTRAKER. I dunno about the bee and the spider. But the marked down\nvictim, that's what you are and no mistake; and a jolly good job for\nyou, too, I should say.\n\nTANNER. [momentously] Henry Straker: the moment of your life has\narrived.\n\nSTRAKER. What d'y'mean?\n\nTANNER. That record to Biskra.\n\nSTRAKER. [eagerly] Yes?\n\nTANNER. Break it.\n\nSTRAKER. [rising to the height of his destiny] D'y'mean it?\n\nTANNER. I do.\n\nSTRAKER. When?\n\nTANNER. Now. Is that machine ready to start?\n\nSTRAKER. [quailing] But you can't--\n\nTANNER. [cutting him short by getting into the car] Off we go. First to\nthe bank for money; then to my rooms for my kit; then to your rooms for\nyour kit; then break the record from London to Dover or Folkestone; then\nacross the channel and away like mad to Marseilles, Gibraltar, Genoa,\nany port from which we can sail to a Mahometan country where men are\nprotected from women.\n\nSTRAKER. Garn! you're kiddin.\n\nTANNER. [resolutely] Stay behind then. If you won't come I'll do it\nalone. [He starts the motor].\n\nSTRAKER. [running after him] Here! Mister! arf a mo! steady on! [he\nscrambles in as the car plunges forward].\n\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nEvening in the Sierra Nevada. Rolling slopes of brown, with olive trees\ninstead of apple trees in the cultivated patches, and occasional prickly\npears instead of gorse and bracken in the wilds. Higher up, tall stone\npeaks and precipices, all handsome and distinguished. No wild nature\nhere: rather a most aristocratic mountain landscape made by a fastidious\nartist-creator. No vulgar profusion of vegetation: even a touch of\naridity in the frequent patches of stones: Spanish magnificence and\nSpanish economy everywhere.\n\nNot very far north of a spot at which the high road over one of the\npasses crosses a tunnel on the railway from Malaga to Granada, is one\nof the mountain amphitheatres of the Sierra. Looking at it from the wide\nend of the horse-shoe, one sees, a little to the right, in the face\nof the cliff, a romantic cave which is really an abandoned quarry, and\ntowards the left a little hill, commanding a view of the road, which\nskirts the amphitheatre on the left, maintaining its higher level on\nembankments and on an occasional stone arch. On the hill, watching\nthe road, is a man who is either a Spaniard or a Scotchman. Probably a\nSpaniard, since he wears the dress of a Spanish goatherd and seems at\nhome in the Sierra Nevada, but very like a Scotchman for all that. In\nthe hollow, on the slope leading to the quarry-cave, are about a dozen\nmen who, as they recline at their cave round a heap of smouldering white\nashes of dead leaf and brushwood, have an air of being conscious of\nthemselves as picturesque scoundrels honoring the Sierra by using it as\nan effective pictorial background. As a matter of artistic fact they are\nnot picturesque; and the mountains tolerate them as lions tolerate lice.\nAn English policeman or Poor Law Guardian would recognize them as a\nselected band of tramps and ablebodied paupers.\n\nThis description of them is not wholly contemptuous. Whoever has\nintelligently observed the tramp, or visited the ablebodied ward of a\nworkhouse, will admit that our social failures are not all drunkards and\nweaklings. Some of them are men who do not fit the class they were born\ninto. Precisely the same qualities that make the educated gentleman an\nartist may make an uneducated manual laborer an ablebodied pauper. There\nare men who fall helplessly into the workhouse because they are good\nfor nothing; but there are also men who are there because they are\nstrongminded enough to disregard the social convention (obviously not a\ndisinterested one on the part of the ratepayer) which bids a man live\nby heavy and badly paid drudgery when he has the alternative of walking\ninto the workhouse, announcing himself as a destitute person, and\nlegally compelling the Guardians to feed, clothe and house him better\nthan he could feed, clothe and house himself without great exertion.\nWhen a man who is born a poet refuses a stool in a stockbroker's office,\nand starves in a garret, spunging on a poor landlady or on his friends\nand relatives rather than work against his grain; or when a lady,\nbecause she is a lady, will face any extremity of parasitic dependence\nrather than take a situation as cook or parlormaid, we make large\nallowances for them. To such allowances the ablebodied pauper and his\nnomadic variant the tramp are equally entitled.\n\nFurther, the imaginative man, if his life is to be tolerable to him,\nmust have leisure to tell himself stories, and a position which lends\nitself to imaginative decoration. The ranks of unskilled labor offer no\nsuch positions. We misuse our laborers horribly; and when a man refuses\nto be misused, we have no right to say that he is refusing honest work.\nLet us be frank in this matter before we go on with our play; so that we\nmay enjoy it without hypocrisy. If we were reasoning, farsighted people,\nfour fifths of us would go straight to the Guardians for relief,\nand knock the whole social system to pieces with most beneficial\nreconstructive results. The reason we do got do this is because we work\nlike bees or ants, by instinct or habit, not reasoning about the matter\nat all. Therefore when a man comes along who can and does reason, and\nwho, applying the Kantian test to his conduct, can truly say to us, If\neverybody did as I do, the world would be compelled to reform itself\nindustrially, and abolish slavery and squalor, which exist only because\neverybody does as you do, let us honor that man and seriously\nconsider the advisability of following his example. Such a man is the\nable-bodied, able-minded pauper. Were he a gentleman doing his best to\nget a pension or a sinecure instead of sweeping a crossing, nobody would\nblame him; for deciding that so long as the alternative lies between\nliving mainly at the expense of the community and allowing the community\nto live mainly at his, it would be folly to accept what is to him\npersonally the greater of the two evils.\n\nWe may therefore contemplate the tramps of the Sierra without prejudice,\nadmitting cheerfully that our objects--briefly, to be gentlemen of\nfortune--are much the same as theirs, and the difference in our position\nand methods merely accidental. One or two of them, perhaps, it would be\nwiser to kill without malice in a friendly and frank manner; for there\nare bipeds, just as there are quadrupeds, who are too dangerous to be\nleft unchained and unmuzzled; and these cannot fairly expect to have\nother men's lives wasted in the work of watching them. But as society\nhas not the courage to kill them, and, when it catches them, simply\nwreaks on them some superstitious expiatory rites of torture and\ndegradation, and than lets them loose with heightened qualifications for\nmischief, it is just as well that they are at large in the Sierra,\nand in the hands of a chief who looks as if he might possibly, on\nprovocation, order them to be shot.\n\nThis chief, seated in the centre of the group on a squared block of\nstone from the quarry, is a tall strong man, with a striking cockatoo\nnose, glossy black hair, pointed beard, upturned moustache, and a\nMephistophelean affectation which is fairly imposing, perhaps because\nthe scenery admits of a larger swagger than Piccadilly, perhaps because\nof a certain sentimentality in the man which gives him that touch of\ngrace which alone can excuse deliberate picturesqueness. His eyes and\nmouth are by no means rascally; he has a fine voice and a ready wit; and\nwhether he is really the strongest man in the party, or not, he looks\nit. He is certainly, the best fed, the best dressed, and the best\ntrained. The fact that he speaks English is not unexpected in spite of\nthe Spanish landscape; for with the exception of one man who might be\nguessed as a bullfighter ruined by drink and one unmistakable Frenchman,\nthey are all cockney or American; therefore, in a land of cloaks and\nsombreros, they mostly wear seedy overcoats, woollen mufflers, hard\nhemispherical hats, and dirty brown gloves. Only a very few dress after\ntheir leader, whose broad sombrero with a cock's feather in the band,\nand voluminous cloak descending to his high boots, are as un-English as\npossible. None of them are armed; and the ungloved ones keep their hands\nin their pockets because it is their national belief that it must be\ndangerously cold in the open air with the night coming on. (It is as\nwarm an evening as any reasonable man could desire).\n\nExcept the bullfighting inebriate there is only one person in the\ncompany who looks more than, say, thirty-three. He is a small man with\nreddish whiskers, weak eyes, and the anxious look of a small tradesman\nin difficulties. He wears the only tall hat visible: it shines in the\nsunset with the sticky glow of some sixpenny patent hat reviver, often\napplied and constantly tending to produce a worse state of the original\nsurface than the ruin it was applied to remedy. He has a collar and cuff\nof celluloid; and his brown Chesterfield overcoat, with velvet collar,\nis still presentable. He is pre-eminently the respectable man of the\nparty, and is certainly over forty, possibly over fifty. He is the\ncorner man on the leader's right, opposite three men in scarlet ties on\nhis left. One of these three is the Frenchman. Of the remaining two, who\nare both English, one is argumentative, solemn, and obstinate; the other\nrowdy and mischievous.\n\nThe chief, with a magnificent fling of the end of his cloak across his\nleft shoulder, rises to address them. The applause which greets him\nshows that he is a favorite orator.\n\nTHE CHIEF. Friends and fellow brigands. I have a proposal to make\nto this meeting. We have now spent three evenings in discussing the\nquestion Have Anarchists or Social-Democrats the most personal courage?\nWe have gone into the principles of Anarchism and Social-Democracy at\ngreat length. The cause of Anarchy has been ably represented by our one\nAnarchist, who doesn't know what Anarchism means [laughter]--\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. [rising] A point of order, Mendoza--\n\nMENDOZA. [forcibly] No, by thunder: your last point of order took half\nan hour. Besides, Anarchists don't believe in order.\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. [mild, polite but persistent: he is, in fact, the\nrespectable looking elderly man in the celluloid collar and cuffs] That\nis a vulgar error. I can prove--\n\nMENDOZA. Order, order.\n\nTHE OTHERS [shouting] Order, order. Sit down. Chair! Shut up.\n\nThe Anarchist is suppressed.\n\nMENDOZA. On the other hand we have three Social-Democrats among us. They\nare not on speaking terms; and they have put before us three distinct\nand incompatible views of Social-Democracy.\n\nTHE MAJORITY. [shouting assent] Hear, hear! So we are. Right.\n\nTHE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [smarting under oppression] You ain't no\nChristian. You're a Sheeny, you are.\n\nMENDOZA. [with crushing magnanimity] My friend; I am an exception to\nall rules. It is true that I have the honor to be a Jew; and, when the\nZionists need a leader to reassemble our race on its historic soil\nof Palestine, Mendoza will not be the last to volunteer [sympathetic\napplause--hear, hear, etc.]. But I am not a slave to any superstition.\nI have swallowed all the formulas, even that of Socialism; though, in a\nsense, once a Socialist, always a Socialist.\n\nTHE SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!\n\nMENDOZA. But I am well aware that the ordinary man--even the ordinary\nbrigand, who can scarcely be called an ordinary man [Hear, hear!]--is\nnot a philosopher. Common sense is good enough for him; and in our\nbusiness affairs common sense is good enough for me. Well, what is our\nbusiness here in the Sierra Nevada, chosen by the Moors as the fairest\nspot in Spain? Is it to discuss abstruse questions of political economy?\nNo: it is to hold up motor cars and secure a more equitable distribution\nof wealth.\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. All made by labor, mind you.\n\nMENDOZA. [urbanely] Undoubtedly. All made by labor, and on its way to be\nsquandered by wealthy vagabonds in the dens of vice that disfigure the\nsunny shores of the Mediterranean. We intercept that wealth. We restore\nit to circulation among the class that produced it and that chiefly\nneeds it--the working class. We do this at the risk of our lives\nand liberties, by the exercise of the virtues of courage, endurance,\nforesight, and abstinence--especially abstinence. I myself have eaten\nnothing but prickly pears and broiled rabbit for three days.\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [Stubbornly] No more ain't we.\n\nMENDOZA. [indignantly] Have I taken more than my share?\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [unmoved] Why should you?\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. Why should he not? To each according to his needs: from\neach according to his means.\n\nTHE FRENCHMAN. [shaking his fist at the anarchist] Fumiste!\n\nMENDOZA. [diplomatically] I agree with both of you.\n\nTHE GENUINELY ENGLISH BRIGANDS. Hear, hear! Bravo, Mendoza!\n\nMENDOZA. What I say is, let us treat one another as gentlemen, and\nstrive to excel in personal courage only when we take the field.\n\nTHE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [derisively] Shikespear.\n\nA whistle comes from the goatherd on the hill. He springs up and points\nexcitedly forward along the road to the north.\n\nTHE GOATHERD. Automobile! Automobile! [He rushes down the hill and joins\nthe rest, who all scramble to their feet].\n\nMENDOZA. [in ringing tones] To arms! Who has the gun?\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [handing a rifle to Mendoza] Here.\n\nMENDOZA. Have the nails been strewn in the road?\n\nTHE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Two ahnces of em.\n\nMENDOZA. Good! [To the Frenchman] With me, Duval. If the nails fail,\npuncture their tires with a bullet. [He gives the rifle to Duval, who\nfollows him up the hill. Mendoza produces an opera glass. The others\nhurry across to the road and disappear to the north].\n\nMENDOZA. [on the hill, using his glass] Two only, a capitalist and his\nchauffeur. They look English.\n\nDUVAL. Angliche! Aoh yess. Cochons! [Handling the rifle] Faut tire,\nn'est-ce-pas?\n\nMENDOZA. No: the nails have gone home. Their tire is down: they stop.\n\nDUVAL. [shouting to the others] Fondez sur eux, nom de Dieu!\n\nMENDOZA. [rebuking his excitement] Du calme, Duval: keep your hair on.\nThey take it quietly. Let us descend and receive them.\n\nMendoza descends, passing behind the fire and coming forward, whilst\nTanner and Straker, in their motoring goggles, leather coats, and caps,\nare led in from the road by brigands.\n\nTANNER. Is this the gentleman you describe as your boss? Does he speak\nEnglish?\n\nTHE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Course he does. Y'don't suppowz we\nHinglishmen lets ahrselves be bossed by a bloomin Spenniard, do you?\n\nMENDOZA. [with dignity] Allow me to introduce myself: Mendoza, President\nof the League of the Sierra! [Posing loftily] I am a brigand: I live by\nrobbing the rich.\n\nTANNER. [promptly] I am a gentleman: I live by robbing the poor. Shake\nhands.\n\nTHE ENGLISH SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!\n\nGeneral laughter and good humor. Tanner and Mendoza shake hands. The\nBrigands drop into their former places.\n\nSTRAKER. Ere! where do I come in?\n\nTANNER. [introducing] My friend and chauffeur.\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [suspiciously] Well, which is he? friend or\nshow-foor? It makes all the difference you know.\n\nMENDOZA. [explaining] We should expect ransom for a friend. A\nprofessional chauffeur is free of the mountains. He even takes a\ntrifling percentage of his princpal's ransom if he will honor us by\naccepting it.\n\nSTRAKER. I see. Just to encourage me to come this way again. Well, I'll\nthink about it.\n\nDUVAL. [impulsively rushing across to Straker] Mon frere! [He embraces\nhim rapturously and kisses him on both cheeks].\n\nSTRAKER. [disgusted] Ere, git out: don't be silly. Who are you, pray?\n\nDUVAL. Duval: Social-Democrat.\n\nSTRAKER. Oh, you're a Social-Democrat, are you?\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. He means that he has sold out to the parliamentary\nhumbugs and the bourgeoisie. Compromise! that is his faith.\n\nDUVAL. [furiously] I understand what he say. He say Bourgeois. He say\nCompromise. Jamais de la vie! Miserable menteur--\n\nSTRAKER. See here, Captain Mendoza, ow much o this sort o thing do you\nput up with here? Are we avin a pleasure trip in the mountains, or are\nwe at a Socialist meetin?\n\nTHE MAJORITY. Hear, hear! Shut up. Chuck it. Sit down, etc. etc. [The\nSocial-Democrats and the Anarchist are hurtled into the background.\nStraker, after superintending this proceeding with satisfaction, places\nhimself on Mendoza's left, Tanner being on his right].\n\nMENDOZA. Can we offer you anything? Broiled rabbit and prickly pears--\n\nTANNER. Thank you: we have dined.\n\nMENDOZA. [to his followers] Gentlemen: business is over for the day. Go\nas you please until morning.\n\nThe Brigands disperse into groups lazily. Some go into the cave. Others\nsit down or lie down to sleep in the open. A few produce a pack of cards\nand move off towards the road; for it is now starlight; and they know\nthat motor cars have lamps which can be turned to account for lighting a\ncard party.\n\nSTRAKER. [calling after them] Don't none of you go fooling with that\ncar, d'ye hear?\n\nMENDOZA. No fear, Monsieur le Chauffeur. The first one we captured cured\nus of that.\n\nSTRAKER. [interested] What did it do?\n\nMENDOZA. It carried three brave comrades of ours, who did not know how\nto stop it, into Granada, and capsized them opposite the police station.\nSince then we never touch one without sending for the chauffeur. Shall\nwe chat at our ease?\n\nTANNER. By all means.\n\nTanner, Mendoza, and Straker sit down on the turf by the fire. Mendoza\ndelicately waives his presidential dignity, of which the right to sit on\nthe squared stone block is the appanage, by sitting on the ground like\nhis guests, and using the stone only as a support for his back.\n\nMENDOZA. It is the custom in Spain always to put off business until\nto-morrow. In fact, you have arrived out of office hours. However, if\nyou would prefer to settle the question of ransom at once, I am at your\nservice.\n\nTANNER. To-morrow will do for me. I am rich enough to pay anything in\nreason.\n\nMENDOZA. [respectfully, much struck by this admission] You are a\nremarkable man, sir. Our guests usually describe themselves as miserably\npoor.\n\nTANNER. Pooh! Miserably poor people don't own motor cars.\n\nMENDOZA. Precisely what we say to them.\n\nTANNER. Treat us well: we shall not prove ungrateful.\n\nSTRAKER. No prickly pears and broiled rabbits, you know. Don't tell me\nyou can't do us a bit better than that if you like.\n\nMENDOZA. Wine, kids, milk, cheese and bread can be procured for ready\nmoney.\n\nSTRAKER. [graciously] Now you're talking.\n\nTANNER. Are you all Socialists here, may I ask?\n\nMENDOZA. [repudiating this humiliating misconception] Oh no, no, no:\nnothing of the kind, I assure you. We naturally have modern views as to\nthe justice of the existing distribution of wealth: otherwise we should\nlose our self-respect. But nothing that you could take exception to,\nexcept two or three faddists.\n\nTANNER. I had no intention of suggesting anything discreditable. In\nfact, I am a bit of a Socialist myself.\n\nSTRAKER. [drily] Most rich men are, I notice.\n\nMENDOZA. Quite so. It has reached us, I admit. It is in the air of the\ncentury.\n\nSTRAKER. Socialism must be looking up a bit if your chaps are taking to\nit.\n\nMENDOZA. That is true, sir. A movement which is confined to philosophers\nand honest men can never exercise any real political influence: there\nare too few of them. Until a movement shows itself capable of spreading\namong brigands, it can never hope for a political majority.\n\nTANNER. But are your brigands any less honest than ordinary citizens?\n\nMENDOZA. Sir: I will be frank with you. Brigandage is abnormal. Abnormal\nprofessions attract two classes: those who are not good enough for\nordinary bourgeois life and those who are too good for it. We are dregs\nand scum, sir: the dregs very filthy, the scum very superior.\n\nSTRAKER. Take care! some o the dregs'll hear you.\n\nMENDOZA. It does not matter: each brigand thinks himself scum, and likes\nto hear the others called dregs.\n\nTANNER. Come! you are a wit. [Mendoza inclines his head, flattered]. May\none ask you a blunt question?\n\nMENDOZA. As blunt as you please.\n\nTANNER. How does it pay a man of your talent to shepherd such a flock as\nthis on broiled rabbit and prickly pears? I have seen men less gifted,\nand I'll swear less honest, supping at the Savoy on foie gras and\nchampagne.\n\nMENDOZA. Pooh! they have all had their turn at the broiled rabbit, just\nas I shall have my turn at the Savoy. Indeed, I have had a turn there\nalready--as waiter.\n\nTANNER. A waiter! You astonish me!\n\nMENDOZA. [reflectively] Yes: I, Mendoza of the Sierra, was a waiter.\nHence, perhaps, my cosmopolitanism. [With sudden intensity] Shall I tell\nyou the story of my life?\n\nSTRAKER. [apprehensively] If it ain't too long, old chap--\n\nTANNER. [interrupting him] Tsh-sh: you are a Philistine, Henry: you have\nno romance in you. [To Mendoza] You interest me extremely, President.\nNever mind Henry: he can go to sleep.\n\nMENDOZA. The woman I loved--\n\nSTRAKER. Oh, this is a love story, is it? Right you are. Go on: I was\nonly afraid you were going to talk about yourself.\n\nMENDOZA. Myself! I have thrown myself away for her sake: that is why\nI am here. No matter: I count the world well lost for her. She had, I\npledge you my word, the most magnificent head of hair I ever saw. She\nhad humor; she had intellect; she could cook to perfection; and her\nhighly strung temperament made her uncertain, incalculable, variable,\ncapricious, cruel, in a word, enchanting.\n\nSTRAKER. A six shillin novel sort o woman, all but the cookin. Er name\nwas Lady Gladys Plantagenet, wasn't it?\n\nMENDOZA. No, sir: she was not an earl's daughter. Photography,\nreproduced by the half-tone process, has made me familiar with the\nappearance of the daughters of the English peerage; and I can honestly\nsay that I would have sold the lot, faces, dowries, clothes, titles, and\nall, for a smile from this woman. Yet she was a woman of the people,\na worker: otherwise--let me reciprocate your bluntness--I should have\nscorned her.\n\nTANNER. Very properly. And did she respond to your love?\n\nMENDOZA. Should I be here if she did? She objected to marry a Jew.\n\nTANNER. On religious grounds?\n\nMENDOZA. No: she was a freethinker. She said that every Jew considers in\nhis heart that English people are dirty in their habits.\n\nTANNER. [surprised] Dirty!\n\nMENDOZA. It showed her extraordinary knowledge of the world; for it\nis undoubtedly true. Our elaborate sanitary code makes us unduly\ncontemptuous of the Gentile.\n\nTANNER. Did you ever hear that, Henry?\n\nSTRAKER. I've heard my sister say so. She was cook in a Jewish family\nonce.\n\nMENDOZA. I could not deny it; neither could I eradicate the impression\nit made on her mind. I could have got round any other objection; but\nno woman can stand a suspicion of indelicacy as to her person. My\nentreaties were in vain: she always retorted that she wasn't good enough\nfor me, and recommended me to marry an accursed barmaid named Rebecca\nLazarus, whom I loathed. I talked of suicide: she offered me a packet\nof beetle poison to do it with. I hinted at murder: she went into\nhysterics; and as I am a living man I went to America so that she might\nsleep without dreaming that I was stealing upstairs to cut her throat.\nIn America I went out west and fell in with a man who was wanted by the\npolice for holding up trains. It was he who had the idea of holding up\nmotors cars--in the South of Europe: a welcome idea to a desperate and\ndisappointed man. He gave me some valuable introductions to capitalists\nof the right sort. I formed a syndicate; and the present enterprise is\nthe result. I became leader, as the Jew always becomes leader, by his\nbrains and imagination. But with all my pride of race I would give\neverything I possess to be an Englishman. I am like a boy: I cut her\nname on the trees and her initials on the sod. When I am alone I lie\ndown and tear my wretched hair and cry Louisa--\n\nSTRAKER. [startled] Louisa!\n\nMENDOZA. It is her name--Louisa--Louisa Straker--\n\nTANNER. Straker!\n\nSTRAKER. [scrambling up on his knees most indignantly] Look here: Louisa\nStraker is my sister, see? Wot do you mean by gassin about her like\nthis? Wot she got to do with you?\n\nMENDOZA. A dramatic coincidence! You are Enry, her favorite brother!\n\nSTRAKER. Oo are you callin Enry? What call have you to take a liberty\nwith my name or with hers? For two pins I'd punch your fat ed, so I\nwould.\n\nMENDOZA. [with grandiose calm] If I let you do it, will you promise to\nbrag of it afterwards to her? She will be reminded of her Mendoza: that\nis all I desire.\n\nTANNER. This is genuine devotion, Henry. You should respect it.\n\nSTRAKER. [fiercely] Funk, more likely.\n\nMENDOZA. [springing to his feet] Funk! Young man: I come of a famous\nfamily of fighters; and as your sister well knows, you would have as\nmuch chance against me as a perambulator against your motor car.\n\nSTRAKER. [secretly daunted, but rising from his knees with an air of\nreckless pugnacity] I ain't afraid of you. With your Louisa! Louisa!\nMiss Straker is good enough for you, I should think.\n\nMENDOZA. I wish you could persuade her to think so.\n\nSTRAKER. [exasperated] Here--\n\nTANNER. [rising quickly and interposing] Oh come, Henry: even if you\ncould fight the President you can't fight the whole League of the\nSierra. Sit down again and be friendly. A cat may look at a king; and\neven a President of brigands may look at your sister. All this family\npride is really very old fashioned.\n\nSTRAKER. [subdued, but grumbling] Let him look at her. But wot does he\nmean by makin out that she ever looked at im? [Reluctantly resuming his\ncouch on the turf] Ear him talk, one ud think she was keepin company\nwith him. [He turns his back on them and composes himself to sleep].\n\nMENDOZA. [to Tanner, becoming more confidential as he finds himself\nvirtually alone with a sympathetic listener in the still starlight of\nthe mountains; for all the rest are asleep by this time] It was just so\nwith her, sir. Her intellect reached forward into the twentieth century:\nher social prejudices and family affections reached back into the dark\nages. Ah, sir, how the words of Shakespear seem to fit every crisis in\nour emotions!\n\n     I loved Louisa: 40,000 brothers\n     Could not with all their quantity of love\n     Make up my sum.\n\nAnd so on. I forget the rest. Call it madness if you will--infatuation.\nI am an able man, a strong man: in ten years I should have owned a\nfirst-class hotel. I met her; and you see! I am a brigand, an outcast.\nEven Shakespear cannot do justice to what I feel for Louisa. Let me\nread you some lines that I have written about her myself. However slight\ntheir literary merit may be, they express what I feel better than any\ncasual words can. [He produces a packet of hotel bills scrawled with\nmanuscript, and kneels at the fire to decipher them, poking it with a\nstick to make it glow].\n\nTANNER. [clapping him rudely on the shoulder] Put them in the fire,\nPresident.\n\nMENDOZA. [startled] Eh?\n\nTANNER. You are sacrificing your career to a monomania.\n\nMENDOZA. I know it.\n\nTANNER. No you don't. No man would commit such a crime against himself\nif he really knew what he was doing. How can you look round at these\naugust hills, look up at this divine sky, taste this finely tempered\nair, and then talk like a literary hack on a second floor in Bloomsbury?\n\nMENDOZA. [shaking his head] The Sierra is no better than Bloomsbury when\nonce the novelty has worn off. Besides, these mountains make you dream\nof women--of women with magnificent hair.\n\nTANNER. Of Louisa, in short. They will not make me dream of women, my\nfriend: I am heartwhole.\n\nMENDOZA. Do not boast until morning, sir. This is a strange country for\ndreams.\n\nTANNER. Well, we shall see. Goodnight. [He lies down and composes\nhimself to sleep].\n\nMendoza, with a sigh, follows his example; and for a few moments\nthere is peace in the Sierra. Then Mendoza sits up suddenly and says\npleadingly to Tanner--\n\nMENDOZA. Just allow me to read a few lines before you go to sleep. I\nshould really like your opinion of them.\n\nTANNER. [drowsily] Go on. I am listening.\n\nMENDOZA. I saw thee first in Whitsun week Louisa, Louisa--\n\nTANNER. [roaring himself] My dear President, Louisa is a very pretty\nname; but it really doesn't rhyme well to Whitsun week.\n\nMENDOZA. Of course not. Louisa is not the rhyme, but the refrain.\n\nTANNER. [subsiding] Ah, the refrain. I beg your pardon. Go on.\n\nMENDOZA. Perhaps you do not care for that one: I think you will like\nthis better. [He recites, in rich soft tones, and to slow time]\n\n     Louisa, I love thee.\n     I love thee, Louisa.\n     Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.\n     One name and one phrase make my music,\n     Louisa. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.\n\n\n     Mendoza thy lover,\n     Thy lover, Mendoza,\n     Mendoza adoringly lives for Louisa.\n     There's nothing but that in the world for Mendoza.\n     Louisa, Louisa, Mendoza adores thee.\n\n[Affected] There is no merit in producing beautiful lines upon such a\nname. Louisa is an exquisite name, is it not?\n\nTANNER. [all but asleep, responds with a faint groan].\n\nMENDOZA.\n\n     O wert thou, Louisa,\n     The wife of Mendoza,\n     Mendoza's Louisa, Louisa Mendoza,\n     How blest were the life of Louisa's Mendoza!\n     How painless his longing of love for Louisa!\n\nThat is real poetry--from the heart--from the heart of hearts. Don't you\nthink it will move her?\n\nNo answer.\n\n[Resignedly] Asleep, as usual. Doggrel to all the world; heavenly music\nto me! Idiot that I am to wear my heart on my sleeve! [He composes\nhimself to sleep, murmuring] Louisa, I love thee; I love thee, Louisa;\nLouisa, Louisa, Louisa, I--\n\nStraker snores; rolls over on his side; and relapses into sleep.\nStillness settles on the Sierra; and the darkness deepens. The fire\nhas again buried itself in white ash and ceased to glow. The peaks show\nunfathomably dark against the starry firmament; but now the stars dim\nand vanish; and the sky seems to steal away out of the universe. Instead\nof the Sierra there is nothing; omnipresent nothing. No sky, no peaks,\nno light, no sound, no time nor space, utter void. Then somewhere\nthe beginning of a pallor, and with it a faint throbbing buzz as of a\nghostly violoncello palpitating on the same note endlessly. A couple of\nghostly violins presently take advantage of this bass\n\n(a staff of music is supplied here)\n\nand therewith the pallor reveals a man in the void, an incorporeal but\nvisible man, seated, absurdly enough, on nothing. For a moment he raises\nhis head as the music passes him by. Then, with a heavy sigh, he droops\nin utter dejection; and the violins, discouraged, retrace their melody\nin despair and at last give it up, extinguished by wailings from uncanny\nwind instruments, thus:--\n\n(more music)\n\nIt is all very odd. One recognizes the Mozartian strain; and on this\nhint, and by the aid of certain sparkles of violet light in the pallor,\nthe man's costume explains itself as that of a Spanish nobleman of the\nXV-XVI century. Don Juan, of course; but where? why? how? Besides, in\nthe brief lifting of his face, now hidden by his hat brim, there was\na curious suggestion of Tanner. A more critical, fastidious, handsome\nface, paler and colder, without Tanner's impetuous credulity and\nenthusiasm, and without a touch of his modern plutocratic vulgarity, but\nstill a resemblance, even an identity. The name too: Don Juan Tenorio,\nJohn Tanner. Where on earth---or elsewhere--have we got to from the XX\ncentury and the Sierra?\n\nAnother pallor in the void, this time not violet, but a disagreeable\nsmoky yellow. With it, the whisper of a ghostly clarionet turning this\ntune into infinite sadness:\n\n(Here there is another musical staff.)\n\nThe yellowish pallor moves: there is an old crone wandering in the void,\nbent and toothless; draped, as well as one can guess, in the coarse\nbrown frock of some religious order. She wanders and wanders in her\nslow hopeless way, much as a wasp flies in its rapid busy way, until\nshe blunders against the thing she seeks: companionship. With a sob of\nrelief the poor old creature clutches at the presence of the man and\naddresses him in her dry unlovely voice, which can still express pride\nand resolution as well as suffering.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Excuse me; but I am so lonely; and this place is so\nawful.\n\nDON JUAN. A new comer?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Yes: I suppose I died this morning. I confessed; I had\nextreme unction; I was in bed with my family about me and my eyes fixed\non the cross. Then it grew dark; and when the light came back it was\nthis light by which I walk seeing nothing. I have wandered for hours in\nhorrible loneliness.\n\nDON JUAN. [sighing] Ah! you have not yet lost the sense of time. One\nsoon does, in eternity.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Where are we?\n\nDON JUAN. In hell.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN [proudly] Hell! I in hell! How dare you?\n\nDON JUAN. [unimpressed] Why not, Senora?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. You do not know to whom you are speaking. I am a lady,\nand a faithful daughter of the Church.\n\nDON JUAN. I do not doubt it.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. But how then can I be in hell? Purgatory, perhaps: I have\nnot been perfect: who has? But hell! oh, you are lying.\n\nDON JUAN. Hell, Senora, I assure you; hell at its best--that is, its most\nsolitary--though perhaps you would prefer company.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. But I have sincerely repented; I have confessed.\n\nDON JUAN. How much?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. More sins than I really committed. I loved confession.\n\nDON JUAN. Ah, that is perhaps as bad as confessing too little. At all\nevents, Senora, whether by oversight or intention, you are certainly\ndamned, like myself; and there is nothing for it now but to make the\nbest of it.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN [indignantly] Oh! and I might have been so much wickeder!\nAll my good deeds wasted! It is unjust.\n\nDON JUAN. No: you were fully and clearly warned. For your bad deeds,\nvicarious atonement, mercy without justice. For your good deeds, justice\nwithout mercy. We have many good people here.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Were you a good man?\n\nDON JUAN. I was a murderer.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. A murderer! Oh, how dare they send me to herd with\nmurderers! I was not as bad as that: I was a good woman. There is some\nmistake: where can I have it set right?\n\nDON JUAN. I do not know whether mistakes can be corrected here. Probably\nthey will not admit a mistake even if they have made one.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. But whom can I ask?\n\nDON JUAN. I should ask the Devil, Senora: he understands the ways of\nthis place, which is more than I ever could.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. The Devil! _I_ speak to the Devil!\n\nDON JUAN. In hell, Senora, the Devil is the leader of the best society.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. I tell you, wretch, I know I am not in hell.\n\nDON JUAN. How do you know?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Because I feel no pain.\n\nDON JUAN. Oh, then there is no mistake: you are intentionally damned.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Why do you say that?\n\nDON JUAN. Because hell, Senora, is a place for the wicked. The wicked\nare quite comfortable in it: it was made for them. You tell me you feel\nno pain. I conclude you are one of those for whom Hell exists.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Do you feel no pain?\n\nDON JUAN. I am not one of the wicked, Senora; therefore it bores me,\nbores me beyond description, beyond belief.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Not one of the wicked! You said you were a murderer.\n\nDON JUAN. Only a duel. I ran my sword through an old man who was trying\nto run his through me.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. If you were a gentleman, that was not a murder.\n\nDON JUAN. The old man called it murder, because he was, he said,\ndefending his daughter's honor. By this he meant that because I\nfoolishly fell in love with her and told her so, she screamed; and he\ntried to assassinate me after calling me insulting names.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. You were like all men. Libertines and murderers all, all,\nall!\n\nDON JUAN. And yet we meet here, dear lady.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Listen to me. My father was slain by just such a wretch\nas you, in just such a duel, for just such a cause. I screamed: it was\nmy duty. My father drew on my assailant: his honor demanded it. He fell:\nthat was the reward of honor. I am here: in hell, you tell me that is\nthe reward of duty. Is there justice in heaven?\n\nDON JUAN. No; but there is justice in hell: heaven is far above such\nidle human personalities. You will be welcome in hell, Senora. Hell\nis the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven deadly\nvirtues. All the wickedness on earth is done in their name: where else\nbut in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you that the\ntruly damned are those who are happy in hell?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. And are you happy here?\n\nDON JUAN. [Springing to his feet] No; and that is the enigma on which I\nponder in darkness. Why am I here? I, who repudiated all duty, trampled\nhonor underfoot, and laughed at justice!\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Oh, what do I care why you are here? Why am I here? I,\nwho sacrificed all my inclinations to womanly virtue and propriety!\n\nDON JUAN. Patience, lady: you will be perfectly happy and at home here.\nAs saith the poet, \"Hell is a city much like Seville.\"\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Happy! here! where I am nothing! where I am nobody!\n\nDON JUAN. Not at all: you are a lady; and wherever ladies are is hell.\nDo not be surprised or terrified: you will find everything here that a\nlady can desire, including devils who will serve you from sheer love of\nservitude, and magnify your importance for the sake of dignifying their\nservice--the best of servants.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. My servants will be devils!\n\nDON JUAN. Have you ever had servants who were not devils?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Never: they were devils, perfect devils, all of them. But\nthat is only a manner of speaking. I thought you meant that my servants\nhere would be real devils.\n\nDON JUAN. No more real devils than you will be a real lady. Nothing is\nreal here. That is the horror of damnation.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Oh, this is all madness. This is worse than fire and the\nworm.\n\nDON JUAN. For you, perhaps, there are consolations. For instance: how\nold were you when you changed from time to eternity?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Do not ask me how old I was as if I were a thing of the\npast. I am 77.\n\nDON JUAN. A ripe age, Senora. But in hell old age is not tolerated. It\nis too real. Here we worship Love and Beauty. Our souls being entirely\ndamned, we cultivate our hearts. As a lady of 77, you would not have a\nsingle acquaintance in hell.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. How can I help my age, man?\n\nDON JUAN. You forget that you have left your age behind you in the realm\nof time. You are no more 77 than you are 7 or 17 or 27.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Nonsense!\n\nDON JUAN. Consider, Senora: was not this true even when you lived on\nearth? When you were 70, were you really older underneath your wrinkles\nand your grey hairs than when you were 30?\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. No, younger: at 30 I was a fool. But of what use is it to\nfeel younger and look older?\n\nDON JUAN. You see, Senora, the look was only an illusion. Your wrinkles\nlied, just as the plump smooth skin of many a stupid girl of 17, with\nheavy spirits and decrepit ideas, lies about her age? Well, here we have\nno bodies: we see each other as bodies only because we learnt to think\nabout one another under that aspect when we were alive; and we still\nthink in that way, knowing no other. But we can appear to one another at\nwhat age we choose. You have but to will any of your old looks back, and\nback they will come.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. It cannot be true.\n\nDON JUAN. Try.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. Seventeen!\n\nDON JUAN. Stop. Before you decide, I had better tell you that these\nthings are a matter of fashion. Occasionally we have a rage for 17; but\nit does not last long. Just at present the fashionable age is 40--or say\n37; but there are signs of a change. If you were at all good-looking at\n27, I should suggest your trying that, and setting a new fashion.\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN. I do not believe a word you are saying. However, 27 be\nit. [Whisk! the old woman becomes a young one, and so handsome that in\nthe radiance into which her dull yellow halo has suddenly lightened one\nmight almost mistake her for Ann Whitefield].\n\nDON JUAN. Dona Ana de Ulloa!\n\nANA. What? You know me!\n\nDON JUAN. And you forget me!\n\nANA. I cannot see your face. [He raises his hat]. Don Juan Tenorio!\nMonster! You who slew my father! even here you pursue me.\n\nDON JUAN. I protest I do not pursue you. Allow me to withdraw [going].\n\nANA. [seizing his arm] You shall not leave me alone in this dreadful\nplace.\n\nDON JUAN. Provided my staying be not interpreted as pursuit.\n\nANA. [releasing him] You may well wonder how I can endure your presence.\nMy dear, dear father!\n\nDON JUAN. Would you like to see him?\n\nANA. My father HERE!!!\n\nDON JUAN. No: he is in heaven.\n\nANA. I knew it. My noble father! He is looking down on us now. What must\nhe feel to see his daughter in this place, and in conversation with his\nmurderer!\n\nDON JUAN. By the way, if we should meet him--\n\nANA. How can we meet him? He is in heaven.\n\nDON JUAN. He condescends to look in upon us here from time to time.\nHeaven bores him. So let me warn you that if you meet him he will be\nmortally offended if you speak of me as his murderer! He maintains that\nhe was a much better swordsman than I, and that if his foot had not\nslipped he would have killed me. No doubt he is right: I was not a good\nfencer. I never dispute the point; so we are excellent friends.\n\nANA. It is no dishonor to a soldier to be proud of his skill in arms.\n\nDON JUAN. You would rather not meet him, probably.\n\nANA. How dare you say that?\n\nDON JUAN. Oh, that is the usual feeling here. You may remember that on\nearth--though of course we never confessed it--the death of anyone\nwe knew, even those we liked best, was always mingled with a certain\nsatisfaction at being finally done with them.\n\nANA. Monster! Never, never.\n\nDON JUAN. [placidly] I see you recognize the feeling. Yes: a funeral was\nalways a festivity in black, especially the funeral of a relative. At\nall events, family ties are rarely kept up here. Your father is quite\naccustomed to this: he will not expect any devotion from you.\n\nANA. Wretch: I wore mourning for him all my life.\n\nDON JUAN. Yes: it became you. But a life of mourning is one thing: an\neternity of it quite another. Besides, here you are as dead as he. Can\nanything be more ridiculous than one dead person mourning for another?\nDo not look shocked, my dear Ana; and do not be alarmed: there is plenty\nof humbug in hell (indeed there is hardly anything else); but the humbug\nof death and age and change is dropped because here WE are all dead and\nall eternal. You will pick up our ways soon.\n\nANA. And will all the men call me their dear Ana?\n\nDON JUAN. No. That was a slip of the tongue. I beg your pardon.\n\nANA. [almost tenderly] Juan: did you really love me when you behaved so\ndisgracefully to me?\n\nDON JUAN. [impatiently] Oh, I beg you not to begin talking about love.\nHere they talk of nothing else but love--its beauty, its holiness, its\nspirituality, its devil knows what!--excuse me; but it does so bore me.\nThey don't know what they're talking about. I do. They think they have\nachieved the perfection of love because they have no bodies. Sheer\nimaginative debauchery! Faugh!\n\nANA. Has even death failed to refine your soul, Juan? Has the terrible\njudgment of which my father's statue was the minister taught you no\nreverence?\n\nDON JUAN. How is that very flattering statue, by the way? Does it still\ncome to supper with naughty people and cast them into this bottomless\npit?\n\nANA. It has been a great expense to me. The boys in the monastery school\nwould not let it alone: the mischievous ones broke it; and the studious\nones wrote their names on it. Three new noses in two years, and fingers\nwithout end. I had to leave it to its fate at last; and now I fear it is\nshockingly mutilated. My poor father!\n\nDON JUAN. Hush! Listen! [Two great chords rolling on syncopated waves of\nsound break forth: D minor and its dominant: a round of dreadful joy to\nall musicians]. Ha! Mozart's statue music. It is your father. You had\nbetter disappear until I prepare him. [She vanishes].\n\nFrom the void comes a living statue of white marble, designed to\nrepresent a majestic old man. But he waives his majesty with infinite\ngrace; walks with a feather-like step; and makes every wrinkle in his\nwar worn visage brim over with holiday joyousness. To his sculptor he\nowes a perfectly trained figure, which he carries erect and trim; and\nthe ends of his moustache curl up, elastic as watchsprings, giving him\nan air which, but for its Spanish dignity, would be called jaunty. He is\non the pleasantest terms with Don Juan. His voice, save for a much more\ndistinguished intonation, is so like the voice of Roebuck Ramsden that\nit calls attention to the fact that they are not unlike one another in\nspite of their very different fashion of shaving.\n\nDON JUAN. Ah, here you are, my friend. Why don't you learn to sing the\nsplendid music Mozart has written for you?\n\nTHE STATUE. Unluckily he has written it for a bass voice. Mine is a\ncounter tenor. Well: have you repented yet?\n\nDON JUAN. I have too much consideration for you to repent, Don Gonzalo.\nIf I did, you would have no excuse for coming from Heaven to argue with\nme.\n\nTHE STATUE. True. Remain obdurate, my boy. I wish I had killed you, as I\nshould have done but for an accident. Then I should have come here; and\nyou would have had a statue and a reputation for piety to live up to.\nAny news?\n\nDON JUAN. Yes: your daughter is dead.\n\nTHE STATUE. [puzzled] My daughter? [Recollecting] Oh! the one you were\ntaken with. Let me see: what was her name?\n\nDON JUAN. Ana.\n\nTHE STATUE. To be sure: Ana. A goodlooking girl, if I recollect aright.\nHave you warned Whatshisname--her husband?\n\nDON JUAN. My friend Ottavio? No: I have not seen him since Ana arrived.\n\nAna comes indignantly to light.\n\nANA. What does this mean? Ottavio here and YOUR friend! And you, father,\nhave forgotten my name. You are indeed turned to stone.\n\nTHE STATUE. My dear: I am so much more admired in marble than I ever was\nin my own person that I have retained the shape the sculptor gave me. He\nwas one of the first men of his day: you must acknowledge that.\n\nANA. Father! Vanity! personal vanity! from you!\n\nTHE STATUE. Ah, you outlived that weakness, my daughter: you must be\nnearly 80 by this time. I was cut off (by an accident) in my 64th year,\nand am considerably your junior in consequence. Besides, my child,\nin this place, what our libertine friend here would call the farce of\nparental wisdom is dropped. Regard me, I beg, as a fellow creature, not\nas a father.\n\nANA. You speak as this villain speaks.\n\nTHE STATUE. Juan is a sound thinker, Ana. A bad fencer, but a sound\nthinker.\n\nANA. [horror creeping upon her] I begin to understand. These are devils,\nmocking me. I had better pray.\n\nTHE STATUE. [consoling her] No, no, no, my child: do not pray. If you\ndo, you will throw away the main advantage of this place. Written over\nthe gate here are the words \"Leave every hope behind, ye who enter.\"\nOnly think what a relief that is! For what is hope? A form of moral\nresponsibility. Here there is no hope, and consequently no duty, no\nwork, nothing to be gained by praying, nothing to be lost by doing what\nyou like. Hell, in short, is a place where you have nothing to do but\namuse yourself. [Don Juan sighs deeply]. You sigh, friend Juan; but if\nyou dwelt in heaven, as I do, you would realize your advantages.\n\nDON JUAN. You are in good spirits to-day, Commander. You are positively\nbrilliant. What is the matter?\n\nTHE STATUE. I have come to a momentous decision, my boy. But first,\nwhere is our friend the Devil? I must consult him in the matter. And Ana\nwould like to make his acquaintance, no doubt.\n\nANA. You are preparing some torment for me.\n\nDON JUAN. All that is superstition, Ana. Reassure yourself. Remember:\nthe devil is not so black as he is painted.\n\nTHE STATUE. Let us give him a call.\n\nAt the wave of the statue's hand the great chords roll out again but\nthis time Mozart's music gets grotesquely adulterated with Gounod's.\nA scarlet halo begins to glow; and into it the Devil rises, very\nMephistophelean, and not at all unlike Mendoza, though not so\ninteresting. He looks older; is getting prematurely bald; and, in spite\nof an effusion of goodnature and friendliness, is peevish and sensitive\nwhen his advances are not reciprocated. He does not inspire much\nconfidence in his powers of hard work or endurance, and is, on the\nwhole, a disagreeably self-indulgent looking person; but he is clever\nand plausible, though perceptibly less well bred than the two other men,\nand enormously less vital than the woman.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [heartily] Have I the pleasure of again receiving a visit\nfrom the illustrious Commander of Calatrava? [Coldly] Don Juan, your\nservant. [Politely] And a strange lady? My respects, Senora.\n\nANA. Are you--\n\nTHE DEVIL. [bowing] Lucifer, at your service.\n\nANA. I shall go mad.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [gallantly] Ah, Senora, do not be anxious. You come to us\nfrom earth, full of the prejudices and terrors of that priest-ridden\nplace. You have heard me ill spoken of; and yet, believe me, I have\nhosts of friends there.\n\nANA. Yes: you reign in their hearts.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [shaking his head] You flatter me, Senora; but you are\nmistaken. It is true that the world cannot get on without me; but it\nnever gives me credit for that: in its heart it mistrusts and hates me.\nIts sympathies are all with misery, with poverty, with starvation of the\nbody and of the heart. I call on it to sympathize with joy, with love,\nwith happiness, with beauty.\n\nDON JUAN. [nauseated] Excuse me: I am going. You know I cannot stand\nthis.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [angrily] Yes: I know that you are no friend of mine.\n\nTHE STATUE. What harm is he doing you, Juan? It seems to me that he was\ntalking excellent sense when you interrupted him.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [warmly shaking the statue's hand] Thank you, my friend:\nthank you. You have always understood me: he has always disparaged and\navoided me.\n\nDON JUAN. I have treated you with perfect courtesy.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Courtesy! What is courtesy? I care nothing for mere courtesy.\nGive me warmth of heart, true sincerity, the bond of sympathy with love\nand joy--\n\nDON JUAN. You are making me ill.\n\nTHE DEVIL. There! [Appealing to the statue] You hear, sir! Oh, by what\nirony of fate was this cold selfish egotist sent to my kingdom, and you\ntaken to the icy mansions of the sky!\n\nTHE STATUE. I can't complain. I was a hypocrite; and it served me right\nto be sent to heaven.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Why, sir, do you not join us, and leave a sphere for which\nyour temperament is too sympathetic, your heart too warm, your capacity\nfor enjoyment too generous?\n\nTHE STATUE. I have this day resolved to do so. In future, excellent Son\nof the Morning, I am yours. I have left Heaven for ever.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [again grasping his hand] Ah, what an honor for me! What a\ntriumph for our cause! Thank you, thank you. And now, my friend--I may\ncall you so at last--could you not persuade HIM to take the place you\nhave left vacant above?\n\nTHE STATUE. [shaking his head] I cannot conscientiously recommend\nanybody with whom I am on friendly terms to deliberately make himself\ndull and uncomfortable.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Of course not; but are you sure HE would be uncomfortable?\nOf course you know best: you brought him here originally; and we had the\ngreatest hopes of him. His sentiments were in the best taste of our best\npeople. You remember how he sang? [He begins to sing in a nasal operatic\nbaritone, tremulous from an eternity of misuse in the French manner].\n\n     Vivan le femmine!\n     Viva il buon vino!\n\nTHE STATUE. [taking up the tune an octave higher in his counter tenor]\n\n     Sostegno a gloria\n     D'umanita.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Precisely. Well, he never sings for us now.\n\nDON JUAN. Do you complain of that? Hell is full of musical amateurs:\nmusic is the brandy of the damned. May not one lost soul be permitted to\nabstain?\n\nTHE DEVIL. You dare blaspheme against the sublimest of the arts!\n\nDON JUAN. [with cold disgust] You talk like a hysterical woman fawning\non a fiddler.\n\nTHE DEVIL. I am not angry. I merely pity you. You have no soul; and you\nare unconscious of all that you lose. Now you, Senor Commander, are a\nborn musician. How well you sing! Mozart would be delighted if he were\nstill here; but he moped and went to heaven. Curious how these clever\nmen, whom you would have supposed born to be popular here, have turned\nout social failures, like Don Juan!\n\nDON JUAN. I am really very sorry to be a social failure.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Not that we don't admire your intellect, you know. We do. But\nI look at the matter from your own point of view. You don't get on with\nus. The place doesn't suit you. The truth is, you have--I won't say no\nheart; for we know that beneath all your affected cynicism you have a\nwarm one.\n\nDON JUAN. [shrinking] Don't, please don't.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [nettled] Well, you've no capacity for enjoyment. Will that\nsatisfy you?\n\nDON JUAN. It is a somewhat less insufferable form of cant than the\nother. But if you'll allow me, I'll take refuge, as usual, in solitude.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Why not take refuge in Heaven? That's the proper place for\nyou. [To Ana] Come, Senora! could you not persuade him for his own good\nto try a change of air?\n\nANA. But can he go to Heaven if he wants to?\n\nTHE DEVIL. What's to prevent him?\n\nANA. Can anybody--can I go to Heaven if I want to?\n\nTHE DEVIL. [rather contemptuously] Certainly, if your taste lies that\nway.\n\nANA. But why doesn't everybody go to Heaven, then?\n\nTHE STATUE. [chuckling] I can tell you that, my dear. It's because\nheaven is the most angelically dull place in all creation: that's why.\n\nTHE DEVIL. His excellency the Commander puts it with military bluntness;\nbut the strain of living in Heaven is intolerable. There is a notion\nthat I was turned out of it; but as a matter of fact nothing could have\ninduced me to stay there. I simply left it and organized this place.\n\nTHE STATUE. I don't wonder at it. Nobody could stand an eternity of\nheaven.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Oh, it suits some people. Let us be just, Commander: it is\na question of temperament. I don't admire the heavenly temperament: I\ndon't understand it: I don't know that I particularly want to understand\nit; but it takes all sorts to make a universe. There is no accounting\nfor tastes: there are people who like it. I think Don Juan would like\nit.\n\nDON JUAN. But--pardon my frankness--could you really go back there if\nyou desired to; or are the grapes sour?\n\nTHE DEVIL. Back there! I often go back there. Have you never read the\nbook of Job? Have you any canonical authority for assuming that there is\nany barrier between our circle and the other one?\n\nANA. But surely there is a great gulf fixed.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Dear lady: a parable must not be taken literally. The gulf\nis the difference between the angelic and the diabolic temperament.\nWhat more impassable gulf could you have? Think of what you have seen\non earth. There is no physical gulf between the philosopher's class room\nand the bull ring; but the bull fighters do not come to the class room\nfor all that. Have you ever been in the country where I have the largest\nfollowing--England? There they have great racecourses, and also concert\nrooms where they play the classical compositions of his Excellency's\nfriend Mozart. Those who go to the racecourses can stay away from them\nand go to the classical concerts instead if they like: there is no law\nagainst it; for Englishmen never will be slaves: they are free to do\nwhatever the Government and public opinion allows them to do. And the\nclassical concert is admitted to be a higher, more cultivated, poetic,\nintellectual, ennobling place than the racecourse. But do the lovers of\nracing desert their sport and flock to the concert room? Not they.\nThey would suffer there all the weariness the Commander has suffered in\nheaven. There is the great gulf of the parable between the two places. A\nmere physical gulf they could bridge; or at least I could bridge it for\nthem (the earth is full of Devil's Bridges); but the gulf of dislike\nis impassable and eternal. And that is the only gulf that separates my\nfriends here from those who are invidiously called the blest.\n\nANA. I shall go to heaven at once.\n\nTHE STATUE. My child; one word of warning first. Let me complete my\nfriend Lucifer's similitude of the classical concert. At every one of\nthose concerts in England you will find rows of weary people who are\nthere, not because they really like classical music, but because they\nthink they ought to like it. Well, there is the same thing in heaven.\nA number of people sit there in glory, not because they are happy, but\nbecause they think they owe it to their position to be in heaven. They\nare almost all English.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Yes: the Southerners give it up and join me just as you\nhave done. But the English really do not seem to know when they are\nthoroughly miserable. An Englishman thinks he is moral when he is only\nuncomfortable.\n\nTHE STATUE. In short, my daughter, if you go to Heaven without being\nnaturally qualified for it, you will not enjoy yourself there.\n\nANA. And who dares say that I am not naturally qualified for it? The\nmost distinguished princes of the Church have never questioned it. I owe\nit to myself to leave this place at once.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [offended] As you please, Senora. I should have expected\nbetter taste from you.\n\nANA. Father: I shall expect you to come with me. You cannot stay here.\nWhat will people say?\n\nTHE STATUE. People! Why, the best people are here--princes of the church\nand all. So few go to Heaven, and so many come here, that the blest,\nonce called a heavenly host, are a continually dwindling minority. The\nsaints, the fathers, the elect of long ago are the cranks, the faddists,\nthe outsiders of to-day.\n\nTHE DEVIL. It is true. From the beginning of my career I knew that I\nshould win in the long run by sheer weight of public opinion, in spite\nof the long campaign of misrepresentation and calumny against me. At\nbottom the universe is a constitutional one; and with such a majority as\nmine I cannot be kept permanently out of office.\n\nDON JUAN. I think, Ana, you had better stay here.\n\nANA. [jealously] You do not want me to go with you.\n\nDON JUAN. Surely you do not want to enter Heaven in the company of a\nreprobate like me.\n\nANA. All souls are equally precious. You repent, do you not?\n\nDON JUAN. My dear Ana, you are silly. Do you suppose heaven is like\nearth, where people persuade themselves that what is done can be undone\nby repentance; that what is spoken can be unspoken by withdrawing it;\nthat what is true can be annihilated by a general agreement to give it\nthe lie? No: heaven is the home of the masters of reality: that is why I\nam going thither.\n\nANA. Thank you: I am going to heaven for happiness. I have had quite\nenough of reality on earth.\n\nDON JUAN. Then you must stay here; for hell is the home of the unreal\nand of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven,\nwhich is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from\nearth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a\nnursery in which men and women play at being heros and heroines, saints\nand sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool's paradise by\ntheir bodies: hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease,\ndeath above all, make them slaves of reality: thrice a day meals must\nbe eaten and digested: thrice a century a new generation must be\nengendered: ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all driven at\nlast to have but one prayer, \"Make me a healthy animal.\" But here you\nescape the tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not an animal at all:\nyou are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a convention, deathless,\nageless: in a word, bodiless. There are no social questions here, no\npolitical questions, no religious questions, best of all, perhaps, no\nsanitary questions. Here you call your appearance beauty, your emotions\nlove, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations virtue, just as you did\non earth; but here there are no hard facts to contradict you, no ironic\ncontrast of your needs with your pretensions, no human comedy, nothing\nbut a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama. As our German friend put\nit in his poem, \"the poetically nonsensical here is good sense; and the\nEternal Feminine draws us ever upward and on\"--without getting us a step\nfarther. And yet you want to leave this paradise!\n\nANA. But if Hell be so beautiful as this, how glorious must heaven be!\n\nThe Devil, the Statue, and Don Juan all begin to speak at once in\nviolent protest; then stop, abashed.\n\nDON JUAN. I beg your pardon.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Not at all. I interrupted you.\n\nTHE STATUE. You were going to say something.\n\nDON JUAN. After you, gentlemen.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [to Don Juan] You have been so eloquent on the advantages of\nmy dominions that I leave you to do equal justice to the drawbacks of\nthe alternative establishment.\n\nDON JUAN. In Heaven, as I picture it, dear lady, you live and work\ninstead of playing and pretending. You face things as they are; you\nescape nothing but glamor; and your steadfastness and your peril are\nyour glory. If the play still goes on here and on earth, and all the\nworld is a stage, Heaven is at least behind the scenes. But Heaven\ncannot be described by metaphor. Thither I shall go presently, because\nthere I hope to escape at last from lies and from the tedious, vulgar\npursuit of happiness, to spend my eons in contemplation--\n\nTHE STATUE. Ugh!\n\nDON JUAN. Senor Commander: I do not blame your disgust: a picture\ngallery is a dull place for a blind man. But even as you enjoy the\ncontemplation of such romantic mirages as beauty and pleasure; so would\nI enjoy the contemplation of that which interests me above all things\nnamely, Life: the force that ever strives to attain greater power of\ncontemplating itself. What made this brain of mine, do you think? Not\nthe need to move my limbs; for a rat with half my brains moves as well\nas I. Not merely the need to do, but the need to know what I do, lest in\nmy blind efforts to live I should be slaying myself.\n\nTHE STATUE. You would have slain yourself in your blind efforts to fence\nbut for my foot slipping, my friend.\n\nDON JUAN. Audacious ribald: your laughter will finish in hideous boredom\nbefore morning.\n\nTHE STATUE. Ha ha! Do you remember how I frightened you when I said\nsomething like that to you from my pedestal in Seville? It sounds rather\nflat without my trombones.\n\nDON JUAN. They tell me it generally sounds flat with them, Commander.\n\nANA. Oh, do not interrupt with these frivolities, father. Is there\nnothing in Heaven but contemplation, Juan?\n\nDON JUAN. In the Heaven I seek, no other joy. But there is the work of\nhelping Life in its struggle upward. Think of how it wastes and scatters\nitself, how it raises up obstacles to itself and destroys itself in its\nignorance and blindness. It needs a brain, this irresistible force, lest\nin its ignorance it should resist itself. What a piece of work is man!\nsays the poet. Yes: but what a blunderer! Here is the highest miracle of\norganization yet attained by life, the most intensely alive thing that\nexists, the most conscious of all the organisms; and yet, how wretched\nare his brains! Stupidity made sordid and cruel by the realities learnt\nfrom toil and poverty: Imagination resolved to starve sooner than face\nthese realities, piling up illusions to hide them, and calling itself\ncleverness, genius! And each accusing the other of its own defect:\nStupidity accusing Imagination of folly, and Imagination accusing\nStupidity of ignorance: whereas, alas! Stupidity has all the knowledge,\nand Imagination all the intelligence.\n\nTHE DEVIL. And a pretty kettle of fish they make of it between them. Did\nI not say, when I was arranging that affair of Faust's, that all Man's\nreason has done for him is to make him beastlier than any beast. One\nsplendid body is worth the brains of a hundred dyspeptic, flatulent\nphilosophers.\n\nDON JUAN. You forget that brainless magnificence of body has been tried.\nThings immeasurably greater than man in every respect but brain have\nexisted and perished. The megatherium, the icthyosaurus have paced the\nearth with seven-league steps and hidden the day with cloud vast wings.\nWhere are they now? Fossils in museums, and so few and imperfect at\nthat, that a knuckle bone or a tooth of one of them is prized beyond the\nlives of a thousand soldiers. These things lived and wanted to live; but\nfor lack of brains they did not know how to carry out their purpose, and\nso destroyed themselves.\n\nTHE DEVIL. And is Man any the less destroying himself for all this\nboasted brain of his? Have you walked up and down upon the earth lately?\nI have; and I have examined Man's wonderful inventions. And I tell you\nthat in the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts of death\nhe outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and machinery all\nthe slaughter of plague, pestilence and famine. The peasant I tempt\nto-day eats and drinks what was eaten and drunk by the peasants of ten\nthousand years ago; and the house he lives in has not altered as much\nin a thousand centuries as the fashion of a lady's bonnet in a score of\nweeks. But when he goes out to slay, he carries a marvel of mechanism\nthat lets loose at the touch of his finger all the hidden molecular\nenergies, and leaves the javelin, the arrow, the blowpipe of his fathers\nfar behind. In the arts of peace Man is a bungler. I have seen his\ncotton factories and the like, with machinery that a greedy dog could\nhave invented if it had wanted money instead of food. I know his clumsy\ntypewriters and bungling locomotives and tedious bicycles: they are toys\ncompared to the Maxim gun, the submarine torpedo boat. There is nothing\nin Man's industrial machinery but his greed and sloth: his heart is in\nhis weapons. This marvellous force of Life of which you boast is a force\nof Death: Man measures his strength by his destructiveness. What is\nhis religion? An excuse for hating ME. What is his law? An excuse for\nhanging YOU. What is his morality? Gentility! an excuse for consuming\nwithout producing. What is his art? An excuse for gloating over pictures\nof slaughter. What are his politics? Either the worship of a despot\nbecause a despot can kill, or parliamentary cockfighting. I spent an\nevening lately in a certain celebrated legislature, and heard the\npot lecturing the kettle for its blackness, and ministers answering\nquestions. When I left I chalked up on the door the old nursery\nsaying--\"Ask no questions and you will be told no lies.\" I bought a\nsixpenny family magazine, and found it full of pictures of young men\nshooting and stabbing one another. I saw a man die: he was a London\nbricklayer's laborer with seven children. He left seventeen pounds\nclub money; and his wife spent it all on his funeral and went into\nthe workhouse with the children next day. She would not have spent\nsevenpence on her children's schooling: the law had to force her to let\nthem be taught gratuitously; but on death she spent all she had. Their\nimagination glows, their energies rise up at the idea of death, these\npeople: they love it; and the more horrible it is the more they enjoy\nit. Hell is a place far above their comprehension: they derive their\nnotion of it from two of the greatest fools that ever lived, an Italian\nand an Englishman. The Italian described it as a place of mud, frost,\nfilth, fire, and venomous serpents: all torture. This ass, when he was\nnot lying about me, was maundering about some woman whom he saw once in\nthe street. The Englishman described me as being expelled from Heaven\nby cannons and gunpowder; and to this day every Briton believes that\nthe whole of his silly story is in the Bible. What else he says I do not\nknow; for it is all in a long poem which neither I nor anyone else ever\nsucceeded in wading through. It is the same in everything. The highest\nform of literature is the tragedy, a play in which everybody is\nmurdered at the end. In the old chronicles you read of earthquakes and\npestilences, and are told that these showed the power and majesty of God\nand the littleness of Man. Nowadays the chronicles describe battles.\nIn a battle two bodies of men shoot at one another with bullets and\nexplosive shells until one body runs away, when the others chase the\nfugitives on horseback and cut them to pieces as they fly. And this, the\nchronicle concludes, shows the greatness and majesty of empires, and the\nlittleness of the vanquished. Over such battles the people run about\nthe streets yelling with delight, and egg their Governments on to spend\nhundreds of millions of money in the slaughter, whilst the strongest\nMinisters dare not spend an extra penny in the pound against the poverty\nand pestilence through which they themselves daily walk. I could give\nyou a thousand instances; but they all come to the same thing: the power\nthat governs the earth is not the power of Life but of Death; and the\ninner need that has nerved Life to the effort of organizing itself into\nthe human being is not the need for higher life but for a more efficient\nengine of destruction. The plague, the famine, the earthquake, the\ntempest were too spasmodic in their action; the tiger and crocodile were\ntoo easily satiated and not cruel enough: something more constantly,\nmore ruthlessly, more ingeniously destructive was needed; and that\nsomething was Man, the inventor of the rack, the stake, the gallows,\nand the electrocutor; of the sword and gun; above all, of justice, duty,\npatriotism and all the other isms by which even those who are clever\nenough to be humanely disposed are persuaded to become the most\ndestructive of all the destroyers.\n\nDON JUAN. Pshaw! all this is old. Your weak side, my diabolic friend,\nis that you have always been a gull: you take Man at his own valuation.\nNothing would flatter him more than your opinion of him. He loves to\nthink of himself as bold and bad. He is neither one nor the other: he\nis only a coward. Call him tyrant, murderer, pirate, bully; and he will\nadore you, and swagger about with the consciousness of having the blood\nof the old sea kings in his veins. Call him liar and thief; and he will\nonly take an action against you for libel. But call him coward; and\nhe will go mad with rage: he will face death to outface that stinging\ntruth. Man gives every reason for his conduct save one, every excuse for\nhis crimes save one, every plea for his safety save one; and that one is\nhis cowardice. Yet all his civilization is founded on his cowardice, on\nhis abject tameness, which he calls his respectability. There are limits\nto what a mule or an ass will stand; but Man will suffer himself to be\ndegraded until his vileness becomes so loathsome to his oppressors that\nthey themselves are forced to reform it.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Precisely. And these are the creatures in whom you discover\nwhat you call a Life Force!\n\nDON JUAN. Yes; for now comes the most surprising part of the whole\nbusiness.\n\nTHE STATUE. What's that?\n\nDON JUAN. Why, that you can make any of these cowards brave by simply\nputting an idea into his head.\n\nTHE STATUE. Stuff! As an old soldier I admit the cowardice: it's as\nuniversal as sea sickness, and matters just as little. But that about\nputting an idea into a man's head is stuff and nonsense. In a battle all\nyou need to make you fight is a little hot blood and the knowledge that\nit's more dangerous to lose than to win.\n\nDON JUAN. That is perhaps why battles are so useless. But men never\nreally overcome fear until they imagine they are fighting to further a\nuniversal purpose--fighting for an idea, as they call it. Why was the\nCrusader braver than the pirate? Because he fought, not for himself, but\nfor the Cross. What force was it that met him with a valor as reckless\nas his own? The force of men who fought, not for themselves, but for\nIslam. They took Spain from us, though we were fighting for our very\nhearths and homes; but when we, too, fought for that mighty idea, a\nCatholic Church, we swept them back to Africa.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [ironically] What! you a Catholic, Senor Don Juan! A devotee!\nMy congratulations.\n\nTHE STATUE. [seriously] Come come! as a soldier, I can listen to nothing\nagainst the Church.\n\nDON JUAN. Have no fear, Commander: this idea of a Catholic Church will\nsurvive Islam, will survive the Cross, will survive even that vulgar\npageant of incompetent schoolboyish gladiators which you call the Army.\n\nTHE STATUE. Juan: you will force me to call you to account for this.\n\nDON JUAN. Useless: I cannot fence. Every idea for which Man will die\nwill be a Catholic idea. When the Spaniard learns at last that he is no\nbetter than the Saracen, and his prophet no better than Mahomet, he will\narise, more Catholic than ever, and die on a barricade across the filthy\nslum he starves in, for universal liberty and equality.\n\nTHE STATUE. Bosh!\n\nDON JUAN. What you call bosh is the only thing men dare die for.\nLater on, Liberty will not be Catholic enough: men will die for human\nperfection, to which they will sacrifice all their liberty gladly.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Ay: they will never be at a loss for an excuse for killing\none another.\n\nDON JUAN. What of that? It is not death that matters, but the fear of\ndeath. It is not killing and dying that degrade us, but base living, and\naccepting the wages and profits of degradation. Better ten dead men than\none live slave or his master. Men shall yet rise up, father against son\nand brother against brother, and kill one another for the great Catholic\nidea of abolishing slavery.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Yes, when the Liberty and Equality of which you prate shall\nhave made free white Christians cheaper in the labor market than by\nauction at the block.\n\nDON JUAN. Never fear! the white laborer shall have his turn too. But\nI am not now defending the illusory forms the great ideas take. I am\ngiving you examples of the fact that this creature Man, who in his own\nselfish affairs is a coward to the backbone, will fight for an idea like\na hero. He may be abject as a citizen; but he is dangerous as a fanatic.\nHe can only be enslaved whilst he is spiritually weak enough to listen\nto reason. I tell you, gentlemen, if you can show a man a piece of what\nhe now calls God's work to do, and what he will later on call by many\nnew names, you can make him entirely reckless of the consequences to\nhimself personally.\n\nANA. Yes: he shirks all his responsibilities, and leaves his wife to\ngrapple with them.\n\nTHE STATUE. Well said, daughter. Do not let him talk you out of your\ncommon sense.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Alas! Senor Commander, now that we have got on to the subject\nof Woman, he will talk more than ever. However, I confess it is for me\nthe one supremely interesting subject.\n\nDON JUAN. To a woman, Senora, man's duties and responsibilities begin\nand end with the task of getting bread for her children. To her, Man is\nonly a means to the end of getting children and rearing them.\n\nANA. Is that your idea of a woman's mind? I call it cynical and\ndisgusting materialism.\n\nDON JUAN. Pardon me, Ana: I said nothing about a woman's whole mind. I\nspoke of her view of Man as a separate sex. It is no more cynical than\nher view of herself as above all things a Mother. Sexually, Woman is\nNature's contrivance for perpetuating its highest achievement. Sexually,\nMan is Woman's contrivance for fulfilling Nature's behest in the most\neconomical way. She knows by instinct that far back in the evolutional\nprocess she invented him, differentiated him, created him in order to\nproduce something better than the single-sexed process can produce.\nWhilst he fulfils the purpose for which she made him, he is welcome to\nhis dreams, his follies, his ideals, his heroisms, provided that the\nkeystone of them all is the worship of woman, of motherhood, of the\nfamily, of the hearth. But how rash and dangerous it was to invent a\nseparate creature whose sole function was her own impregnation! For mark\nwhat has happened. First, Man has multiplied on her hands until there\nare as many men as women; so that she has been unable to employ for her\npurposes more than a fraction of the immense energy she has left at\nhis disposal by saving him the exhausting labor of gestation. This\nsuperfluous energy has gone to his brain and to his muscle. He has\nbecome too strong to be controlled by her bodily, and too imaginative\nand mentally vigorous to be content with mere self-reproduction. He has\ncreated civilization without consulting her, taking her domestic labor\nfor granted as the foundation of it.\n\nANA. THAT is true, at all events.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Yes; and this civilization! what is it, after all?\n\nDON JUAN. After all, an excellent peg to hang your cynical commonplaces\non; but BEFORE all, it is an attempt on Man's part to make himself\nsomething more than the mere instrument of Woman's purpose. So far, the\nresult of Life's continual effort not only to maintain itself, but to\nachieve higher and higher organization and completer self-consciousness,\nis only, at best, a doubtful campaign between its forces and those of\nDeath and Degeneration. The battles in this campaign are mere blunders,\nmostly won, like actual military battles, in spite of the commanders.\n\nTHE STATUE. That is a dig at me. No matter: go on, go on.\n\nDON JUAN. It is a dig at a much higher power than you, Commander. Still,\nyou must have noticed in your profession that even a stupid general can\nwin battles when the enemy's general is a little stupider.\n\nTHE STATUE. [very seriously] Most true, Juan, most true. Some donkeys\nhave amazing luck.\n\nDON JUAN. Well, the Life Force is stupid; but it is not so stupid as the\nforces of Death and Degeneration. Besides, these are in its pay all\nthe time. And so Life wins, after a fashion. What mere copiousness of\nfecundity can supply and mere greed preserve, we possess. The survival\nof whatever form of civilization can produce the best rifle and the best\nfed riflemen is assured.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Exactly! the survival, not of the most effective means of\nLife but of the most effective means of Death. You always come back to\nmy point, in spite of your wrigglings and evasions and sophistries, not\nto mention the intolerable length of your speeches.\n\nDON JUAN. Oh come! who began making long speeches? However, if I overtax\nyour intellect, you can leave us and seek the society of love and beauty\nand the rest of your favorite boredoms.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [much offended] This is not fair, Don Juan, and not civil. I\nam also on the intellectual plane. Nobody can appreciate it more than\nI do. I am arguing fairly with you, and, I think, utterly refuting you.\nLet us go on for another hour if you like.\n\nDON JUAN. Good: let us.\n\nTHE STATUE. Not that I see any prospect of your coming to any point in\nparticular, Juan. Still, since in this place, instead of merely killing\ntime we have to kill eternity, go ahead by all means.\n\nDON JUAN. [somewhat impatiently] My point, you marbleheaded old\nmasterpiece, is only a step ahead of you. Are we agreed that Life is a\nforce which has made innumerable experiments in organizing itself; that\nthe mammoth and the man, the mouse and the megatherium, the flies and\nthe fleas and the Fathers of the Church, are all more or less successful\nattempts to build up that raw force into higher and higher individuals,\nthe ideal individual being omnipotent, omniscient, infallible, and\nwithal completely, unilludedly self-conscious: in short, a god?\n\nTHE DEVIL. I agree, for the sake of argument.\n\nTHE STATUE. I agree, for the sake of avoiding argument.\n\nANA. I most emphatically disagree as regards the Fathers of the Church;\nand I must beg you not to drag them into the argument.\n\nDON JUAN. I did so purely for the sake of alliteration, Ana; and I\nshall make no further allusion to them. And now, since we are, with that\nexception, agreed so far, will you not agree with me further that Life\nhas not measured the success of its attempts at godhead by the beauty or\nbodily perfection of the result, since in both these respects the birds,\nas our friend Aristophanes long ago pointed out, are so extraordinarily\nsuperior, with their power of flight and their lovely plumage, and,\nmay I add, the touching poetry of their loves and nestings, that it is\ninconceivable that Life, having once produced them, should, if love\nand beauty were her object, start off on another line and labor at the\nclumsy elephant and the hideous ape, whose grandchildren we are?\n\nANA. Aristophanes was a heathen; and you, Juan, I am afraid, are very\nlittle better.\n\nTHE DEVIL. You conclude, then, that Life was driving at clumsiness and\nugliness?\n\nDON JUAN. No, perverse devil that you are, a thousand times no. Life\nwas driving at brains--at its darling object: an organ by which it can\nattain not only self-consciousness but self-understanding.\n\nTHE STATUE. This is metaphysics, Juan. Why the devil should--[to the\nDevil] I BEG your pardon.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Pray don't mention it. I have always regarded the use of my\nname to secure additional emphasis as a high compliment to me. It is\nquite at your service, Commander.\n\nTHE STATUE. Thank you: that's very good of you. Even in heaven, I never\nquite got out of my old military habits of speech. What I was going to\nask Juan was why Life should bother itself about getting a brain. Why\nshould it want to understand itself? Why not be content to enjoy itself?\n\nDON JUAN. Without a brain, Commander, you would enjoy yourself without\nknowing it, and so lose all the fun.\n\nTHE STATUE. True, most true. But I am quite content with brain enough to\nknow that I'm enjoying myself. I don't want to understand why. In\nfact, I'd rather not. My experience is that one's pleasures don't bear\nthinking about.\n\nDON JUAN. That is why intellect is so unpopular. But to Life, the force\nbehind the Man, intellect is a necessity, because without it he blunders\ninto death. Just as Life, after ages of struggle, evolved that wonderful\nbodily organ the eye, so that the living organism could see where it\nwas going and what was coming to help or threaten it, and thus avoid\na thousand dangers that formerly slew it, so it is evolving to-day a\nmind's eye that shall see, not the physical world, but the purpose of\nLife, and thereby enable the individual to work for that purpose instead\nof thwarting and baffling it by setting up shortsighted personal aims as\nat present. Even as it is, only one sort of man has ever been happy, has\never been universally respected among all the conflicts of interests and\nillusions.\n\nTHE STATUE. You mean the military man.\n\nDON JUAN. Commander: I do not mean the military man. When the military\nman approaches, the world locks up its spoons and packs off its\nwomankind. No: I sing, not arms and the hero, but the philosophic man:\nhe who seeks in contemplation to discover the inner will of the world,\nin invention to discover the means of fulfilling that will, and in\naction to do that will by the so-discovered means. Of all other sorts\nof men I declare myself tired. They're tedious failures. When I was on\nearth, professors of all sorts prowled round me feeling for an unhealthy\nspot in me on which they could fasten. The doctors of medicine bade me\nconsider what I must do to save my body, and offered me quack cures for\nimaginary diseases. I replied that I was not a hypochondriac; so they\ncalled me Ignoramus and went their way. The doctors of divinity bade\nme consider what I must do to save my soul; but I was not a spiritual\nhypochondriac any more than a bodily one, and would not trouble myself\nabout that either; so they called me Atheist and went their way. After\nthem came the politician, who said there was only one purpose in Nature,\nand that was to get him into parliament. I told him I did not care\nwhether he got into parliament or not; so he called me Mugwump and went\nhis way. Then came the romantic man, the Artist, with his love songs and\nhis paintings and his poems; and with him I had great delight for many\nyears, and some profit; for I cultivated my senses for his sake; and\nhis songs taught me to hear better, his paintings to see better, and\nhis poems to feel more deeply. But he led me at last into the worship of\nWoman.\n\nANA. Juan!\n\nDON JUAN. Yes: I came to believe that in her voice was all the music of\nthe song, in her face all the beauty of the painting, and in her soul\nall the emotion of the poem.\n\nANA. And you were disappointed, I suppose. Well, was it her fault that\nyou attributed all these perfections to her?\n\nDON JUAN. Yes, partly. For with a wonderful instinctive cunning, she\nkept silent and allowed me to glorify her; to mistake my own visions,\nthoughts, and feelings for hers. Now my friend the romantic man was\noften too poor or too timid to approach those women who were beautiful\nor refined enough to seem to realize his ideal; and so he went to his\ngrave believing in his dream. But I was more favored by nature and\ncircumstance. I was of noble birth and rich; and when my person did\nnot please, my conversation flattered, though I generally found myself\nfortunate in both.\n\nTHE STATUE. Coxcomb!\n\nDON JUAN. Yes; but even my coxcombry pleased. Well, I found that when I\nhad touched a woman's imagination, she would allow me to persuade myself\nthat she loved me; but when my suit was granted she never said \"I am\nhappy: my love is satisfied\": she always said, first, \"At last, the\nbarriers are down,\" and second, \"When will you come again?\"\n\nANA. That is exactly what men say.\n\nDON JUAN. I protest I never said it. But all women say it. Well, these\ntwo speeches always alarmed me; for the first meant that the lady's\nimpulse had been solely to throw down my fortifications and gain my\ncitadel; and the second openly announced that henceforth she regarded me\nas her property, and counted my time as already wholly at her disposal.\n\nTHE DEVIL. That is where your want of heart came in.\n\nTHE STATUE. [shaking his head] You shouldn't repeat what a woman says,\nJuan.\n\nANA. [severely] It should be sacred to you.\n\nTHE STATUE. Still, they certainly do always say it. I never minded the\nbarriers; but there was always a slight shock about the other, unless\none was very hard hit indeed.\n\nDON JUAN. Then the lady, who had been happy and idle enough before,\nbecame anxious, preoccupied with me, always intriguing, conspiring,\npursuing, watching, waiting, bent wholly on making sure of her prey--I\nbeing the prey, you understand. Now this was not what I had bargained\nfor. It may have been very proper and very natural; but it was not\nmusic, painting, poetry and joy incarnated in a beautiful woman. I ran\naway from it. I ran away from it very often: in fact I became famous for\nrunning away from it.\n\nANA. Infamous, you mean.\n\nDON JUAN. I did not run away from you. Do you blame me for running away\nfrom the others?\n\nANA. Nonsense, man. You are talking to a woman of 77 now. If you had had\nthe chance, you would have run away from me too--if I had let you. You\nwould not have found it so easy with me as with some of the others. If\nmen will not be faithful to their home and their duties, they must be\nmade to be. I daresay you all want to marry lovely incarnations of music\nand painting and poetry. Well, you can't have them, because they\ndon't exist. If flesh and blood is not good enough for you you must\ngo without: that's all. Women have to put up with flesh-and-blood\nhusbands--and little enough of that too, sometimes; and you will have to\nput up with flesh-and-blood wives. The Devil looks dubious. The Statue\nmakes a wry face. I see you don't like that, any of you; but it's true,\nfor all that; so if you don't like it you can lump it.\n\nDON JUAN. My dear lady, you have put my whole case against romance into\na few sentences. That is just why I turned my back on the romantic man\nwith the artist nature, as he called his infatuation. I thanked him\nfor teaching me to use my eyes and ears; but I told him that his beauty\nworshipping and happiness hunting and woman idealizing was not worth a\ndump as a philosophy of life; so he called me Philistine and went his\nway.\n\nANA. It seems that Woman taught you something, too, with all her\ndefects.\n\nDON JUAN. She did more: she interpreted all the other teaching for me.\nAh, my friends, when the barriers were down for the first time, what\nan astounding illumination! I had been prepared for infatuation, for\nintoxication, for all the illusions of love's young dream; and lo! never\nwas my perception clearer, nor my criticism more ruthless. The most\njealous rival of my mistress never saw every blemish in her more keenly\nthan I. I was not duped: I took her without chloroform.\n\nANA. But you did take her.\n\nDON JUAN. That was the revelation. Up to that moment I had never lost\nthe sense of being my own master; never consciously taken a single step\nuntil my reason had examined and approved it. I had come to believe that\nI was a purely rational creature: a thinker! I said, with the foolish\nphilosopher, \"I think; therefore I am.\" It was Woman who taught me to\nsay \"I am; therefore I think.\" And also \"I would think more; therefore I\nmust be more.\"\n\nTHE STATUE. This is extremely abstract and metaphysical, Juan. If you\nwould stick to the concrete, and put your discoveries in the form\nof entertaining anecdotes about your adventures with women, your\nconversation would be easier to follow.\n\nDON JUAN. Bah! what need I add? Do you not understand that when I stood\nface to face with Woman, every fibre in my clear critical brain warned\nme to spare her and save myself. My morals said No. My conscience said\nNo. My chivalry and pity for her said No. My prudent regard for myself\nsaid No. My ear, practised on a thousand songs and symphonies; my eye,\nexercised on a thousand paintings; tore her voice, her features, her\ncolor to shreds. I caught all those tell-tale resemblances to her father\nand mother by which I knew what she would be like in thirty years time.\nI noted the gleam of gold from a dead tooth in the laughing mouth: I\nmade curious observations of the strange odors of the chemistry of the\nnerves. The visions of my romantic reveries, in which I had trod the\nplains of heaven with a deathless, ageless creature of coral and ivory,\ndeserted me in that supreme hour. I remembered them and desperately\nstrove to recover their illusion; but they now seemed the emptiest of\ninventions: my judgment was not to be corrupted: my brain still said No\non every issue. And whilst I was in the act of framing my excuse to the\nlady, Life seized me and threw me into her arms as a sailor throws a\nscrap of fish into the mouth of a seabird.\n\nTHE STATUE. You might as well have gone without thinking such a lot\nabout it, Juan. You are like all the clever men: you have more brains\nthan is good for you.\n\nTHE DEVIL. And were you not the happier for the experience, Senor Don\nJuan?\n\nDON JUAN. The happier, no: the wiser, yes. That moment introduced me for\nthe first time to myself, and, through myself, to the world. I saw then\nhow useless it is to attempt to impose conditions on the irresistible\nforce of Life; to preach prudence, careful selection, virtue, honor,\nchastity--\n\nANA. Don Juan: a word against chastity is an insult to me.\n\nDON JUAN. I say nothing against your chastity, Senora, since it took the\nform of a husband and twelve children. What more could you have done had\nyou been the most abandoned of women?\n\nANA. I could have had twelve husbands and no children that's what I\ncould have done, Juan. And let me tell you that that would have made all\nthe difference to the earth which I replenished.\n\nTHE STATUE. Bravo Ana! Juan: you are floored, quelled, annihilated.\n\nDON JUAN. No; for though that difference is the true essential\ndifference--Dona Ana has, I admit, gone straight to the real point--yet\nit is not a difference of love or chastity, or even constancy; for\ntwelve children by twelve different husbands would have replenished the\nearth perhaps more effectively. Suppose my friend Ottavio had died when\nyou were thirty, you would never have remained a widow: you were too\nbeautiful. Suppose the successor of Ottavio had died when you were\nforty, you would still have been irresistible; and a woman who marries\ntwice marries three times if she becomes free to do so. Twelve lawful\nchildren borne by one highly respectable lady to three different fathers\nis not impossible nor condemned by public opinion. That such a lady may\nbe more law abiding than the poor girl whom we used to spurn into the\ngutter for bearing one unlawful infant is no doubt true; but dare you\nsay she is less self-indulgent?\n\nANA. She is less virtuous: that is enough for me.\n\nDON JUAN. In that case, what is virtue but the Trade Unionism of the\nmarried? Let us face the facts, dear Ana. The Life Force respects\nmarriage only because marriage is a contrivance of its own to secure\nthe greatest number of children and the closest care of them. For honor,\nchastity and all the rest of your moral figments it cares not a rap.\nMarriage is the most licentious of human institutions--\n\nANA. Juan!\n\nTHE STATUE. [protesting] Really!--\n\nDON JUAN. [determinedly] I say the most licentious of human\ninstitutions: that is the secret of its popularity. And a woman seeking\na husband is the most unscrupulous of all the beasts of prey. The\nconfusion of marriage with morality has done more to destroy the\nconscience of the human race than any other single error. Come, Ana!\ndo not look shocked: you know better than any of us that marriage is\na mantrap baited with simulated accomplishments and delusive\nidealizations. When your sainted mother, by dint of scoldings and\npunishments, forced you to learn how to play half a dozen pieces on the\nspinet which she hated as much as you did--had she any other purpose\nthan to delude your suitors into the belief that your husband would have\nin his home an angel who would fill it with melody, or at least play him\nto sleep after dinner? You married my friend Ottavio: well, did you ever\nopen the spinet from the hour when the Church united him to you?\n\nANA. You are a fool, Juan. A young married woman has something else to\ndo than sit at the spinet without any support for her back; so she gets\nout of the habit of playing.\n\nDON JUAN. Not if she loves music. No: believe me, she only throws away\nthe bait when the bird is in the net.\n\nANA. [bitterly] And men, I suppose, never throw off the mask when\ntheir bird is in the net. The husband never becomes negligent, selfish,\nbrutal--oh never!\n\nDON JUAN. What do these recriminations prove, Ana? Only that the hero is\nas gross an imposture as the heroine.\n\nANA. It is all nonsense: most marriages are perfectly comfortable.\n\nDON JUAN. \"Perfectly\" is a strong expression, Ana. What you mean is that\nsensible people make the best of one another. Send me to the galleys and\nchain me to the felon whose number happens to be next before mine; and I\nmust accept the inevitable and make the best of the companionship. Many\nsuch companionships, they tell me, are touchingly affectionate; and\nmost are at least tolerably friendly. But that does not make a chain\na desirable ornament nor the galleys an abode of bliss. Those who talk\nmost about the blessings of marriage and the constancy of its vows\nare the very people who declare that if the chain were broken and\nthe prisoners left free to choose, the whole social fabric would fly\nasunder. You cannot have the argument both ways. If the prisoner is\nhappy, why lock him in? If he is not, why pretend that he is?\n\nANA. At all events, let me take an old woman's privilege again, and tell\nyou flatly that marriage peoples the world and debauchery does not.\n\nDON JUAN. How if a time comes when this shall cease to be true? Do you\nnot know that where there is a will there is a way--that whatever Man\nreally wishes to do he will finally discover a means of doing? Well,\nyou have done your best, you virtuous ladies, and others of your way\nof thinking, to bend Man's mind wholly towards honorable love as the\nhighest good, and to understand by honorable love romance and beauty\nand happiness in the possession of beautiful, refined, delicate,\naffectionate women. You have taught women to value their own youth,\nhealth, shapeliness, and refinement above all things. Well, what place\nhave squalling babies and household cares in this exquisite paradise of\nthe senses and emotions? Is it not the inevitable end of it all that the\nhuman will shall say to the human brain: Invent me a means by which I\ncan have love, beauty, romance, emotion, passion without their wretched\npenalties, their expenses, their worries, their trials, their illnesses\nand agonies and risks of death, their retinue of servants and nurses and\ndoctors and schoolmasters.\n\nTHE DEVIL. All this, Senor Don Juan, is realized here in my realm.\n\nDON JUAN. Yes, at the cost of death. Man will not take it at that price:\nhe demands the romantic delights of your hell whilst he is still on\nearth. Well, the means will be found: the brain will not fail when the\nwill is in earnest. The day is coming when great nations will find their\nnumbers dwindling from census to census; when the six roomed villa will\nrise in price above the family mansion; when the viciously reckless poor\nand the stupidly pious rich will delay the extinction of the race only\nby degrading it; whilst the boldly prudent, the thriftily selfish and\nambitious, the imaginative and poetic, the lovers of money and solid\ncomfort, the worshippers of success, art, and of love, will all oppose\nto the Force of Life the device of sterility.\n\nTHE STATUE. That is all very eloquent, my young friend; but if you had\nlived to Ana's age, or even to mine, you would have learned that the\npeople who get rid of the fear of poverty and children and all the other\nfamily troubles, and devote themselves to having a good time of it,\nonly leave their minds free for the fear of old age and ugliness and\nimpotence and death. The childless laborer is more tormented by his\nwife's idleness and her constant demands for amusement and distraction\nthan he could be by twenty children; and his wife is more wretched than\nhe. I have had my share of vanity; for as a young man I was admired by\nwomen; and as a statue I am praised by art critics. But I confess that\nhad I found nothing to do in the world but wallow in these delights I\nshould have cut my throat. When I married Ana's mother--or perhaps,\nto be strictly correct, I should rather say when I at last gave in and\nallowed Ana's mother to marry me--I knew that I was planting thorns\nin my pillow, and that marriage for me, a swaggering young officer\nthitherto unvanquished, meant defeat and capture.\n\nANA. [scandalized] Father!\n\nTHE STATUE. I am sorry to shock you, my love; but since Juan has\nstripped every rag of decency from the discussion I may as well tell the\nfrozen truth.\n\nANA. Hmf! I suppose I was one of the thorns.\n\nTHE STATUE. By no means: you were often a rose. You see, your mother had\nmost of the trouble you gave.\n\nDON JUAN. Then may I ask, Commander, why you have left Heaven to come\nhere and wallow, as you express it, in sentimental beatitudes which you\nconfess would once have driven you to cut your throat?\n\nTHE STATUE. [struck by this] Egad, that's true.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [alarmed] What! You are going back from your word. [To\nDon Juan] And all your philosophizing has been nothing but a mask for\nproselytizing! [To the Statue] Have you forgotten already the hideous\ndulness from which I am offering you a refuge here? [To Don Juan] And\ndoes your demonstration of the approaching sterilization and extinction\nof mankind lead to anything better than making the most of those\npleasures of art and love which you yourself admit refined you, elevated\nyou, developed you?\n\nDON JUAN. I never demonstrated the extinction of mankind. Life cannot\nwill its own extinction either in its blind amorphous state or in any\nof the forms into which it has organized itself. I had not finished when\nHis Excellency interrupted me.\n\nTHE STATUE. I begin to doubt whether you ever will finish, my friend.\nYou are extremely fond of hearing yourself talk.\n\nDON JUAN. True; but since you have endured so much you may as well\nendure to the end. Long before this sterilization which I described\nbecomes more than a clearly foreseen possibility, the reaction will\nbegin. The great central purpose of breeding the race, ay, breeding it\nto heights now deemed superhuman: that purpose which is now hidden in a\nmephitic cloud of love and romance and prudery and fastidiousness, will\nbreak through into clear sunlight as a purpose no longer to be confused\nwith the gratification of personal fancies, the impossible realization\nof boys' and girls' dreams of bliss, or the need of older people for\ncompanionship or money. The plain-spoken marriage services of the\nvernacular Churches will no longer be abbreviated and half suppressed\nas indelicate. The sober decency, earnestness and authority of their\ndeclaration of the real purpose of marriage will be honored\nand accepted, whilst their romantic vowings and pledgings and\nuntil-death-do-us-partings and the like will be expunged as unbearable\nfrivolities. Do my sex the justice to admit, Senora, that we have always\nrecognized that the sex relation is not a personal or friendly relation\nat all.\n\nANA. Not a personal or friendly relation! What relation is more\npersonal? more sacred? more holy?\n\nDON JUAN. Sacred and holy, if you like, Ana, but not personally\nfriendly. Your relation to God is sacred and holy: dare you call it\npersonally friendly? In the sex relation the universal creative energy,\nof which the parties are both the helpless agents, over-rides and\nsweeps away all personal considerations and dispenses with all personal\nrelations. The pair may be utter strangers to one another, speaking\ndifferent languages, differing in race and color, in age and\ndisposition, with no bond between them but a possibility of that\nfecundity for the sake of which the Life Force throws them into one\nanother's arms at the exchange of a glance. Do we not recognize this by\nallowing marriages to be made by parents without consulting the woman?\nHave you not often expressed your disgust at the immorality of the\nEnglish nation, in which women and men of noble birth become acquainted\nand court each other like peasants? And how much does even the peasant\nknow of his bride or she of him before he engages himself? Why, you\nwould not make a man your lawyer or your family doctor on so slight an\nacquaintance as you would fall in love with and marry him!\n\nANA. Yes, Juan: we know the libertine's philosophy. Always ignore the\nconsequences to the woman.\n\nDON JUAN. The consequences, yes: they justify her fierce grip of the\nman. But surely you do not call that attachment a sentimental one. As\nwell call the policeman's attachment to his prisoner a love relation.\n\nANA. You see you have to confess that marriage is necessary, though,\naccording to you, love is the slightest of all the relations.\n\nDON JUAN. How do you know that it is not the greatest of all the\nrelations? far too great to be a personal matter. Could your father have\nserved his country if he had refused to kill any enemy of Spain unless\nhe personally hated him? Can a woman serve her country if she refuses to\nmarry any man she does not personally love? You know it is not so:\nthe woman of noble birth marries as the man of noble birth fights, on\npolitical and family grounds, not on personal ones.\n\nTHE STATUE. [impressed] A very clever point that, Juan: I must think it\nover. You are really full of ideas. How did you come to think of this\none?\n\nDON JUAN. I learnt it by experience. When I was on earth, and made those\nproposals to ladies which, though universally condemned, have made me\nso interesting a hero of legend, I was not infrequently met in some such\nway as this. The lady would say that she would countenance my advances,\nprovided they were honorable. On inquiring what that proviso meant, I\nfound that it meant that I proposed to get possession of her property if\nshe had any, or to undertake her support for life if she had not; that I\ndesired her continual companionship, counsel and conversation to the\nend of my days, and would bind myself under penalties to be always\nenraptured by them; and, above all, that I would turn my back on all\nother women for ever for her sake. I did not object to these conditions\nbecause they were exorbitant and inhuman: it was their extraordinary\nirrelevance that prostrated me. I invariably replied with perfect\nfrankness that I had never dreamt of any of these things; that unless\nthe lady's character and intellect were equal or superior to my own, her\nconversation must degrade and her counsel mislead me; that her constant\ncompanionship might, for all I knew, become intolerably tedious to me;\nthat I could not answer for my feelings for a week in advance, much\nless to the end of my life; that to cut me off from all natural and\nunconstrained relations with the rest of my fellow creatures would\nnarrow and warp me if I submitted to it, and, if not, would bring me\nunder the curse of clandestinity; that, finally, my proposals to her\nwere wholly unconnected with any of these matters, and were the outcome\nof a perfectly simple impulse of my manhood towards her womanhood.\n\nANA. You mean that it was an immoral impulse.\n\nDON JUAN. Nature, my dear lady, is what you call immoral. I blush for\nit; but I cannot help it. Nature is a pandar, Time a wrecker, and Death\na murderer. I have always preferred to stand up to those facts and build\ninstitutions on their recognition. You prefer to propitiate the three\ndevils by proclaiming their chastity, their thrift, and their loving\nkindness; and to base your institutions on these flatteries. Is it any\nwonder that the institutions do not work smoothly?\n\nTHE STATUE. What used the ladies to say, Juan?\n\nDON JUAN. Oh, come! Confidence for confidence. First tell me what you\nused to say to the ladies.\n\nTHE STATUE. I! Oh, I swore that I would be faithful to the death; that\nI should die if they refused me; that no woman could ever be to me what\nshe was--\n\nANA. She? Who?\n\nTHE STATUE. Whoever it happened to be at the time, my dear. I had\ncertain things I always said. One of them was that even when I was\neighty, one white hair of the woman I loved would make me tremble more\nthan the thickest gold tress from the most beautiful young head. Another\nwas that I could not bear the thought of anyone else being the mother of\nmy children.\n\nDON JUAN. [revolted] You old rascal!\n\nTHE STATUE. [Stoutly] Not a bit; for I really believed it with all\nmy soul at the moment. I had a heart: not like you. And it was this\nsincerity that made me successful.\n\nDON JUAN. Sincerity! To be fool enough to believe a ramping, stamping,\nthumping lie: that is what you call sincerity! To be so greedy for\na woman that you deceive yourself in your eagerness to deceive her:\nsincerity, you call it!\n\nTHE STATUE. Oh, damn your sophistries! I was a man in love, not a\nlawyer. And the women loved me for it, bless them!\n\nDON JUAN. They made you think so. What will you say when I tell you that\nthough I played the lawyer so callously, they made me think so too?\nI also had my moments of infatuation in which I gushed nonsense and\nbelieved it. Sometimes the desire to give pleasure by saying beautiful\nthings so rose in me on the flood of emotion that I said them\nrecklessly. At other times I argued against myself with a devilish\ncoldness that drew tears. But I found it just as hard to escape in the\none case as in the others. When the lady's instinct was set on me, there\nwas nothing for it but lifelong servitude or flight.\n\nANA. You dare boast, before me and my father, that every woman found you\nirresistible.\n\nDON JUAN. Am I boasting? It seems to me that I cut the most pitiable of\nfigures. Besides, I said \"when the lady's instinct was set on me.\"\nIt was not always so; and then, heavens! what transports of virtuous\nindignation! what overwhelming defiance to the dastardly seducer! what\nscenes of Imogen and Iachimo!\n\nANA. I made no scenes. I simply called my father.\n\nDON JUAN. And he came, sword in hand, to vindicate outraged honor and\nmorality by murdering me.\n\nTHE STATUE. Murdering! What do you mean? Did I kill you or did you kill\nme?\n\nDON JUAN. Which of us was the better fencer?\n\nTHE STATUE. I was.\n\nDON JUAN. Of course you were. And yet you, the hero of those scandalous\nadventures you have just been relating to us, you had the effrontery to\npose as the avenger of outraged morality and condemn me to death! You\nwould have slain me but for an accident.\n\nTHE STATUE. I was expected to, Juan. That is how things were arranged\non earth. I was not a social reformer; and I always did what it was\ncustomary for a gentleman to do.\n\nDON JUAN. That may account for your attacking me, but not for the\nrevolting hypocrisy of your subsequent proceedings as a statue.\n\nTHE STATUE. That all came of my going to Heaven.\n\nTHE DEVIL. I still fail to see, Senor Don Juan, that these episodes\nin your earthly career and in that of the Senor Commander in any way\ndiscredit my view of life. Here, I repeat, you have all that you sought\nwithout anything that you shrank from.\n\nDON JUAN. On the contrary, here I have everything that disappointed me\nwithout anything that I have not already tried and found wanting. I tell\nyou that as long as I can conceive something better than myself I cannot\nbe easy unless I am striving to bring it into existence or clearing the\nway for it. That is the law of my life. That is the working within me\nof Life's incessant aspiration to higher organization, wider, deeper,\nintenser self-consciousness, and clearer self-understanding. It was the\nsupremacy of this purpose that reduced love for me to the mere pleasure\nof a moment, art for me to the mere schooling of my faculties, religion\nfor me to a mere excuse for laziness, since it had set up a God who\nlooked at the world and saw that it was good, against the instinct in\nme that looked through my eyes at the world and saw that it could be\nimproved. I tell you that in the pursuit of my own pleasure, my own\nhealth, my own fortune, I have never known happiness. It was not love\nfor Woman that delivered me into her hands: it was fatigue, exhaustion.\nWhen I was a child, and bruised my head against a stone, I ran to the\nnearest woman and cried away my pain against her apron. When I grew up,\nand bruised my soul against the brutalities and stupidities with which\nI had to strive, I did again just what I had done as a child. I have\nenjoyed, too, my rests, my recuperations, my breathing times, my very\nprostrations after strife; but rather would I be dragged through all the\ncircles of the foolish Italian's Inferno than through the pleasures of\nEurope. That is what has made this place of eternal pleasures so deadly\nto me. It is the absence of this instinct in you that makes you that\nstrange monster called a Devil. It is the success with which you have\ndiverted the attention of men from their real purpose, which in one\ndegree or another is the same as mine, to yours, that has earned you the\nname of The Tempter. It is the fact that they are doing your will, or\nrather drifting with your want of will, instead of doing their own, that\nmakes them the uncomfortable, false, restless, artificial, petulant,\nwretched creatures they are.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [mortified] Senor Don Juan: you are uncivil to my friends.\n\nDON JUAN. Pooh! why should I be civil to them or to you? In this Palace\nof Lies a truth or two will not hurt you. Your friends are all the\ndullest dogs I know. They are not beautiful: they are only decorated.\nThey are not clean: they are only shaved and starched. They are not\ndignified: they are only fashionably dressed. They are not educated\nthey are only college passmen. They are not religious: they are only\npewrenters. They are not moral: they are only conventional. They are not\nvirtuous: they are only cowardly. They are not even vicious: they are\nonly \"frail.\" They are not artistic: they are only lascivious. They are\nnot prosperous: they are only rich. They are not loyal, they are\nonly servile; not dutiful, only sheepish; not public spirited, only\npatriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome; not determined, only\nobstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not self-controlled, only\nobtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not kind, only sentimental; not\nsocial, only gregarious; not considerate, only polite; not intelligent,\nonly opinionated; not progressive, only factious; not imaginative,\nonly superstitious; not just, only vindictive; not generous, only\npropitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and not truthful at\nall--liars every one of them, to the very backbone of their souls.\n\nTHE STATUE. Your flow of words is simply amazing, Juan. How I wish I\ncould have talked like that to my soldiers.\n\nTHE DEVIL. It is mere talk, though. It has all been said before; but\nwhat change has it ever made? What notice has the world ever taken of\nit?\n\nDON JUAN. Yes, it is mere talk. But why is it mere talk? Because,\nmy friend, beauty, purity, respectability, religion, morality, art,\npatriotism, bravery and the rest are nothing but words which I or anyone\nelse can turn inside out like a glove. Were they realities, you\nwould have to plead guilty to my indictment; but fortunately for your\nself-respect, my diabolical friend, they are not realities. As you\nsay, they are mere words, useful for duping barbarians into adopting\ncivilization, or the civilized poor into submitting to be robbed and\nenslaved. That is the family secret of the governing caste; and if we\nwho are of that caste aimed at more Life for the world instead of at\nmore power and luxury for our miserable selves, that secret would make\nus great. Now, since I, being a nobleman, am in the secret too, think\nhow tedious to me must be your unending cant about all these moralistic\nfigments, and how squalidly disastrous your sacrifice of your lives to\nthem! If you even believed in your moral game enough to play it fairly,\nit would be interesting to watch; but you don't: you cheat at every\ntrick; and if your opponent outcheats you, you upset the table and try\nto murder him.\n\nTHE DEVIL. On earth there may be some truth in this, because the people\nare uneducated and cannot appreciate my religion of love and beauty; but\nhere--\n\nDON JUAN. Oh yes: I know. Here there is nothing but love and beauty.\nUgh! it is like sitting for all eternity at the first act of a\nfashionable play, before the complications begin. Never in my worst\nmoments of superstitious terror on earth did I dream that Hell was so\nhorrible. I live, like a hairdresser, in the continual contemplation\nof beauty, toying with silken tresses. I breathe an atmosphere of\nsweetness, like a confectioner's shopboy. Commander: are there any\nbeautiful women in Heaven?\n\nTHE STATUE. None. Absolutely none. All dowdies. Not two pennorth of\njewellery among a dozen of them. They might be men of fifty.\n\nDON JUAN. I am impatient to get there. Is the word beauty ever\nmentioned; and are there any artistic people?\n\nTHE STATUE. I give you my word they won't admire a fine statue even when\nit walks past them.\n\nDON JUAN. I go.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Don Juan: shall I be frank with you?\n\nDON JUAN. Were you not so before?\n\nTHE DEVIL. As far as I went, yes. But I will now go further, and confess\nto you that men get tired of everything, of heaven no less than of hell;\nand that all history is nothing but a record of the oscillations of\nthe world between these two extremes. An epoch is but a swing of the\npendulum; and each generation thinks the world is progressing because\nit is always moving. But when you are as old as I am; when you have a\nthousand times wearied of heaven, like myself and the Commander, and\na thousand times wearied of hell, as you are wearied now, you will no\nlonger imagine that every swing from heaven to hell is an emancipation,\nevery swing from hell to heaven an evolution. Where you now see reform,\nprogress, fulfilment of upward tendency, continual ascent by Man on\nthe stepping stones of his dead selves to higher things, you will\nsee nothing but an infinite comedy of illusion. You will discover\nthe profound truth of the saying of my friend Koheleth, that there is\nnothing new under the sun. Vanitas vanitatum--\n\nDON JUAN. [out of all patience] By Heaven, this is worse than your cant\nabout love and beauty. Clever dolt that you are, is a man no better than\na worm, or a dog than a wolf, because he gets tired of everything?\nShall he give up eating because he destroys his appetite in the act\nof gratifying it? Is a field idle when it is fallow? Can the Commander\nexpend his hellish energy here without accumulating heavenly energy for\nhis next term of blessedness? Granted that the great Life Force has hit\non the device of the clockmaker's pendulum, and uses the earth for its\nbob; that the history of each oscillation, which seems so novel to us\nthe actors, is but the history of the last oscillation repeated; nay\nmore, that in the unthinkable infinitude of time the sun throws off the\nearth and catches it again a thousand times as a circus rider throws up\na ball, and that the total of all our epochs is but the moment between\nthe toss and the catch, has the colossal mechanism no purpose?\n\nTHE DEVIL. None, my friend. You think, because you have a purpose,\nNature must have one. You might as well expect it to have fingers and\ntoes because you have them.\n\nDON JUAN. But I should not have them if they served no purpose. And I,\nmy friend, am as much a part of Nature as my own finger is a part of me.\nIf my finger is the organ by which I grasp the sword and the mandoline,\nmy brain is the organ by which Nature strives to understand itself.\nMy dog's brain serves only my dog's purposes; but my brain labors at a\nknowledge which does nothing for me personally but make my body bitter\nto me and my decay and death a calamity. Were I not possessed with a\npurpose beyond my own I had better be a ploughman than a philosopher;\nfor the ploughman lives as long as the philosopher, eats more, sleeps\nbetter, and rejoices in the wife of his bosom with less misgiving. This\nis because the philosopher is in the grip of the Life Force. This Life\nForce says to him \"I have done a thousand wonderful things unconsciously\nby merely willing to live and following the line of least resistance:\nnow I want to know myself and my destination, and choose my path; so\nI have made a special brain--a philosopher's brain--to grasp this\nknowledge for me as the husbandman's hand grasps the plough for me. And\nthis\" says the Life Force to the philosopher \"must thou strive to do\nfor me until thou diest, when I will make another brain and another\nphilosopher to carry on the work.\"\n\nTHE DEVIL. What is the use of knowing?\n\nDON JUAN. Why, to be able to choose the line of greatest advantage\ninstead of yielding in the direction of the least resistance. Does a\nship sail to its destination no better than a log drifts nowhither? The\nphilosopher is Nature's pilot. And there you have our difference: to be\nin hell is to drift: to be in heaven is to steer.\n\nTHE DEVIL. On the rocks, most likely.\n\nDON JUAN. Pooh! which ship goes oftenest on the rocks or to the\nbottom--the drifting ship or the ship with a pilot on board?\n\nTHE DEVIL. Well, well, go your way, Senor Don Juan. I prefer to be my\nown master and not the tool of any blundering universal force. I know\nthat beauty is good to look at; that music is good to hear; that love is\ngood to feel; and that they are all good to think about and talk about.\nI know that to be well exercised in these sensations, emotions, and\nstudies is to be a refined and cultivated being. Whatever they may say\nof me in churches on earth, I know that it is universally admitted in\ngood society that the prince of Darkness is a gentleman; and that is\nenough for me. As to your Life Force, which you think irresistible, it\nis the most resistible thing in the world for a person of any character.\nBut if you are naturally vulgar and credulous, as all reformers are, it\nwill thrust you first into religion, where you will sprinkle water on\nbabies to save their souls from me; then it will drive you from religion\ninto science, where you will snatch the babies from the water\nsprinkling and inoculate them with disease to save them from catching it\naccidentally; then you will take to politics, where you will become the\ncatspaw of corrupt functionaries and the henchman of ambitious humbugs;\nand the end will be despair and decrepitude, broken nerve and\nshattered hopes, vain regrets for that worst and silliest of wastes\nand sacrifices, the waste and sacrifice of the power of enjoyment: in\na word, the punishment of the fool who pursues the better before he has\nsecured the good.\n\nDON JUAN. But at least I shall not be bored. The service of the Life\nForce has that advantage, at all events. So fare you well, Senor Satan.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [amiably] Fare you well, Don Juan. I shall often think of our\ninteresting chats about things in general. I wish you every happiness:\nHeaven, as I said before, suits some people. But if you should change\nyour mind, do not forget that the gates are always open here to the\nrepentant prodigal. If you feel at any time that warmth of heart,\nsincere unforced affection, innocent enjoyment, and warm, breathing,\npalpitating reality--\n\nDON JUAN. Why not say flesh and blood at once, though we have left those\ntwo greasy commonplaces behind us?\n\nTHE DEVIL. [angrily] You throw my friendly farewell back in my teeth,\nthen, Don Juan?\n\nDON JUAN. By no means. But though there is much to be learnt from a\ncynical devil, I really cannot stand a sentimental one. Senor Commander:\nyou know the way to the frontier of hell and heaven. Be good enough to\ndirect me.\n\nTHE STATUE. Oh, the frontier is only the difference between two ways of\nlooking at things. Any road will take you across it if you really want\nto get there.\n\nDON JUAN. Good. [saluting Dona Ana] Senora: your servant.\n\nANA. But I am going with you.\n\nDON JUAN. I can find my own way to heaven, Ana; but I cannot find yours\n[he vanishes].\n\nANA. How annoying!\n\nTHE STATUE. [calling after him] Bon voyage, Juan! [He wafts a final\nblast of his great rolling chords after him as a parting salute. A faint\necho of the first ghostly melody comes back in acknowledgment]. Ah!\nthere he goes. [Puffing a long breath out through his lips] Whew! How he\ndoes talk! They'll never stand it in heaven.\n\nTHE DEVIL. [gloomily] His going is a political defeat. I cannot keep\nthese Life Worshippers: they all go. This is the greatest loss I have\nhad since that Dutch painter went--a fellow who would paint a hag of 70\nwith as much enjoyment as a Venus of 20.\n\nTHE STATUE. I remember: he came to heaven. Rembrandt.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Ay, Rembrandt. There a something unnatural about these\nfellows. Do not listen to their gospel, Senor Commander: it is\ndangerous. Beware of the pursuit of the Superhuman: it leads to an\nindiscriminate contempt for the Human. To a man, horses and dogs and\ncats are mere species, outside the moral world. Well, to the Superman,\nmen and women are a mere species too, also outside the moral world. This\nDon Juan was kind to women and courteous to men as your daughter here\nwas kind to her pet cats and dogs; but such kindness is a denial of the\nexclusively human character of the soul.\n\nTHE STATUE. And who the deuce is the Superman?\n\nTHE DEVIL. Oh, the latest fashion among the Life Force fanatics. Did\nyou not meet in Heaven, among the new arrivals, that German Polish\nmadman--what was his name? Nietzsche?\n\nTHE STATUE. Never heard of him.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Well, he came here first, before he recovered his wits. I had\nsome hopes of him; but he was a confirmed Life Force worshipper. It was\nhe who raked up the Superman, who is as old as Prometheus; and the 20th\ncentury will run after this newest of the old crazes when it gets tired\nof the world, the flesh, and your humble servant.\n\nTHE STATUE. Superman is a good cry; and a good cry is half the battle. I\nshould like to see this Nietzsche.\n\nTHE DEVIL. Unfortunately he met Wagner here, and had a quarrel with him.\n\nTHE STATUE. Quite right, too. Mozart for me!\n\nTHE DEVIL. Oh, it was not about music. Wagner once drifted into Life\nForce worship, and invented a Superman called Siegfried. But he came to\nhis senses afterwards. So when they met here, Nietzsche denounced him\nas a renegade; and Wagner wrote a pamphlet to prove that Nietzsche was\na Jew; and it ended in Nietzsche's going to heaven in a huff. And a\ngood riddance too. And now, my friend, let us hasten to my palace and\ncelebrate your arrival with a grand musical service.\n\nTHE STATUE. With pleasure: you're most kind.\n\nTHE DEVIL. This way, Commander. We go down the old trap [he places\nhimself on the grave trap].\n\nTHE STATUE. Good. [Reflectively] All the same, the Superman is a fine\nconception. There is something statuesque about it. [He places himself\non the grave trap beside The Devil. It begins to descend slowly. Red\nglow from the abyss]. Ah, this reminds me of old times.\n\nTHE DEVIL. And me also.\n\nANA. Stop! [The trap stops].\n\nTHE DEVIL. You, Senora, cannot come this way. You will have an\napotheosis. But you will be at the palace before us.\n\nANA. That is not what I stopped you for. Tell me where can I find the\nSuperman?\n\nTHE DEVIL. He is not yet created, Senora.\n\nTHE STATUE. And never will be, probably. Let us proceed: the red fire\nwill make me sneeze. [They descend].\n\nANA. Not yet created! Then my work is not yet done. [Crossing herself\ndevoutly] I believe in the Life to Come. [Crying to the universe] A\nfather--a father for the Superman!\n\nShe vanishes into the void; and again there is nothing: all existence\nseems suspended infinitely. Then, vaguely, there is a live human voice\ncrying somewhere. One sees, with a shock, a mountain peak showing\nfaintly against a lighter background. The sky has returned from afar;\nand we suddenly remember where we were. The cry becomes distinct and\nurgent: it says Automobile, Automobile. The complete reality comes\nback with a rush: in a moment it is full morning in the Sierra; and the\nbrigands are scrambling to their feet and making for the road as the\ngoatherd runs down from the hill, warning them of the approach of\nanother motor. Tanner and Mendoza rise amazedly and stare at one another\nwith scattered wits. Straker sits up to yawn for a moment before he gets\non his feet, making it a point of honor not to show any undue interest\nin the excitement of the bandits. Mendoza gives a quick look to see that\nhis followers are attending to the alarm; then exchanges a private word\nwith Tanner.\n\nMENDOZA. Did you dream?\n\nTANNER. Damnably. Did you?\n\nMENDOZA. Yes. I forget what. You were in it.\n\nTANNER. So were you. Amazing\n\nMENDOZA. I warned you. [a shot is heard from the road]. Dolts! they will\nplay with that gun. [The brigands come running back scared]. Who fired\nthat shot? [to Duval] Was it you?\n\nDUVAL. [breathless] I have not shoot. Dey shoot first.\n\nANARCHIST. I told you to begin by abolishing the State. Now we are all\nlost.\n\nTHE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [stampeding across the amphitheatre] Run,\neverybody.\n\nMENDOZA. [collaring him; throwing him on his back; and drawing a knife]\nI stab the man who stirs. [He blocks the way. The stampede it checked].\nWhat has happened?\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT, A motor--\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. Three men--\n\nDUVAL. Deux femmes--\n\nMENDOZA. Three men and two women! Why have you not brought them here?\nAre you afraid of them?\n\nTHE ROWDY ONE. [getting up] Thyve a hescort. Ow, de-ooh lut's ook it,\nMendowza.\n\nTHE SULKY ONE. Two armored cars full o soldiers at the end o the valley.\n\nANARCHIST. The shot was fired in the air. It was a signal.\n\nStraker whistles his favorite air, which falls on the ears of the\nbrigands like a funeral march.\n\nTANNER. It is not an escort, but an expedition to capture you. We were\nadvised to wait for it; but I was in a hurry.\n\nTHE ROWDY ONE. [in an agony of apprehension] And Ow my good Lord, ere we\nare, wytin for em! Lut's tike to the mahntns.\n\nMENDOZA. Idiot, what do you know about the mountains? Are you a\nSpaniard? You would be given up by the first shepherd you met. Besides,\nwe are already within range of their rifles.\n\nTHE ROWDY ONE. Bat--\n\nMENDOZA. Silence. Leave this to me. [To Tanner] Comrade: you will not\nbetray us.\n\nSTRAKER. Oo are you callin comrade?\n\nMENDOZA. Last night the advantage was with me. The robber of the poor\nwas at the mercy of the robber of the rich. You offered your hand: I\ntook it.\n\nTANNER. I bring no charge against you, comrade. We have spent a pleasant\nevening with you: that is all.\n\nSTRAKER. I gev my and to nobody, see?\n\nMENDOZA. [turning on him impressively] Young man, if I am tried, I shall\nplead guilty, and explain what drove me from England, home and duty. Do\nyou wish to have the respectable name of Straker dragged through the mud\nof a Spanish criminal court? The police will search me. They will find\nLouisa's portrait. It will be published in the illustrated papers. You\nblench. It will be your doing, remember.\n\nSTRAKER. [with baffled rage] I don't care about the court. It's avin our\nname mixed up with yours that I object to, you blackmailin swine, you.\n\nMENDOZA. Language unworthy of Louisa's brother! But no matter: you are\nmuzzled: that is enough for us. [He turns to face his own men, who back\nuneasily across the amphitheatre towards the cave to take refuge behind\nhim, as a fresh party, muffled for motoring, comes from the road in\nriotous spirits. Ann, who makes straight for Tanner, comes first; then\nViolet, helped over the rough ground by Hector holding her right hand\nand Ramsden her left. Mendoza goes to his presidential block and seats\nhimself calmly with his rank and file grouped behind him, and his\nStaff, consisting of Duval and the Anarchist on his right and the two\nSocial-Democrats on his left, supporting him in flank].\n\nANN. It's Jack!\n\nTANNER. Caught!\n\nHECTOR. Why, certainly it is. I said it was you, Tanner, We've just been\nstopped by a puncture: the road is full of nails.\n\nVIOLET. What are you doing here with all these men?\n\nANN. Why did you leave us without a word of warning?\n\nHECTOR. I want that bunch of roses, Miss Whitefield. [To Tanner] When\nwe found you were gone, Miss Whitefield bet me a bunch of roses my car\nwould not overtake yours before you reached Monte Carlo.\n\nTANNER. But this is not the road to Monte Carlo.\n\nHECTOR. No matter. Miss Whitefield tracked you at every stopping place:\nshe is a regular Sherlock Holmes.\n\nTANNER. The Life Force! I am lost.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [Bounding gaily down from the road into the amphitheatre, and\ncoming between Tanner and Straker] I am so glad you are safe, old chap.\nWe were afraid you had been captured by brigands.\n\nRAMSDEN. [who has been staring at Mendoza] I seem to remember the face\nof your friend here. [Mendoza rises politely and advances with a smile\nbetween Ann and Ramsden].\n\nHECTOR. Why, so do I.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I know you perfectly well, Sir; but I can't think where I have\nmet you.\n\nMENDOZA. [to Violet] Do YOU remember me, madam?\n\nVIOLET. Oh, quite well; but I am so stupid about names.\n\nMENDOZA. It was at the Savoy Hotel. [To Hector] You, sir, used to come\nwith this lady [Violet] to lunch. [To Octavius] You, sir, often brought\nthis lady [Ann] and her mother to dinner on your way to the Lyceum\nTheatre. [To Ramsden] You, sir, used to come to supper, with [dropping\nhis voice to a confidential but perfectly audible whisper] several\ndifferent ladies.\n\nRAMSDEN. [angrily] Well, what is that to you, pray?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Why, Violet, I thought you hardly knew one another before this\ntrip, you and Malone!\n\nVIOLET. [vexed] I suppose this person was the manager.\n\nMENDOZA. The waiter, madam. I have a grateful recollection of you all.\nI gathered from the bountiful way in which you treated me that you all\nenjoyed your visits very much.\n\nVIOLET. What impertinence! [She turns her back on him, and goes up the\nhill with Hector].\n\nRAMSDEN. That will do, my friend. You do not expect these ladies to\ntreat you as an acquaintance, I suppose, because you have waited on them\nat table.\n\nMENDOZA. Pardon me: it was you who claimed my acquaintance. The ladies\nfollowed your example. However, this display of the unfortunate manners\nof your class closes the incident. For the future, you will please\naddress me with the respect due to a stranger and fellow traveller. [He\nturns haughtily away and resumes his presidential seat].\n\nTANNER. There! I have found one man on my journey capable of reasonable\nconversation; and you all instinctively insult him. Even the New Man\nis as bad as any of you. Enry: you have behaved just like a miserable\ngentleman.\n\nSTRAKER. Gentleman! Not me.\n\nRAMSDEN. Really, Tanner, this tone--\n\nANN. Don't mind him, Granny: you ought to know him by this time [she\ntakes his arm and coaxes him away to the hill to join Violet and Hector.\nOctavius follows her, doglike].\n\nVIOLET. [calling from the hill] Here are the soldiers. They are getting\nout of their motors.\n\nDUVAL. [panicstricken] Oh, nom de Dieu!\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. Fools: the State is about to crush you because you spared\nit at the prompting of the political hangers-on of the bourgeoisie.\n\nTHE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [argumentative to the last] On the contrary,\nonly by capturing the State machine--\n\nTHE ANARCHIST. It is going to capture you.\n\nTHE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. [his anguish culminating] Ow, chock it. Wot\nare we ere for? WOT are we wytin for?\n\nMENDOZA. [between his teeth] Goon. Talk politics, you idiots: nothing\nsounds more respectable. Keep it up, I tell you.\n\nThe soldiers line the road, commanding the amphitheatre with their\nrifles. The brigands, struggling with an over-whelming impulse to hide\nbehind one another, look as unconcerned as they can. Mendoza rises\nsuperbly, with undaunted front. The officer in command steps down from\nthe road in to the amphitheatre; looks hard at the brigands; and then\ninquiringly at Tanner.\n\nTHE OFFICER. Who are these men, Senor Ingles?\n\nTANNER. My escort.\n\nMendoza, with a Mephistophelean smile, bows profoundly. An irrepressible\ngrin runs from face to face among the brigands. They touch their hats,\nexcept the Anarchist, who defies the State with folded arms.\n\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nThe garden of a villa in Granada. Whoever wishes to know what it is like\nmust go to Granada and see. One may prosaically specify a group of hills\ndotted with villas, the Alhambra on the top of one of the hills, and\na considerable town in the valley, approached by dusty white roads in\nwhich the children, no matter what they are doing or thinking about,\nautomatically whine for halfpence and reach out little clutching brown\npalms for them; but there is nothing in this description except the\nAlhambra, the begging, and the color of the roads, that does not fit\nSurrey as well as Spain. The difference is that the Surrey hills are\ncomparatively small and ugly, and should properly be called the Surrey\nProtuberances; but these Spanish hills are of mountain stock: the\namenity which conceals their size does not compromise their dignity.\n\nThis particular garden is on a hill opposite the Alhambra; and the villa\nis as expensive and pretentious as a villa must be if it is to be let\nfurnished by the week to opulent American and English visitors. If we\nstand on the lawn at the foot of the garden and look uphill, our horizon\nis the stone balustrade of a flagged platform on the edge of infinite\nspace at the top of the hill. Between us and this platform is a flower\ngarden with a circular basin and fountain in the centre, surrounded\nby geometrical flower beds, gravel paths, and clipped yew trees in the\ngenteelest order. The garden is higher than our lawn; so we reach it\nby a few steps in the middle of its embankment. The platform is higher\nagain than the garden, from which we mount a couple more steps to look\nover the balustrade at a fine view of the town up the valley and of the\nhills that stretch away beyond it to where, in the remotest distance,\nthey become mountains. On our left is the villa, accessible by steps\nfrom the left hand corner of the garden. Returning from the platform\nthrough the garden and down again to the lawn (a movement which leaves\nthe villa behind us on our right) we find evidence of literary interests\non the part of the tenants in the fact that there is no tennis net nor\nset of croquet hoops, but, on our left, a little iron garden table with\nbooks on it, mostly yellow-backed, and a chair beside it. A chair on the\nright has also a couple of open books upon it. There are no newspapers,\na circumstance which, with the absence of games, might lead an\nintelligent spectator to the most far reaching conclusions as to the\nsort of people who live in the villa. Such speculations are checked,\nhowever, on this delightfully fine afternoon, by the appearance at\na little gate in a paling on our left, of Henry Straker in his\nprofessional costume. He opens the gate for an elderly gentleman, and\nfollows him on to the lawn.\n\nThis elderly gentleman defies the Spanish sun in a black frock coat,\ntall silk bat, trousers in which narrow stripes of dark grey and lilac\nblend into a highly respectable color, and a black necktie tied into a\nbow over spotless linen. Probably therefore a man whose social position\nneeds constant and scrupulous affirmation without regard to climate:\none who would dress thus for the middle of the Sahara or the top of Mont\nBlanc. And since he has not the stamp of the class which accepts as its\nlife-mission the advertizing and maintenance of first rate tailoring and\nmillinery, he looks vulgar in his finery, though in a working dress of\nany kind he would look dignified enough. He is a bullet cheeked man with\na red complexion, stubbly hair, smallish eyes, a hard mouth that folds\ndown at the corners, and a dogged chin. The looseness of skin that comes\nwith age has attacked his throat and the laps of his cheeks; but he is\nstill hard as an apple above the mouth; so that the upper half of his\nface looks younger than the lower. He has the self-confidence of one who\nhas made money, and something of the truculence of one who has made it\nin a brutalizing struggle, his civility having under it a perceptible\nmenace that he has other methods in reserve if necessary. Withal, a man\nto be rather pitied when he is not to be feared; for there is something\npathetic about him at times, as if the huge commercial machine which has\nworked him into his frock coat had allowed him very little of his own\nway and left his affections hungry and baffled. At the first word\nthat falls from him it is clear that he is an Irishman whose native\nintonation has clung to him through many changes of place and rank. One\ncan only guess that the original material of his speech was perhaps the\nsurly Kerry brogue; but the degradation of speech that occurs in London,\nGlasgow, Dublin and big cities generally has been at work on it so long\nthat nobody but an arrant cockney would dream of calling it a brogue\nnow; for its music is almost gone, though its surliness is still\nperceptible. Straker, as a very obvious cockney, inspires him with\nimplacable contempt, as a stupid Englishman who cannot even speak his\nown language properly. Straker, on the other hand, regards the old\ngentleman's accent as a joke thoughtfully provided by Providence\nexpressly for the amusement of the British race, and treats him\nnormally with the indulgence due to an inferior and unlucky species, but\noccasionally with indignant alarm when the old gentleman shows signs of\nintending his Irish nonsense to be taken seriously.\n\nSTRAKER. I'll go tell the young lady. She said you'd prefer to stay here\n[he turns to go up through the garden to the villa].\n\nMALONE. [who has been looking round him with lively curiosity] The young\nlady? That's Miss Violet, eh?\n\nSTRAKER. [stopping on the steps with sudden suspicion] Well, you know,\ndon't you?\n\nMALONE. Do I?\n\nSTRAKER. [his temper rising] Well, do you or don't you?\n\nMALONE. What business is that of yours?\n\nStraker, now highly indignant, comes back from the steps and confronts\nthe visitor.\n\nSTRAKER. I'll tell you what business it is of mine. Miss Robinson--\n\nMALONE. [interrupting] Oh, her name is Robinson, is it? Thank you.\n\nSTRAKER. Why, you don't know even her name?\n\nMALONE. Yes I do, now that you've told me.\n\nSTRAKER. [after a moment of stupefaction at the old man's readiness in\nrepartee] Look here: what do you mean by gittin into my car and lettin\nme bring you here if you're not the person I took that note to?\n\nMALONE. Who else did you take it to, pray?\n\nSTRAKER. I took it to Mr Ector Malone, at Miss Robinson's request, see?\nMiss Robinson is not my principal: I took it to oblige her. I know Mr\nMalone; and he ain't you, not by a long chalk. At the hotel they told me\nthat your name is Ector Malone.\n\nMALONE. Hector Malone.\n\nSTRAKER. [with calm superiority] Hector in your own country: that's what\ncomes o livin in provincial places like Ireland and America. Over here\nyou're Ector: if you avn't noticed it before you soon will.\n\nThe growing strain of the conversation is here relieved by Violet, who\nhas sallied from the villa and through the garden to the steps, which\nshe now descends, coming very opportunely between Malone and Straker.\n\nVIOLET. [to Straker] Did you take my message?\n\nSTRAKER. Yes, miss. I took it to the hotel and sent it up, expecting to\nsee young Mr Malone. Then out walks this gent, and says it's all right\nand he'll come with me. So as the hotel people said he was Mr Ector\nMalone, I fetched him. And now he goes back on what he said. But if he\nisn't the gentleman you meant, say the word: it's easy enough to fetch\nhim back again.\n\nMALONE. I should esteem it a great favor if I might have a short\nconversation with you, madam. I am Hector's father, as this bright\nBritisher would have guessed in the course of another hour or so.\n\nSTRAKER. [coolly defiant] No, not in another year or so. When we've ad\nyou as long to polish up as we've ad im, perhaps you'll begin to look a\nlittle bit up to is mark. At present you fall a long way short. You've\ngot too many aitches, for one thing. [To Violet, amiably] All right,\nMiss: you want to talk to him: I shan't intrude. [He nods affably to\nMalone and goes out through the little gate in the paling].\n\nVIOLET. [very civilly] I am so sorry, Mr Malone, if that man has been\nrude to you. But what can we do? He is our chauffeur.\n\nMALONE. Your what?\n\nVIOLET. The driver of our automobile. He can drive a motor car at\nseventy miles an hour, and mend it when it breaks down. We are dependent\non our motor cars; and our motor cars are dependent on him; so of course\nwe are dependent on him.\n\nMALONE. I've noticed, madam, that every thousand dollars an Englishman\ngets seems to add one to the number of people he's dependent on.\nHowever, you needn't apologize for your man: I made him talk on purpose.\nBy doing so I learnt that you're staying here in Grannida with a party\nof English, including my son Hector.\n\nVIOLET. [conversationally] Yes. We intended to go to Nice; but we had to\nfollow a rather eccentric member of our party who started first and came\nhere. Won't you sit down? [She clears the nearest chair of the two books\non it].\n\nMALONE. [impressed by this attention] Thank you. [He sits down,\nexamining her curiously as she goes to the iron table to put down the\nbooks. When she turns to him again, he says] Miss Robinson, I believe?\n\nVIOLET. [sitting down] Yes.\n\nMALONE. [Taking a letter from his pocket] Your note to Hector runs as\nfollows [Violet is unable to repress a start. He pauses quietly to take\nout and put on his spectacles, which have gold rims]: \"Dearest: they\nhave all gone to the Alhambra for the afternoon. I have shammed headache\nand have the garden all to myself. Jump into Jack's motor: Straker will\nrattle you here in a jiffy. Quick, quick, quick. Your loving Violet.\"\n[He looks at her; but by this time she has recovered herself, and meets\nhis spectacles with perfect composure. He continues slowly] Now I don't\nknow on what terms young people associate in English society; but in\nAmerica that note would be considered to imply a very considerable\ndegree of affectionate intimacy between the parties.\n\nVIOLET. Yes: I know your son very well, Mr Malone. Have you any\nobjection?\n\nMALONE. [somewhat taken aback] No, no objection exactly. Provided it is\nunderstood that my son is altogether dependent on me, and that I have to\nbe consulted in any important step he may propose to take.\n\nVIOLET. I am sure you would not be unreasonable with him, Mr Malone.\n\nMALONE. I hope not, Miss Robinson; but at your age you might think many\nthings unreasonable that don't seem so to me.\n\nVIOLET. [with a little shrug] Oh well, I suppose there's no use our\nplaying at cross purposes, Mr Malone. Hector wants to marry me.\n\nMALONE. I inferred from your note that he might. Well, Miss Robinson,\nhe is his own master; but if he marries you he shall not have a rap from\nme. [He takes off his spectacles and pockets them with the note].\n\nVIOLET. [with some severity] That is not very complimentary to me, Mr\nMalone.\n\nMALONE. I say nothing against you, Miss Robinson: I daresay you are an\namiable and excellent young lady. But I have other views for Hector.\n\nVIOLET. Hector may not have other views for himself, Mr Malone.\n\nMALONE. Possibly not. Then he does without me: that's all. I daresay you\nare prepared for that. When a young lady writes to a young man to\ncome to her quick, quick, quick, money seems nothing and love seems\neverything.\n\nVIOLET. [sharply] I beg your pardon, Mr Malone: I do not think anything\nso foolish. Hector must have money.\n\nMALONE. [staggered] Oh, very well, very well. No doubt he can work for\nit.\n\nVIOLET. What is the use of having money if you have to work for it? [She\nrises impatiently]. It's all nonsense, Mr Malone: you must enable your\nson to keep up his position. It is his right.\n\nMALONE. [grimly] I should not advise you to marry him on the strength of\nthat right, Miss Robinson.\n\nViolet, who has almost lost her temper, controls herself with an effort;\nunclenches her fingers; and resumes her seat with studied tranquillity\nand reasonableness.\n\nVIOLET. What objection have you to me, pray? My social position is as\ngood as Hector's, to say the least. He admits it.\n\nMALONE. [shrewdly] You tell him so from time to time, eh? Hector's\nsocial position in England, Miss Robinson, is just what I choose to\nbuy for him. I have made him a fair offer. Let him pick out the most\nhistoric house, castle or abbey that England contains. The day that he\ntells me he wants it for a wife worthy of its traditions, I buy it for\nhim, and give him the means of keeping it up.\n\nVIOLET. What do you mean by a wife worthy of its traditions? Cannot any\nwell bred woman keep such a house for him?\n\nMALONE. No: she must be born to it.\n\nVIOLET. Hector was not born to it, was he?\n\nMALONE. His granmother was a barefooted Irish girl that nursed me by a\nturf fire. Let him marry another such, and I will not stint her marriage\nportion. Let him raise himself socially with my money or raise somebody\nelse so long as there is a social profit somewhere, I'll regard my\nexpenditure as justified. But there must be a profit for someone. A\nmarriage with you would leave things just where they are.\n\nVIOLET. Many of my relations would object very much to my marrying the\ngrandson of a common woman, Mr Malone. That may be prejudice; but so is\nyour desire to have him marry a title prejudice.\n\nMALONE. [rising, and approaching her with a scrutiny in which there is\na good deal of reluctant respect] You seem a pretty straightforward\ndownright sort of a young woman.\n\nVIOLET. I do not see why I should be made miserably poor because I\ncannot make profits for you. Why do you want to make Hector unhappy?\n\nMALONE. He will get over it all right enough. Men thrive better on\ndisappointments in love than on disappointments in money. I daresay you\nthink that sordid; but I know what I'm talking about. My father died of\nstarvation in Ireland in the black 47, Maybe you've heard of it.\n\nVIOLET. The Famine?\n\nMALONE. [with smouldering passion] No, the starvation. When a country\nis full of food, and exporting it, there can be no famine. My father\nwas starved dead; and I was starved out to America in my mother's\narms. English rule drove me and mine out of Ireland. Well, you can keep\nIreland. I and my like are coming back to buy England; and we'll buy the\nbest of it. I want no middle class properties and no middle class women\nfor Hector. That's straightforward isn't it, like yourself?\n\nVIOLET. [icily pitying his sentimentality] Really, Mr Malone, I am\nastonished to hear a man of your age and good sense talking in that\nromantic way. Do you suppose English noblemen will sell their places to\nyou for the asking?\n\nMALONE. I have the refusal of two of the oldest family mansions in\nEngland. One historic owner can't afford to keep all the rooms dusted:\nthe other can't afford the death duties. What do you say now?\n\nVIOLET. Of course it is very scandalous; but surely you know that the\nGovernment will sooner or later put a stop to all these Socialistic\nattacks on property.\n\nMALONE. [grinning] D'y' think they'll be able to get that done before I\nbuy the house--or rather the abbey? They're both abbeys.\n\nVIOLET. [putting that aside rather impatiently] Oh, well, let us talk\nsense, Mr Malone. You must feel that we haven't been talking sense so\nfar.\n\nMALONE. I can't say I do. I mean all I say.\n\nVIOLET. Then you don't know Hector as I do. He is romantic and faddy--he\ngets it from you, I fancy--and he wants a certain sort of wife to take\ncare of him. Not a faddy sort of person, you know.\n\nMALONE. Somebody like you, perhaps?\n\nVIOLET. [quietly] Well, yes. But you cannot very well ask me to\nundertake this with absolutely no means of keeping up his position.\n\nMALONE. [alarmed] Stop a bit, stop a bit. Where are we getting to? I'm\nnot aware that I'm asking you to undertake anything.\n\nVIOLET. Of course, Mr Malone, you can make it very difficult for me to\nspeak to you if you choose to misunderstand me.\n\nMALONE. [half bewildered] I don't wish to take any unfair advantage; but\nwe seem to have got off the straight track somehow.\n\nStraker, with the air of a man who has been making haste, opens the\nlittle gate, and admits Hector, who, snorting with indignation, comes\nupon the lawn, and is making for his father when Violet, greatly\ndismayed, springs up and intercepts him. Straker doer not wait; at least\nhe does not remain visibly within earshot.\n\nVIOLET. Oh, how unlucky! Now please, Hector, say nothing. Go away until\nI have finished speaking to your father.\n\nHECTOR. [inexorably] No, Violet: I mean to have this thing out, right\naway. [He puts her aside; passes her by; and faces his father, whose\ncheeks darken as his Irish blood begins to simmer]. Dad: you've not\nplayed this hand straight.\n\nMALONE. Hwat d'y'mean?\n\nHECTOR. You've opened a letter addressed to me. You've impersonated me\nand stolen a march on this lady. That's dishonorable.\n\nMALONE. [threateningly] Now you take care what you're saying, Hector.\nTake care, I tell you.\n\nHECTOR. I have taken care. I am taking care. I'm taking care of my honor\nand my position in English society.\n\nMALONE. [hotly] Your position has been got by my money: do you know\nthat?\n\nHECTOR. Well, you've just spoiled it all by opening that letter. A\nletter from an English lady, not addressed to you--a confidential\nletter! a delicate letter! a private letter opened by my father! That's\na sort of thing a man can't struggle against in England. The sooner\nwe go back together the better. [He appeals mutely to the heavens to\nwitness the shame and anguish of two outcasts].\n\nVIOLET. [snubbing him with an instinctive dislike for scene making]\nDon't be unreasonable, Hector. It was quite natural of Mr Malone to open\nmy letter: his name was on the envelope.\n\nMALONE. There! You've no common sense, Hector. I thank you, Miss\nRobinson.\n\nHECTOR. I thank you, too. It's very kind of you. My father knows no\nbetter.\n\nMALONE. [furiously clenching his fists] Hector--\n\nHECTOR. [with undaunted moral force] Oh, it's no use hectoring me. A\nprivate letter's a private letter, dad: you can't get over that.\n\nMALONE [raising his voice] I won't be talked back to by you, d'y' hear?\n\nVIOLET. Ssh! please, please. Here they all come.\n\nFather and son, checked, glare mutely at one another as Tanner comes in\nthrough the little gate with Ramsden, followed by Octavius and Ann.\n\nVIOLET. Back already!\n\nTANNER. The Alhambra is not open this afternoon.\n\nVIOLET. What a sell!\n\nTanner passes on, and presently finds himself between Hector and a\nstrange elder, both apparently on the verge of personal combat. He looks\nfrom one to the other for an explanation. They sulkily avoid his eye,\nand nurse their wrath in silence.\n\nRAMSDEN. Is it wise for you to be out in the sunshine with such a\nheadache, Violet?\n\nTANNER. Have you recovered too, Malone?\n\nVIOLET. Oh, I forgot. We have not all met before. Mr Malone: won't you\nintroduce your father?\n\nHECTOR. [with Roman firmness] No, I will not. He is no father of mine.\n\nMALONE. [very angry] You disown your dad before your English friends, do\nyou?\n\nVIOLET. Oh please don't make a scene.\n\nAnn and Octavius, lingering near the gate, exchange an astonished\nglance, and discreetly withdraw up the steps to the garden, where they\ncan enjoy the disturbance without intruding. On their way to the steps\nAnn sends a little grimace of mute sympathy to Violet, who is standing\nwith her back to the little table, looking on in helpless annoyance as\nher husband soars to higher and higher moral eminences without the least\nregard to the old man's millions.\n\nHECTOR. I'm very sorry, Miss Robinson; but I'm contending for a\nprinciple. I am a son, and, I hope, a dutiful one; but before everything\nI'm a Man!!! And when dad treats my private letters as his own, and\ntakes it on himself to say that I shan't marry you if I am happy and\nfortunate enough to gain your consent, then I just snap my fingers and\ngo my own way.\n\nTANNER. Marry Violet!\n\nRAMSDEN. Are you in your senses?\n\nTANNER. Do you forget what we told you?\n\nHECTOR. [recklessly] I don't care what you told me.\n\nRAMSDEN. [scandalized] Tut tut, sir! Monstrous! [he flings away towards\nthe gate, his elbows quivering with indignation]\n\nTANNER. Another madman! These men in love should be locked up. [He gives\nHector up as hopeless, and turns away towards the garden, but Malone,\ntaking offence in a new direction, follows him and compels him, by the\naggressivenes of his tone, to stop].\n\nMALONE. I don't understand this. Is Hector not good enough for this\nlady, pray?\n\nTANNER. My dear sir, the lady is married already. Hector knows it; and\nyet he persists in his infatuation. Take him home and lock him up.\n\nMALONE. [bitterly] So this is the high-born social tone I've spoilt by\nmy ignorant, uncultivated behavior! Makin love to a married woman! [He\ncomes angrily between Hector and Violet, and almost bawls into Hector's\nleft ear] You've picked up that habit of the British aristocracy, have\nyou?\n\nHECTOR. That's all right. Don't you trouble yourself about that. I'll\nanswer for the morality of what I'm doing.\n\nTANNER. [coming forward to Hector's right hand with flashing eyes] Well\nsaid, Malone! You also see that mere marriage laws are not morality! I\nagree with you; but unfortunately Violet does not.\n\nMALONE. I take leave to doubt that, sir. [Turning on Violet] Let me tell\nyou, Mrs Robinson, or whatever your right name is, you had no right to\nsend that letter to my son when you were the wife of another man.\n\nHECTOR. [outraged] This is the last straw. Dad: you have insulted my\nwife.\n\nMALONE. YOUR wife!\n\nTANNER. YOU the missing husband! Another moral impostor! [He smites his\nbrow, and collapses into Malone's chair].\n\nMALONE. You've married without my consent!\n\nRAMSDEN. You have deliberately humbugged us, sir!\n\nHECTOR. Here: I have had just about enough of being badgered. Violet and\nI are married: that's the long and the short of it. Now what have you\ngot to say--any of you?\n\nMALONE. I know what I've got to say. She's married a beggar.\n\nHECTOR. No; she's married a Worker [his American pronunciation imparts\nan overwhelming intensity to this simple and unpopular word]. I start to\nearn my own living this very afternoon.\n\nMALONE. [sneering angrily] Yes: you're very plucky now, because you got\nyour remittance from me yesterday or this morning, I reckon. Wait til\nit's spent. You won't be so full of cheek then.\n\nHECTOR. [producing a letter from his pocketbook] Here it is [thrusting\nit on his father]. Now you just take your remittance and yourself out of\nmy life. I'm done with remittances; and I'm done with you. I don't sell\nthe privilege of insulting my wife for a thousand dollars.\n\nMALONE. [deeply wounded and full of concern] Hector: you don't know what\npoverty is.\n\nHECTOR. [fervidly] Well, I want to know what it is. I want'be a Man.\nViolet: you come along with me, to your own home: I'll see you through.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [jumping down from the garden to the lawn and running to\nHector's left hand] I hope you'll shake hands with me before you go,\nHector. I admire and respect you more than I can say. [He is affected\nalmost to tears as they shake hands].\n\nVIOLET. [also almost in tears, but of vexation] Oh don't be an idiot,\nTavy. Hector's about as fit to become a workman as you are.\n\nTANNER. [rising from his chair on the other ride of Hector] Never fear:\nthere's no question of his becoming a navvy, Mrs Malone. [To Hector]\nThere's really no difficulty about capital to start with. Treat me as a\nfriend: draw on me.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [impulsively] Or on me.\n\nMALONE. [with fierce jealousy] Who wants your dirty money? Who should he\ndraw on but his own father? [Tanner and Octavius recoil, Octavius rather\nhurt, Tanner consoled by the solution of the money difficulty. Violet\nlooks up hopefully]. Hector: don't be rash, my boy. I'm sorry for what I\nsaid: I never meant to insult Violet: I take it all back. She's just the\nwife you want: there!\n\nHECTOR. [Patting him on the shoulder] Well, that's all right, dad. Say\nno more: we're friends again. Only, I take no money from anybody.\n\nMALONE. [pleading abjectly] Don't be hard on me, Hector. I'd rather you\nquarrelled and took the money than made friends and starved. You don't\nknow what the world is: I do.\n\nHECTOR. No, no, NO. That's fixed: that's not going to change. [He passes\nhis father inexorably by, and goes to Violet]. Come, Mrs Malone: you've\ngot to move to the hotel with me, and take your proper place before the\nworld.\n\nVIOLET. But I must go in, dear, and tell Davis to pack. Won't you go on\nand make them give you a room overlooking the garden for me? I'll join\nyou in half an hour.\n\nHECTOR. Very well. You'll dine with us, Dad, won't you?\n\nMALONE. [eager to conciliate him] Yes, yes.\n\nHECTOR. See you all later. [He waves his hand to Ann, who has now been\njoined by Tanner, Octavius, and Ramsden in the garden, and goes out\nthrough the little gate, leaving his father and Violet together on the\nlawn].\n\nMALONE. You'll try to bring him to his senses, Violet: I know you will.\n\nVIOLET. I had no idea he could be so headstrong. If he goes on like\nthat, what can I do?\n\nMALONE. Don't be discurridged: domestic pressure may be slow; but it's\nsure. You'll wear him down. Promise me you will.\n\nVIOLET. I will do my best. Of course I think it's the greatest nonsense\ndeliberately making us poor like that.\n\nMALONE. Of course it is.\n\nVIOLET. [after a moment's reflection] You had better give me the\nremittance. He will want it for his hotel bill. I'll see whether I can\ninduce him to accept it. Not now, of course, but presently.\n\nMALONE. [eagerly] Yes, yes, yes: that's just the thing [he hands her the\nthousand dollar bill, and adds cunningly] Y'understand that this is only\na bachelor allowance.\n\nVIOLET. [Coolly] Oh, quite. [She takes it]. Thank you. By the way, Mr\nMalone, those two houses you mentioned--the abbeys.\n\nMALONE. Yes?\n\nVIOLET. Don't take one of them until I've seen it. One never knows what\nmay be wrong with these places.\n\nMALONE. I won't. I'll do nothing without consulting you, never fear.\n\nVIOLET. [politely, but without a ray of gratitude] Thanks: that will\nbe much the best way. [She goes calmly back to the villa, escorted\nobsequiously by Malone to the upper end of the garden].\n\nTANNER. [drawing Ramsden's attention to Malone's cringing attitude as he\ntakes leave of Violet] And that poor devil is a billionaire! one of the\nmaster spirits of the age! Led on a string like a pug dog by the first\ngirl who takes the trouble to despise him. I wonder will it ever come to\nthat with me. [He comes down to the lawn.]\n\nRAMSDEN. [following him] The sooner the better for you.\n\nMALONE. [clapping his hands as he returns through the garden] That'll be\na grand woman for Hector. I wouldn't exchange her for ten duchesses. [He\ndescends to the lawn and comes between Tanner and Ramsden].\n\nRAMSDEN. [very civil to the billionaire] It's an unexpected pleasure to\nfind you in this corner of the world, Mr Malone. Have you come to buy up\nthe Alhambra?\n\nMALONE. Well, I don't say I mightn't. I think I could do better with it\nthan the Spanish government. But that's not what I came about. To tell\nyou the truth, about a month ago I overheard a deal between two men over\na bundle of shares. They differed about the price: they were young and\ngreedy, and didn't know that if the shares were worth what was bid for\nthem they must be worth what was asked, the margin being too small to\nbe of any account, you see. To amuse meself, I cut in and bought the\nshares. Well, to this day I haven't found out what the business is. The\noffice is in this town; and the name is Mendoza, Limited. Now whether\nMendoza's a mine, or a steamboat line, or a bank, or a patent article--\n\nTANNER. He's a man. I know him: his principles are thoroughly\ncommercial. Let us take you round the town in our motor, Mr Malone, and\ncall on him on the way.\n\nMALONE. If you'll be so kind, yes. And may I ask who--\n\nTANNER. Mr Roebuck Ramsden, a very old friend of your daughter-in-law.\n\nMALONE. Happy to meet you, Mr Ramsden.\n\nRAMSDEN. Thank you. Mr Tanner is also one of our circle.\n\nMALONE. Glad to know you also, Mr Tanner.\n\nTANNER. Thanks. [Malone and Ramsden go out very amicably through the\nlittle gate. Tanner calls to Octavius, who is wandering in the garden\nwith Ann] Tavy! [Tavy comes to the steps, Tanner whispers loudly to\nhim] Violet has married a financier of brigands. [Tanner hurries away\nto overtake Malone and Ramsden. Ann strolls to the steps with an idle\nimpulse to torment Octavius].\n\nANN. Won't you go with them, Tavy?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [tears suddenly flushing his eyes] You cut me to the heart,\nAnn, by wanting me to go [he comes down on the lawn to hide his face\nfrom her. She follows him caressingly].\n\nANN. Poor Ricky Ticky Tavy! Poor heart!\n\nOCTAVIUS. It belongs to you, Ann. Forgive me: I must speak of it. I love\nyou. You know I love you.\n\nANN. What's the good, Tavy? You know that my mother is determined that I\nshall marry Jack.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [amazed] Jack!\n\nANN. It seems absurd, doesn't it?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [with growing resentment] Do you mean to say that Jack has\nbeen playing with me all this time? That he has been urging me not to\nmarry you because he intends to marry you himself?\n\nANN. [alarmed] No no: you mustn't lead him to believe that I said that:\nI don't for a moment think that Jack knows his own mind. But it's clear\nfrom my father's will that he wished me to marry Jack. And my mother is\nset on it.\n\nOCTAVIUS. But you are not bound to sacrifice yourself always to the\nwishes of your parents.\n\nANN. My father loved me. My mother loves me. Surely their wishes are a\nbetter guide than my own selfishness.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Oh, I know how unselfish you are, Ann. But believe me--though\nI know I am speaking in my own interest--there is another side to this\nquestion. Is it fair to Jack to marry him if you do not love him? Is\nit fair to destroy my happiness as well as your own if you can bring\nyourself to love me?\n\nANN. [looking at him with a faint impulse of pity] Tavy, my dear, you\nare a nice creature--a good boy.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [humiliated] Is that all?\n\nANN. [mischievously in spite of her pity] That's a great deal, I assure\nyou. You would always worship the ground I trod on, wouldn't you?\n\nOCTAVIUS. I do. It sounds ridiculous; but it's no exaggeration. I do;\nand I always shall.\n\nANN. Always is a long word, Tavy. You see, I shall have to live up\nalways to your idea of my divinity; and I don't think I could do that if\nwe were married. But if I marry Jack, you'll never be disillusioned--at\nleast not until I grow too old.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I too shall grow old, Ann. And when I am eighty, one white\nhair of the woman I love will make me tremble more than the thickest\ngold tress from the most beautiful young head.\n\nANN. [quite touched] Oh, that's poetry, Tavy, real poetry. It gives\nme that strange sudden sense of an echo from a former existence which\nalways seems to me such a striking proof that we have immortal souls.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Do you believe that is true?\n\nANN. Tavy, if it is to become true you must lose me as well as love me.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Oh! [he hastily sits down at the little table and covers his\nface with his hands].\n\nANN. [with conviction] Tavy: I wouldn't for worlds destroy your\nillusions. I can neither take you nor let you go. I can see exactly what\nwill suit you. You must be a sentimental old bachelor for my sake.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [desperately] Ann: I'll kill myself.\n\nANN. Oh no you won't: that wouldn't be kind. You won't have a bad time.\nYou will be very nice to women; and you will go a good deal to the\nopera. A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London\nif he has a comfortable income.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [considerably cooled, but believing that he is only recovering\nhis self-control] I know you mean to be kind, Ann. Jack has persuaded\nyou that cynicism is a good tonic for me. [He rises with quiet dignity].\n\nANN. [studying him slyly] You see, I'm disillusionizing you already.\nThat's what I dread.\n\nOCTAVIUS. You do not dread disillusionizing Jack.\n\nANN. [her face lighting up with mischievous ecstasy--whispering] I\ncan't: he has no illusions about me. I shall surprise Jack the other\nway. Getting over an unfavorable impression is ever so much easier than\nliving up to an ideal. Oh, I shall enrapture Jack sometimes!\n\nOCTAVIUS. [resuming the calm phase of despair, and beginning to enjoy\nhis broken heart and delicate attitude without knowing it] I don't doubt\nthat. You will enrapture him always. And he--the fool!--thinks you would\nmake him wretched.\n\nANN. Yes: that's the difficulty, so far.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [heroically] Shall _I_ tell him that you love him?\n\nANN. [quickly] Oh no: he'd run away again.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [shocked] Ann: would you marry an unwilling man?\n\nANN. What a queer creature you are, Tavy! There's no such thing as a\nwilling man when you really go for him. [She laughs naughtily]. I'm\nshocking you, I suppose. But you know you are really getting a sort of\nsatisfaction already in being out of danger yourself.\n\nOCTAVIUS [startled] Satisfaction! [Reproachfully] You say that to me!\n\nANN. Well, if it were really agony, would you ask for more of it?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Have I asked for more of it?\n\nANN. You have offered to tell Jack that I love him. That's\nself-sacrifice, I suppose; but there must be some satisfaction in it.\nPerhaps it's because you're a poet. You are like the bird that presses\nits breast against the sharp thorn to make itself sing.\n\nOCTAVIUS. It's quite simple. I love you; and I want you to be happy. You\ndon't love me; so I can't make you happy myself; but I can help another\nman to do it.\n\nANN. Yes: it seems quite simple. But I doubt if we ever know why we do\nthings. The only really simple thing is to go straight for what you want\nand grab it. I suppose I don't love you, Tavy; but sometimes I feel\nas if I should like to make a man of you somehow. You are very foolish\nabout women.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [almost coldly] I am content to be what I am in that respect.\n\nANN. Then you must keep away from them, and only dream about them. I\nwouldn't marry you for worlds, Tavy.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I have no hope, Ann: I accept my ill luck. But I don't think\nyou quite know how much it hurts.\n\nANN. You are so softhearted! It's queer that you should be so different\nfrom Violet. Violet's as hard as nails.\n\nOCTAVIUS. Oh no. I am sure Violet is thoroughly womanly at heart.\n\nANN. [with some impatience] Why do you say that? Is it unwomanly to be\nthoughtful and businesslike and sensible? Do you want Violet to be an\nidiot--or something worse, like me?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Something worse--like you! What do you mean, Ann?\n\nANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect\nfor Violet. She gets her own way always.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you.\n\nANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing--without having to\nmake people sentimental about her.\n\nOCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental\nabout Violet, I think, pretty as she is.\n\nANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them.\n\nOCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on\nmen's instincts in that way.\n\nANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven\nhelp the woman who marries you!\n\nOCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say\nthat? Don't torment me. I don't understand.\n\nANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Do you think _I_ could marry such a woman--I, who have known and\nloved you?\n\nANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise. So\nthat's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive me, and\nthat the subject is closed.\n\nOCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And if\nthe wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed.\n\nANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear. [She pats his check;\nhas an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of distaste which\nprevents her; finally runs away through the garden and into the villa].\n\nOctavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on his arms\nand sobbing softly. Mrs Whitefield, who has been pottering round the\nGranada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her hand, comes\nin through the gate and sees him.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [running to him and lifting his head] What's the matter,\nTavy? Are you ill?\n\nOCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [still holding his head, anxiously] But you're crying.\nIs it about Violet's marriage?\n\nOCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [restoring the head to its owner] I met Roebuck and that\nawful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not ill? What's the matter?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [affectionately] It's nothing--only a man's broken heart.\nDoesn't that sound ridiculous?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything to\nyou?\n\nOCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't think for a moment that I\nblame you.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [startled] For what?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [pressing her hand consolingly] For nothing. I said I didn't\nblame you.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. But I haven't done anything. What's the matter?\n\nOCTAVIUS. [smiling sadly] Can't you guess? I daresay you are right to\nprefer Jack to me as a husband for Ann; but I love Ann; and it hurts\nrather. [He rises and moves away from her towards the middle of the\nlawn].\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [following him hastily] Does Ann say that I want her to\nmarry Jack?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Yes: she has told me.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [thoughtfully] Then I'm very sorry for you, Tavy. It's\nonly her way of saying SHE wants to marry Jack. Little she cares what _I_\nsay or what I want!\n\nOCTAVIUS. But she would not say it unless she believed it. Surely you\ndon't suspect Ann of--of DECEIT!!\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Well, never mind, Tavy. I don't know which is best for a\nyoung man: to know too little, like you, or too much, like Jack.\n\nTanner returns.\n\nTANNER. Well, I've disposed of old Malone. I've introduced him to\nMendoza, Limited; and left the two brigands together to talk it out.\nHullo, Tavy! anything wrong?\n\nOCTAVIUS. I must go wash my face, I see. [To Mrs Whitefield] Tell him\nwhat you wish. [To Tanner] You may take it from me, Jack, that Ann\napproves of it.\n\nTANNER. [puzzled by his manner] Approves of what?\n\nOCTAVIUS. Of what Mrs Whitefield wishes. [He goes his way with sad\ndignity to the villa].\n\nTANNER. [to Mrs Whitefield] This is very mysterious. What is it you\nwish? It shall be done, whatever it is.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [with snivelling gratitude] Thank you, Jack. [She sits\ndown. Tanner brings the other chair from the table and sits close to her\nwith his elbows on his knees, giving her his whole attention]. I don't\nknow why it is that other people's children are so nice to me, and that\nmy own have so little consideration for me. It's no wonder I don't seem\nable to care for Ann and Rhoda as I do for you and Tavy and Violet. It's\na very queer world. It used to be so straightforward and simple; and\nnow nobody seems to think and feel as they ought. Nothing has been right\nsince that speech that Professor Tyndall made at Belfast.\n\nTANNER. Yes: life is more complicated than we used to think. But what am\nI to do for you?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. That's just what I want to tell you. Of course you'll\nmarry Ann whether I like it myself or not--\n\nTANNER. [starting] It seems to me that I shall presently be married to\nAnn whether I like it myself or not.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [peacefully] Oh, very likely you will: you know what she\nis when she has set her mind on anything. But don't put it on me: that's\nall I ask. Tavy has just let out that she's been saying that I am making\nher marry you; and the poor boy is breaking his heart about it; for he\nis in love with her himself, though what he sees in her so wonderful,\ngoodness knows: _I_ don't. It's no use telling Tavy that Ann puts things\ninto people's heads by telling them that I want them when the thought of\nthem never crossed my mind. It only sets Tavy against me. But you know\nbetter than that. So if you marry her, don't put the blame on me.\n\nTANNER. [emphatically] I haven't the slightest intention of marrying\nher.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [slyly] She'd suit you better than Tavy. She'd meet her\nmatch in you, Jack. I'd like to see her meet her match.\n\nTANNER. No man is a match for a woman, except with a poker and a pair of\nhobnailed boots. Not always even then. Anyhow, I can't take the poker to\nher. I should be a mere slave.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. No: she's afraid of you. At all events, you would tell\nher the truth about herself. She wouldn't be able to slip out of it as\nshe does with me.\n\nTANNER. Everybody would call me a brute if I told Ann the truth about\nherself in terms of her own moral code. To begin with, Ann says things\nthat are not strictly true.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. I'm glad somebody sees she is not an angel.\n\nTANNER. In short--to put it as a husband would put it when exasperated\nto the point of speaking out--she is a liar. And since she has plunged\nTavy head over ears in love with her without any intention of marrying\nhim, she is a coquette, according to the standard definition of\na coquette as a woman who rouses passions she has no intention of\ngratifying. And as she has now reduced you to the point of being willing\nto sacrifice me at the altar for the mere satisfaction of getting me to\ncall her a liar to her face, I may conclude that she is a bully as\nwell. She can't bully men as she bullies women; so she habitually\nand unscrupulously uses her personal fascination to make men give her\nwhatever she wants. That makes her almost something for which I know no\npolite name.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [in mild expostulation] Well, you can't expect\nperfection, Jack.\n\nTANNER. I don't. But what annoys me is that Ann does. I know perfectly\nwell that all this about her being a liar and a bully and a coquette and\nso forth is a trumped-up moral indictment which might be brought against\nanybody. We all lie; we all bully as much as we dare; we all bid for\nadmiration without the least intention of earning it; we all get as much\nrent as we can out of our powers of fascination. If Ann would admit this\nI shouldn't quarrel with her. But she won't. If she has children she'll\ntake advantage of their telling lies to amuse herself by whacking them.\nIf another woman makes eyes at me, she'll refuse to know a coquette. She\nwill do just what she likes herself whilst insisting on everybody else\ndoing what the conventional code prescribes. In short, I can stand\neverything except her confounded hypocrisy. That's what beats me.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [carried away by the relief of hearing her own opinion\nso eloquently expressed] Oh, she is a hypocrite. She is: she is. Isn't\nshe?\n\nTANNER. Then why do you want to marry me to her?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [querulously] There now! put it on me, of course. I\nnever thought of it until Tavy told me she said I did. But, you know,\nI'm very fond of Tavy: he's a sort of son to me; and I don't want him to\nbe trampled on and made wretched.\n\nTANNER. Whereas I don't matter, I suppose.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, you are different, somehow: you are able to take\ncare of yourself. You'd serve her out. And anyhow, she must marry\nsomebody.\n\nTANNER. Aha! there speaks the life instinct. You detest her; but you\nfeel that you must get her married.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [rising, shocked] Do you mean that I detest my own\ndaughter! Surely you don't believe me to be so wicked and unnatural as\nthat, merely because I see her faults.\n\nTANNER. [cynically] You love her, then?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Why, of course I do. What queer things you say, Jack! We\ncan't help loving our own blood relations.\n\nTANNER. Well, perhaps it saves unpleasantness to say so. But for my\npart, I suspect that the tables of consanguinity have a natural basis in\na natural repugnance [he rises].\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. You shouldn't say things like that, Jack. I hope you\nwon't tell Ann that I have been speaking to you. I only wanted to\nset myself right with you and Tavy. I couldn't sit mumchance and have\neverything put on me.\n\nTANNER. [politely] Quite so.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [dissatisfied] And now I've only made matters worse.\nTavy's angry with me because I don't worship Ann. And when it's been put\ninto my head that Ann ought to marry you, what can I say except that it\nwould serve her right?\n\nTANNER. Thank you.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Now don't be silly and twist what I say into something I\ndon't mean. I ought to have fair play--\n\nAnn comes from the villa, followed presently by Violet, who is dressed\nfor driving.\n\nANN. [coming to her mother's right hand with threatening suavity] Well,\nmamma darling, you seem to be having a delightful chat with Jack. We can\nhear you all over the place.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [appalled] Have you overheard--\n\nTANNER. Never fear: Ann is only--well, we were discussing that habit of\nhers just now. She hasn't heard a word.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [stoutly] I don't care whether she has or not: I have a\nright to say what I please.\n\nVIOLET. [arriving on the lawn and coming between Mrs Whitefield and\nTanner] I've come to say goodbye. I'm off for my honeymoon.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [crying] Oh don't say that, Violet. And no wedding, no\nbreakfast, no clothes, nor anything.\n\nVIOLET. [petting her] It won't be for long.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Don't let him take you to America. Promise me that you\nwon't.\n\nVIOLET. [very decidedly] I should think not, indeed. Don't cry, dear:\nI'm only going to the hotel.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. But going in that dress, with your luggage, makes one\nrealize--[she chokes, and then breaks out again] How I wish you were my\ndaughter, Violet!\n\nVIOLET. [soothing her] There, there: so I am. Ann will be jealous.\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Ann doesn't care a bit for me.\n\nANN. Fie, mother! Come, now: you mustn't cry any more: you know Violet\ndoesn't like it [Mrs Whitefield dries her eyes, and subsides].\n\nVIOLET. Goodbye, Jack.\n\nTANNER. Goodbye, Violet.\n\nVIOLET. The sooner you get married too, the better. You will be much\nless misunderstood.\n\nTANNER. [restively] I quite expect to get married in the course of the\nafternoon. You all seem to have set your minds on it.\n\nVIOLET. You might do worse. [To Mrs Whitefield: putting her arm round\nher] Let me take you to the hotel with me: the drive will do you good.\nCome in and get a wrap. [She takes her towards the villa].\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. [as they go up through the garden] I don't know what I\nshall do when you are gone, with no one but Ann in the house; and she\nalways occupied with the men! It's not to be expected that your husband\nwill care to be bothered with an old woman like me. Oh, you needn't\ntell me: politeness is all very well; but I know what people think--[She\ntalks herself and Violet out of sight and hearing].\n\nAnn, musing on Violet's opportune advice, approaches Tanner; examines\nhim humorously for a moment from toe to top; and finally delivers her\nopinion.\n\nANN. Violet is quite right. You ought to get married.\n\nTANNER. [explosively] Ann: I will not marry you. Do you hear? I won't,\nwon't, won't, won't, WON'T marry you.\n\nANN. [placidly] Well, nobody axd you, sir she said, sir she said, sir\nshe said. So that's settled.\n\nTANNER. Yes, nobody has asked me; but everybody treats the thing as\nsettled. It's in the air. When we meet, the others go away on absurd\npretexts to leave us alone together. Ramsden no longer scowls at me: his\neye beams, as if he were already giving you away to me in church. Tavy\nrefers me to your mother and gives me his blessing. Straker openly\ntreats you as his future employer: it was he who first told me of it.\n\nANN. Was that why you ran away?\n\nTANNER. Yes, only to be stopped by a lovesick brigand and run down like\na truant schoolboy.\n\nANN. Well, if you don't want to be married, you needn't be [she turns\naway from him and sits down, much at her ease].\n\nTANNER. [following her] Does any man want to be hanged? Yet men let\nthemselves be hanged without a struggle for life, though they could at\nleast give the chaplain a black eye. We do the world's will, not our\nown. I have a frightful feeling that I shall let myself be married\nbecause it is the world's will that you should have a husband.\n\nANN. I daresay I shall, someday.\n\nTANNER. But why me--me of all men? Marriage is to me apostasy,\nprofanation of the sanctuary of my soul, violation of my manhood,\nsale of my birthright, shameful surrender, ignominious capitulation,\nacceptance of defeat. I shall decay like a thing that has served its\npurpose and is done with; I shall change from a man with a future to\na man with a past; I shall see in the greasy eyes of all the other\nhusbands their relief at the arrival of a new prisoner to share their\nignominy. The young men will scorn me as one who has sold out: to the\nyoung women I, who have always been an enigma and a possibility,\nshall be merely somebody else's property--and damaged goods at that: a\nsecondhand man at best.\n\nANN. Well, your wife can put on a cap and make herself ugly to keep you\nin countenance, like my grandmother.\n\nTANNER. So that she may make her triumph more insolent by publicly\nthrowing away the bait the moment the trap snaps on the victim!\n\nANN. After all, though, what difference would it make? Beauty is all\nvery well at first sight; but who ever looks at it when it has been\nin the house three days? I thought our pictures very lovely when papa\nbought them; but I haven't looked at them for years. You never bother\nabout my looks: you are too well used to me. I might be the umbrella\nstand.\n\nTANNER. You lie, you vampire: you lie.\n\nANN. Flatterer. Why are you trying to fascinate me, Jack, if you don't\nwant to marry me?\n\nTANNER. The Life Force. I am in the grip of the Life Force.\n\nANN. I don't understand in the least: it sounds like the Life Guards.\n\nTANNER. Why don't you marry Tavy? He is willing. Can you not be\nsatisfied unless your prey struggles?\n\nANN. [turning to him as if to let him into a secret] Tavy will never\nmarry. Haven't you noticed that that sort of man never marries?\n\nTANNER. What! a man who idolizes women! who sees nothing in nature but\nromantic scenery for love duets! Tavy, the chivalrous, the faithful, the\ntenderhearted and true! Tavy never marry! Why, he was born to be swept\nup by the first pair of blue eyes he meets in the street.\n\nANN. Yes, I know. All the same, Jack, men like that always live in\ncomfortable bachelor lodgings with broken hearts, and are adored\nby their landladies, and never get married. Men like you always get\nmarried.\n\nTANNER. [Smiting his brow] How frightfully, horribly true! It has been\nstaring me in the face all my life; and I never saw it before.\n\nANN. Oh, it's the same with women. The poetic temperament's a very nice\ntemperament, very amiable, very harmless and poetic, I daresay; but it's\nan old maid's temperament.\n\nTANNER. Barren. The Life Force passes it by.\n\nANN. If that's what you mean by the Life Force, yes.\n\nTANNER. You don't care for Tavy?\n\nANN. [looking round carefully to make sure that Tavy is not within\nearshot] No.\n\nTANNER. And you do care for me?\n\nANN. [rising quietly and shaking her finger at him] Now Jack! Behave\nyourself.\n\nTANNER. Infamous, abandoned woman! Devil!\n\nANN. Boa-constrictor! Elephant!\n\nTANNER. Hypocrite!\n\nANN. [Softly] I must be, for my future husband's sake.\n\nTANNER. For mine! [Correcting himself savagely] I mean for his.\n\nANN.[ignoring the correction] Yes, for yours. You had better marry what\nyou call a hypocrite, Jack. Women who are not hypocrites go about in\nrational dress and are insulted and get into all sorts of hot water. And\nthen their husbands get dragged in too, and live in continual dread of\nfresh complications. Wouldn't you prefer a wife you could depend on?\n\nTANNER. No, a thousand times no: hot water is the revolutionist's\nelement. You clean men as you clean milkpails, by scalding them.\n\nANN. Cold water has its uses too. It's healthy.\n\nTANNER. [despairingly] Oh, you are witty: at the supreme moment the Life\nForce endows you with every quality. Well, I too can be a hypocrite.\nYour father's will appointed me your guardian, not your suitor. I shall\nbe faithful to my trust.\n\nANN. [in low siren tones] He asked me who would I have as my guardian\nbefore he made that will. I chose you!\n\nTANNER. The will is yours then! The trap was laid from the beginning.\n\nANN. [concentrating all her magic] From the beginning--from our\nchildhood--for both of us--by the Life Force.\n\nTANNER. I will not marry you. I will not marry you.\n\nANN. Oh, you will, you will.\n\nTANNER. I tell you, no, no, no.\n\nANN. I tell you, yes, yes, yes.\n\nTANNER. NO.\n\nANN. [coaxing--imploring--almost exhausted] Yes. Before it is too late\nfor repentance. Yes.\n\nTANNER. [struck by the echo from the past] When did all this happen to\nme before? Are we two dreaming?\n\nANN. [suddenly losing her courage, with an anguish that she does not\nconceal] No. We are awake; and you have said no: that is all.\n\nTANNER. [brutally] Well?\n\nANN. Well, I made a mistake: you do not love me.\n\nTANNER. [seizing her in his arms] It is false: I love you. The Life\nForce enchants me: I have the whole world in my arms when I clasp you.\nBut I am fighting for my freedom, for my honor, for myself, one and\nindivisible.\n\nANN. Your happiness will be worth them all.\n\nTANNER. You would sell freedom and honor and self for happiness?\n\nANN. It will not be all happiness for me. Perhaps death.\n\nTANNER. [groaning] Oh, that clutch holds and hurts. What have you\ngrasped in me? Is there a father's heart as well as a mother's?\n\nANN. Take care, Jack: if anyone comes while we are like this, you will\nhave to marry me.\n\nTANNER. If we two stood now on the edge of a precipice, I would hold you\ntight and jump.\n\nANN. [panting, failing more and more under the strain] Jack: let me go.\nI have dared so frightfully--it is lasting longer than I thought. Let me\ngo: I can't bear it.\n\nTANNER. Nor I. Let it kill us.\n\nANN. Yes: I don't care. I am at the end of my forces. I don't care. I\nthink I am going to faint.\n\nAt this moment Violet and Octavius come from the villa with Mrs\nWhitefield, who is wrapped up for driving. Simultaneously Malone and\nRamsden, followed by Mendoza and Straker, come in through the little\ngate in the paling. Tanner shamefacedly releases Ann, who raises her\nhand giddily to her forehead.\n\nMALONE. Take care. Something's the matter with the lady.\n\nRAMSDEN. What does this mean?\n\nVIOLET. [running between Ann and Tanner] Are you ill?\n\nANN. [reeling, with a supreme effort] I have promised to marry Jack.\n[She swoons. Violet kneels by her and chafes her hand. Tanner runs round\nto her other hand, and tries to lift her bead. Octavius goes to Violet's\nassistance, but does not know what to do. Mrs Whitefield hurries back\ninto the villa. Octavius, Malone and Ramsden run to Ann and crowd round\nher, stooping to assist. Straker coolly comes to Ann's feet, and Mendoza\nto her head, both upright and self-possessed].\n\nSTRAKER. Now then, ladies and gentlemen: she don't want a crowd round\nher: she wants air--all the air she can git. If you please, gents--\n[Malone and Ramsden allow him to drive them gently past Ann and up\nthe lawn towards the garden, where Octavius, who has already become\nconscious of his uselessness, joins them. Straker, following them up,\npauses for a moment to instruct Tanner]. Don't lift er ed, Mr Tanner:\nlet it go flat so's the blood can run back into it.\n\nMENDOZA. He is right, Mr Tanner. Trust to the air of the Sierra. [He\nwithdraws delicately to the garden steps].\n\nTANNER. [rising] I yield to your superior knowledge of physiology,\nHenry. [He withdraws to the corner of the lawn; and Octavius immediately\nhurries down to him].\n\nTAVY. [aside to Tanner, grasping his hand] Jack: be very happy.\n\nTANNER. [aside to Tavy] I never asked her. It is a trap for me. [He goes\nup the lawn towards the garden. Octavius remains petrified].\n\nMENDOZA. [intercepting Mrs Whitefield, who comes from the villa with a\nglass of brandy] What is this, madam [he takes it from her]?\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. A little brandy.\n\nMENDOZA. The worst thing you could give her. Allow me. [He swallows it].\nTrust to the air of the Sierra, madam.\n\nFor a moment the men all forget Ann and stare at Mendoza.\n\nANN. [in Violet's ear, clutching her round the neck] Violet, did Jack\nsay anything when I fainted?\n\nVIOLET. No.\n\nANN. Ah! [with a sigh of intense relief she relapses].\n\nMRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, she's fainted again.\n\nThey are about to rush back to her; but Mendoza stops them with a\nwarning gesture.\n\nANN. [supine] No I haven't. I'm quite happy.\n\nTANNER. [suddenly walking determinedly to her, and snatching her hand\nfrom Violet to feel her pulse] Why, her pulse is positively bounding.\nCome, get up. What nonsense! Up with you. [He gets her up summarily].\n\nANN. Yes: I feel strong enough now. But you very nearly killed me, Jack,\nfor all that.\n\nMALONE. A rough wooer, eh? They're the best sort, Miss Whitefield.\nI congratulate Mr Tanner; and I hope to meet you and him as frequent\nguests at the Abbey.\n\nANN. Thank you. [She goes past Malone to Octavius] Ricky Ticky Tavy:\ncongratulate me. [Aside to him] I want to make you cry for the last\ntime.\n\nTAVY. [steadfastly] No more tears. I am happy in your happiness. And I\nbelieve in you in spite of everything.\n\nRAMSDEN. [coming between Malone and Tanner] You are a happy man, Jack\nTanner. I envy you.\n\nMENDOZA. [advancing between Violet and Tanner] Sir: there are two\ntragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is\nto get it. Mine and yours, sir.\n\nTANNER. Mr Mendoza: I have no heart's desires. Ramsden: it is very easy\nfor you to call me a happy man: you are only a spectator. I am one of\nthe principals; and I know better. Ann: stop tempting Tavy, and come\nback to me.\n\nANN. [complying] You are absurd, Jack. [She takes his proffered arm].\n\nTANNER. [continuing] I solemnly say that I am not a happy man. Ann looks\nhappy; but she is only triumphant, successful, victorious. That is not\nhappiness, but the price for which the strong sell their happiness. What\nwe have both done this afternoon is to renounce tranquillity, above all\nrenounce the romantic possibilities of an unknown future, for the cares\nof a household and a family. I beg that no man may seize the occasion to\nget half drunk and utter imbecile speeches and coarse pleasantries at my\nexpense. We propose to furnish our own house according to our own taste;\nand I hereby give notice that the seven or eight travelling clocks,\nthe four or five dressing cases, the salad bowls, the carvers and\nfish slices, the copy of Tennyson in extra morocco, and all the other\narticles you are preparing to heap upon us, will be instantly sold, and\nthe proceeds devoted to circulating free copies of the Revolutionist's\nHandbook. The wedding will take place three days after our return\nto England, by special license, at the office of the district\nsuperintendent registrar, in the presence of my solicitor and his clerk,\nwho, like his clients, will be in ordinary walking dress.\n\nVIOLET. [with intense conviction] You are a brute, Jack.\n\nANN. [looking at him with fond pride and caressing his arm] Never mind\nher, dear. Go on talking.\n\nTANNER. Talking!\n\nUniversal laughter.","title":"Man and Superman: A Comedy and a Philosophy","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":68765}