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\title{MAN AND SUPERMAN\\
 {\normalsize A COMEDY AND A PHILOSOPHY}}


\author{George Bernard Shaw}

\maketitle
\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent This public-domain (U.S.) text was produced by Eve Sobol,
South Bend, Indiana, USA. The Project Gutenberg edition (designated
{}``mands10'') was subsequently converted to \LaTeX{} using \textbf{GutenMark}
software and re-edited by Ron Burkey. The text of the Appendix, {}``The
Revolutionist's Handbook,'' which was omitted from the Project Gutenberg
edition, has been restored from alternate online sources (www.bartleby.com).
Report problems to info@sandroid.org. Revision B2 differs from B1
in that {}``----'' was everywhere replaced with {}``---''.

\noindent \begin{center}Revision: B2\\
Date: 02/02/2008\end{center}

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\frontmatter

\pagestyle{myheadings} {\footnotesize \tableofcontents{}}

\newpage

\mainmatter


\chapter*{\raggedright EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO ARTHUR BINGHAM WALKLEY}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO \\
 ARTHUR BINGHAM WALKLEY}

\markboth{MAN AND SUPERMAN}{EPISTLE DEDICATORY}

\noindent \noun{My dear Walkley}:

You once asked me why I did not write a Don Juan play. The levity
with which you assumed this frightful responsibility has probably
by this time enabled you to forget it; but the day of reckoning has
arrived:\ here is your play! I say your play, because \textit{qui}
\emph{facit} \textit{per} \textit{alium} \emph{facit} \textit{per}
\textit{se}. Its profits, like its labor, belong to me:\ its morals,
its manners, its philosophy, its influence on the young, are for you
to justify. You were of mature age when you made the suggestion; and
you knew your man. It is hardly fifteen years since, as twin pioneers
of the New Journalism of that time, we two, cradled in the same new
sheets, made an epoch in the criticism of the theatre and the opera
house by making it a pretext for a propaganda of our own views of
life. So you cannot plead ignorance of the character of the force
you set in motion. You meant me to \textit{\'{e}pater} \textit{l\'{e}}
\emph{bourgeois}; and if he protests, I hereby refer him to you as
the accountable party.

I warn you that if you attempt to repudiate your responsibility, I
shall suspect you of finding the play too decorous for your taste.
The fifteen years have made me older and graver. In you I can detect
no such becoming change. Your levities and audacities are like the
loves and comforts prayed for by Desdemona:\ they increase, even
as your days do grow. No mere pioneering journal dares meddle with
them now:\ the stately \emph{Times} itself is alone sufficiently
above suspicion to act as your chaperone; and even the \emph{Times}
must sometimes thank its stars that new plays are not produced every
day, since after each such event its gravity is compromised, its platitude
turned to epigram, its portentousness to wit, its propriety to elegance,
and even its decorum into naughtiness by criticisms which the traditions
of the paper do not allow you to sign at the end, but which you take
care to sign with the most extravagant flourishes between the lines.
I am not sure that this is not a portent of Revolution. In eighteenth
century France the end was at hand when men bought the \emph{Encyclopedia}
and found Diderot there. When I buy the \emph{Times} and find you
there, my prophetic ear catches a rattle of twentieth century tumbrils.

However, that is not my present anxiety. The question is, will you
not be disappointed with a Don Juan play in which not one of that
hero's \textit{mille} \emph{e tre} adventures is brought upon the
stage? To propitiate you, let me explain myself. You will retort that
I never do anything else:\ it is your favorite jibe at me that what
I call drama is nothing but explanation. But you must not expect me
to adopt your inexplicable, fantastic, petulant, fastidious ways:\ you
must take me as I am, a reasonable, patient, consistent, apologetic,
laborious person, with the temperament of a schoolmaster and the pursuits
of a vestryman. No doubt that literary knack of mine which happens
to amuse the British public distracts attention from my character;
but the character is there none the less, solid as bricks. I have
a conscience; and conscience is always anxiously explanatory. You,
on the contrary, feel that a man who discusses his conscience is much
like a woman who discusses her modesty. The only moral force you condescend
to parade is the force of your wit:\ the only demand you make in
public is the demand of your artistic temperament for symmetry, elegance,
style, grace, refinement, and the cleanliness which comes next to
godliness if not before it. But my conscience is the genuine pulpit
article:\ it annoys me to see people comfortable when they ought
to be uncomfortable; and I insist on making them think in order to
bring them to conviction of sin. If you don't like my preaching you
must lump it. I really cannot help it.

In the preface to my \emph{Plays for Puritans} I explained the predicament
of our contemporary English drama, forced to deal almost exclusively
with cases of sexual attraction, and yet forbidden to exhibit the
incidents of that attraction or even to discuss its nature. Your suggestion
that I should write a Don Juan play was virtually a challenge to me
to treat this subject myself dramatically. The challenge was difficult
enough to be worth accepting, because, when you come to think of it,
though we have plenty of dramas with heroes and heroines who are in
love and must accordingly marry or perish at the end of the play,
or about people whose relations with one another have been complicated
by the marriage laws, not to mention the looser sort of plays which
trade on the tradition that illicit love affairs are at once vicious
and delightful, we have no modern English plays in which the natural
attraction of the sexes for one another is made the mainspring of
the action. That is why we insist on beauty in our performers, differing
herein from the countries our friend William Archer holds up as examples
of seriousness to our childish theatres. There the Juliets and Isoldes,
the Romeos and Tristans, might be our mothers and fathers. Not so
the English actress. The heroine she impersonates is not allowed to
discuss the elemental relations of men and women:\ all her romantic
twaddle about novelet-made love, all her purely legal dilemmas as
to whether she was married or {}``betrayed,'' quite miss our hearts
and worry our minds. To console ourselves we must just look at her.
We do so; and her beauty feeds our starving emotions. Sometimes we
grumble ungallantly at the lady because she does not act as well as
she looks. But in a drama which, with all its preoccupation with sex,
is really void of sexual interest, good looks are more desired than
histrionic skill.

Let me press this point on you, since you are too clever to raise
the fool's cry of paradox whenever I take hold of a stick by the right
instead of the wrong end. Why are our occasional attempts to deal
with the sex problem on the stage so repulsive and dreary that even
those who are most determined that sex questions shall be held open
and their discussion kept free, cannot pretend to relish these joyless
attempts at social sanitation? Is it not because at bottom they are
utterly sexless? What is the usual formula for such plays? A woman
has, on some past occasion, been brought into conflict with the law
which regulates the relations of the sexes. A man, by falling in love
with her, or marrying her, is brought into conflict with the social
convention which discountenances the woman. Now the conflicts of individuals
with law and convention can be dramatized like all other human conflicts;
but they are purely judicial; and the fact that we are much more curious
about the suppressed relations between the man and the woman than
about the relations between both and our courts of law and private
juries of matrons, produces that sensation of evasion, of dissatisfaction,
of fundamental irrelevance, of shallowness, of useless disagreeableness,
of total failure to edify and partial failure to interest, which is
as familiar to you in the theatres as it was to me when I, too, frequented
those uncomfortable buildings, and found our popular playwrights in
the mind to (as they thought) emulate Ibsen.

I take it that when you asked me for a Don Juan play you did not want
that sort of thing. Nobody does:\ the successes such plays sometimes
obtain are due to the incidental conventional melodrama with which
the experienced popular author instinctively saves himself from failure.
But what did you want? Owing to your unfortunate habit\mbox{---}you
now, I hope, feel its inconvenience\mbox{---}of not explaining yourself,
I have had to discover this for myself. First, then, I have had to
ask myself, what is a Don Juan? Vulgarly, a libertine. But your dislike
of vulgarity is pushed to the length of a defect (universality of
character is impossible without a share of vulgarity); and even if
you could acquire the taste, you would find yourself overfed from
ordinary sources without troubling me. So I took it that you demanded
a Don Juan in the philosophic sense.

Philosophically, Don Juan is a man who, though gifted enough to be
exceptionally capable of distinguishing between good and evil, follows
his own instincts without regard to the common statute, or canon law;
and therefore, whilst gaining the ardent sympathy of our rebellious
instincts (which are flattered by the brilliancies with which Don
Juan associates them) finds himself in mortal conflict with existing
institutions, and defends himself by fraud and farce as unscrupulously
as a farmer defends his crops by the same means against vermin. The
prototypic Don Juan, invented early in the XVI century by a Spanish
monk, was presented, according to the ideas of that time, as the enemy
of God, the approach of whose vengeance is felt throughout the drama,
growing in menace from minute to minute. No anxiety is caused on Don
Juan's account by any minor antagonist:\ he easily eludes the police,
temporal and spiritual; and when an indignant father seeks private
redress with the sword, Don Juan kills him without an effort. Not
until the slain father returns from heaven as the agent of God, in
the form of his own statue, does he prevail against his slayer and
cast him into hell. The moral is a monkish one:\ repent and reform
now; for to-morrow it may be too late. This is really the only point
on which Don Juan is sceptical; for he is a devout believer in an
ultimate hell, and risks damnation only because, as he is young, it
seems so far off that repentance can be postponed until he has amused
himself to his heart's content.

But the lesson intended by an author is hardly ever the lesson the
world chooses to learn from his book. What attracts and impresses
us in \textit{El} \textit{Burlador} \textit{de} \emph{Sevilla} is
not the immediate urgency of repentance, but the heroism of daring
to be the enemy of God. From Prometheus to my own \emph{Devil's Disciple},
such enemies have always been popular. Don Juan became such a pet
that the world could not bear his damnation. It reconciled him sentimentally
to God in a second version, and clamored for his canonization for
a whole century, thus treating him as English journalism has treated
that comic foe of the gods, Punch. Moliere's Don Juan casts back to
the original in point of impenitence; but in piety he falls off greatly.
True, he also proposes to repent; but in what terms? {}``\emph{Oui,
ma foi!}\ \textit{il} \textit{faut} \emph{s'amender}. \textit{Encore}
\textit{vingt} \textit{o\`{u}} \textit{trente} \textit{ans} \textit{de}
\textit{cette} \textit{vie}-\textit{ci}, \textit{et} \textit{puis}
\emph{nous songerons a nous}.'' After Moliere comes the artist-enchanter,
the master of masters, Mozart, who reveals the hero's spirit in magical
harmonies, elfin tones, and elate darting rhythms as of summer lightning
made audible. Here you have freedom in love and in morality mocking
exquisitely at slavery to them, and interesting you, attracting you,
tempting you, inexplicably forcing you to range the hero with his
enemy the statue on a transcendant plane, leaving the prudish daughter
and her priggish lover on a crockery shelf below to live piously ever
after.

After these completed works Byron's fragment does not count for much
philosophically. Our vagabond libertines are no more interesting from
that point of view than the sailor who has a wife in every port, and
Byron's hero is, after all, only a vagabond libertine. And he is dumb:\ he
does not discuss himself with a Sganarelle-\textit{\emph{Leporello}}
or with the fathers or brothers of his mistresses:\ he does not even,
like Casanova, tell his own story. In fact he is not a true Don Juan
at all; for he is no more an enemy of God than any romantic and adventurous
young sower of wild oats. Had you and I been in his place at his age,
who knows whether we might not have done as he did, unless indeed
your fastidiousness had saved you from the empress Catherine. Byron
was as little of a philosopher as Peter the Great:\ both were instances
of that rare and useful, but unedifying variation, an energetic genius
born without the prejudices or superstitions of his contemporaries.
The resultant unscrupulous freedom of thought made Byron a greater
poet than Wordsworth just as it made Peter a greater king than George
III; but as it was, after all, only a negative qualification, it did
not prevent Peter from being an appalling blackguard and an arrant
poltroon, nor did it enable Byron to become a religious force like
Shelley. Let us, then, leave Byron's Don Juan out of account. Mozart's
is the last of the true Don Juans; for by the time he was of age,
his cousin Faust had, in the hands of Goethe, taken his place and
carried both his warfare and his reconciliation with the gods far
beyond mere lovemaking into politics, high art, schemes for reclaiming
new continents from the ocean, and recognition of an eternal womanly
principle in the universe. Goethe's Faust and Mozart's Don Juan were
the last words of the XVIII century on the subject; and by the time
the polite critics of the XIX century, ignoring William Blake as superficially
as the XVIII had ignored Hogarth or the XVII Bunyan, had got past
the Dickens-Macaulay Dumas-Guizot stage and the Stendhal-Meredith-Turgenieff
stage, and were confronted with philosophic fiction by such pens as
Ibsen's and Tolstoy's, Don Juan had changed his sex and become Dona
Juana, breaking out of the \emph{Doll's House} and asserting herself
as an individual instead of a mere item in a moral pageant.

Now it is all very well for you at the beginning of the XX century
to ask me for a Don Juan play; but you will see from the foregoing
survey that Don Juan is a full century out of date for you and for
me; and if there are millions of less literate people who are still
in the eighteenth century, have they not Moliere and Mozart, upon
whose art no human hand can improve? You would laugh at me if at this
time of day I dealt in duels and ghosts and {}``womanly'' women.
As to mere libertinism, you would be the first to remind me that the
\textit{Festin} \textit{de} \textit{Pierre} of Moliere is not a play
for amorists, and that one bar of the voluptuous sentimentality of
Gounod or Bizet would appear as a licentious stain on the score of
\emph{Don Giovanni}. Even the more abstract parts of the Don Juan
play are dilapidated past use:\ for instance, Don Juan's supernatural
antagonist hurled those who refuse to repent into lakes of burning
brimstone, there to be tormented by devils with horns and tails. Of
that antagonist, and of that conception of repentance, how much is
left that could be used in a play by me dedicated to you? On the other
hand, those forces of middle class public opinion which hardly existed
for a Spanish nobleman in the days of the first Don Juan, are now
triumphant everywhere. Civilized society is one huge bourgeoisie:\ no
nobleman dares now shock his greengrocer. The women, {}``\emph{marchesane},
\emph{principesse}, \emph{cameriere}, \emph{cittadine}'' and all,
are become equally dangerous:\ the sex is aggressive, powerful:\ when
women are wronged they do not group themselves pathetically to sing
{}``\textit{Protegga} \textit{il} \textit{giusto} \textit{cielo}'':\ they
grasp formidable legal and social weapons, and retaliate. Political
parties are wrecked and public careers undone by a single indiscretion.
A man had better have all the statues in London to supper with him,
ugly as they are, than be brought to the bar of the Nonconformist
Conscience by Donna Elvira. Excommunication has become almost as serious
a business as it was in the X century.

As a result, Man is no longer, like Don Juan, victor in the duel of
sex. Whether he has ever really been may be doubted:\ at all events
the enormous superiority of Woman's natural position in this matter
is telling with greater and greater force. As to pulling the Nonconformist
Conscience by the beard as Don Juan plucked the beard of the Commandant's
statue in the convent of San Francisco, that is out of the question
nowadays:\ prudence and good manners alike forbid it to a hero with
any mind. Besides, it is Don Juan's own beard that is in danger of
plucking. Far from relapsing into hypocrisy, as Sganarelle feared,
he has unexpectedly discovered a moral in his immorality. The growing
recognition of his new point of view is heaping responsibility on
him. His former jests he has had to take as seriously as I have had
to take some of the jests of Mr.\ W.\ S.\ Gilbert. His scepticism,
once his least tolerated quality, has now triumphed so completely
that he can no longer assert himself by witty negations, and must,
to save himself from cipherdom, find an affirmative position. His
thousand and three affairs of gallantry, after becoming, at most,
two immature intrigues leading to sordid and prolonged complications
and humiliations, have been discarded altogether as unworthy of his
philosophic dignity and compromising to his newly acknowledged position
as the founder of a school. Instead of pretending to read Ovid he
does actually read Schopenhaur and Nietzsche, studies Westermarck,
and is concerned for the future of the race instead of for the freedom
of his own instincts. Thus his profligacy and his dare-devil airs
have gone the way of his sword and \textit{mandoline} into the rag
shop of anachronisms and superstitions. In fact, he is now more Hamlet
than Don Juan; for though the lines put into the actor's mouth to
indicate to the pit that Hamlet is a philosopher are for the most
part mere harmonious platitude which, with a little debasement of
the word-music, would be properer to Pecksniff, yet if you separate
the real hero, inarticulate and unintelligible to himself except in
flashes of inspiration, from the performer who has to talk at any
cost through five acts; and if you also do what you must always do
in Shakespear's tragedies:\ that is, dissect out the absurd sensational
incidents and physical \textit{\emph{violences}} of the borrowed story
from the genuine Shakespearian tissue, you will get a true Promethean
foe of the gods, whose instinctive attitude towards women much resembles
that to which Don Juan is now driven. From this point of view Hamlet
was a developed Don Juan whom Shakespear palmed off as a reputable
man just as he palmed poor Macbeth off as a murderer. To-day the palming
off is no longer necessary (at least on your plane and mine) because
Don Juanism is no longer misunderstood as mere Casanovism. Don Juan
himself is almost ascetic in his desire to avoid that misunderstanding;
and so my attempt to bring him up to date by launching him as a modern
Englishman into a modern English environment has produced a figure
superficially quite unlike the hero of Mozart.

And yet I have not the heart to disappoint you wholly of another glimpse
of the Mozartian \textit{dissoluto} \textit{punito} and his antagonist
the statue. I feel sure you would like to know more of that statue\mbox{---}
to draw him out when he is off duty, so to speak. To gratify you,
I have resorted to the trick of the strolling theatrical manager who
advertizes the pantomime of Sinbad the Sailor with a stock of second-hand
picture posters designed for Ali Baba. He simply thrusts a few oil
jars into the valley of diamonds, and so fulfils the promise held
out by the hoardings to the public eye. I have adapted this simple
device to our occasion by thrusting into my perfectly modern three-act
play a totally extraneous act in which my hero, enchanted by the air
of the Sierra, has a dream in which his Mozartian ancestor appears
and philosophizes at great length in a Shavio-Socratic dialogue with
the lady, the statue, and the devil.

But this pleasantry is not the essence of the play. Over this essence
I have no control. You propound a certain social substance, sexual
attraction to wit, for dramatic distillation; and I distil it for
you. I do not adulterate the product with aphrodisiacs nor dilute
it with romance and water; for I am merely executing your commission,
not producing a popular play for the market. You must therefore (unless,
like most wise men, you read the play first and the preface afterwards)
prepare yourself to face a trumpery story of modern London life, a
life in which, as you know, the ordinary man's main business is to
get means to keep up the position and habits of a gentleman, and the
ordinary woman's business is to get married. In 9,999 cases out of
10,000, you can count on their doing nothing, whether noble or base,
that conflicts with these ends; and that assurance is what you rely
on as their religion, their morality, their principles, their patriotism,
their reputation, their honor and so forth.

On the whole, this is a sensible and satisfactory foundation for society.
Money means nourishment and marriage means children; and that men
should put nourishment first and women children first is, broadly
speaking, the law of Nature and not the dictate of personal ambition.
The secret of the prosaic man's success, such as it is, is the simplicity
with which he pursues these ends:\ the secret of the artistic man's
failure, such as that is, is the versatility with which he strays
in all directions after secondary ideals. The artist is either a poet
or a scallawag:\ as poet, he cannot see, as the prosaic man does,
that chivalry is at bottom only romantic suicide:\ as scallawag,
he cannot see that it does not pay to spunge and beg and lie and brag
and neglect his person. Therefore do not misunderstand my plain statement
of the fundamental constitution of London society as an Irishman's
reproach to your nation. From the day I first set foot on this foreign
soil I knew the value of the prosaic qualities of which Irishmen teach
Englishmen to be ashamed as well as I knew the vanity of the poetic
qualities of which Englishmen teach Irishmen to be proud. For the
Irishman instinctively disparages the quality which makes the Englishman
dangerous to him; and the Englishman instinctively flatters the fault
that makes the Irishman harmless and amusing to him. What is wrong
with the prosaic Englishman is what is wrong with the prosaic men
of all countries:\ stupidity. The vitality which places nourishment
and children first, heaven and hell a somewhat remote second, and
the health of society as an organic whole nowhere, may muddle successfully
through the comparatively tribal stages of gregariousness; but in
nineteenth century nations and twentieth century empires the determination
of every man to be rich at all costs, and of every woman to be married
at all costs, must, without a highly scientific social organization,
produce a ruinous development of poverty, celibacy, prostitution,
infant mortality, adult degeneracy, and everything that wise men most
dread. In short, there is no future for men, however brimming with
crude vitality, who are neither intelligent nor politically educated
enough to be Socialists. So do not misunderstand me in the other direction
either:\ if I appreciate the vital qualities of the Englishman as
I appreciate the vital qualities of the bee, I do not guarantee the
Englishman against being, like the bee (or the Canaanite) smoked out
and unloaded of his honey by beings inferior to himself in simple
acquisitiveness, combativeness, and fecundity, but superior to him
in imagination and cunning.

The Don Juan play, however, is to deal with sexual attraction, and
not with nutrition, and to deal with it in a society in which the
serious business of sex is left by men to women, as the serious business
of nutrition is left by women to men. That the men, to protect themselves
against a too aggressive prosecution of the women's business, have
set up a feeble romantic convention that the initiative in sex business
must always come from the man, is true; but the pretence is so shallow
that even in the theatre, that last sanctuary of unreality, it imposes
only on the inexperienced. In Shakespear's plays the woman always
takes the initiative. In his problem plays and his popular plays alike
the love interest is the interest of seeing the woman hunt the man
down. She may do it by blandishment, like Rosalind, or by stratagem,
like Mariana; but in every case the relation between the woman and
the man is the same:\ she is the pursuer and contriver, he the pursued
and disposed of. When she is baffled, like Ophelia, she goes mad and
commits suicide; and the man goes straight from her funeral to a fencing
match. No doubt Nature, with very young creatures, may save the woman
the trouble of scheming:\ Prospero knows that he has only to throw
Ferdinand and Miranda together and they will mate like a pair of doves;
and there is no need for \textit{\emph{Perdita}} to capture Florizel
as the lady doctor in \emph{All's Well That Ends Well} (an early Ibsenite
heroine) captures Bertram. But the mature cases all illustrate the
Shakespearian law. The one apparent exception, Petruchio, is not a
real one:\ he is most carefully characterized as a purely commercial
matrimonial adventurer. Once he is assured that Katharine has money,
he undertakes to marry her before he has seen her. In real life we
find not only Petruchios, but Mantalinis and Dobbins who pursue women
with appeals to their pity or jealousy or vanity, or cling to them
in a romantically infatuated way. Such effeminates do not count in
the world scheme:\ even Bunsby dropping like a fascinated bird into
the jaws of Mrs.\ MacStinger is by comparison a true tragic object
of pity and terror. I find in my own plays that Woman, projecting
herself dramatically by my hands (a process over which I assure you
I have no more real control than I have over my wife), behaves just
as Woman did in the plays of Shakespear.

And so your Don Juan has come to birth as a stage projection of the
tragi-comic love chase of the man by the woman; and my Don Juan is
the quarry instead of the huntsman. Yet he is a true Don Juan, with
a sense of reality that disables convention, defying to the last the
fate which finally overtakes him. The woman's need of him to enable
her to carry on Nature's most urgent work, does not prevail against
him until his resistance gathers her energy to a climax at which she
dares to throw away her customary exploitations of the conventional
affectionate and dutiful poses, and claim him by natural right for
a purpose that far transcends their mortal personal purposes.

Among the friends to whom I have read this play in manuscript are
some of our own sex who are shocked at the {}``unscrupulousness,''
meaning the total disregard of masculine fastidiousness, with which
the woman pursues her purpose. It does not occur to them that if women
were as fastidious as men, morally or physically, there would be an
end of the race. Is there anything meaner then to throw necessary
work upon other people and then disparage it as unworthy and indelicate.
We laugh at the haughty American nation because it makes the \textit{\emph{negro}}
clean its boots and then proves the moral and physical inferiority
of the \textit{\emph{negro}} by the fact that he is a shoeblack; but
we ourselves throw the whole drudgery of creation on one sex, and
then imply that no female of any womanliness or delicacy would initiate
any effort in that direction. There are no limits to male hypocrisy
in this matter. No doubt there are moments when man's sexual immunities
are made acutely humiliating to him. When the terrible moment of birth
arrives, its supreme importance and its superhuman effort and peril,
in which the father has no part, dwarf him into the meanest insignificance:\ he
slinks out of the way of the humblest petticoat, happy if he be poor
enough to be pushed out of the house to outface his ignominy by drunken
rejoicings. But when the crisis is over he takes his revenge, swaggering
as the breadwinner, and speaking of Woman's {}``sphere'' with condescension,
even with chivalry, as if the kitchen and the nursery were less important
than the office in the city. When his swagger is exhausted he drivels
into erotic poetry or sentimental uxoriousness; and the Tennysonian
King Arthur posing as Guinevere becomes Don Quixote grovelling before
Dulcinea. You must admit that here Nature beats Comedy out of the
field:\ the wildest hominist or feminist farce is insipid after the
most commonplace {}``slice of life.'' The pretence that women do
not take the initiative is part of the farce. Why, the whole world
is strewn with snares, traps, gins and pitfalls for the capture of
men by women. Give women the vote, and in five years there will be
a crushing tax on bachelors. Men, on the other hand, attach penalties
to marriage, depriving women of property, of the franchise, of the
free use of their limbs, of that ancient symbol of immortality, the
right to make oneself at home in the house of God by taking off the
hat, of everything that he can force Woman to dispense with without
compelling himself to dispense with her. All in vain. Woman must marry
because the race must perish without her travail:\ if the risk of
death and the certainty of pain, danger and unutterable discomforts
cannot deter her, slavery and swaddled ankles will not. And yet we
assume that the force that carries women through all these perils
and hardships, stops abashed before the primnesses of our behavior
for young ladies. It is assumed that the woman must wait, motionless,
until she is wooed. Nay, she often does wait motionless. That is how
the spider waits for the fly. But the spider spins her web. And if
the fly, like my hero, shows a strength that promises to extricate
him, how swiftly does she abandon her pretence of passiveness, and
openly fling coil after coil about him until he is secured for ever!

If the really impressive books and other art-works of the world were
produced by ordinary men, they would express more fear of women's
pursuit than love of their illusory beauty. But ordinary men cannot
produce really impressive art-works. Those who can are men of genius:\ that
is, men selected by Nature to carry on the work of building up an
intellectual consciousness of her own instinctive purpose. Accordingly,
we observe in the man of genius all the unscrupulousness and all the
{}``self-sacrifice'' (the two things are the same) of Woman. He
will risk the stake and the cross; starve, when necessary, in a garret
all his life; study women and live on their work and care as Darwin
studied worms and lived upon sheep; work his nerves into rags without
payment, a sublime altruist in his disregard of himself, an atrocious
egotist in his disregard of others. Here Woman meets a purpose as
impersonal, as irresistible as her own; and the clash is sometimes
tragic. When it is complicated by the genius being a woman, then the
game is one for a king of critics:\ your George Sand becomes a mother
to gain experience for the novelist and to develop her, and gobbles
up men of genius, \textit{\emph{Chopins}}, Mussets and the like, as
mere \emph{hors d'oeuvres}.

I state the extreme case, of course; but what is true of the great
man who incarnates the philosophic consciousness of Life and the woman
who incarnates its fecundity, is true in some degree of all geniuses
and all women. Hence it is that the world's books get written, its
pictures painted, its statues modelled, its symphonies composed, by
people who are free of the otherwise universal dominion of the tyranny
of sex. Which leads us to the conclusion, astonishing to the vulgar,
that art, instead of being before all things the expression of the
normal sexual situation, is really the only department in which sex
is a superseded and secondary power, with its consciousness so confused
and its purpose so perverted, that its ideas are mere fantasy to common
men. Whether the artist becomes poet or philosopher, moralist or founder
of a religion, his sexual doctrine is nothing but a barren special
pleading for pleasure, excitement, and knowledge when he is young,
and for contemplative tranquillity when he is old and satiated. Romance
and Asceticism, Amorism and Puritanism are equally unreal in the great
Philistine world. The world shown us in books, whether the books be
confessed epics or professed gospels, or in codes, or in political
orations, or in philosophic systems, is not the main world at all:\ it
is only the self-consciousness of certain abnormal people who have
the specific artistic talent and temperament. A serious matter this
for you and me, because the man whose consciousness does not correspond
to that of the majority is a madman; and the old habit of worshipping
madmen is giving way to the new habit of locking them up. And since
what we call education and culture is for the most part nothing but
the substitution of reading for experience, of literature for life,
of the obsolete fictitious for the contemporary real, education, as
you no doubt observed at Oxford, destroys, by supplantation, every
mind that is not strong enough to see through the imposture and to
use the great Masters of Arts as what they really are and no more:\ that
is, patentees of highly questionable methods of thinking, and manufacturers
of highly questionable, and for the majority but half valid representations
of life. The schoolboy who uses his Homer to throw at his fellow's
head makes perhaps the safest and most rational use of him; and I
observe with reassurance that you occasionally do the same, in your
prime, with your Aristotle.

Fortunately for us, whose minds have been so overwhelmingly sophisticated
by literature, what produces all these treatises and poems and scriptures
of one sort or another is the struggle of Life to become divinely
conscious of itself instead of blindly stumbling hither and thither
in the line of least resistance. Hence there is a driving towards
truth in all books on matters where the writer, though exceptionally
gifted is normally constituted, and has no private axe to grind. Copernicus
had no motive for misleading his fellowmen as to the place of the
sun in the solar system:\ he looked for it as honestly as a shepherd
seeks his path in a mist. But Copernicus would not have written love
stories scientifically. When it comes to sex relations, the man of
genius does not share the common man's danger of capture, nor the
woman of genius the common woman's overwhelming specialization. And
that is why our scriptures and other art works, when they deal with
love, turn from honest attempts at science in physics to romantic
nonsense, erotic ecstasy, or the stern asceticism of satiety ({}``the
road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom'' said William Blake;
for {}``you never know what is enough unless you know what is more
than enough'').

There is a political aspect of this sex question which is too big
for my comedy, and too momentous to be passed over without culpable
frivolity. It is impossible to demonstrate that the initiative in
sex transactions remains with Woman, and has been confirmed to her,
so far, more and more by the suppression of rapine and discouragement
of importunity, without being driven to very serious reflections on
the fact that this initiative is politically the most important of
all the initiatives, because our political experiment of democracy,
the last refuge of cheap misgovernment, will ruin us if our citizens
are ill bred.

When we two were born, this country was still dominated by a selected
class bred by political marriages. The commercial class had not then
completed the first twenty-five years of its new share of political
power; and it was itself selected by money qualification, and bred,
if not by political marriage, at least by a pretty rigorous class
marriage. Aristocracy and plutocracy still furnish the figureheads
of politics; but they are now dependent on the votes of the promiscuously
bred masses. And this, if you please, at the very moment when the
political problem, having suddenly ceased to mean a very limited and
occasional interference, mostly by way of jobbing public appointments,
in the mismanagement of a tight but parochial little island, with
occasional meaningless prosecution of dynastic wars, has become the
industrial reorganization of Britain, the construction of a practically
international Commonwealth, and the partition of the whole of Africa
and perhaps the whole of Asia by the civilized Powers. Can you believe
that the people whose conceptions of society and conduct, whose power
of attention and scope of interest, are measured by the British theatre
as you know it to-day, can either handle this colossal task themselves,
or understand and support the sort of mind and character that is (at
least comparatively) capable of handling it? For remember:\ what
our voters are in the pit and gallery they are also in the polling
booth. We are all now under what Burke called {}``the hoofs of the
swinish multitude.'' Burke's language gave great offence because
the implied exceptions to its universal application made it a class
insult; and it certainly was not for the pot to call the kettle black.
The aristocracy he defended, in spite of the political marriages by
which it tried to secure breeding for itself, had its mind undertrained
by silly schoolmasters and governesses, its character corrupted by
gratuitous luxury, its self-respect adulterated to complete spuriousness
by flattery and flunkeyism. It is no better to-day and never will
be any better:\ our very peasants have something morally hardier
in them that culminates occasionally in a Bunyan, a Burns, or a Carlyle.
But observe, this aristocracy, which was overpowered from 1832 to
1885 by the middle class, has come back to power by the votes of {}``the
swinish multitude.'' Tom Paine has triumphed over Edmund Burke; and
the swine are now courted electors. How many of their own class have
these electors sent to parliament? Hardly a dozen out of 670, and
these only under the persuasion of conspicuous personal qualifications
and popular eloquence. The multitude thus pronounces judgment on its
own units:\ it admits itself unfit to govern, and will vote only
for a man morphologically and generically transfigured by palatial
residence and equipage, by transcendent tailoring, by the glamor of
aristocratic kinship. Well, we two know these transfigured persons,
these college passmen, these well groomed monocular Algys and Bobbies,
these cricketers to whom age brings golf instead of wisdom, these
plutocratic products of {}``the nail and sarspan business as he got
his money by.'' Do you know whether to laugh or cry at the notion
that they, poor devils!\ will drive a team of continents as they
drive a four-in-hand; turn a jostling anarchy of casual trade and
speculation into an ordered productivity; and federate our colonies
into a world-Power of the first magnitude? Give these people the most
perfect political constitution and the soundest political program
that benevolent omniscience can devise for them, and they will interpret
it into mere fashionable folly or canting charity as infallibly as
a savage converts the philosophical theology of a Scotch missionary
into crude African idolatry.

I do not know whether you have any illusions left on the subject of
education, progress, and so forth. I have none. Any pamphleteer can
show the way to better things; but when there is no will there is
no way. My nurse was fond of remarking that you cannot make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear, and the more I see of the efforts of our
churches and universities and literary sages to raise the mass above
its own level, the more convinced I am that my nurse was right. Progress
can do nothing but make the most of us all as we are, and that most
would clearly not be enough even if those who are already raised out
of the lowest abysses would allow the others a chance. The bubble
of Heredity has been pricked:\ the certainty that acquirements are
negligible as elements in practical heredity has demolished the hopes
of the educationists as well as the terrors of the degeneracy mongers;
and we know now that there is no hereditary {}``governing class''
any more than a hereditary hooliganism. We must either breed political
capacity or be ruined by Democracy, which was forced on us by the
failure of the older alternatives. Yet if Despotism failed only for
want of a capable benevolent despot, what chance has Democracy, which
requires a whole population of capable voters:\ that is, of political
critics who, if they cannot govern in person for lack of spare energy
or specific talent for administration, can at least recognize and
appreciate capacity and benevolence in others, and so govern through
capably benevolent representatives? Where are such voters to be found
to-day? Nowhere. Promiscuous breeding has produced a weakness of character
that is too timid to face the full stringency of a thoroughly competitive
struggle for existence and too lazy and petty to organize the commonwealth
co-operatively. Being cowards, we defeat natural selection under cover
of philanthropy:\ being sluggards, we neglect artificial selection
under cover of delicacy and morality.

Yet we must get an electorate of capable critics or collapse as Rome
and Egypt collapsed. At this moment the Roman decadent phase of \emph{panem
et} \textit{circenses} is being inaugurated under our eyes. Our newspapers
and melodramas are blustering about our imperial destiny; but our
eyes and hearts turn eagerly to the American millionaire. As his hand
goes down to his pocket, our fingers go up to the brims of our hats
by instinct. Our ideal prosperity is not the prosperity of the industrial
north, but the prosperity of the Isle of Wight, of Folkestone and
Ramsgate, of Nice and Monte Carlo. That is the only prosperity you
see on the stage, where the workers are all footmen, parlourmaids,
comic lodging-letters and fashionable professional men, whilst the
heroes and heroines are miraculously provided with unlimited dividends,
and eat gratuitously, like the knights in Don Quixote's books of chivalry.

The city papers prate of the competition of Bombay with Manchester
and the like. The real competition is the competition of Regent Street
with the Rue de Rivoli, of Brighton and the south coast with the Riviera,
for the spending money of the American Trusts. What is all this growing
love of pageantry, this effusive loyalty, this officious rising and
uncovering at a wave from a flag or a blast from a brass band? Imperialism:\ 
Not a bit of it. Obsequiousness, servility, cupidity roused by the
prevailing smell of money. When Mr.\ Carnegie rattled his millions
in his pockets all England became one rapacious cringe. Only, when
Rhodes (who had probably been reading my \emph{Socialism for Millionaires})
left word that no idler was to inherit his estate, the bent backs
straightened mistrustfully for a moment. Could it be that the Diamond
King was no gentleman after all? However, it was easy to ignore a
rich man's solecism. The ungentlemanly clause was not mentioned again;
and the backs soon bowed themselves back into their natural shape.

But I hear you asking me in alarm whether I have actually put all
this tub thumping into a Don Juan comedy. I have not. I have only
made my Don Juan a political pamphleteer, and given you his pamphlet
in full by way of appendix. You will find it at the end of the book.
I am sorry to say that it is a common practice with romancers to announce
their hero as a man of extraordinary genius, and to leave his works
entirely to the reader's imagination; so that at the end of the book
you whisper to yourself ruefully that but for the author's solemn
preliminary assurance you should hardly have given the gentleman credit
for ordinary good sense. You cannot accuse me of this pitiable barrenness,
this feeble evasion. I not only tell you that my hero wrote a revolutionists'
handbook:\ I give you the handbook at full length for your edification
if you care to read it. And in that handbook you will find the politics
of the sex question as I conceive Don Juan's descendant to understand
them. Not that I disclaim the fullest responsibility for his opinions
and for those of all my characters, pleasant and unpleasant. They
are all right from their several points of view; and their points
of view are, for the dramatic moment, mine also. This may puzzle the
people who believe that there is such a thing as an absolutely right
point of view, usually their own. It may seem to them that nobody
who doubts this can be in a state of grace. However that may be, it
is certainly true that nobody who agrees with them can possibly be
a dramatist, or indeed anything else that turns upon a knowledge of
mankind. Hence it has been pointed out that Shakespear had no conscience.
Neither have I, in that sense.

You may, however, remind me that this digression of mine into politics
was preceded by a very convincing demonstration that the artist never
catches the point of view of the common man on the question of sex,
because he is not in the same predicament. I first prove that anything
I write on the relation of the sexes is sure to be misleading; and
then I proceed to write a Don Juan play. Well, if you insist on asking
me why I behave in this absurd way, I can only reply that you asked
me to, and that in any case my treatment of the subject may be valid
for the artist, amusing to the amateur, and at least intelligible
and therefore possibly suggestive to the Philistine. Every man who
records his illusions is providing data for the genuinely scientific
psychology which the world still waits for. I plank down my view of
the existing relations of men to women in the most highly civilized
society for what it is worth. It is a view like any other view and
no more, neither true nor false, but, I hope, a way of looking at
the subject which throws into the familiar order of cause and effect
a sufficient body of fact and experience to be interesting to you,
if not to the play-going public of London. I have certainly shown
little consideration for that public in this enterprise; but I know
that it has the friendliest disposition towards you and me as far
as it has any consciousness of our existence, and quite understands
that what I write for you must pass at a considerable height over
its simple romantic head. It will take my books as read and my genius
for granted, trusting me to put forth work of such quality as shall
bear out its verdict. So we may disport ourselves on our own plane
to the top of our bent; and if any gentleman points out that neither
this epistle dedicatory nor the dream of Don Juan in the third act
of the ensuing comedy is suitable for immediate production at a popular
theatre we need not contradict him. Napoleon provided Talma with a
pit of kings, with what effect on Talma's acting is not recorded.
As for me, what I have always wanted is a pit of philosophers; and
this is a play for such a pit.

I should make formal acknowledgment to the authors whom I have pillaged
in the following pages if I could recollect them all. The theft of
the brigand-poetaster from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is deliberate; and
the metamorphosis of \textit{\emph{Leporello}} into Enry Straker,
motor engineer and New Man, is an intentional dramatic sketch for
the contemporary embryo of Mr.\ H.\ G.\ Wells's anticipation of
the efficient engineering class which will, he hopes, finally sweep
the jabberers out of the way of civilization. Mr.\ Barrio has also,
whilst I am correcting my proofs, delighted London with a servant
who knows more than his masters. The conception of Mendoza Limited
I trace back to a certain West Indian colonial secretary, who, at
a period when he and I and Mr.\ Sidney Webb were sowing our political
wild oats as a sort of Fabian Three Musketeers, without any prevision
of the surprising respectability of the crop that followed, recommended
Webb, the encyclopedic and inexhaustible, to form himself into a company
for the benefit of the shareholders. Octavius I take over unaltered
from Mozart; and I hereby authorize any actor who impersonates him,
to sing {}``\emph{Dalla} \textit{sua} \emph{pace''} (if he can)
at any convenient moment during the representation. Ann was suggested
to me by the fifteenth century Dutch morality called \emph{Everyman},
which Mr.\ William Poel has lately resuscitated so triumphantly.
I trust he will work that vein further, and recognize that Elizabethan
Renascence fustian is no more bearable after medieval poesy than Scribe
after Ibsen. As I sat watching \emph{Everyman} at the Charterhouse,
I said to myself Why not Everywoman? Ann was the result:\ every woman
is not Ann; but Ann is Everywoman.

That the author of \emph{Everyman} was no mere artist, but an artist-philosopher,
and that the artist-philosophers are the only sort of artists I take
quite seriously, will be no news to you. Even Plato and Boswell, as
the dramatists who invented Socrates and Dr Johnson, impress me more
deeply than the romantic playwrights. Ever since, as a boy, I first
breathed the air of the transcendental regions at a performance of
Mozart's \textit{Zauberfl\"{o}te}, I have been proof against the
garish splendors and alcoholic excitements of the ordinary stage combinations
of Tappertitian romance with the police intelligence. Bunyan, Blake,
Hogarth and Turner (these four apart and above all the English Classics),
Goethe, Shelley, Schopenhaur, Wagner, Ibsen, Morris, Tolstoy, and
Nietzsche are among the writers whose peculiar sense of the world
I recognize as more or less akin to my own. Mark the word peculiar.
I read Dickens and Shakespear without shame or stint; but their pregnant
observations and demonstrations of life are not co-ordinated into
any philosophy or religion:\ on the contrary, Dickens's sentimental
assumptions are violently contradicted by his observations; and Shakespear's
pessimism is only his wounded humanity. Both have the specific genius
of the fictionist and the common sympathies of human feeling and thought
in pre-eminent degree. They are often saner and shrewder than the
philosophers just as Sancho-Panza was often saner and shrewder than
Don Quixote. They clear away vast masses of oppressive gravity by
their sense of the ridiculous, which is at bottom a combination of
sound moral judgment with lighthearted good humor. But they are concerned
with the diversities of the world instead of with its unities:\ they
are so irreligious that they exploit popular religion for professional
purposes without delicacy or scruple (for example, Sydney Carton and
the ghost in Hamlet!):\ they are anarchical, and cannot balance their
exposures of Angelo and Dogberry, Sir Leicester Dedlock and Mr.\ Tite
Barnacle, with any portrait of a prophet or a worthy leader:\ they
have no constructive ideas:\ they regard those who have them as dangerous
fanatics:\ in all their fictions there is no leading thought or inspiration
for which any man could conceivably risk the spoiling of his hat in
a shower, much less his life. Both are alike forced to borrow motives
for the more strenuous actions of their personages from the common
stockpot of melodramatic plots; so that Hamlet has to be stimulated
by the prejudices of a policeman and Macbeth by the cupidities of
a bushranger. Dickens, without the excuse of having to manufacture
motives for Hamlets and Macbeths, superfluously punt his crew down
the stream of his monthly parts by mechanical devices which I leave
you to describe, my own memory being quite baffled by the simplest
question as to Monks in \emph{Oliver Twist}, or the long lost parentage
of Smike, or the relations between the Dorrit and Clennam families
so inopportunely discovered by Monsieur Rigaud Blandois. The truth
is, the world was to Shakespear a great {}``stage of fools'' on
which he was utterly bewildered. He could see no sort of sense in
living at all; and Dickens saved himself from the despair of the dream
in \emph{The Chimes} by taking the world for granted and busying himself
with its details. Neither of them could do anything with a serious
positive character:\ they could place a human figure before you with
perfect verisimilitude; but when the moment came for making it live
and move, they found, unless it made them laugh, that they had a puppet
on their hands, and had to invent some artificial external stimulus
to make it work. This is what is the matter with Hamlet all through:\ he
has no will except in his bursts of temper. Foolish Bardolaters make
a virtue of this after their fashion:\ they declare that the play
is the tragedy of irresolution; but all Shakespear's projections of
the deepest humanity he knew have the same defect:\ their characters
and manners are lifelike; but their actions are forced on them from
without, and the external force is grotesquely inappropriate except
when it is quite conventional, as in the case of \emph{Henry V}. Falstaff
is more vivid than any of these serious reflective characters, because
he is self-acting:\ his motives are his own appetites and instincts
and humors. Richard III, too, is delightful as the whimsical comedian
who stops a funeral to make love to the corpse's widow; but when,
in the next act, he is replaced by a stage villain who smothers babies
and offs with people's heads, we are revolted at the imposture and
repudiate the changeling. Faulconbridge, Coriolanus, Leontes are admirable
descriptions of instinctive temperaments:\ indeed the play of \emph{Coriolanus}
is the greatest of Shakespear's comedies; but description is not philosophy;
and comedy neither compromises the author nor reveals him. He must
be judged by those characters into which he puts what he knows of
himself, his Hamlets and Macbeths and \textit{\emph{Lears}} and Prosperos.
If these characters are agonizing in a void about factitious melodramatic
murders and revenges and the like, whilst the comic characters walk
with their feet on solid ground, vivid and amusing, you know that
the author has much to show and nothing to teach. The comparison between
Falstaff and Prospero is like the comparison between Micawber and
David Copperfield. At the end of the book you know Micawber, whereas
you only know what has happened to David, and are not interested enough
in him to wonder what his politics or religion might be if anything
so stupendous as a religious or political idea, or a general idea
of any sort, were to occur to him. He is tolerable as a child; but
he never becomes a man, and might be left out of his own biography
altogether but for his usefulness as a stage confidant, a Horatio
or {}``Charles his friend'' what they call on the stage a feeder.

Now you cannot say this of the works of the artist-philosophers. You
cannot say it, for instance, of \emph{The Pilgrim's Progress}. Put
your Shakespearian hero and coward, Henry V and Pistol or Parolles,
beside Mr.\ Valiant and Mr.\ Fearing, and you have a sudden revelation
of the abyss that lies between the fashionable author who could see
nothing in the world but personal aims and the tragedy of their disappointment
or the comedy of their incongruity, and the field preacher who achieved
virtue and courage by identifying himself with the purpose of the
world as he understood it. The contrast is enormous:\ Bunyan's coward
stirs your blood more than Shakespear's hero, who actually leaves
you cold and secretly hostile. You suddenly see that Shakespear, with
all his flashes and \textit{\emph{divinations}}, never understood
virtue and courage, never conceived how any man who was not a fool
could, like Bunyan's hero, look back from the brink of the river of
death over the strife and labor of his pilgrimage, and say {}``yet
do I not repent me''; or, with the panache of a millionaire, bequeath
{}``my sword to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my
courage and skill to him that can get it.'' This is the true joy
in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a
mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on
the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish
selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the
world will not devote itself to making you happy. And also the only
real tragedy in life is the being used by personally minded men for
purposes which you recognize to be base. All the rest is at worst
mere misfortune or mortality:\ this alone is misery, slavery, hell
on earth; and the revolt against it is the only force that offers
a man's work to the poor artist, whom our personally minded rich people
would so willingly employ as pandar, buffoon, beauty monger, sentimentalizer
and the like.

It may seem a long step from Bunyan to Nietzsche; but the difference
between their conclusions is purely formal. Bunyan's perception that
righteousness is filthy rags, his scorn for Mr.\ Legality in the
village of Morality, his defiance of the Church as the supplanter
of religion, his insistence on courage as the virtue of virtues, his
estimate of the career of the conventionally respectable and sensible
Worldly Wiseman as no better at bottom than the life and death of
Mr.\ Badman:\ all this, expressed by Bunyan in the terms of a tinker's
theology, is what Nietzsche has expressed in terms of post-Darwinian,
post-Schopenhaurian philosophy; Wagner in terms of polytheistic mythology;
and Ibsen in terms of mid-XIX century Parisian dramaturgy. Nothing
is new in these matters except their novelties:\ for instance, it
is a novelty to call Justification by Faith {}``Wille,'' and Justification
by Works {}``\textit{Vorstellung}.'' The sole use of the novelty
is that you and I buy and read Schopenhaur's treatise on \emph{Will
and Representation} when we should not dream of buying a set of sermons
on Faith versus Works. At bottom the controversy is the same, and
the dramatic results are the same. Bunyan makes no attempt to present
his pilgrims as more sensible or better conducted than Mr.\ Worldly
Wiseman. Mr.\ W.\ W.'s worst enemies, as Mr.\ Embezzler, Mr.\ Never-go-to-Church-on-Sunday,
Mr.\ Bad Form, Mr.\ Murderer, Mr.\ Burglar, Mr.\ Co-respondent,
Mr.\ Blackmailer, Mr.\ Cad, Mr.\ Drunkard, Mr.\ Labor Agitator
and so forth, can read the \emph{Pilgrim's Progress} without finding
a word said against them; whereas the respectable people who snub
them and put them in prison, such as Mr.\ W.\ W.\ himself and his
young friend Civility; Formalist and Hypocrisy; Wildhead, Inconsiderate,
and Pragmatick (who were clearly young university men of good family
and high feeding); that brisk lad Ignorance, Talkative, By-Ends of
Fairspeech and his mother-in-law Lady Feigning, and other reputable
gentlemen and citizens, catch it very severely. Even Little Faith,
though he gets to heaven at last, is given to understand that it served
him right to be mobbed by the brothers Faint Heart, Mistrust, and
Guilt, all three recognized members of respectable society and veritable
pillars of the law. The whole allegory is a consistent attack on morality
and respectability, without a word that one can remember against vice
and crime. Exactly what is complained of in Nietzsche and Ibsen, is
it not? And also exactly what would be complained of in all the literature
which is great enough and old enough to have attained canonical rank,
officially or unofficially, were it not that books are admitted to
the canon by a compact which confesses their greatness in consideration
of abrogating their meaning; so that the reverend rector can agree
with the prophet Micah as to his inspired style without being committed
to any complicity in Micah's furiously Radical opinions. Why, even
I, as I force myself; pen in hand, into recognition and civility,
find all the force of my onslaught destroyed by a simple policy of
non-resistance. In vain do I redouble the violence of the language
in which I proclaim my heterodoxies. I rail at the theistic credulity
of Voltaire, the amoristic superstition of Shelley, the revival of
tribal soothsaying and idolatrous rites which Huxley called Science
and mistook for an advance on the Pentateuch, no less than at the
welter of ecclesiastical and professional humbug which saves the face
of the stupid system of violence and robbery which we call Law and
Industry. Even atheists reproach me with infidelity and anarchists
with nihilism because I cannot endure their moral tirades. And yet,
instead of exclaiming {}``Send this inconceivable Satanist to the
stake,'' the respectable newspapers pith me by announcing {}``another
book by this brilliant and thoughtful writer.'' And the ordinary
citizen, knowing that an author who is well spoken of by a respectable
newspaper must be all right, reads me, as he reads Micah, with undisturbed
edification from his own point of view. It is narrated that in the
eighteen-seventies an old lady, a very devout Methodist, moved from
Colchester to a house in the neighborhood of the City Road, in London,
where, mistaking the Hall of Science for a chapel, she sat at the
feet of Charles Bradlaugh for many years, entranced by his eloquence,
without questioning his orthodoxy or moulting a feather of her faith.
I fear I shall be defrauded of my just martyrdom in the same way.

However, I am digressing, as a man with a grievance always does. And
after all, the main thing in determining the artistic quality of a
book is not the opinions it propagates, but the fact that the writer
has opinions. The old lady from Colchester was right to sun her simple
soul in the energetic radiance of Bradlaugh's genuine beliefs and
disbeliefs rather than in the chill of such mere painting of light
and heat as elocution and convention can achieve. My contempt for
\textit{belles} \textit{lettres}, and for amateurs who become the
heroes of the fanciers of literary virtuosity, is not founded on any
illusion of mind as to the permanence of those forms of thought (call
them opinions) by which I strive to communicate my bent to my fellows.
To younger men they are already outmoded; for though they have no
more lost their logic than an eighteenth century pastel has lost its
drawing or its color, yet, like the pastel, they grow indefinably
shabby, and will grow shabbier until they cease to count at all, when
my books will either perish, or, if the world is still poor enough
to want them, will have to stand, with Bunyan's, by quite amorphous
qualities of temper and energy. With this conviction I cannot be a
bellettrist. No doubt I must recognize, as even the Ancient Mariner
did, that I must tell my story entertainingly if I am to hold the
wedding guest spellbound in spite of the siren sounds of the loud
bassoon. But {}``for art's sake'' alone I would not face the toil
of writing a single sentence. I know that there are men who, having
nothing to say and nothing to write, are nevertheless so in love with
oratory and with literature that they keep desperately repeating as
much as they can understand of what others have said or written aforetime.
I know that the leisurely tricks which their want of conviction leaves
them free to play with the diluted and misapprehended message supply
them with a pleasant parlor game which they call style. I can pity
their dotage and even sympathize with their fancy. But a true original
style is never achieved for its own sake:\ a man may pay from a shilling
to a guinea, according to his means, to see, hear, or read another
man's act of genius; but he will not pay with his whole life and soul
to become a mere virtuoso in literature, exhibiting an accomplishment
which will not even make money for him, like fiddle playing. Effectiveness
of assertion is the Alpha and Omega of style. He who has nothing to
assert has no style and can have none:\ he who has something to assert
will go as far in power of style as its momentousness and his conviction
will carry him. Disprove his assertion after it is made, yet its style
remains. Darwin has no more destroyed the style of Job nor of Handel
than Martin Luther destroyed the style of Giotto. All the assertions
get disproved sooner or later; and so we find the world full of a
magnificent debris of artistic fossils, with the matter-of-fact credibility
gone clean out of them, but the form still splendid. And that is why
the old masters play the deuce with our \textit{\emph{mere}} \textit{\emph{susceptibles}}.
Your Royal Academician thinks he can get the style of Giotto without
Giotto's beliefs, and correct his perspective into the bargain. Your
man of letters thinks he can get Bunyan's or Shakespear's style without
Bunyan's conviction or Shakespear's apprehension, especially if he
takes care not to split his infinitives. And so with your Doctors
of Music, who, with their collections of discords duly prepared and
resolved or retarded or anticipated in the manner of the great composers,
think they can learn the art of Palestrina from Cherubim's treatise.
All this academic art is far worse than the trade in sham antique
furniture; for the man who sells me an oaken chest which he swears
was made in the XIII century, though as a matter of fact he made it
himself only yesterday, at least does not pretend that there are any
modern ideas in it, whereas your academic copier of fossils offers
them to you as the latest outpouring of the human spirit, and, worst
of all, kidnaps young people as pupils and persuades them that his
limitations are rules, his observances dexterities, his timidities
good taste, and his emptinesses purities. And when he declares that
art should not be didactic, all the people who have nothing to teach
and all the people who don't want to learn agree with him emphatically.

I pride myself on not being one of these susceptible:\ If you study
the electric light with which I supply you in that Bumbledonian public
capacity of mine over which you make merry from time to time, you
will find that your house contains a great quantity of highly susceptible
copper wire which gorges itself with electricity and gives you no
light whatever. But here and there occurs a scrap of intensely insusceptible,
intensely resistant material; and that stubborn scrap grapples with
the current and will not let it through until it has made itself useful
to you as those two vital qualities of literature, light and heat.
Now if I am to be no mere copper wire amateur but a luminous author,
I must also be a most intensely refractory person, liable to go out
and to go wrong at inconvenient moments, and with incendiary possibilities.
These are the faults of my qualities; and I assure you that I sometimes
dislike myself so much that when some irritable reviewer chances at
that moment to pitch into me with zest, I feel unspeakably relieved
and obliged. But I never dream of reforming, knowing that I must take
myself as I am and get what work I can out of myself. All this you
will understand; for there is community of material between us:\ we
are both critics of life as well as of art; and you have perhaps said
to yourself when I have passed your windows, {}``There, but for the
grace of God, go I.'' An awful and chastening reflection, which shall
be the closing cadence of this immoderately long letter from yours
faithfully,

\begin{flushright}\noun{G.\ Bernard Shaw.}\\
\noun{Woking, 1903}\end{flushright}


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT I}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT I}

\markboth{MAN AND SUPERMAN}{ACT I}

\emph{Roebuck Ramsden is in his study, opening the morning letters.
The study, handsomely and solidly furnished, proclaims the man of
means. Not a speck of dust is visible:}\ \emph{it is clear that there
are at least two housemaids and a parlormaid downstairs, and a housekeeper
upstairs who does not let them spare elbow-grease. Even the top of
Roebuck's head is polished:}\ \emph{on a sunshiny day he could heliograph
his orders to distant camps by merely nodding. In no other respect,
however, does he suggest the military man. It is in active civil life
that men get his broad air of importance, his dignified expectation
of deference, his determinate mouth disarmed and refined since the
hour of his success by the withdrawal of opposition and the concession
of comfort and precedence and power. He is more than a highly respectable
man:}\ \emph{he is marked out as a president of highly respectable
men, a chairman among directors, an alderman among councillors, a
mayor among aldermen. Four tufts of iron-grey hair, which will soon
be as white as isinglass, and are in other respects not at all unlike
it, grow in two symmetrical pairs above his ears and at the angles
of his spreading jaws. He wears a black frock coat, a white waistcoat
(it is bright spring weather), and trousers, neither black nor perceptibly
blue, of one of those indefinitely mixed hues which the modern clothier
has produced to harmonize with the religions of respectable men. He
has not been out of doors yet to-day; so he still wears his slippers,
his boots being ready for him on the hearthrug. Surmising that he
has no valet, and seeing that he has no secretary with a shorthand
notebook and a typewriter, one meditates on how little our great burgess'
domesticity has been disturbed by new fashions and methods, or by
the enterprise of the railway and hotel companies which sell you a
Saturday to Monday of life at Folkestone as a real gentleman for two
guineas, first class fares both ways included.}

\emph{How old is Roebuck? The question is important on the threshold
of a drama of ideas; for under such circumstances everything depends
on whether his adolescence belonged to the sixties or to the eighties.
He was born, as a matter of fact, in 1839, and was a Unitarian and
Free Trader from his boyhood, and an Evolutionist from the publication
of the Origin of Species. Consequently he has always classed himself
as an advanced thinker and fearlessly outspoken reformer.}

\emph{Sitting at his writing table, he has on his right the windows
giving on Portland Place. Through these, as through a proscenium,
the curious spectator may contemplate his profile as well as the blinds
will permit. On his left is the inner wall, with a stately bookcase,
and the door not quite in the middle, but somewhat further from him.
Against the wall opposite him are two busts on pillars:}\ \emph{one,
to his left, of John Bright; the other, to his right, of Mr.}\ \emph{Herbert
Spencer. Between them hang an engraved portrait of Richard Cobden;
enlarged photographs of Martineau, Huxley, and George Eliot; autotypes
of allegories by Mr.}\ \emph{G.}\ \emph{F.}\ \emph{Watts (for Roebuck
believed in the fine arts with all the earnestness of a man who does
not understand them), and an impression of Dupont's engraving of Delaroche's}
Beaux \textit{\emph{Artes}} \emph{hemicycle, representing the great
men of all ages. On the wall behind him, above the mantel-shelf, is
a family portrait of impenetrable obscurity.}

\emph{A chair stands near the writing table for the convenience of
business visitors. Two other chairs are against the wall between the
busts.}

\emph{A parlormaid enters with a visitor's card. Roebuck takes it,
and nods, pleased. Evidently a welcome caller.}

RAMSDEN. Show him up.

\emph{The parlormaid goes out and returns with the visitor.}

THE MAID. Mr.\ Robinson.

\emph{Mr.}\ \emph{Robinson is really an uncommonly nice looking young
fellow. He must, one thinks, be the} \textit{\emph{jeune}} premier\emph{;
for it is not in reason to suppose that a second such attractive male
figure should appear in one story. The slim shapely frame, the elegant
suit of new mourning, the small head and regular features, the pretty
little moustache, the frank clear eyes, the wholesome bloom and the
youthful complexion, the well brushed glossy hair, not curly, but
of fine texture and good dark color, the arch of good nature in the
eyebrows, the erect forehead and neatly pointed chin, all announce
the man who will love and suffer later on. And that he will not do
so without sympathy is guaranteed by an engaging sincerity and eager
modest serviceableness which stamp him as a man of amiable nature.
The moment he appears, Ramsden's face expands into fatherly liking
and welcome, an expression which drops into one of decorous grief
as the young man approaches him with sorrow in his face as well as
in his black clothes. Ramsden seems to know the nature of the bereavement.
As the visitor advances silently to the writing table, the old man
rises and shakes his hand across it without a word:}\ \emph{a long,
affectionate shake which tells the story of a recent sorrow common
to both.}

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{concluding the handshake and cheering up}{]}
Well, well, Octavius, it's the common lot. We must all face it someday.
Sit down.

\emph{Octavius takes the visitor's chair. Ramsden replaces himself
in his own.}

OCTAVIUS. Yes:\ we must face it, Mr.\ Ramsden. But I owed him a
great deal. He did everything for me that my father could have done
if he had lived.

RAMSDEN. He had no son of his own, you see.

OCTAVIUS. But he had daughters; and yet he was as good to my sister
as to me. And his death was so sudden! I always intended to thank
him\mbox{---}to let him know that I had not taken all his care of
me as a matter of course, as any boy takes his father's care. But
I waited for an opportunity and now he is dead\mbox{---}dropped without
a moment's warning. He will never know what I felt.\ {}{[}\textit{He
takes out his handkerchief and cries unaffectedly}{]}.

RAMSDEN. How do we know that, Octavius? He may know it:\ we cannot
tell. Come! Don't grieve.\ {}{[}\textit{Octavius masters himself
and puts up his handkerchief}{]}. That's right. Now let me tell you
something to console you. The last time I saw him\mbox{---}it was
in this very room\mbox{---}he said to me:\ {}{}``Tavy is a generous
lad and the soul of honor; and when I see how little consideration
other men get from their sons, I realize how much better than a son
he's been to me.'' There! Doesn't that do you good?

OCTAVIUS. Mr.\ Ramsden:\ he used to say to me that he had met only
one man in the world who was the soul of honor, and that was Roebuck
Ramsden.

RAMSDEN. Oh, that was his partiality:\ we were very old friends,
you know. But there was something else he used to say about you. I
wonder whether I ought to tell you or not!

OCTAVIUS. You know best.

RAMSDEN. It was something about his daughter.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{eagerly}{]} About Ann! Oh, do tell me that,
Mr.\ Ramsden.

RAMSDEN. Well, he said he was glad, after all, you were not his son,
because he thought that someday Annie and you\mbox{---}{[}\textit{Octavius
blushes vividly}{]}. Well, perhaps I shouldn't have told you. But
he was in earnest.

OCTAVIUS. Oh, if only I thought I had a chance! You know, Mr.\ Ramsden,
I don't care about money or about what people call position; and I
can't bring myself to take an interest in the business of struggling
for them. Well, Ann has a most exquisite nature; but she is so accustomed
to be in the thick of that sort of thing that she thinks a man's character
incomplete if he is not ambitious. She knows that if she married me
she would have to reason herself out of being ashamed of me for not
being a big success of some kind.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{Getting up and planting himself with his back
to the fireplace}{]} Nonsense, my boy, nonsense! You're too modest.
What does she know about the real value of men at her age? {[}\textit{More
seriously}{]} Besides, she's a wonderfully dutiful girl. Her father's
wish would be sacred to her. Do you know that since she grew up to
years of discretion, I don't believe she has ever once given her own
wish as a reason for doing anything or not doing it. It's always {}``Father
wishes me to,'' or {}``Mother wouldn't like it.'' It's really almost
a fault in her. I have often told her she must learn to think for
herself.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his head}{]} I couldn't ask her to
marry me because her father wished it, Mr.\ Ramsden.

RAMSDEN. Well, perhaps not. No:\ of course not. I see that. No:\ you
certainly couldn't. But when you win her on your own merits, it will
be a great happiness to her to fulfil her father's desire as well
as her own. Eh? Come!\ you'll ask her, won't you?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{with sad gaiety}{]} At all events I promise
you I shall never ask anyone else.

RAMSDEN. Oh, you shan't need to. She'll accept you, my boy\mbox{---}although
{[}\textit{here be suddenly becomes very serious indeed}{]} you have
one great drawback.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{anxiously}{]} What drawback is that, Mr.\ Ramsden?
I should rather say which of my many drawbacks?

RAMSDEN. I'll tell you, Octavius.\ {}{[}\textit{He takes from the
table a book bound in red cloth}{]}. I have in my hand a copy of the
most infamous, the most scandalous, the most mischievous, the most
blackguardly book that ever escaped burning at the hands of the common
hangman. I have not read it:\ I would not soil my mind with such
filth; but I have read what the papers say of it. The title is quite
enough for me.\ {}{[}\textit{He reads it}{]}. The Revolutionist's
Handbook and Pocket Companion by John Tanner, M.I.R.C., Member of
the Idle Rich Class.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{smiling}{]} But Jack\mbox{---}

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{testily}{]} For goodness' sake, don't call
him Jack under my roof {[}\textit{he throws the book violently down
on the table, Then, somewhat relieved, he comes past the table to
Octavius, and addresses him at close quarters with impressive gravity}{]}.
Now, Octavius, I know that my dead friend was right when he said you
were a generous lad. I know that this man was your schoolfellow, and
that you feel bound to stand by him because there was a boyish friendship
between you. But I ask you to consider the altered circumstances.
You were treated as a son in my friend's house. You lived there; and
your friends could not be turned from the door. This Tanner was in
and out there on your account almost from his childhood. He addresses
Annie by her Christian name as freely as you do. Well, while her father
was alive, that was her father's business, not mine. This man Tanner
was only a boy to him:\ his opinions were something to be laughed
at, like a man's hat on a child's head. But now Tanner is a grown
man and Annie a grown woman. And her father is gone. We don't as yet
know the exact terms of his will; but he often talked it over with
me; and I have no more doubt than I have that you're sitting there
that the will appoints me Annie's trustee and guardian. {[}\textit{Forcibly}{]}
Now I tell you, once for all, I can't and I won't have Annie placed
in such a position that she must, out of regard for you, suffer the
intimacy of this fellow Tanner. It's not fair:\ it's not right:\ it's
not kind. What are you going to do about it?

OCTAVIUS. But Ann herself has told Jack that whatever his opinions
are, he will always be welcome because he knew her dear father.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{out of patience}{]} That girl's mad about
her duty to her parents.\ {}{[}\textit{He starts off like a goaded
ox in the direction of John Bright, in whose expression there is no
sympathy for him. As he speaks, he fumes down to Herbert Spencer,
who receives him still more coldly}{]} Excuse me, Octavius; but there
are limits to social toleration. You know that I am not a bigoted
or prejudiced man. You know that I am plain Roebuck Ramsden when other
men who have done less have got handles to their names, because I
have stood for equality and liberty of conscience while they were
truckling to the Church and to the aristocracy. Whitefield and I lost
chance after chance through our advanced opinions. But I draw the
line at Anarchism and Free Love and that sort of thing. If I am to
be Annie's guardian, she will have to learn that she has a duty to
me. I won't have it:\ I will not have it. She must forbid John Tanner
the house; and so must you.

\emph{The parlormaid returns.}

OCTAVIUS. But\mbox{---}

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{calling his attention to the servant}{]} Ssh!
Well?

THE MAID. Mr.\ Tanner wishes to see you, sir.

RAMSDEN. Mr.\ Tanner!

OCTAVIUS. Jack!

RAMSDEN. How dare Mr.\ Tanner call on me! Say I cannot see him.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{hurt}{]} I am sorry you are turning my friend
from your door like that.

THE MAID.\ {}{[}\textit{calmly}{]} He's not at the door, sir. He's
upstairs in the drawing-room with Miss Ramsden. He came with Mrs.\ Whitefield
and Miss Ann and Miss Robinson, sir.

\emph{Ramsden's feelings are beyond words.}

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{grinning}{]} That's very like Jack, Mr.\ Ramsden.
You must see him, even if it's only to turn him out.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{hammering out his words with suppressed fury}{]}
Go upstairs and ask Mr.\ Tanner to be good enough to step down here.
{[}\textit{The parlormaid goes out; and Ramsden returns to the fireplace,
as to a fortified position}{]}. I must say that of all the confounded
pieces of impertinence\mbox{---}well, if these are Anarchist manners
I hope you like them. And Annie with him! Annie! A\mbox{---} {[}\textit{he
chokes}{]}.

OCTAVIUS. Yes:\ that's what surprises me. He's so desperately afraid
of Ann. There must be something the matter.

\emph{Mr.\ John Tanner suddenly opens the door and enters. He is
too young to be described simply as a big man with a beard. But it
is already plain that middle life will find him in that category.
He has still some of the slimness of youth; but youthfulness is not
the effect he aims at:}\ \emph{his frock coat would befit a prime
minister; and a certain high chested carriage of the shoulders, a
lofty pose of the head, and the Olympian majesty with which a mane,
or rather a huge wisp, of hazel colored hair is thrown back from an
imposing brow, suggest Jupiter rather than Apollo. He is prodigiously
fluent of speech, restless, excitable (mark the snorting nostril and
the restless blue eye, just the thirty-secondth of an inch too wide
open), possibly a little mad. He is carefully dressed, not from the
vanity that cannot resist finery, but from a sense of the importance
of everything he does which leads him to make as much of paying a
call as other men do of getting married or laying a foundation stone.
A sensitive, susceptible, exaggerative, earnest man:}\ \emph{a megalomaniac,
who would be lost without a sense of humor.}

\emph{Just at present the sense of humor is in abeyance. To say that
he is excited is nothing:}\ \emph{all his moods are phases of excitement.
He is now in the panic-stricken phase; and he walks straight up to
Ramsden as if with the fixed intention of shooting him on his own
hearthrug. But what he pulls from his breast pocket is not a pistol,
but a foolscap document which he thrusts under the indignant nose
of Ramsden as he exclaims\mbox{---}-}

TANNER. Ramsden:\ do you know what that is?

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{loftily}{]} No, Sir.

TANNER. It's a copy of Whitefield's will. Ann got it this morning.

RAMSDEN. When you say Ann, you mean, I presume, Miss Whitefield.

TANNER. I mean our Ann, your Ann, Tavy's Ann, and now, Heaven help
me, my Ann!

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{rising, very pale}{]} What do you mean?

TANNER. Mean! {[}\textit{He holds up the will}{]}. Do you know who
is appointed Ann's guardian by this will?

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{coolly}{]} I believe I am.

TANNER. You! You and I, man. I! I!! I!!! Both of us! {[}\textit{He
flings the will down on the writing table}{]}.

RAMSDEN. You! Impossible.

TANNER. It's only too hideously true.\ {}{[}\textit{He throws himself
into Octavius's chair}{]}. Ramsden:\ get me out of it somehow. You
don't know Ann as well as I do. She'll commit every crime a respectable
woman can; and she'll justify every one of them by saying that it
was the wish of her guardians. She'll put everything on us; and we
shall have no more control over her than a couple of mice over a cat.

OCTAVIUS. Jack:\ I wish you wouldn't talk like that about Ann.

TANNER. This chap's in love with her:\ that's another complication.
Well, she'll either jilt him and say I didn't approve of him, or marry
him and say you ordered her to. I tell you, this is the most staggering
blow that has ever fallen on a man of my age and temperament.

RAMSDEN. Let me see that will, sir.\ {}{[}\textit{He goes to the
writing table and picks it up}{]}. I cannot believe that my old friend
Whitefield would have shown such a want of confidence in me as to
associate me with\mbox{---} {[}\textit{His countenance falls as he
reads}{]}.

TANNER. It's all my own doing:\ that's the horrible irony of it.
He told me one day that you were to be Ann's guardian; and like a
fool I began arguing with him about the folly of leaving a young woman
under the control of an old man with obsolete ideas.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{stupended}{]} My ideas obsolete!!!!!

TANNER. Totally. I had just finished an essay called Down with Government
by the Greyhaired; and I was full of arguments and illustrations.
I said the proper thing was to combine the experience of an old hand
with the vitality of a young one. Hang me if he didn't take me at
my word and alter his will\mbox{---}it's dated only a fortnight after
that conversation\mbox{---}appointing me as joint guardian with you!

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{pale and determined}{]} I shall refuse to
act.

TANNER. What's the good of that? I've been refusing all the way from
Richmond; but Ann keeps on saying that of course she's only an orphan;
and that she can't expect the people who were glad to come to the
house in her father's time to trouble much about her now. That's the
latest game. An orphan! It's like hearing an ironclad talk about being
at the mercy of the winds and waves.

OCTAVIUS. This is not fair, Jack. She is an orphan. And you ought
to stand by her.

TANNER. Stand by her! What danger is she in? She has the law on her
side; she has popular sentiment on her side; she has plenty of money
and no conscience. All she wants with me is to load up all her moral
responsibilities on me, and do as she likes at the expense of my character.
I can't control her; and she can compromise me as much as she likes.
I might as well be her husband.

RAMSDEN. You can refuse to accept the guardianship. I shall certainly
refuse to hold it jointly with you.

TANNER. Yes; and what will she say to that?\ what does she say to
it? Just that her father's wishes are sacred to her, and that she
shall always look up to me as her guardian whether I care to face
the responsibility or not. Refuse! You might as well refuse to accept
the embraces of a boa constrictor when once it gets round your neck.

OCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is not kind to me, Jack.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{rising and going to Octavius to console him,
but still lamenting}{]} If he wanted a young guardian, why didn't
he appoint Tavy?

RAMSDEN. Ah!\ why indeed?

OCTAVIUS. I will tell you. He sounded me about it; but I refused the
trust because I loved her. I had no right to let myself be forced
on her as a guardian by her father. He spoke to her about it; and
she said I was right. You know I love her, Mr.\ Ramsden; and Jack
knows it too. If Jack loved a woman, I would not compare her to a
boa constrictor in his presence, however much I might dislike her
{[}\textit{he sits down between the busts and turns his face to the
wall}{]}.

RAMSDEN. I do not believe that Whitefield was in his right senses
when he made that will. You have admitted that he made it under your
influence.

TANNER. You ought to be pretty well obliged to me for my influence.
He leaves you two thousand five hundred for your trouble. He leaves
Tavy a dowry for his sister and five thousand for himself.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{his tears flowing afresh}{]} Oh, I can't
take it. He was too good to us.

TANNER. You won't get it, my boy, if Ramsden upsets the will.

RAMSDEN. Ha! I see. You have got me in a cleft stick.

TANNER. He leaves me nothing but the charge of Ann's morals, on the
ground that I have already more money than is good for me. That shows
that he had his wits about him, doesn't it?

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{grimly}{]} I admit that.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{rising and coming from his refuge by the
wall}{]} Mr.\  Ramsden:\ I think you are prejudiced against Jack.
He is a man of honor, and incapable of abusing\mbox{---}

TANNER. Don't, Tavy:\ you'll make me ill. I am not a man of honor:\ 
I am a man struck down by a dead hand. Tavy:\ you must marry her
after all and take her off my hands. And I had set my heart on saving
you from her!

OCTAVIUS. Oh, Jack, you talk of saving me from my highest happiness.

TANNER. Yes, a lifetime of happiness. If it were only the first half
hour's happiness, Tavy, I would buy it for you with my last penny.
But a lifetime of happiness! No man alive could bear it:\ it would
be hell on earth.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{violently}{]} Stuff, sir. Talk sense; or else
go and waste someone else's time:\ I have something better to do
than listen to your fooleries {[}\textit{he positively kicks his way
to his table and resumes his seat}{]}.

TANNER. You hear him, Tavy! Not an idea in his head later than eighteen-sixty.
We can't leave Ann with no other guardian to turn to.

RAMSDEN. I am proud of your contempt for my character and opinions,
sir. Your own are set forth in that book, I believe.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{eagerly going to the table}{]} What! You've
got my book! What do you think of it?

RAMSDEN. Do you suppose I would read such a book, sir?

TANNER. Then why did you buy it?

RAMSDEN. I did not buy it, sir. It has been sent me by some foolish
lady who seems to admire your views. I was about to dispose of it
when Octavius interrupted me. I shall do so now, with your permission.\ {}{[}\textit{He
throws the book into the waste paper basket with such vehemence that
Tanner recoils under the impression that it is being thrown at his
head}{]}.

TANNER. You have no more manners than I have myself. However, that
saves ceremony between us.\ {}{[}\textit{He sits down again}{]}.
What do you intend to do about this will?

OCTAVIUS. May I make a suggestion?

RAMSDEN. Certainly, Octavius.

OCTAVIUS. Aren't we forgetting that Ann herself may have some wishes
in this matter?

RAMSDEN. I quite intend that Annie's wishes shall be consulted in
every reasonable way. But she is only a woman, and a young and inexperienced
woman at that.

TANNER. Ramsden:\ I begin to pity you.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{hotly}{]} I don't want to know how you feel
towards me, Mr.\ Tanner.

TANNER. Ann will do just exactly what she likes. And what's more,
she'll force us to advise her to do it; and she'll put the blame on
us if it turns out badly. So, as Tavy is longing to see her\mbox{---}

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{shyly}{]} I am not, Jack.

TANNER. You lie, Tavy:\ you are. So let's have her down from the
drawing-room and ask her what she intends us to do. Off with you,
Tavy, and fetch her.\ {}{[}\textit{Tavy turns to go}{]}. And don't
be long for the strained relations between myself and Ramsden will
make the interval rather painful {[}\textit{Ramsden compresses his
lips, but says nothing\mbox{---}}{]}.

OCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Mr.\ Ramsden. He's not serious.\ {}{[}\textit{He
goes out}{]}.

RAMSDEN {[}\textit{very deliberately}{]} Mr.\ Tanner:\ you are the
most impudent person I have ever met.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{seriously}{]} I know it, Ramsden. Yet even
I cannot wholly conquer shame. We live in an atmosphere of shame.
We are ashamed of everything that is real about us; ashamed of ourselves,
of our relatives, of our incomes, of our accents, of our opinions,
of our experience, just as we are ashamed of our naked skins. Good
Lord, my dear Ramsden, we are ashamed to walk, ashamed to ride in
an omnibus, ashamed to hire a hansom instead of keeping a carriage,
ashamed of keeping one horse instead of two and a groom-gardener instead
of a coachman and footman. The more things a man is ashamed of, the
more respectable he is. Why, you're ashamed to buy my book, ashamed
to read it:\ the only thing you're not ashamed of is to judge me
for it without having read it; and even that only means that you're
ashamed to have heterodox opinions. Look at the effect I produce because
my fairy godmother withheld from me this gift of shame. I have every
possible virtue that a man can have except\mbox{---}

RAMSDEN. I am glad you think so well of yourself.

TANNER. All you mean by that is that you think I ought to be ashamed
of talking about my virtues. You don't mean that I haven't got them:\ you
know perfectly well that I am as sober and honest a citizen as yourself,
as truthful personally, and much more truthful politically and morally.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{touched on his most sensitive point}{]} I
deny that. I will not allow you or any man to treat me as if I were
a mere member of the British public. I detest its prejudices; I scorn
its narrowness; I demand the right to think for myself. You pose as
an advanced man. Let me tell you that I was an advanced man before
you were born.

TANNER. I knew it was a long time ago.

RAMSDEN. I am as advanced as ever I was. I defy you to prove that
I have ever hauled down the flag. I am more advanced than ever I was.
I grow more advanced every day.

TANNER. More advanced in years, Polonius.

RAMSDEN. Polonius! So you are Hamlet, I suppose.

TANNER. No:\ I am only the most impudent person you've ever met.
That's your notion of a thoroughly bad character. When you want to
give me a piece of your mind, you ask yourself, as a just and upright
man, what is the worst you can fairly say of me. Thief, liar, forger,
adulterer, perjurer, glutton, drunkard? Not one of these names fit
me. You have to fall back on my deficiency in shame. Well, I admit
it. I even congratulate myself; for if I were ashamed of my real self,
I should cut as stupid a figure as any of the rest of you. Cultivate
a little impudence, Ramsden; and you will become quite a remarkable
man.

RAMSDEN. I have no\mbox{---}

TANNER. You have no desire for that sort of notoriety. Bless you,
I knew that answer would come as well as I know that a box of matches
will come out of an automatic machine when I put a penny in the slot:\ you
would be ashamed to say anything else.

\emph{The crushing retort for which Ramsden has been visibly collecting
his forces is lost for ever; for at this point Octavius returns with
Miss Ann Whitefield and her mother; and Ramsden springs up and hurries
to the door to receive them. Whether Ann is good-looking or not depends
upon your taste; also and perhaps chiefly on your age and sex. To
Octavius she is an enchantingly beautiful woman, in whose presence
the world becomes transfigured, and the puny limits of individual
consciousness are suddenly made infinite by a mystic memory of the
whole life of the race to its beginnings in the east, or even back
to the paradise from which it fell. She is to him the reality of romance,
the leaner good sense of nonsense, the unveiling of his eyes, the
freeing of his soul, the abolition of time, place and circumstance,
the etherealization of his blood into rapturous rivers of the very
water of life itself, the revelation of all the mysteries and the
sanctification of all the dogmas. To her mother she is, to put it
as moderately as possible, nothing whatever of the kind. Not that
Octavius's admiration is in any way ridiculous or discreditable. Ann
is a well formed creature, as far as that goes; and she is perfectly
ladylike, graceful, and comely, with ensnaring eyes and hair. Besides,
instead of making herself an eyesore, like her mother, she has devised
a mourning costume of black and violet silk which does honor to her
late father and reveals the family tradition of brave unconventionality
by which Ramsden sets such store.}

\emph{But all this is beside the point as an explanation of Ann's
charm. Turn up her nose, give a cast to her eye, replace her black
and violet confection by the apron and feathers of a flower girl,
strike all the aitches out of her speech, and Ann would still make
men dream. Vitality is as common as humanity; but, like humanity,
it sometimes rises to genius; and Ann is one of the vital geniuses.
Not at all, if you please, an oversexed person:}\ \emph{that is a
vital defect, not a true excess. She is a perfectly respectable, perfectly
self-controlled woman, and looks it; though her pose is fashionably
frank and impulsive. She inspires confidence as a person who will
do nothing she does not mean to do; also some fear, perhaps, as a
woman who will probably do everything she means to do without taking
more account of other people than may be necessary and what she calls
right. In short, what the weaker of her own sex sometimes call a cat.}

\emph{Nothing can be more decorous than her entry and her reception
by Ramsden, whom she kisses. The late Mr.\ Whitefield would be gratified
almost to impatience by the long faces of the men (except Tanner,
who is fidgety), the silent handgrasps, the sympathetic placing of
chairs, the sniffing of the widow, and the liquid eye of the daughter,
whose heart, apparently, will not let her control her tongue to speech.
Ramsden and Octavius take the two chairs from the wall, and place
them for the two ladies; but Ann comes to Tanner and takes his chair,
which he offers with a brusque gesture, subsequently relieving his
irritation by sitting down on the corner of the writing table with
studied indecorum. Octavius gives Mrs.\ Whitefield a chair next Ann,
and himself takes the vacant one which Ramsden has placed under the
nose of the effigy of Mr.\ Herbert Spencer.}

\emph{Mrs.\ Whitefield, by the way, is a little woman, whose faded
flaxen hair looks like straw on an egg. She has an expression of muddled
shrewdness, a squeak of protest in her voice, and an odd air of continually
elbowing away some larger person who is crushing her into a corner.
One guesses her as one of those women who are conscious of being treated
as silly and negligible, and who, without having strength enough to
assert themselves effectually, at any rate never submit to their fate.
There is a touch of chivalry in Octavius's scrupulous attention to
her, even whilst his whole soul is absorbed by Ann.}

\emph{Ramsden goes solemnly back to his magisterial seat at the writing
table, ignoring Tanner, and opens the proceedings.}

RAMSDEN. I am sorry, Annie, to force business on you at a sad time
like the present. But your poor dear father's will has raised a very
serious question. You have read it, I believe? {[}\textit{Ann assents
with a nod and a catch of her breath, too much affected to speak}{]}.
I must say I am surprised to find Mr.\ Tanner named as joint guardian
and trustee with myself of you and Rhoda.\ {}{[}\textit{A pause.
They all look portentous; but they have nothing to say. Ramsden, a
little ruffled by the lack of any response, continues}{]} I don't
know that I can consent to act under such conditions. Mr.\ Tanner
has, I understand, some objection also; but I do not profess to understand
its nature:\ he will no doubt speak for himself. But we are agreed
that we can decide nothing until we know your views. I am afraid I
shall have to ask you to choose between my sole guardianship and that
of Mr.\ Tanner; for I fear it is impossible for us to undertake a
joint arrangement.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{in a low musical voice}{]} Mamma\mbox{---}

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{hastily}{]} Now, Ann, I do beg you
not to put it on me. I have no opinion on the subject; and if I had,
it would probably not be attended to. I am quite with whatever you
three think best.

\emph{Tanner turns his head and looks fixedly at Ramsden, who angrily
refuses to receive this mute communication.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{resuming in the same gentle voice, ignoring her
mother's bad taste}{]} Mamma knows that she is not strong enough to
bear the whole responsibility for me and Rhoda without some help and
advice. Rhoda must have a guardian; and though I am older, I do not
think any young unmarried woman should be left quite to her own guidance.
I hope you agree with me, Granny?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{starting}{]} Granny! Do you intend to call
your guardians Granny?

ANN. Don't be foolish, Jack. Mr.\ Ramsden has always been Grandpapa
Roebuck to me:\ I am Granny's Annie; and he is Annie's Granny. I
christened him so when I first learned to speak.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{sarcastically}{]} I hope you are satisfied,
Mr.\ Tanner. Go on, Annie:\ I quite agree with you.

ANN. Well, if I am to have a guardian, \emph{can} I set aside anybody
whom my dear father appointed for me?

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{biting his lip}{]} You approve of your father's
choice, then?

ANN. It is not for me to approve or disapprove. I accept it. My father
loved me and knew best what was good for me.

RAMSDEN. Of course I understand your feeling, Annie. It is what I
should have expected of you; and it does you credit. But it does not
settle the question so completely as you think. Let me put a case
to you. Suppose you were to discover that I had been guilty of some
disgraceful action\mbox{---}that I was not the man your poor dear
father took me for. Would you still consider it right that I should
be Rhoda's guardian?

ANN. I can't imagine you doing anything disgraceful, Granny.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{to Ramsden}{]} You haven't done anything of
the sort, have you?

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{indignantly}{]} No sir.

MRS.\ WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{placidly}{]} Well, then, why suppose
it?

ANN. You see, Granny, Mamma would not like me to suppose it.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{much perplexed}{]} You are both so full of
natural and affectionate feeling in these family matters that it is
very hard to put the situation fairly before you.

TANNER. Besides, my friend, you are not putting the situation fairly
before them.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{sulkily}{]} Put it yourself, then.

TANNER. I will. Ann:\ Ramsden thinks I am not fit be your guardian;
and I quite agree with him. He considers that if your father had read
my book, he wouldn't have appointed me. That book is the disgraceful
action he has been talking about. He thinks it's your duty for Rhoda's
sake to ask him to act alone and to make me withdraw. Say the word
and I will.

ANN. But I haven't read your book, Jack.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{diving at the waste-paper basket and fishing
the book out for her}{]} Then read it at once and decide.

RAMSDEN. If I am to be your guardian, I positively forbid you to read
that book, Annie.\ {}{[}\textit{He smites the table with his fist
and rises}{]}.

ANN. Of course, if you don't wish it.\ {}{[}\textit{She puts the
book on the table}{]}.

TANNER. If one guardian is to forbid you to read the other guardian's
book, how are we to settle it? Suppose I order you to read it! What
about your duty to me?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{gently}{]} I am sure you would never purposely
force me into a painful dilemma, Jack.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{irritably}{]} Yes, yes, Annie:\ this is all
very well, and, as I said, quite natural and becoming. But you must
make a choice one way or the other. We are as much in a dilemma as
you.

ANN. I feel that I am too young, too inexperienced, to decide. My
father's wishes are sacred to me.

MRS WHITEFIELD. If you two men won't carry them out I must say it
is rather hard that you should put the responsibility on Ann. It seems
to me that people are always putting things on other people in this
world.

RAMSDEN. I am sorry you take it that way.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{touchingly}{]} Do you refuse to accept me as your
ward, Granny?

RAMSDEN. No:\ I never said that. I greatly object to act with Mr.\ Tanner:\ that's
all.

MRS.\ WHITEFIELD. Why? What's the matter with poor Jack?

TANNER. My views are too advanced for him.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{indignantly}{]} They are not. I deny it.

ANN. Of course not. What nonsense! Nobody is more advanced than Granny.
I am sure it is Jack himself who has made all the difficulty. Come,
Jack! Be kind to me in my sorrow. You don't refuse to accept me as
your ward, do you?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{gloomily}{]} No. I let myself in for it; so
I suppose I must face it.\ {}{[}\textit{He turns away to the bookcase,
and stands there, moodily studying the titles of the volumes}{]}.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{rising and expanding with subdued but gushing
delight}{]} Then we are all agreed; and my dear father's will is to
be carried out. You don't know what a joy that is to me and to my
mother! {[}\textit{She goes to Ramsden and presses both his hands,
saying}{]} And I shall have my dear Granny to help and advise me.\ {}{[}\textit{She
casts a glance at Tanner over her shoulder}{]}. And Jack the Giant
Killer. {[}\textit{She goes past her mother to Octavius}{]}. And Jack's
inseparable friend Ricky-ticky-tavy {[}\textit{he blushes and looks
inexpressibly foolish}{]}.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{rising and shaking her widow's weeds
straight}{]} Now that you are Ann's guardian, Mr.\ Ramsden, I wish
you would speak to her about her habit of giving people nicknames.
They can't be expected to like it.\ {}{[}\textit{She moves towards
the door}{]}.

ANN. How can you say such a thing, Mamma! {[}\textit{Glowing with
affectionate remorse}{]} Oh, I wonder can you be right! Have I been
inconsiderate? {[}\textit{She turns to Octavius, who is sitting astride
his chair with his elbows on the back of it. Putting her hand on his
forehead the turns his face up suddenly}{]}. Do you want to be treated
like a grown up man? Must I call you Mr.\ Robinson in future?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{earnestly}{]} Oh please call me Ricky-ticky\mbox{---}tavy,
{}``Mr.\  Robinson'' would hurt me cruelly. {[}\textit{She laughs
and pats his cheek with \ then comes back to Ramsden}{]}. You know
I'm beginning to think that Granny is rather a piece of impertinence.
But I never dreamt of its hurting you.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{breezily, as he pats her affectionately on
the back}{]} My dear Annie, nonsense. I insist on Granny. I won't
answer to any other name than Annie's Granny.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{gratefully}{]} You all spoil me, except Jack.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{over his shoulder, from the bookcase}{]} I
think you ought to call me Mr.\ Tanner.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{gently}{]} No you don't, Jack. That's like the
things you say on purpose to shock people:\ those who know you pay
no attention to them. But, if you like, I'll call you after your famous
ancestor Don Juan.

RAMSDEN. Don Juan!

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{innocently}{]} Oh, is there any harm in it? I
didn't know. Then I certainly won't call you that. May I call you
Jack until I can think of something else?

TANKER. Oh, for Heaven's sake don't try to invent anything worse.
I capitulate. I consent to Jack. I embrace Jack. Here endeth my first
and last attempt to assert my authority.

ANN. You see, Mamma, they all really like to have pet names.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Well, I think you might at least drop them until we
are out of mourning.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{reproachfully, stricken to the soul}{]} Oh, how
could you remind me, mother? {[}\textit{She hastily leaves the room
to conceal her emotion}{]}.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Of course. My fault as usual! {[}\textit{She follows
Ann}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{coming from the bockcase}{]} Ramsden:\ we're
beaten\mbox{---}smashed\mbox{---}non\-en\-ti\-tized, like her
mother.

RAMSDEN. Stuff, Sir.\ {}{[}\textit{He follows Mrs.\ Whitefield out
of the room}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{left alone with Octavius, stares whimsically
at him}{]} Tavy:\ do you want to count for something in the world?

OCTAVIUS. I want to count for something as a poet:\ I want to write
a great play.

TANNER. With Ann as the heroine?

OCTAVIUS. Yes:\ I confess it.

TANNER. Take care, Tavy. The play with Ann as the heroine is all right;
but if you're not very careful, by Heaven she'll marry you.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{sighing}{]} No such luck, Jack!

TANNER. Why, man, your head is in the lioness's mouth:\ you are half
swallowed already\mbox{---}in three bites\mbox{---}Bite One, Ricky;
Bite Two, Ticky; Bite Three, Tavy; and down you go.

OCTAVIUS. She is the same to everybody, Jack:\ you know her ways.

TANNER. Yes:\ she breaks everybody's back with the stroke of her
paw; but the question is, which of us will she eat? My own opinion
is that she means to eat you.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{rising, pettishly}{]} It's horrible to talk
like that about her when she is upstairs crying for her father. But
I do so want her to eat me that I can bear your brutalities because
they give me hope.

TANNER. Tavy; that's the devilish side of a woman's fascination:\ she
makes you will your own destruction.

OCTAVIUS. But it's not destruction:\ it's fulfilment.

TANNER. Yes, of \emph{her} purpose; and that purpose is neither her
happiness nor yours, but Nature's. Vitality in a woman is a blind
fury of creation. She sacrifices herself to it:\ do you think she
will hesitate to sacrifice you?

OCTAVIUS. Why, it is just because she is self-sacrificing that she
will not sacrifice those she loves.

TANNER. That is the profoundest of mistakes, Tavy. It is the self-sacrificing
women that sacrifice others most recklessly. Because they are unselfish,
they are kind in little things. Because they have a purpose which
is not their own purpose, but that of the whole universe, a man is
nothing to them but an instrument of that purpose.

OCTAVIUS. Don't be ungenerous, Jack. They take the \textit{\emph{tenderest}}
care of us.

TANNER. Yes, as a soldier takes care of his rifle or a musician of
his violin. But do they allow us any purpose or freedom of our own?
Will they lend us to one another? Can the strongest man escape from
them when once he is appropriated? They tremble when we are in danger,
and weep when we die; but the tears are not for us, but for a father
wasted, a son's breeding thrown away. They accuse us of treating them
as a mere means to our pleasure; but how can so feeble and transient
a folly as a man's selfish pleasure enslave a woman as the whole purpose
of Nature embodied in a woman can enslave a man?

OCTAVIUS. What matter, if the slavery makes us happy?

TANNER. No matter at all if you have no purpose of your own, and are,
like most men, a mere breadwinner. But you, Tavy, are an artist:\ that
is, you have a purpose as absorbing and as unscrupulous as a woman's
purpose.

OCTAVIUS. Not unscrupulous.

TANNER. Quite unscrupulous. The true artist will let his wife starve,
his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy,
sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector,
half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them,
to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost
secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative
energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions
and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades women
that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means
them to do it for his. He steals the mother's milk and blackens it
to make printer's ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with.
He pretends to spare her the pangs of childbearing so that he may
have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right
to her children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known
as a bad husband. But he is worse:\ he is a child-robber, a bloodsucker,
a hypocrite and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women
if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to
paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder
philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist's work is to show us ourselves
as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves;
and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely
as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he is as
ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly
fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and
remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother
woman. Which shall use up the other?\ that is the issue between them.
And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant, they
love one another.

OCTAVIUS. Even if it were so\mbox{---}and I don't admit it for a
moment\mbox{---}it is out of the deadliest struggles that we get
the noblest characters.

TANNER. Remember that the next time you meet a grizzly bear or a Bengal
tiger, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS. I meant where there is love, Jack.

TANNER. Oh, the tiger will love you. There is no love sincerer than
the love of food. I think Ann loves you that way:\ she patted your
cheek as if it were a nicely underdone chop.

OCTAVIUS. You know, Jack, I should have to run away from you if I
did not make it a fixed rule not to mind anything you say. You come
out with perfectly revolting things sometimes.

\emph{Ramsden returns, followed by Ann. They come in quickly, with
their former leisurely air of decorous grief changed to one of genuine
concern, and, on Ramsden's part, of worry. He comes between the two
men, intending to address Octavius, but pulls himself up abruptly
as he sees Tanner.}

RAMSDEN. I hardly expected to find you still here, Mr.\ Tanner.

TANNER. Am I in the way? Good morning, fellow guardian {[}\textit{he
goes towards the door}{]}.

ANN. Stop, Jack. Granny:\ he must know, sooner or later.

RAMSDEN. Octavius:\ I have a very serious piece of news for you.
It is of the most private and delicate nature\mbox{---}of the most
painful nature too, I am sorry to say. Do you wish Mr.\ Tanner to
be present whilst I explain?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{turning pale}{]} I have no secrets from Jack.

RAMSDEN. Before you decide that finally, let me say that the news
concerns your sister, and that it is terrible news.

OCTAVIUS. Violet! What has happened? Is she\mbox{---}dead?

RAMSDEN. I am not sure that it is not even worse than that.

OCTAVIUS. Is she badly hurt? Has there been an accident?

RAMSDEN. No:\ nothing of that sort.

TANNER. Ann:\ will you have the common humanity to tell us what the
matter is?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{half whispering}{]} I can't. Violet has done something
dreadful. We shall have to get her away somewhere.\ {}{[}\textit{She
flutters to the writing table and sits in Ramsden's chair, leaving
the three men to fight it out between them}{]}.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{enlightened}{]} Is that what you meant, Mr.\ Ramsden?

RAMSDEN. Yes.\ {}{[}\textit{Octavius sinks upon a chair, crushed}{]}.
I am afraid there is no doubt that Violet did not really go to Eastbourne
three weeks ago when we thought she was with the Parry Whitefields.
And she called on a strange doctor yesterday with a wedding ring on
her finger. Mrs.\ Parry Whitefield met her there by chance; and so
the whole thing came out.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{rising with his fists clenched}{]} Who is
the scoundrel?

ANN. She won't tell us.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{collapsing upon his chair again}{]} What
a frightful thing!

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{with angry sarcasm}{]} Dreadful. Appalling.
Worse than death, as Ramsden says.\ {}{[}\textit{He comes to Octavius}{]}.
What would you not give, Tavy, to turn it into a railway accident,
with all her bones broken or something equally respectable and deserving
of sympathy?

OCTAVIUS. Don't be brutal, Jack.

TANNER. Brutal! Good Heavens, man, what are you crying for? Here is
a woman whom we all supposed to be making bad water color sketches,
practising Grieg and Brahms, gadding about to concerts and parties,
wasting her life and her money. We suddenly learn that she has turned
from these sillinesses to the fulfilment of her highest purpose and
greatest function\mbox{---}to increase, multiply and replenish the
earth. And instead of admiring her courage and rejoicing in her instinct;
instead of crowning the completed womanhood and raising the triumphal
strain of {}``Unto us a child is born:\ unto us a son is given,''
here you are\mbox{---}you who have been as merry as Brigs in your
mourning for the dead\mbox{---}all pulling long faces and looking
as ashamed and disgraced as if the girl had committed the vilest of
crimes.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{roaring with rage}{]} I will not have these
abominations uttered in my house {[}\textit{he smites the writing
table with his fist}{]}.

TANNER. Look here:\ if you insult me again I'll take you at your
word and leave your house. Ann:\ where is Violet now?

ANN. Why? Are you going to her?

TANNER. Of course I am going to her. She wants help; she wants money;
she wants respect and congratulation. She wants every chance for her
child. She does not seem likely to get it from you:\ she shall from
me. Where is she?

ANN. Don't be so headstrong, Jack. She's upstairs.

TANNER. What! Under Ramsden's sacred roof! Go and do your miserable
duty, Ramsden. Hunt her out into the street. Cleanse your threshold
from her contamination. Vindicate the purity of your English home.
I'll go for a cab,

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{alarmed}{]} Oh, Granny, you mustn't do that.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{broken-heartedly, rising}{]} I'll take her
away, Mr.\  Ramsden. She had no right to come to your house.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{indignantly}{]} But I am only too anxious
to help her. {[}\textit{turning on Tanner}{]} How dare you, sir, impute
such monstrous intentions to me? I protest against it. I am ready
to put down my last penny to save her from being driven to run to
you for protection.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{subsiding}{]} It's all right, then. He's not
going to act up to his principles. It's agreed that we all stand by
Violet.

OCTAVIUS. But who is the man? He can make reparation by marrying her;
and he shall, or he shall answer for it to me.

RAMSDEN. He shall, Octavius. There you speak like a man.

TANNER. Then you don't think him a scoundrel, after all?

OCTAVIUS. Not a scoundrel! He is a heartless scoundrel.

RAMSDEN. A damned scoundrel. I beg your pardon, Annie; but I can say
no less.

TANNER. So we are to marry your sister to a damned scoundrel by way
of reforming her character! On my soul, I think you are all mad.

ANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Of course you are quite right, Tavy; but
we don't know who he is:\ Violet won't tell us.

TANNER. What on earth does it matter who he is? He's done his part;
and Violet must do the rest.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{beside himself}{]} Stuff!\ lunacy! There
is a rascal in our midst, a libertine, a villain worse than a murderer;
and we are not to learn who he is! In our ignorance we are to shake
him by the hand; to introduce him into our homes; to trust our daughters
with him; to\mbox{---}to\mbox{---}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{coaxingly}{]} There, Granny, don't talk so loud.
It's most shocking:\ we must all admit that; but if Violet won't
tell us, what can we do? Nothing. Simply nothing.

RAMSDEN. Hmph! I'm not so sure of that. If any man has paid Violet
any special attention, we can easily find that out. If there is any
man of notoriously loose principles among us\mbox{---}

TANNER. Ahem!

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{raising his voice}{]} Yes sir, I repeat, if
there is any man of notoriously loose principles among us\mbox{---}

TANNER. Or any man notoriously lacking in self-control.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{aghast}{]} Do you dare to suggest that I am
capable of such an act?

TANNER. My dear Ramsden, this is an act of which every man is capable.
That is what comes of getting at cross purposes with Nature. The suspicion
you have just flung at me clings to us all. It's a sort of mud that
sticks to the judge's ermine or the cardinal's robe as fast as to
the rags of the tramp. Come, Tavy:\ don't look so bewildered:\ it
might have been me:\ it might have been Ramsden; just as it might
have been anybody. If it had, what could we do but lie and protest
as Ramsden is going to protest.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{choking}{]} I\mbox{---}I\mbox{---}I\mbox{---}

TANNER. Guilt itself could not stammer more confusedly, And yet you
know perfectly well he's innocent, Tavy.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{exhausted}{]} I am glad you admit that, sir.
I admit, myself, that there is an element of truth in what you say,
grossly as you may distort it to gratify your malicious humor. I hope,
Octavius, no suspicion of me is possible in your mind.

OCTAVIUS. Of you! No, not for a moment.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{drily}{]} I think he suspects me just a little.

OCTAVIUS. Jack:\ you couldn't\mbox{---}you would\-n't\mbox{---}

TANNER. Why not?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{appalled}{]} Why not!

TANNER. Oh, well, I'll tell you why not. First, you would feel bound
to quarrel with me. Second, Violet doesn't like me. Third, if I had
the honor of being the father of Violet's child, I should boast of
it instead of denying it. So be easy:\ our Friendship is not in danger.

OCTAVIUS. I should have put away the suspicion with horror if only
you would think and feel naturally about it. I beg your pardon.

TANNER. \emph{My} pardon!\ nonsense! And now let's sit down and have
a family council.\ {}{[}\textit{He sits down. The rest follow his
example, more or less under protest}{]}. Violet is going to do the
State a service; consequently she must be packed abroad like a criminal
until it's over. What's happening upstairs?

ANN. Violet is in the housekeeper's room\mbox{---}by herself, of
course.

TANNER. Why not in the drawing-room?

ANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Miss Ramsden is in the drawing-room with
my mother, considering what to do.

TANNER. Oh!\ the housekeeper's room is the penitentiary, I suppose;
and the prisoner is waiting to be brought before her judges. The old
cats!

ANN. Oh, Jack!

RAMSDEN. You are at present a guest beneath the roof of one of the
old cats, sir. My sister is the mistress of this house.

TANNER. She would put me in the housekeeper's room, too, if she dared,
Ramsden. However, I withdraw cats. Cats would have more sense. Ann:\ 
as your guardian, I order you to go to Violet at once and be particularly
kind to her.

ANN. I have seen her, Jack. And I am sorry to say I am afraid she
is going to be rather obstinate about going abroad. I think Tavy ought
to speak to her about it.

OCTAVIUS. How can I speak to her about such a thing {[}\textit{he
breaks down}{]}?

ANN. Don't break down, Ricky. Try to bear it for all our sakes.

RAMSDEN. Life is not all plays and poems, Octavius. Come!\ face it
like a man.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{chafing again}{]} Poor dear brother! Poor dear
friends of the family! Poor dear Tabbies and Grimalkins. Poor dear
everybody except the woman who is going to risk her life to create
another life! Tavy:\ don't you be a selfish ass. Away with you and
talk to Violet; and bring her down here if she cares to come.\ {}{[}\textit{Octavius
rises}{]}. Tell her we'll stand by her.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{rising}{]} No, sir\mbox{---}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{rising also and interrupting him}{]} Oh, we
understand:\ it's against your conscience; but still you'll do it.

OCTAVIUS. I assure you all, on my word, I never meant to be selfish.
It's so hard to know what to do when one wishes earnestly to do right.

TANNER. My dear Tavy, your pious English habit of regarding the world
as a moral gymnasium built expressly to strengthen your character
in, occasionally leads you to think about your own confounded principles
when you should be thinking about other people's necessities. The
need of the present hour is a happy mother and a healthy baby. Bend
your energies on that; and you will see your way clearly enough.

\emph{Octavius, much perplexed, goes out.}

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{facing Tanner impressively}{]} And Morality,
sir? What is to become of that?

TANNER. Meaning a weeping Magdalen and an innocent child branded with
her shame. Not in our circle, thank you. Morality can go to its father
the devil.

RAMSDEN. I thought so, sir. Morality sent to the devil to please our
libertines, male and female. That is to be the future of England,
is it?

TANNER. Oh, England will survive your disapproval. Meanwhile, I understand
that you agree with me as to the practical course we are to take?

RAMSDEN. Not in your spirit sir. Not for your reasons.

TANNER. You can explain that if anybody calls you to account, here
or hereafter.\ {}{[}\textit{He turns away, and plants himself in
front of Mr.\  Herbert Spencer, at whom he stares gloomily}{]}.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{rising and coming to Ramsden}{]} Granny:\ hadn't
you better go up to the drawing-room and tell them what we intend
to do?

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{looking pointedly at Tanner}{]} I hardly like
to leave you alone with this gentleman. Will you not come with me?

ANN. Miss Ramsden would not like to speak about it before me, Granny.
I ought not to be present.

RAMSDEN. You are right:\ I should have thought of that. You are a
good girl, Annie.

\emph{He pats her on the shoulder. She looks up at him with beaming
eyes and he goes out, much moved. Having disposed of him, she looks
at Tanner. His back being turned to her, she gives a moment's attention
to her personal appearance, then softly goes to him and speaks almost
into his ear.}

ANN. Jack {[}\textit{he turns with a start}{]}:\ are you glad that
you are my guardian? You don't mind being made responsible for me,
I hope.

TANNER. The latest addition to your collection of scapegoats, eh?

ANN. Oh, that stupid old joke of yours about me! Do please drop it.
Why do you say things that you know must pain me? I do my best to
please you, Jack:\ I suppose I may tell you so now that you are my
guardian. You will make me so unhappy if you refuse to be friends
with me.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{studying her as gloomily as he studied the
dust}{]} You need not go begging for my regard. How unreal our moral
judgments are! You seem to me to have absolutely no conscience\mbox{---}only
hypocrisy; and you can't see the difference\mbox{---}yet there is
a sort of fascination about you. I always attend to you, somehow.
I should miss you if I lost you.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{tranquilly slipping her arm into his and walking
about with him}{]} But isn't that only natural, Jack? We have known
each other since we were children. Do you remember?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{abruptly breaking loose}{]} Stop! I remember
\emph{everything}.

ANN. Oh, I daresay we were often very silly; but\mbox{---}

TANNER. I won't have it, Ann. I am no more that schoolboy now than
I am the dotard of ninety I shall grow into if I live long enough.
It is over:\ let me forget it.

ANN. Wasn't it a happy time? {[}\textit{She attempts to take his arm
again}{]}.

TANNER. Sit down and behave yourself.\ {}{[}\textit{He makes her
sit down in the chair next the writing table}{]}. No doubt it was
a happy time for you. You were a good girl and never compromised yourself.
And yet the wickedest child that ever was slapped could hardly have
had a better time. I can understand the success with which you bullied
the other girls:\ your virtue imposed on them. But tell me this:\ did
you ever know a good boy?

ANN. Of course. All boys are foolish sometimes; but Tavy was always
a really good boy.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{struck by this}{]} Yes:\ you're right. For
some reason you never tempted Tavy.

ANN. Tempted! Jack!

TANNER. Yes, my dear Lady Me\-phis\-t\-o\-phe\-l\-es, tempted.
You were insatiably curious as to what a boy might be capable of,
and diabolically clever at getting through his guard and surprising
his inmost secrets.

ANN. What nonsense! All because you used to tell me long stories of
the wicked things you had done\mbox{---}silly boys' tricks! And you
call such things inmost secrets:\ Boys' secrets are just like men's;
and you know what they are!

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{obstinately}{]} No I don't. What are they,
pray?

ANN. Why, the things they tell everybody, of course.

TANNER. Now I swear I told you things I told no one else. You lured
me into a compact by which we were to have no secrets from one another.
We were to tell one another everything, I didn't notice that you never
told me anything.

ANN. You didn't want to talk about me, Jack. You wanted to talk about
yourself.

TANNER. Ah, true, horribly true. But what a devil of a child you must
have been to know that weakness and to play on it for the satisfaction
of your own curiosity! I wanted to brag to you, to make myself interesting.
And I found myself doing all sorts of mischievous things simply to
have something to tell you about. I fought with boys I didn't hate;
I lied about things I might just as well have told the truth about;
I stole things I didn't want; I kissed little girls I didn't care
for. It was all bravado:\ passionless and therefore unreal.

ANN. I never told of you, Jack.

TANNER. No; but if you had wanted to stop me you would have told of
me. You wanted me to go on.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{flashing out}{]} Oh, that's not true:\ it's \emph{not}
true, Jack. I never wanted you to do those dull, disappointing, brutal,
stupid, vulgar things. I always hoped that it would be something really
heroic at last.\ {}{[}\textit{Recovering herself}{]} Excuse me, Jack;
but the things you did were never a bit like the things I wanted you
to do. They often gave me great uneasiness; but I could not tell on
you and get you into trouble. And you were only a boy. I knew you
would grow out of them. Perhaps I was wrong.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{sardonically}{]} Do not give way to remorse,
Ann. At least nineteen twentieths of the exploits I confessed to you
were pure lies. I soon noticed that you didn't like the true stories.

ANN. Of course I knew that some of the things couldn't have happened.
But\mbox{---}

TANNER. You are going to remind me that some of the most disgraceful
ones did.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{fondly, to his great terror}{]} I don't want to
remind you of anything. But I knew the people they happened to, and
heard about them.

TANNER. Yes; but even the true stories were touched up for telling.
A sensitive boy's humiliations may be very good fun for ordinary thick-skinned
grown-ups; but to the boy himself they are so acute, so ignominious,
that he cannot confess them\mbox{---}cannot but deny them passionately.
However, perhaps it was as well for me that I romanced a bit; for,
on the one occasion when I told you the truth, you threatened to tell
of me.

ANN. Oh, never. Never once.

TANNER. Yes, you did. Do you remember a dark-eyed girl named Rachel
Rosetree? {[}\textit{Ann's brows contract for an instant involuntarily}{]}.
I got up a love affair with her; and we met one night in the garden
and walked about very uncomfortably with our arms round one another,
and kissed at parting, and were most conscientiously romantic. If
that love affair had gone on, it would have bored me to death; but
it didn't go on; for the next thing that happened was that Rachel
cut me because she found out that I had told you. How did she find
it out? From you. You went to her and held the guilty secret over
her head, leading her a life of abject terror and humiliation by threatening
to tell on her.

ANN. And a very good thing for her, too. It was my duty to stop her
misconduct; and she is thankful to me for it now.

TANNER. Is she?

ANN. She ought to be, at all events.

TANNER. It was not your duty to stop my misconduct, I suppose.

ANN. I did stop it by stopping her.

TANNER. Are you sure of that? You stopped my telling you about my
adventures; but how do you know that you stopped the adventures?

ANN. Do you mean to say that you went on in the same way with other
girls?

TANNER. No. I had enough of that sort of romantic tomfoolery with
Rachel.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{unconvinced}{]} Then why did you break off our
confidences and become quite strange to me?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{enigmatically}{]} It happened just then that
I got something that I wanted to keep all to myself instead of sharing
it with you.

ANN. I am sure I shouldn't have asked for any of it if you had grudged
it.

TANNER. It wasn't a box of sweets, Ann. It was something you'd never
have let me call my own.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{incredulously}{]} What?

TANNER. My soul.

ANN. Oh, do be sensible, Jack. You know you're talking nonsense.

TANNER. The most solemn earnest, Ann. You didn't notice at that time
that you were getting a soul too. But you were. It was not for nothing
that you suddenly found you had a moral duty to chastise and reform
Rachel. Up to that time you had traded pretty extensively in being
a good child; but you had never set up a sense of duty to others.
Well, I set one up too. Up to that time I had played the boy buccaneer
with no more conscience than a fox in a poultry farm. But now I began
to have scruples, to feel obligations, to find that veracity and honor
were no longer goody-goody expressions in the mouths of grown up people,
but compelling principles in myself.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{quietly}{]} Yes, I suppose you're right. You were
beginning to be a man, and I to be a woman.

TANNER. Are you sure it was not that we were beginning to be something
more? What does the beginning of manhood and womanhood mean in most
people's mouths? You know:\ it means the beginning of love. But love
began long before that for me. Love played its part in the earliest
dreams and follies and romances I can remember\mbox{---}may I say
the earliest follies and romances we can remember?\mbox{---}-though
we did not understand it at the time. No:\ the change that came to
me was the birth in me of moral passion; and I declare that according
to my experience moral passion is the only real passion.

ANN. All passions ought to be moral, Jack.

TANNER. Ought! Do you think that anything is strong enough to impose
oughts on a passion except a stronger passion still?

ANN. Our moral sense controls passion, Jack. Don't be stupid.

TANNER. Our moral sense! And is that not a passion? Is the devil to
have all the passions as well as all the good times? If it were not
a passion\mbox{---}if it were not the mightiest of the passions,
all the other passions would sweep it away like a leaf before a hurricane.
It is the birth of that passion that turns a child into a man.

ANN. There are other passions, Jack. Very strong ones.

TANNER. All the other passions were in me before; but they were idle
and aimless\mbox{---}mere childish greedinesses and cruelties, curiosities
and fancies, habits and superstitions, grotesque and ridiculous to
the mature intelligence. When they suddenly began to shine like newly
lit flames it was by no light of their own, but by the radiance of
the dawning moral passion. That passion dignified them, gave them
conscience and meaning, found them a mob of appetites and organized
them into an army of purposes and principles. My soul was born of
that passion.

ANN. I noticed that you got more sense. You were a dreadfully destructive
boy before that.

TANNER. Destructive! Stuff! I was only mischievous.

ANN. Oh Jack, you were very destructive. You ruined all the young
fir trees by chopping off their leaders with a wooden sword. You broke
all the cucumber frames with your catapult. You set fire to the common:\ 
the police arrested Tavy for it because he ran away when he couldn't
stop you. You\mbox{---}

TANNER. Pooh!\ pooh!\ pooh!\ these were battles, bombardments,
stratagems to save our scalps from the red Indians. You have no imagination,
Ann. I am ten times more destructive now than I was then. The moral
passion has taken my destructiveness in hand and directed it to moral
ends. I have become a reformer, and, like all reformers, an iconoclast.
I no longer break cucumber frames and burn gorse bushes:\ I shatter
creeds and demolish idols.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{bored}{]} I am afraid I am too feminine to see
any sense in destruction. Destruction can only destroy.

TANNER. Yes. That is why it is so useful. Construction cumbers the
ground with institutions made by busybodies. Destruction clears it
and gives us breathing space and liberty.

ANN. It's no use, Jack. No woman will agree with you there.

TANNER. That's because you confuse construction and destruction with
creation and murder. They're quite different:\ I adore creation and
abhor murder. Yes:\ I adore it in tree and flower, in bird and beast,
even in you.\ {}{[}\textit{A flush of interest and delight suddenly
clears the growing perplexity and boredom from her face}{]}. It was
the creative instinct that led you to attach me to you by bonds that
have left their mark on me to this day. Yes, Ann:\ the old childish
compact between us was an unconscious love compact.

ANN. Jack!

TANNER. Oh, don't be alarmed\mbox{---}

ANN. I am not alarmed.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{whimsically}{]} Then you ought to be:\ where
are your principles?

ANN. Jack:\ are you serious or are you not?

TANNER. Do you mean about the moral passion?

ANN. No, no; the other one.\ {}{[}\textit{Confused}{]} Oh!\ you
are so silly; one never knows how to take you.

TANNER. You must take me quite seriously. I am your guardian; and
it is my duty to improve your mind.

ANN. The love compact is over, then, is it? I suppose you grew tired
of me?

TANNER. No; but the moral passion made our childish relations impossible.
A jealous sense of my new individuality arose in me.

ANN. You hated to be treated as a boy any longer. Poor Jack!

TANNER. Yes, because to be treated as a boy was to be taken on the
old footing. I had become a new person; and those who knew the old
person laughed at me. The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor:\ 
he took my measure anew every time he saw me, whilst all the rest
went on with their old measurements and expected them to fit me.

ANN. You became frightfully self-con\-scious.

TANNER. When you go to heaven, Ann, you will be frightfully conscious
of your wings for the first year or so. When you meet your relatives
there, and they persist in treating you as if you were still a mortal,
you will not be able to bear them. You will try to get into a circle
which has never known you except as an angel.

ANN. So it was only your vanity that made you run away from us after
all?

TANNER. Yes, only my vanity, as you call it.

ANN. You need not have kept away from \emph{me} on that account.

TANNER. From you above all others. You fought harder than anybody
against my emancipation.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{earnestly}{]} Oh, how wrong you are! I would have
done anything for you.

TANNER. Anything except let me get loose from you. Even then you had
acquired by instinct that damnable woman's trick of heaping obligations
on a man, of placing yourself so entirely and helplessly at his mercy
that at last he dare not take a step without running to you for leave.
I know a poor wretch whose one desire in life is to run away from
his wife. She prevents him by threatening to throw herself in front
of the engine of the train he leaves her in. That is what all women
do. If we try to go where you do not want us to go there is no law
to prevent us, but when we take the first step your breasts are under
our foot as it descends:\ your bodies are under our wheels as we
start. No woman shall ever enslave me in that way.

ANN. But, Jack, you cannot get through life without considering other
people a little.

TANNER. \textit{\emph{Ay}}; but what other people? It is this consideration
of other people or rather this cowardly fear of them which we call
consideration that makes us the sentimental slaves we are. To consider
you, as you call it, is to substitute your will for my own. How if
it be a baser will than mine? Are women taught better than men or
worse? Are mobs of voters taught better than statesmen or worse? Worse,
of course, in both cases. And then what sort of world are you going
to get, with its public men considering its voting mobs, and its private
men considering their wives? What does Church and State mean nowadays?
The Woman and the Ratepayer.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{placidly}{]} I am so glad you understand politics,
Jack:\ it will be most useful to you if you go into parliament {[}\textit{he
collapses like a pricked bladder}{]}. But I am sorry you thought my
influence a bad one.

TANNER. I don't say it was a bad one. But bad or good, I didn't choose
to be cut to your measure. And I won't be cut to it.

ANN. Nobody wants you to, Jack. I assure you\mbox{---}really on my
word\mbox{---}I don't mind your queer opinions one little bit. You
know we have all been brought up to have advanced opinions. Why do
you persist in thinking me so narrow minded?

TANNER. That's the danger of it. I know you don't mind, because you've
found out that it doesn't matter. The boa constrictor doesn't mind
the opinions of a stag one little bit when once she has got her coils
round it.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{rising in sudden enlightenment}{]} O-o-o-o-oh!
\emph{Now} I understand why you warned Tavy that I am a boa constrictor.
Granny told me.\ {}{[}\textit{She laughs and throws her boa around
his neck}{]}. Doesn't it feel nice and soft, Jack?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{in the toils}{]} You scandalous woman, will
you throw away even your hypocrisy?

ANN. I am never hypocritical with you, Jack. Are you angry? {[}\textit{She
withdraws the boa and throws it on a chair}{]}. Perhaps I shouldn't
have done that.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{contemptuously}{]} Pooh, prudery! Why should
you not, if it amuses you?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{Shyly}{]} Well, because\mbox{---}because I suppose
what you really meant by the boa constrictor was \emph{this} {[}\textit{she
puts her arms round his neck}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{Staring at her}{]} Magnificent audacity! {[}\textit{She
laughs and pats his cheeks}{]}. Now just to think that if I mentioned
this episode not a soul would believe me except the people who would
cut me for telling, whilst if you accused me of it nobody would believe
my denial.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{taking her arms away with perfect dignity}{]}
You are incorrigible, Jack. But you should not jest about our affection
for one another. Nobody could possibly misunderstand it. \emph{You}
do not misunderstand it, I hope.

TANNER. My blood interprets for me, Ann. Poor Ricky Tiky Tavy!

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{looking quickly at him as if this were a new light}{]}
Surely you are not so absurd as to be jealous of Tavy.

TANNER. Jealous! Why should I be? But I don't wonder at your grip
of him. I feel the coils tightening round my very self, though you
are only playing with me.

ANN. Do you think I have designs on Tavy?

TANNER. I know you have.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{earnestly}{]} Take care, Jack. You may make Tavy
very happy if you mislead him about me.

TANNER. Never fear:\ he will not escape you.

ANN. I wonder are you really a clever man!

TANNER. Why this sudden misgiving on the subject?

ANN. You seem to understand all the things I don't understand; but
you are a perfect baby in the things I do understand.

TANNER. I understand how Tavy feels for you, Ann; you may depend on
that, at all events.

ANN. And you think you understand how I feel for Tavy, don't you?

TANNER. I know only too well what is going to happen to poor Tavy.

ANN. I should laugh at you, Jack, if it were not for poor papa's death.
Mind! Tavy will be very unhappy.

TANNER. Yes; but he won't know it, poor devil. He is a thousand times
too good for you. That's why he is going to make the mistake of his
life about you.

ANN. I think men make more mistakes by being too clever than by being
too good {[}\textit{she sits down, with a trace of contempt for the
whole male sex in the elegant carriage of her shoulders}{]}.

TANNER. Oh, I know you don't care very much about Tavy. But there
is always one who kisses and one who only allows the kiss. Tavy will
kiss; and you will only turn the cheek. And you will throw him over
if anybody better turns up.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{offended}{]} You have no right to say such things,
Jack. They are not true, and not delicate. If you and Tavy choose
to be stupid about me, that is not my fault.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{remorsefully}{]} Forgive my brutalities, Ann.
They are levelled at this wicked world, not at you.\ {}{[}\textit{She
looks up at him, pleased and forgiving. He becomes cautious at once}{]}.
All the same, I wish Ramsden would come back. I never feel safe with
you:\ there is a devilish charm\mbox{---}or no:\ not a charm, a
subtle interest {[}\textit{she laughs}{]}. Just so:\ you know it;
and you triumph in it. Openly and shamelessly triumph in it!

ANN. What a shocking flirt you are, Jack!

TANNER. A flirt!! I!!

ANN. Yes, a flirt. You are always abusing and offending people. but
you never really mean to let go your hold of them.

TANNER. I will ring the bell. This conversation has already gone further
than I intended.

\emph{Ramsden and Octavius come back with Miss Ramsden, a hardheaded
old maiden lady in a plain brown silk gown, with enough rings, chains
and brooches to show that her plainness of dress is a matter of principle,
not of poverty. She comes into the room very determinedly:\ the two
men, perplexed and downcast, following her. Ann rises and goes eagerly
to meet her. Tanner retreats to the wall between the busts and pretends
to study the pictures. Ramsden goes to his table as usual; and Octavius
clings to the neighborhood of Tanner.}

MISS RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{almost pushing Ann aside as she comes
to Mr.}\ \textit{Whitefield's chair and plants herself there resolutely}{]}
I wash my hands of the whole affair.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{very wretched}{]} I know you wish me to take
Violet away, Miss Ramsden. I will.\ {}{[}\textit{He turns irresolutely
to the door}{]}.

RAMSDEN. No no\mbox{---}

MISS RAMSDEN. What is the use of saying no, Roebuck? Octavius knows
that I would not turn any truly contrite and repentant woman from
your doors. But when a woman is not only wicked, but intends to go
on being wicked, she and I part company.

ANN. Oh, Miss Ramsden, what do you mean? What has Violet said?

RAMSDEN. Violet is certainly very obstinate. She won't leave London.
I don't understand her.

MISS RAMSDEN. I do. It's as plain as the nose on your face, Roebuck,
that she won't go because she doesn't want to be separated from this
man, whoever he is.

ANN. Oh, surely, surely! Octavius:\ did you speak to her?

OCTAVIUS. She won't tell us anything. She won't make any arrangement
until she has consulted somebody. It can't be anybody else than the
scoundrel who has betrayed her.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{to Octavius}{]} Well, let her consult him.
He will be glad enough to have her sent abroad. Where is the difficulty?

MISS RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{Taking the answer out of Octavius's mouth}{]}.
The difficulty, Mr.\ Jack, is that when I offered to help her I didn't
offer to become her accomplice in her wickedness. She either pledges
her word never to see that man again, or else she finds some new friends;
and the sooner the better. {[}\textit{The parlormaid appears at the
door. Ann hastily resumes her seat, and looks as unconcerned as possible.
Octavius instinctively imitates her}{]}.

THE MAID. The cab is at the door, ma'am.

MISS RAMSDEN. What cab?

THE MAID. For Miss Robinson.

MISS RAMSDEN. Oh! {[}\textit{Recovering herself}{]} All right.\ {}{[}\textit{The
maid withdraws}{]}. She has sent for a cab.

TANNER. I wanted to send for that cab half an hour ago.

MISS RAMSDEN. I am glad she understands the position she has placed
herself in.

RAMSDEN. I don't like her going away in this fashion, Susan. We had
better not do anything harsh.

OCTAVIUS. No:\ thank you again and again; but Miss Ramsden is quite
right. Violet cannot expect to stay.

ANN. Hadn't you better go with her, Tavy?

OCTAVIUS. She won't have me.

MISS RAMSDEN. Of course she won't. She's going straight to that man.

TANNER. As a natural result of her virtuous reception here.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{much troubled}{]} There, Susan! You hear!\ and
there's some truth in it. I wish you could reconcile it with your
principles to be a little patient with this poor girl. She's very
young; and there's a time for everything.

MISS RAMSDEN. Oh, she will get all the sympathy she wants from the
men. I'm surprised at you, Roebuck.

TANNER. So am I, Ramsden, most favorably.

\emph{Violet appears at the door. She is as impenitent and self-assured
a young lady as one would desire to see among the best behaved of
her sex. Her small head and tiny resolute mouth and chin; her haughty
crispness of speech and trimness of carriage; the ruthless elegance
of her equipment, which includes a very smart hat with a dead bird
in it, mark a personality which is as formidable as it is exquisitely
pretty. She is not a siren, like Ann:\ admiration comes to her without
any compulsion or even interest on her part; besides, there is some
fun in Ann, but in this woman none, perhaps no mercy either:\ if
anything restrains her, it is intelligence and pride, not compassion.
Her voice might be the voice of a schoolmistress addressing a class
of girls who had disgraced themselves, as she proceeds with complete
composure and some disgust to say what she has come to say.}

VIOLET. I have only looked in to tell Miss Ramsden that she will find
her birthday present to me, the filagree bracelet, in the housekeeper's
room.

TANNER. Do come in, Violet, and talk to us sensibly.

VIOLET. Thank you:\ I have had quite enough of the family conversation
this morning. So has your mother, Ann:\ she has gone home crying.
But at all events, I have found out what some of my pretended friends
are worth. Good bye.

TANNER. No, no:\ one moment. I have something to say which I beg
you to hear.\ {}{[}\textit{She looks at him without the slightest
curiosity, but waits, apparently as much to finish getting her glove
on as to hear what he has to say}{]}. I am altogether on your side
in this matter. I congratulate you, with the sincerest respect, on
having the courage to do what you have done. You are entirely in the
right; and the family is entirely in the wrong.

\emph{Sensation. Ann and Miss Ramsden rise and turn toward the two.
Violet, more surprised than any of the others, forgets her glove,
and comes forward into the middle of the room, both puzzled and displeased.
Octavius alone does not move or raise his head; he is overwhelmed
with shame.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{pleading to Tanner to be sensible}{]} Jack!

MISS RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{outraged}{]} Well, I must say!

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{sharply to Tanner}{]} Who told you?

TANNER. Why, Ramsden and Tavy of course. Why should they not?

VIOLET. But they don't know.

TANNER. Don't know what?

VIOLET. They don't know that I am in the right, I mean.

TANNER. Oh, they know it in their hearts, though they think themselves
bound to blame you by their silly superstitions about morality and
propriety and so forth. But I know, and the whole world really knows,
though it dare not say so, that you were right to follow your instinct;
that vitality and bravery are the greatest qualities a woman can have,
and motherhood her solemn initiation into womanhood; and that the
fact of your not being legally married matters not one scrap either
to your own worth or to our real regard for you.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{flushing with indignation}{]} Oh! You think
me a wicked woman, like the rest. You think I have not only been vile,
but that I share your abominable opinions. Miss Ramsden:\ I have
borne your hard words because I knew you would be sorry for them when
you found out the truth. But I won't bear such a horrible insult as
to be complimented by Jack on being one of the wretches of whom he
approves. I have kept my marriage a secret for my husband's sake.
But now I claim my right as a married woman not to be insulted.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{raising his head with inexpressible relief}{]}
You are married!

VIOLET. Yes; and I think you might have guessed it. What business
had you all to take it for granted that I had no right to wear my
wedding ring? Not one of you even asked me:\ I cannot forget that.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{in ruins}{]} I am utterly crushed. I meant
well\mbox{---}I apologize\mbox{---}abjectly apologize.

VIOLET. I hope you will be more careful in future about the things
you say. Of course one does not take them seriously. But they are
very disagreeable, and rather in bad taste.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{bowing to the storm}{]} I have no defence:\ 
I shall know better in future than to take any woman's part. We have
all disgraced ourselves in your eyes, I am afraid, except Ann, \emph{she}
befriended you. For Ann's sake, forgive us.

VIOLET. Yes:\ Ann has been very kind; but then Ann knew.

TANNER. Oh!

MISS RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{stiffly}{]} And who, pray, is the gentleman
who does not acknowledge his wife?

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{promptly}{]} That is my business, Miss Ramsden,
and not yours. I have my reasons for keeping my marriage a secret
for the present.

RAMSDEN. All I can say is that we are extremely sorry, Violet. I am
shocked to think of how we have treated you.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{awkwardly}{]} I beg your pardon, Violet.
I can say no more.

MISS RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{still loth to surrender}{]} Of course
what you say puts a very different complexion on the matter. All the
same, I owe it to myself\mbox{---}

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{cutting her short}{]} You owe me an apology,
Miss Ramsden:\ that's what you owe both to yourself and to me. If
you were a married woman you would not like sitting in the housekeeper's
room and being treated like a naughty child by young girls and old
ladies without any serious duties and responsibilities.

TANNER. Don't hit us when we're down, Violet. We seem to have made
fools of ourselves; but really it was you who made fools of us.

VIOLET. It was no business of yours, Jack, in any case.

TANNER. No business of mine! Why, Ramsden as good as accused me of
being the unknown gentleman.

\emph{Ramsden makes a frantic demonstration; but Violet's cool keen
anger extinguishes it.}

VIOLET. You! Oh, how infamous!\ how abominable! How disgracefully
you have all been talking about me! If my husband knew it he would
never let me speak to any of you again.\ {}{[}\textit{To Ramsden}{]}
I think you might have spared me, at least.

RAMSDEN. But I assure you I never\mbox{---}at least it is a monstrous
perversion of something I said that\mbox{---}

MISS RAMSDEN. You needn't apologize, Roebuck. She brought it all on
herself. It is for her to apologize for having deceived us.

VIOLET. I can make allowances for you, Miss Ramsden:\ you cannot
understand how I feel on this subject though I should have expected
rather better taste from people of greater experience. However, I
quite feel that you have all placed yourselves in a very painful position;
and the most truly considerate thing for me to do is to go at once.
Good morning.

MISS RAMSDEN. Well, I must say\mbox{---}!

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{plaintively}{]} I don't think she is quite
fair to us.

TANNER. You must cower before the wedding ring like the rest of us,
Ramsden. The cup of our ignominy is full.


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT II}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT II}

\markboth{MAN AND SUPERMAN}{ACT II}

\emph{On the carriage drive in the park of a country house near Richmond
a motor car has broken down. It stands in front of a clump of trees
round which the drive sweeps to the house, which is partly visible
through them:\ indeed Tanner, standing in the drive with the car
on his right hand, could get an unobstructed view of the west corner
of the house on his left were he not far too much interested in a
pair of supine legs in blue serge trousers which protrude from beneath
the machine. He is watching them intently with bent back and hands
supported on his knees. His leathern overcoat and peaked cap proclaim
him one of the dismounted passengers.}

THE LEGS. Aha! I got him.

TANNER. All right now?

THE LEGS. All right now.

\emph{Tanner stoops and takes the legs by the ankles, drawing their
owner forth like a wheelbarrow, walking on his hands, with a hammer
in his mouth. He is a young man in a neat suit of blue serge, clean
shaven, dark eyed, square fingered, with short well brushed black
hair and rather irregular sceptically turned eyebrows. When he is
manipulating the car his movements are swift and sudden, yet attentive
and deliberate. With Tanner and Tanner's friends his manner is not
in the least deferential, but cool and reticent, keeping them quite
effectually at a distance whilst giving them no excuse for complaining
of him. Nevertheless he has a vigilant eye on them always, and that,
too, rather cynically, like a man who knows the world well from its
seamy side. He speaks slowly and with a touch of sarcasm; and as he
does not at all affect the gentleman in his speech, it may be inferred
that his smart appearance is a mark of respect to himself and his
own class, not to that which employs him.}

\emph{He now gets into the car to test his machinery and put his cap
and overcoat on again. Tanner takes off his leather overcoat and pitches
it into the car. The chauffeur (or automobilist or motoreer or whatever
England may presently decide to call him) looks round inquiringly
in the act of stowing away his hammer.}

THE CHAUFFEUR. Had enough of it, eh?

TANNER. I may as well walk to the house and stretch my legs and calm
my nerves a little.\ {}{[}\textit{Looking at his watch}{]} I suppose
you know that we have come from Hyde Park Corner to Richmond in twenty-one
minutes.

THE CHAUFFEUR. I'd have done it under fifteen if I'd had a clear road
all the way.

TANNER. Why do you do it? Is it for love of sport or for the fun of
terrifying your unfortunate employer?

THE CHAUFFEUR. What are you afraid of?

TANNER. The police, and breaking my neck.

THE CHAUFFEUR. Well, if you like easy going, you can take a bus, you
know. It's cheaper. You pay me to save your time and give you the
value of your thousand pound car.\ {}{[}\textit{He sits down calmly}{]}.

TANNER. I am the slave of that car and of you too. I dream of the
accursed thing at night.

THE CHAUFFEUR. You'll get over that. If you're going up to the house,
may I ask how long you're goin to stay there? Because if you mean
to put in the whole morning talkin to the ladies, I'll put the car
in the stables and make myself comfortable. If not, I'll keep the
car on the go about here til you come.

TANNER. Better wait here. We shan't be long. There's a young American
gentleman, a Mr.\ Malone, who is driving Mr.\ Robinson down in his
new American steam car.

THE CHAUFFEUR.\ {}{[}\textit{springing up and coming hastily out
of the car to Tanner}{]} American steam car! Wot!\ racin us down
from London!

TANNER. Perhaps they're here already.

THE CHAUFFEUR. If I'd known it! {[}\textit{with deep reproach}{]}
Why didn't you tell me, Mr.\ Tanner?

TANNER. Because I've been told that this car is capable of 84 miles
an hour; and I already know what \emph{you} are capable of when there
is a rival car on the road. No, Henry:\ there are things it is not
good for you to know; and this was one of them. However, cheer up:\ 
we are going to have a day after your own heart. The American is to
take Mr.\ Robinson and his sister and Miss Whitefield. We are to
take Miss Rhoda.

THE CHAUFFEUR.\ {}{[}\textit{consoled, and musing on another matter}{]}
That's Miss Whitefield's sister, isn't it?

TANNER. Yes.

THE CHAUFFEUR. And Miss Whitefield herself is goin in the other car?
Not with you?

TANNER. Why the devil should she come with me? Mr.\ Robinson will
be in the other car.\ {}{[}\textit{The Chauffeur looks at Tanner
with cool incredulity, and turns to the car, whistling a popular air
softly to himself. Tanner, a little annoyed, is about to pursue the
subject when he hears the footsteps of Octavius on the gravel. Octavius
is coming from the house, dressed for motoring, but without his overcoat}{]}.
We've lost the race, thank Heaven:\ here's Mr.\ Robinson. Well,
Tavy, is the steam car a success?

OCTAVIUS. I think so. We came from Hyde Park Corner here in seventeen
minutes.\ {}{[}\textit{The Chauffeur, furious, kicks the car with
a groan of vexation}{]}. How long were you?

TANNER. Oh, about three quarters of an hour or so.

THE CHAUFFEUR.\ {}{[}\textit{remonstrating}{]} Now, now, Mr.\ Tanner,
come now! We could ha done it easy under fifteen.

TANNER. By the way, let me introduce you. Mr.\ Octavius Robinson:\ 
Mr.\
Enry Straker.

STRAKER. Pleased to meet you, sir. Mr.\ Tanner is gittin at you with
his Enry Straker, you know. You call it Henery. But I don't mind,
bless you.

TANNER. You think it's simply bad taste in me to chaff him, Tavy.
But you're wrong. This man takes more trouble to drop his \textit{aiches}
than ever his father did to pick them up. It's a mark of caste to
him. I have never met anybody more swollen with the pride of class
than Enry is.

STRAKER. Easy, easy! A little moderation, Mr.\ Tanner.

TANNER. A little moderation, Tavy, you observe. You would tell me
to draw it mild, But this chap has been educated. What's more, he
knows that we haven't. What was that board school of yours, Straker?

STRAKER. Sherbrooke Road.

TANNER. Sherbrooke Road! Would any of us say Rugby!\ Harrow!\ Eton!\ in
that tone of intellectual snobbery? Sherbrooke Road is a place where
boys learn something; Eton is a boy farm where we are sent because
we are nuisances at home, and because in after life, whenever a Duke
is mentioned, we can claim him as an old schoolfellow.

STRAKER. You don't know nothing about it, Mr.\ Tanner. It's not the
Board School that does it:\ it's the Polytechnic.

TANNER. His university, Octavius. Not Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, Dublin
or Glasgow. Not even those Nonconformist holes in Wales. No, Tavy.
Regent Street, Chelsea, the Borough\mbox{---}I don't know half their
confounded names:\ these are his universities, not mere shops for
selling class limitations like ours. You despise Oxford, Enry, don't
you?

STRAKER. No, I don't. Very nice sort of place, Oxford, I should think,
for people that like that sort of place. They teach you to be a gentleman
there. In the Polytechnic they teach you to be an engineer or such
like. See?

TANNER. Sarcasm, Tavy, sarcasm! Oh, if you could only see into Enry's
soul, the depth of his contempt for a gentleman, the arrogance of
his pride in being an engineer, would appal you. He positively likes
the car to break down because it brings out my gentlemanly helplessness
and his workmanlike skill and resource.

STRAKER. Never you mind him, Mr.\ Robinson. He likes to talk. We
know him, don't we?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{earnestly}{]} But there's a great truth at
the bottom of what he says. I believe most intensely in the dignity
of labor.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{unimpressed}{]} That's because you never done
any Mr.\
Robinson. My business is to do away with labor. You'll get more out
of me and a machine than you will out of twenty laborers, and not
so much to drink either.

TANNER. For Heaven's sake, Tavy, don't start him on political economy.
He knows all about it; and we don't. You're only a poetic Socialist,
Tavy:\ he's a scientific one.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{unperturbed}{]} Yes. Well, this conversation
is very improvin; but I've got to look after the car; and you two
want to talk about your ladies. I know.\ {}{[}\textit{He retires
to busy himself about the car; and presently saunters off towards
the house}{]}.

TANNER. That's a very momentous social phenomenon.

OCTAVIUS. What is?

TANNER. Straker is. Here have we literary and cultured persons been
for years setting up a cry of the New Woman whenever some unusually
old fashioned female came along; and never noticing the advent of
the New Man. Straker's the New Man.

OCTAVIUS. I see nothing new about him, except your way of chaffing
him. But I don't want to talk about him just now. I want to speak
to you about Ann.

TANNER. Straker knew even that. He learnt it at the Polytechnic, probably.
Well, what about Ann? Have you proposed to her?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{self-reproachfully}{]} I was brute enough
to do so last night.

TANNER. Brute enough! What do you mean?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{dithyrambically}{]} Jack:\ we men are all
coarse. We never understand how exquisite a woman's sensibilities
are. How could I have done such a thing!

TANNER. Done what, you maudlin idiot?

OCTAVIUS. Yes, I am an idiot. Jack:\ if you had heard her voice!\ if
you had seen her tears! I have lain awake all night thinking of them.
If she had reproached me, I could have borne it better.

TANNER. Tears!\ that's dangerous. What did she say?

OCTAVIUS. She asked me how she could think of anything now but her
dear father. She stifled a sob\mbox{---} {[}\textit{he breaks down}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{patting him on the back}{]} Bear it like a
man, Tavy, even if you feel it like an ass. It's the old game:\ she's
not tired of playing with you yet.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{impatiently}{]} Oh, don't be a fool, Jack.
Do you suppose this eternal shallow cynicism of yours has any real
bearing on a nature like hers?

TANNER. \textit{\emph{Hm}}! Did she say anything else?

OCTAVIUS. Yes; and that is why I expose myself and her to your ridicule
by telling you what passed.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{remorsefully}{]} No, dear Tavy, not ridicule,
on my honor! However, no matter. Go on.

OCTAVIUS. Her sense of duty is so devout, so perfect, so\mbox{---}

TANNER. Yes:\ I know. Go on.

OCTAVIUS. You see, under this new arrangement, you and Ramsden are
her guardians; and she considers that all her duty to her father is
now transferred to you. She said she thought I ought to have spoken
to you both in the first instance. Of course she is right; but somehow
it seems rather absurd that I am to come to you and formally ask to
be received as a suitor for your ward's hand.

TANNER. I am glad that love has not totally extinguished your sense
of humor, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS. That answer won't satisfy her.

TANNER. My official answer is, obviously, Bless you, my children:\ 
may you be happy!

OCTAVIUS. I wish you would stop playing the fool about this. If it
is not serious to you, it is to me, and to her.

TANNER. You know very well that she is as free to choose as you. 

OCTAVIUS. She does not think so.

TANNER. Oh, doesn't she!\ just! However, say what you want me to
do.

OCTAVIUS. I want you to tell her sincerely and earnestly what you
think about me. I want you to tell her that you can trust her to me\mbox{---}that
is, if you feel you can.

TANNER. I have no doubt that I can trust her to you. What worries
me is the idea of trusting you to her. Have you read Maeterlinck's
book about the bee?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{keeping his temper with difficulty}{]} I
am not discussing literature at present.

TANNER. Be just a little patient with me. I am not discussing literature:\ 
the book about the bee is natural history. It's an awful lesson to
mankind. You think that you are Ann's suitor; that you are the pursuer
and she the pursued; that it is your part to woo, to persuade, to
prevail, to overcome. Fool:\ it is you who are the pursued, the marked
down quarry, the destined prey. You need not sit looking longingly
at the bait through the wires of the trap:\ the door is open, and
will remain so until it shuts behind you for ever.

OCTAVIUS. I wish I could believe that, vilely as you put it.

TANNER. Why, man, what other work has she in life but to get a husband?
It is a woman's business to get married as soon as possible, and a
man's to keep unmarried as long as he can. You have your poems and
your tragedies to work at:\ Ann has nothing.

OCTAVIUS. I cannot write without inspiration. And nobody can give
me that except Ann.

TANNER. Well, hadn't you better get it from her at a safe distance?
Petrarch didn't see half as much of Laura, nor Dante of Beatrice,
as you see of Ann now; and yet they wrote first-rate poetry\mbox{---}at
least so I'm told. They never exposed their idolatry to the test of
domestic familiarity; and it lasted them to their graves. Marry Ann
and at the end of a week you'll find no more inspiration than in a
plate of muffins.

OCTAVIUS. You think I shall tire of her.

TANNER. Not at all:\ you don't get tired of muffins. But you don't
find inspiration in them; and you won't in her when she ceases to
be a poet's dream and becomes a solid eleven stone wife. You'll be
forced to dream about somebody else; and then there will be a row.

OCTAVIUS. This sort of talk is no use, Jack. You don't understand.
You have never been in love.

TANNER. I! I have never been out of it. Why, I am in love even with
Ann. But I am neither the slave of love nor its dupe. Go to the bee,
thou poet:\ consider her ways and be wise. By Heaven, Tavy, if women
could do without our work, and we ate their children's bread instead
of making it, they would kill us as the spider kills her mate or as
the bees kill the drone. And they would be right if we were good for
nothing but love.

OCTAVIUS. Ah, if we were only good enough for Love! There is nothing
like Love:\ there is nothing else but Love:\ without it the world
would be a dream of sordid horror.

TANNER. And this\mbox{---}this is the man who asks me to give him
the hand of my ward! Tavy:\ I believe we were changed in our cradles,
and that you are the real descendant of Don Juan.

OCTAVIUS. I beg you not to say anything like that to Ann.

TANNER. Don't be afraid. She has marked you for her own; and nothing
will stop her now. You are doomed.\ {}{[}\textit{Straker comes back
with a newspaper}{]}. Here comes the New Man, demoralizing himself
with a halfpenny paper as usual.

STRAKER. Now, would you believe it:\ Mr.\ Robinson, when we're out
motoring we take in two papers, the \emph{Times} for him, the \emph{Leader}
or the \emph{Echo} for me. And do you think I ever see my paper? Not
much. He grabs the \emph{Leader} and leaves me to stodge myself with
his \emph{Times}.

OCTAVIUS. Are there no winners in the \emph{Times}?

TANNER. Enry don't old with bettin, Tavy. Motor records are his weakness.
What's the latest?

STRAKER. Paris to Biskra at forty mile an hour average, not countin
the Mediterranean.

TANNER. How many killed?

STRAKER. Two silly sheep. What does it matter? Sheep don't cost such
a lot:\ they were glad to ave the price without the trouble o sellin
em to the butcher. All the same, d'y'see, there'll be a clamor agin
it presently; and then the French Government'll stop it; an our chance
will be gone see? That what makes me fairly mad:\ Mr.\ Tanner won't
do a good run while he can.

TANNER. Tavy:\ do you remember my uncle James?

OCTAVIUS. Yes. Why?

TANNER. Uncle James had a first rate cook:\ he couldn't digest anything
except what she cooked. Well, the poor man was shy and hated society.
But his cook was proud of her skill, and wanted to serve up dinners
to princes and ambassadors. To prevent her from leaving him, that
poor old man had to give a big dinner twice a month, and suffer agonies
of awkwardness. Now here am I; and here is this chap Enry Straker,
the New Man. I loathe travelling; but I rather like Enry. He cares
for nothing but tearing along in a leather coat and goggles, with
two inches of dust all over him, at sixty miles an hour and the risk
of his life and mine. Except, of course, when he is lying on his back
in the mud under the machine trying to find out where it has given
way. Well, if I don't give him a thousand mile run at least once a
fortnight I shall lose him. He will give me the sack and go to some
American millionaire; and I shall have to put up with a nice respectful
groom-gardener-amateur, who will touch his hat and know his place.
I am Enry's slave, just as Uncle James was his cook's slave.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{exasperated}{]} Garn! I wish I had a car that
would go as fast as you can talk, Mr.\ Tanner. What I say is that
you lose money by a motor car unless you keep it workin. Might as
well ave a pram and a nussmaid to wheel you in it as that car and
me if you don't git the last inch out of us both.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{soothingly}{]} All right, Henry, all right.
We'll go out for half an hour presently.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{in disgust}{]} Arf an ahr! {[}\textit{He returns
to his machine; seats himself in it; and turns up a fresh page of
his paper in search of more news}{]}.

OCTAVIUS. Oh, that reminds me. I have a note for you from Rhoda.\ {}{[}\textit{He
gives Tanner a note}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{opening it}{]} I rather think Rhoda is heading
for a row with Ann. As a rule there is only one person an English
girl hates more than she hates her mother; and that's her eldest sister.
But Rhoda positively prefers her mother to Ann. She\mbox{---} {[}\textit{indignantly}{]}
Oh, I say!

OCTAVIUS. What's the matter?

TANNER. Rhoda was to have come with me for a ride in the motor car.
She says Ann has forbidden her to go out with me.

\emph{Straker suddenly begins whistling his favorite air with remarkable
deliberation. Surprised by this burst of larklike melody, and jarred
by a sardonic note in its cheerfulness, they turn and look inquiringly
at him. But he is busy with his paper; and nothing comes of their
movement.}

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{recovering himself}{]} Does she give any
reason?

TANNER. Reason! An insult is not a reason. Ann forbids her to be alone
with me on any occasion. Says I am not a fit person for a young girl
to be with. What do you think of your paragon now?

OCTAVIUS. You must remember that she has a very heavy responsibility
now that her father is dead. Mrs.\ Whitefield is too weak to control
Rhoda.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{staring at him}{]} In short, you agree with
Ann.

OCTAVIUS. No; but I think I understand her. You must admit that your
views are hardly suited for the formation of a young girl's mind and
character.

TANNER. I admit nothing of the sort. I admit that the formation of
a young lady's mind and character usually consists in telling her
lies; but I object to the particular lie that I am in the habit of
abusing the confidence of girls.

OCTAVIUS. Ann doesn't say that, Jack.

TANNER. What else does she mean?

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{catching sight of Ann coming from the house}{]}
Miss Whitefield, gentlemen.\ {}{[}\textit{He dismounts and strolls
away down the avenue with the air of a man who knows he is no longer
wanted}{]}.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{coming between Octavius and Tanner}{]}. Good morning,
Jack. I have come to tell you that poor Rhoda has got one of her headaches
and cannot go out with you to-day in the car. It is a cruel disappointment
to her, poor child!

TANNER. What do you say now, Tavy,

OCTAVIUS. Surely you cannot misunderstand, Jack. Ann is showing you
the kindest consideration, even at the cost of deceiving you.

ANN. What do you mean?

TANNER. Would you like to cure Rhoda's headache, Ann?

ANN. Of course.

TANNER. Then tell her what you said just now; and add that you arrived
about two minutes after I had received her letter and read it.

ANN. Rhoda has written to you!

TANNER. With full particulars.

OCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Ann. You were right, quite right. Ann was
only doing her duty, Jack; and you know it. Doing it in the kindest
way, too.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{going to Octavius}{]} How kind you are, Tavy!
How helpful! How well you understand!

\emph{Octavius beams.}

TANNER. \textit{\emph{Ay}}:\ tighten the coils. You love her, Tavy,
don't you?

OCTAVIUS. She knows I do.

ANN. Hush. For shame, Tavy!

TANNER. Oh, I give you leave. I am your guardian; and I commit you
to Tavy's care for the next hour.

ANN. No, Jack. I must speak to you about Rhoda. Ricky:\ will you
go back to the house and entertain your American friend? He's rather
on Mamma's hands so early in the morning. She wants to finish her
housekeeping.

OCTAVIUS. I fly, dearest Ann {[}\textit{he kisses her hand}{]}.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{tenderly}{]} Ricky Ticky Tavy!

\emph{He looks at her with an eloquent blush, and runs off.}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{bluntly}{]} Now look here, Ann. This time you've
landed yourself; and if Tavy were not in love with you past all salvation
he'd have found out what an incorrigible liar you are.

ANN. You misunderstand, Jack. I didn't dare tell Tavy the truth.

TANNER. No:\ your daring is generally in the opposite direction.
What the devil do you mean by telling Rhoda that I am too vicious
to associate with her? How can I ever have any human or decent relations
with her again, now that you have poisoned her mind in that abominable
way?

ANN. I know you are incapable of behaving badly.

TANNER. Then why did you lie to her?

ANN. I had to.

TANNER. Had to!

ANN. Mother made me.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{his eye flashing}{]} Ha! I might have known
it. The mother! Always the mother!

ANN. It was that dreadful book of yours. You know how timid mother
is. All timid women are conventional:\ we must be conventional, Jack,
or we are so cruelly, so vilely misunderstood. Even you, who are a
man, cannot say what you think without being misunderstood and vilified\mbox{---}yes:\ 
I admit it:\ I have had to vilify you. Do you want to have poor Rhoda
misunderstood and vilified to the same way? Would it be right for
mother to let her expose herself to such treatment before she is old
enough to judge for herself?

TANNER. In short, the way to avoid misunderstanding is for everybody
to lie and slander and insinuate and pretend as hard as they can.
That is what obeying your mother comes to.

ANN. I love my mother, Jack.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{working himself up into a sociological rage}{]}
Is that any reason why you are not to call your soul your own? Oh,
I protest against this vile abjection of youth to age!\ look at fashionable
society as you know it. What does it pretend to be? An exquisite dance
of nymphs. What is it? A horrible procession of wretched girls, each
in the claws of a cynical, cunning, avaricious, disillusioned, ignorantly
experienced, foul-minded old woman whom she calls mother, and whose
duty it is to corrupt her mind and sell her to the highest bidder.
Why do these unhappy slaves marry anybody, however old and vile, sooner
than not marry at all? Because marriage is their only means of escape
from these decrepit fiends who hide their selfish ambitions, their
jealous hatreds of the young rivals who have supplanted them, under
the mask of maternal duty and family affection. Such things are abominable:\ 
the voice of nature proclaims for the daughter a father's care and
for the son a mother's. The law for father and son and mother and
daughter is not the law of love:\ it is the law of revolution, of
emancipation, of final supersession of the old and worn-out by the
young and capable. I tell you, the first duty of manhood and womanhood
is a Declaration of Independence:\ the man who pleads his father's
authority is no man:\  the woman who pleads her mother's authority
is unfit to bear citizens to a free people.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{watching him with quiet curiosity}{]} I suppose
you will go in seriously for politics some day, Jack.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{heavily let down}{]} Eh? What? Wh\mbox{---}?
{[}\textit{Collecting his scattered wits}{]} What has that got to
do with what I have been saying?

ANN. You talk so well.

TANNER. Talk! Talk! It means nothing to you but talk. Well, go back
to your mother, and help her to poison Rhoda's imagination as she
has poisoned yours. It is the tame elephants who enjoy capturing the
wild ones.

ANN. I am getting on. Yesterday I was a boa constrictor:\ to-day
I am an elephant.

TANNER. Yes. So pack your trunk and begone; I have no more to say
to you.

ANN. You are so utterly unreasonable and impracticable. What can I
do?

TANNER. Do! Break your chains. Go your way according to your own conscience
and not according to your mother's. Get your mind clean and vigorous;
and learn to enjoy a fast ride in a motor car instead of seeing nothing
in it but an excuse for a detestable intrigue. Come with me to Marseilles
and across to Algiers and to Biskra, at sixty miles an hour. Come
right down to the Cape if you like. That will be a Declaration of
Independence with a vengeance. You can write a book about it afterwards.
That will finish your mother and make a woman of you.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{thoughtfully}{]} I don't think there would be
any harm in that, Jack. You are my guardian:\ you stand in my father's
place, by his own wish. Nobody could say a word against our travelling
together. It would be delightful:\ thank you a thousand times, Jack.
I'll come.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{aghast}{]} You'll come!!!

ANN. Of course.

TANNER. But\mbox{---} {[}\textit{he stops, utterly appalled; then
resumes feebly}{]} No:\ look here, Ann:\ if there's no harm in it
there's no point in doing it.

ANN. How absurd you are! You don't want to compromise me, do you?

TANNER. Yes:\ that's the whole sense of my proposal.

ANN. You are talking the greatest nonsense; and you know it. You would
never do anything to hurt me.

TANNER. Well, if you don't want to be compromised, don't come.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{with simple earnestness}{]} Yes, I will come,
Jack, since you wish it. You are my guardian; and think we ought to
see more of one another and come to know one another better.\ {}{[}\textit{Gratefully}{]}
It's very thoughtful and very kind of you, Jack, to offer me this
lovely holiday, especially after what I said about Rhoda. You really
are good\mbox{---}much better than you think. When do we start?

TANNER. But\mbox{---}

\emph{The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs.\ Whitefield
from the house. She is accompanied by the American gentleman, and
followed by Ramsden and Octavius.}

\emph{Hector Malone is an Eastern American; but he is not at all ashamed
of his nationality. This makes English people of fashion think well
of him, as of a young fellow who is manly enough to confess to an
obvious disadvantage without any attempt to conceal or extenuate it.
They feel that he ought not to be made to suffer for what is clearly
not his fault, and make a point of being specially kind to him. His
chivalrous manners to women, and his elevated moral sentiments, being
both gratuitous and unusual, strike them as being a little unfortunate;
and though they find his vein of easy humor rather amusing when it
has ceased to puzzle them (as it does at first), they have had to
make him understand that he really must not tell anecdotes unless
they are strictly personal and scandalous, and also that oratory is
an accomplishment which belongs to a cruder stage of civilization
than that in which his migration has landed him. On these points Hector
is not quite convinced:\ he still thinks that the British are apt
to make merits of their stupidities, and to represent their various
incapacities as points of good breeding. English life seems to him
to suffer from a lack of edifying rhetoric (which he calls moral tone);
English behavior to show a want of respect for womanhood; English
pronunciation to fail very vulgarly in tackling such words as world,
girl, bird,} \textit{\emph{etc}}\emph{.; English society to be plain
spoken to an extent which stretches occasionally to intolerable coarseness;
and English intercourse to need enlivening by games and stories and
other pastimes; so he does not feel called upon to acquire these defects
after taking great paths to cultivate himself in a first rate manner
before venturing across the Atlantic. To this culture he finds English
people either totally indifferent as they very commonly are to all
culture, or else politely evasive, the truth being that Hector's culture
is nothing but a state of saturation with our literary exports of
thirty years ago, reimported by him to be unpacked at a moment's notice
and hurled at the head of English literature, science and art, at
every conversational opportunity. The dismay set up by these sallies
encourages him in his belief that he is helping to educate England.
When he finds people chattering harmlessly about Anatole France and
Nietzsche, he devastates them with Matthew Arnold, the Autocrat of
the Breakfast Table, and even Macaulay; and as he is devoutly religious
at bottom, he first leads the unwary, by humorous} \textit{irreverences}\emph{,
to wave popular theology out of account in discussing moral questions
with him, and then scatters them in confusion by demanding whether
the carrying out of his ideals of conduct was not the manifest object
of God Almighty in creating honest men and pure women. The engaging
freshness of his personality and the dumbfoundering staleness of his
culture make it extremely difficult to decide whether he is worth
knowing; for whilst his company is undeniably pleasant and enlivening,
there is intellectually nothing new to be got out of him, especially
as he despises politics, and is careful not to talk commercial shop,
in which department he is probably much in advance of his English
capitalist friends. He gets on best with romantic Christians of the
amoristic sect:\ hence the friendship which has sprung up between
him and Octavius.}

\emph{In appearance Hector is a neatly built young man of twenty-four,
with a short, smartly trimmed black beard, clear, well shaped eyes,
and an ingratiating vivacity of expression. He is, from the fashionable
point of view, faultlessly dressed. As he comes along the drive from
the house with Mrs.\ Whitefield he is sedulously making himself agreeable
and entertaining, and thereby placing on her slender wit a burden
it is unable to bear. An Englishman would let her alone, accepting
boredom and indifference of their common lot; and the poor lady wants
to be either let alone or let prattle about the things that interest
her.}

\emph{Ramsden strolls over to inspect the motor car. Octavius joins
Hector.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{pouncing on her mother joyously}{]} Oh, mamma,
what do you think! Jack is going to take me to Nice in his motor car.
Isn't it lovely? I am the happiest person in London.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{desperately}{]} Mrs.\ Whitefield objects.
I am sure she objects. Doesn't she, Ramsden?

RAMSDEN. I should think it very likely indeed.

ANN. You don't object, do you, mother?

MRS WHITEFIELD. I object! Why should I? I think it will do you good,
Ann.\ {}{[}\textit{Trotting over to Tanner}{]} I meant to ask you
to take Rhoda out for a run occasionally:\ she is too much in the
house; but it will do when you come back.

TANNER. Abyss beneath abyss of perfidy!

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{hastily, to distract attention from this outburst}{]}
Oh, I forgot:\ you have not met Mr.\ Malone. Mr.\ Tanner, my guardian:\ 
Mr.\ Hector Malone.

HECTOR. Pleased to meet you, Mr.\ Tanner. I should like to suggest
an extension of the travelling party to Nice, if I may.

ANN. Oh, we're all coming. That's understood, isn't it?

HECTOR. I also am the modest possessor of a motor car. If Miss Robinson
will allow me the privilege of taking her, my car is at her service.

OCTAVIUS. Violet!

\emph{General constraint.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{subduedly}{]} Come, mother:\ we must leave them
to talk over the arrangements. I must see to my travelling kit.

\emph{Mrs.\ Whitefield looks bewildered; but Ann draws her discreetly
away; and they disappear round the corner towards the house.}

HECTOR. I think I may go so far as to say that I can depend on Miss
Robinson's consent.

\emph{Continued embarrassment.}

OCTAVIUS. I'm afraid we must leave Violet behind, There are circumstances
which make it impossible for her to come on such an expedition.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{amused and not at all convinced}{]} Too American,
eh? Must the young lady have a chaperone?

OCTAVIUS. It's not that, Malone\mbox{---}at least not altogether.

HECTOR. Indeed! May I ask what other objection applies?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{impatiently}{]} Oh, tell him, tell him. We
shall never be able to keep the secret unless everybody knows what
it is. Mr.\ Malone:\ if you go to Nice with Violet, you go with
another man's wife. She is married.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{thunderstruck}{]} You don't tell me so!

TANNER. We do. In confidence.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{with an air of importance, lest Malone should
suspect a misalliance}{]} Her marriage has not yet been made known:\ 
she desires that it shall not be mentioned for the present.

HECTOR. I shall respect the lady's wishes. Would it be indiscreet
to ask who her husband is, in case I should have an opportunity of
consulting him about this trip?

TANNER. We don't know who he is.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{retiring into his shell in a very marked manner}{]}
In that case, I have no more to say.

\emph{They become more embarrassed than ever.}

OCTAVIUS. You must think this very strange.

HECTOR. A little singular. Pardon me for saving so.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{half apologetic, half huffy}{]} The young
lady was married secretly; and her husband has forbidden her, it seems,
to declare his name. It is only right to tell you, since you are interested
in Miss\mbox{---}\textit{er}---in Violet.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{sympathetically}{]} I hope this is not a
disappointment to you.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{softened, coming out of his shell again}{]}
Well it is a blow. I can hardly understand how a man can leave a wife
in such a position. Surely it's not customary. It's not manly. It's
not considerate.

OCTAVIUS. We feel that, as you may imagine, pretty deeply.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{testily}{]} It is some young fool who has
not enough experience to know what \textit{\emph{mystifications}}
of this kind lead to.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{with strong symptoms of moral repugnance}{]}
I hope so. A man need be very young and pretty foolish too to be excused
for such conduct. You take a very lenient view, Mr.\ Ramsden. Too
lenient to my mind. Surely marriage should ennoble a man.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{sardonically}{]} Ha!

HECTOR. Am I to gather from that cacchination that you don't agree
with me, Mr.\ Tanner?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{drily}{]} Get married and try. You may find
it delightful for a while:\ you certainly won't find it ennobling.
The greatest common measure of a man and a woman is not necessarily
greater than the man's single measure.

HECTOR. Well, we think in America that a woman's moral number is higher
than a man's, and that the purer nature of a woman lifts a man right
out of himself, and makes him better than he was.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{with conviction}{]} So it does.

TANNER. No wonder American women prefer to live in Europe! It's more
comfortable than standing all their lives on an altar to be worshipped.
Anyhow, Violet's husband has not been ennobled. So what's to be done?

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his head}{]} I can't dismiss that man's
conduct as lightly as you do, Mr.\ Tanner. However, I'll say no more.
Whoever he is, he's Miss Robinson's husband; and I should be glad
for her sake to think better of him.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{touched; for he divines a secret sorrow}{]}
I'm very sorry, Malone. Very sorry.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{gratefully}{]} You're a good fellow, Robinson,
Thank you.

TANNER. Talk about something else. Violet's coming from the house.

HECTOR. I should esteem it a very great favor, men, if you would take
the opportunity to let me have a few words with the lady alone. I
shall have to cry off this trip; and it's rather a delicate\mbox{---}

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{glad to escape}{]} Say no more. Come Tanner,
Come, Tavy. {[}\textit{He strolls away into the park with Octavius
and Tanner, past the motor car}{]}.

\emph{Violet comes down the avenue to Hector.}

VIOLET. Are they looking?

HECTOR. No.

\emph{She kisses him.}

VIOLET. Have you been telling lies for my sake?

HECTOR. Lying! Lying hardly describes it. I overdo it. I get carried
away in an ecstasy of mendacity. Violet:\ I wish you'd let me own
up.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{instantly becoming serious and resolute}{]}
No, no. Hector:\ you promised me not to.

HECTOR. I'll keep my promise until you release me from it. But I feel
mean, lying to those men, and denying my wife. Just dastardly.

VIOLET. I wish your father were not so unreasonable.

HECTOR. He's not unreasonable. He's right from his point of view.
He has a prejudice against the English middle class.

VIOLET. It's too ridiculous. You know how I dislike saying such things
to you, Hector; but if I were to\mbox{---}oh, well, no matter.

HECTOR. I know. If you were to marry the son of an English manufacturer
of office furniture, your friends would consider it a misalliance.
And here's my silly old dad, who is the biggest office furniture man
in the world, would show me the door for marrying the most perfect
lady in England merely because she has no handle to her name. Of course
it's just absurd. But I tell you, Violet, I don't like deceiving him.
I feel as if I was stealing his money. Why won't you let me own up?

VIOLET. We can't afford it. You can be as romantic as you please about
love, Hector; but you mustn't be romantic about money.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{divided between his uxoriousness and his habitual
elevation of moral sentiment}{]} That's very English.\ {}{[}\textit{Appealing
to her impulsively}{]} Violet:\ Dad's bound to find us out some day.

VIOLET. Oh yes, later on of course. But don't let's go over this every
time we meet, dear. You promised\mbox{---}

HECTOR. All right, all right, I\mbox{---}

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{not to be silenced}{]} It is I and not you
who suffer by this concealment; and as to facing a struggle and poverty
and all that sort of thing I simply will not do it. It's too silly.

HECTOR. You shall not. I'll sort of borrow the money from my dad until
I get on my own feet; and then I can own up and pay up at the same
time.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{alarmed and indignant}{]} Do you mean to work?
Do you want to spoil our marriage?

HECTOR. Well, I don't mean to let marriage spoil my character. Your
friend Mr.\ Tanner has got the laugh on me a bit already about that;
and\mbox{---}

VIOLET. The beast! I hate Jack Tanner.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{magnanimously}{]} Oh, he's all right:\ he
only needs the love of a good woman to ennoble him. Besides, he's
proposed a motoring trip to Nice; and I'm going to take you.

VIOLET. How jolly!

HECTOR. Yes; but how are we going to manage? You see, they've warned
me off going with you, so to speak. They've told me in confidence
that you're married. That's just the most overwhelming confidence
I've ever been honored with.

\emph{Tanner returns with Straker, who goes to his car.}

TANNER. Your car is a great success, Mr.\ Malone. Your engineer is
showing it off to Mr.\ Ramsden.

HECTOR. {[}\textit{eagerly \mbox{---} forgetting himself}{]} Let's
come, Vi.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{coldly, warning him with her eyes}{]} I beg
your pardon, Mr.\ Malone, I did not quite catch\mbox{---}

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{recollecting himself}{]} I ask to be allowed
the pleasure of showing you my little American steam car, Miss Robinson.

VIOLET. I shall be very pleased.\ {}{[}\textit{They go off together
down the avenue}{]}.

TANNER. About this trip, Straker.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{preoccupied with the car}{]} Yes?

TANNER. Miss Whitefield is supposed to be coming with me.

STRAKER. So I gather.

TANNER. Mr.\ Robinson is to be one of the party.

STRAKER. Yes.

TANNER. Well, if you can manage so as to be a good deal occupied with
me, and leave Mr.\ Robinson a good deal occupied with Miss Whitefield,
he will be deeply grateful to you.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{looking round at him}{]} Evidently.

TANNER. {}``Evidently''! Your grandfather would have simply winked.

STRAKER. My grandfather would have touched his at.

TANNER. And I should have given your good nice respectful grandfather
a sovereign.

STRAKER. Five shillins, more likely.\ {}{[}\textit{He leaves the
car and approaches Tanner}{]}. What about the lady's views?

TANNER. She is just as willing to be left to Mr.\ Robinson as Mr.\ Robinson
is to be left to her.\ {}{[}\textit{Straker looks at his principal
with cool scepticism; then turns to the car whistling his favorite
air}{]}. Stop that aggravating noise. What do you mean by it? {[}\textit{Straker
calmly resumes the melody and finishes it. Tanner politely hears it
out before he again addresses Straker, this time with elaborate seriousness}{]}.
Enry:\ I have ever been a warm advocate of the spread of music among
the masses; but I object to your obliging the company whenever Miss
Whitefield's name is mentioned. You did it this morning, too.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{obstinately}{]} It's not a bit o use. Mr.\ Robinson
may as well give it up first as last.

TANNER. Why?

STRAKER. Garn! You know why. Course it's not my business; but you
needn't start kiddin me about it.

TANNER. I am not kidding. I don't know why.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{Cheerfully sulky}{]} Oh, very well. All right.
It ain't my business.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{impressively}{]} I trust, Enry, that, as between
employer and engineer, I shall always know how to keep my proper distance,
and not intrude my private affairs on you. Even our business arrangements
are subject to the approval of your Trade Union. But don't abuse your
advantages. Let me remind you that Voltaire said that what was too
silly to be said could be sung.

STRAKER. It wasn't Voltaire:\ it was Bow Mar Shay.

TANNER. I stand corrected:\ Beaumarchais of course. Now you seem
to think that what is too delicate to be said can be whistled. Unfortunately
your whistling, though melodious, is unintelligible. Come!\ there's
nobody listening:\ neither my genteel relatives nor the secretary
of your confounded Union. As man to man, Enry, why do you think that
my friend has no chance with Miss Whitefield?

STRAKER. Cause she's arter summun else.

TANNER. Bosh!\ who else?

STRAKER. You.

TANNER. Me!!!

STRAKER. Mean to tell me you didn't know? Oh, come, Mr.\ Tanner!

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{in fierce earnest}{]} Are you playing the fool,
or do you mean it?

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{with a flash of temper}{]} I'm not playin
no fool.\ {}{[}\textit{More coolly}{]} Why, it's as plain as the
nose on your face. If you ain't spotted that, you don't know much
about these sort of things. {[}\textit{Serene again}{]} Ex-cuse me,
you know, Mr.\ Tanner; but you asked me as man to man; and I told
you as man to man.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{wildly appealing to the heavens}{]} Then I\mbox{---}I
am the bee, the spider, the marked down victim, the destined prey.

STRAKER. I dunno about the bee and the spider. But the marked down
victim, that's what you are and no mistake; and a jolly good job for
you, too, I should say.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{momentously}{]} Henry Straker:\ the moment
of your life has arrived.

STRAKER. What d'y'mean?

TANNER. That record to Biskra.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{eagerly}{]} Yes?

TANNER. Break it.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{rising to the height of his destiny}{]} D'y'mean
it?

TANNER. I do.

STRAKER. When?

TANNER. Now. Is that machine ready to start?

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{quailing}{]} But you can't\mbox{---}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{cutting him short by getting into the car}{]}
Off we go. First to the bank for money; then to my rooms for my kit;
then to your rooms for your kit; then break the record from London
to Dover or Folkestone; then across the channel and away like mad
to Marseilles, Gibraltar, Genoa, any port from which we can sail to
a Mahometan country where men are protected from women.

STRAKER. Garn!\ you're kiddin.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{resolutely}{]} Stay behind then. If you won't
come I'll do it alone.\ {}{[}\textit{He starts the motor}{]}.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{running after him}{]} Here! Mister!\ arf
a mo!\ steady on! {[}\textit{he scrambles in as the car plunges forward}{]}.


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT III}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT III}

\markboth{MAN AND SUPERMAN}{ACT III}

\emph{Evening in the Sierra Nevada. Rolling slopes of brown, with
olive trees instead of apple trees in the cultivated patches, and
occasional prickly pears instead of gorse and bracken in the wilds.
Higher up, tall stone peaks and} \textit{precipices}\emph{, all handsome
and distinguished. No wild nature here:\ rather a most aristocratic
mountain landscape made by a fastidious artist-creator. No vulgar
profusion of vegetation:\ even a touch of aridity in the frequent
patches of stones:\ Spanish magnificence and Spanish economy everywhere.}

\emph{Not very far north of a spot at which the high road over one
of the passes crosses a tunnel on the railway from Malaga to Granada,
is one of the mountain amphitheatres of the Sierra. Looking at it
from the wide end of the horse-shoe, one sees, a little to the right,
in the face of the cliff, a romantic cave which is really an abandoned
quarry, and towards the left a little hill, commanding a view of the
road, which skirts the amphitheatre on the left, maintaining its higher
level on embankments and on an occasional stone arch. On the hill,
watching the road, is a man who is either a Spaniard or a Scotchman.
Probably a Spaniard, since he wears the dress of a Spanish goatherd
and seems at home in the Sierra Nevada, but very like a Scotchman
for all that. In the hollow, on the slope leading to the quarry-cave,
are about a dozen men who, as they recline at their cave round a heap
of smouldering white ashes of dead leaf and brushwood, have an air
of being conscious of themselves as picturesque scoundrels honoring
the Sierra by using it as an effective pictorial background. As a
matter of artistic fact they are not picturesque; and the mountains
tolerate them as lions tolerate lice. An English policeman or Poor
Law Guardian would recognize them as a selected band of tramps and
ablebodied paupers.}

\emph{This description of them is not wholly contemptuous. Whoever
has intelligently observed the tramp, or visited the ablebodied ward
of a workhouse, will admit that our social failures are not all drunkards
and weaklings. Some of them are men who do not fit the class they
were born into. Precisely the same qualities that make the educated
gentleman an artist may make an uneducated manual laborer an ablebodied
pauper. There are men who fall helplessly into the workhouse because
they are good far nothing; but there are also men who are there because
they are strongminded enough to disregard the social convention (obviously
not a disinterested one on the part of the ratepayer) which bids a
man live by heavy and badly paid drudgery when he has the alternative
of walking into the workhouse, announcing himself as a destitute person,
and legally compelling the Guardians to feed, clothe and house him
better than he could feed, clothe and house himself without great
exertion. When a man who is born a poet refuses a stool in a stockbroker's
office, and starves in a garret, spunging on a poor landlady or on
his friends and relatives rather than work against his grain; or when
a lady, because she is a lady, will face any extremity of parasitic
dependence rather than take a situation as cook or parlormaid, we
make large allowances for them. To such allowances the ablebodied
pauper and his nomadic variant the tramp are equally entitled.}

\emph{Further, the imaginative man, if his life is to be tolerable
to him, must have leisure to tell himself stories, and a position
which lends itself to imaginative decoration. The ranks of unskilled
labor offer no such positions. We misuse our laborers horribly; and
when a man refuses to be misused, we have no right to say that he
is refusing honest work. Let us be frank in this matter before we
go on with our play; so that we may enjoy it without hypocrisy. If
we were reasoning, farsighted people, four fifths of us would go straight
to the Guardians for relief, and knock the whole social system to
pieces with most beneficial reconstructive results. The reason we
do got do this is because we work like bees or ants, by instinct or
habit, not reasoning about the matter at all. Therefore when a man
comes along who can and does reason, and who, applying the Kantian
test to his conduct, can truly say to us, If everybody did as I do,
the world would be compelled to reform itself industrially, and abolish
slavery and squalor, which exist only because everybody does as you
do, let us honor that man and seriously consider the advisability
of following his example. Such a man is the able-bodied, able-minded
pauper. Were he a gentleman doing his best to get a pension or a sinecure
instead of sweeping a crossing, nobody would blame him; for deciding
that so long as the alternative lies between living mainly at the
expense of the community and allowing the community to live mainly
at his, it would be folly to accept what is to him personally the
greater of the two evils.}

\emph{We may therefore contemplate the tramps of the Sierra without
prejudice, admitting cheerfully that our objects\mbox{---}briefly,
to be gentlemen of fortune\mbox{---}-are much the same as theirs,
and the difference in our position and methods merely accidental.
One or two of them, perhaps, it would be wiser to kill without malice
in a friendly and frank manner; for there are bipeds, just as there
are quadrupeds, who are too dangerous to be left unchained and unmuzzled;
and these cannot fairly expect to have other men's lives wasted in
the work of watching them. But as society has not the courage to kill
them, and, when it catches them, simply wreaks on them some superstitious
expiatory rites of torture and degradation, and than lets them loose
with heightened qualifications for mischief; it is just as well that
they are at large in the Sierra, and in the hands of a chief who looks
as if he might possibly, on provocation, order them to be shot.}

\emph{This chief, seated in the centre of the group on a squared block
of stone from the quarry, is a tall strong man, with a striking cockatoo
nose, glossy black hair, pointed beard, upturned moustache, and a
Mephistophelean affectation which is fairly imposing, perhaps because
the scenery admits of a larger swagger than Piccadilly, perhaps because
of a certain sentimentality in the man which gives him that touch
of grace which alone can excuse deliberate picturesqueness. His eyes
and mouth are by no means rascally; he has a fine voice and a ready
wit; and whether he is really the strongest man in the party, or not,
he looks it. He is certainly, the best fed, the best dressed, and
the best trained. The fact that he speaks English is not unexpected
in spite of the Spanish landscape; for with the exception of one man
who might be guessed as a bullfighter ruined by drink and one unmistakable
Frenchman, they are all cockney or American; therefore, in a land
of cloaks and} \textit{\emph{sombreros}}\emph{, they mostly wear seedy
overcoats, woollen mufflers, hard hemispherical hats, and dirty brown
gloves. Only a very few dress after their leader, whose broad} sombrero
\emph{with a cock's feather in the band, and voluminous cloak descending
to his high boots, are as un-English as possible. None of them are
armed; and the ungloved ones keep their hands in their pockets because
it is their national belief that it must be dangerously cold in the
open air with the night coming on.\ (It is as warm an evening as
any reasonable man could desire).}

\emph{Except the bullfighting inebriate there is only one person in
the company who looks more than, say, thirty-three. He is a small
man with reddish whiskers, weak eyes, and the anxious look of a small
tradesman in difficulties. He wears the only tall hat visible:\ it
shines in the sunset with the sticky glow of some sixpenny patent
hat reviver, often applied and constantly tending to produce a worse
state of the original surface than the ruin it was applied to remedy.
He has a collar and cuff of celluloid; and his brown Chesterfield
overcoat, with velvet collar, is still presentable. He is pre-eminently
the respectable man of the party, and is certainly over forty, possibly
over fifty. He is the corner man on the leader's right, opposite three
men in scarlet ties on his left. One of these three is the Frenchman.
Of the remaining two, who are both English, one is argumentative,
solemn, and obstinate; the other rowdy and mischievious.}

\emph{The chief, with a magnificent fling of the end of his cloak
across his left shoulder, rises to address them. The applause which
greets him shows that he is a favorite orator.}

THE CHIEF. Friends and fellow brigands. I have a proposal to make
to this meeting. We have now spent three evenings in discussing the
question Have Anarchists or Social-Democrats the most personal courage?
We have gone into the principles of Anarchism and Social-Democracy
at great length. The cause of Anarchy has been ably represented by
our one Anarchist, who doesn't know what Anarchism means {[}\textit{laughter}{]}\mbox{---}

THE ANARCHIST.\ {}{[}\textit{rising}{]} A point of order, Mendoza\mbox{---}

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{forcibly}{]} No, by thunder:\ your last point
of order took half an hour. Besides, Anarchists don't believe in order.

THE ANARCHIST.\ {}{[}\textit{mild, polite but persistent:\ he is,
in fact, the respectable looking elderly man in the celluloid collar
and cuffs}{]} That is a vulgar error. I can prove\mbox{---}

MENDOZA. Order, order.

THE OTHERS {[}\textit{shouting}{]} Order, order. Sit down. Chair!
Shut up.

\emph{The Anarchist is suppressed.}

MENDOZA. On the other hand we have three Social-Democrats among us.
They are not on speaking terms; and they have put before us three
distinct and incompatible views of Social-Democracy.

THE MAJORITY.\ {}{[}\textit{shouting assent}{]} Hear, hear! So we
are. Right.

THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{smarting under oppression}{]}
You ain't no Christian. You're a Sheeny, you are.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{with crushing magnanimity}{]} My friend; I
am an exception to all rules. It is true that I have the honor to
be a Jew; and, when the Zionists need a leader to reassemble our race
on its historic soil of Palestine, Mendoza will not be the last to
volunteer {[}\textit{sympathetic applause\mbox{---}hear, hear, etc.}{]}.
But I am not a slave to any superstition. I have swallowed all the
formulas, even that of Socialism; though, in a sense, once a Socialist,
always a Socialist.

THE SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!

MENDOZA. But I am well aware that the ordinary man\mbox{---}even
the ordinary brigand, who can scarcely be called an ordinary man {[}\textit{Hear,
hear!}{]}\mbox{---}is not a philosopher. Common sense is good enough
for him; and in our business affairs common sense is good enough for
me. Well, what is our business here in the Sierra Nevada, chosen by
the Moors as the fairest spot in Spain? Is it to discuss abstruse
questions of political economy? No:\ it is to hold up motor cars
and secure a more equitable distribution of wealth.

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. All made by labor, mind you.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{urbanely}{]} Undoubtedly. All made by labor,
and on its way to be squandered by wealthy vagabonds in the dens of
vice that disfigure the sunny shores of the Mediterranean. We intercept
that wealth. We restore it to circulation among the class that produced
it and that chiefly needs it\mbox{---}the working class. We do this
at the risk of our lives and liberties, by the exercise of the virtues
of courage, endurance, foresight, and abstinence\mbox{---}especially
abstinence. I myself have eaten nothing but prickly pears and broiled
rabbit for three days.

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{Stub\-bornly}{]} No more
ain't we.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{indignantly}{]} Have I taken more than my
share?

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{unmoved}{]} Why should you?

THE ANARCHIST.\ Why should he not? To each according to his needs:\ 
from each according to his means.

THE FRENCHMAN.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his fist at the anarchist}{]}
\textit{Fumiste}!

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{diplomatically}{]} I agree with both of you.

THE GENUINELY ENGLISH BRIGANDS. Hear, hear! Bravo, Mendoza!

MENDOZA. What I say is, let us treat one another as gentlemen, and
strive to excel in personal courage only when we take the field.

THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{derisively}{]} Shikespear.

\emph{A whistle comes from the goatherd on the hill. He springs up
and points excitedly forward along the road to the north.}

THE GOATHERD. Automobile! Automobile! {[}\textit{He rushes down the
hill and joins the rest, who all scramble to their feet}{]}.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{in ringing tones}{]} To arms! Who has the
gun?

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{hand\-ing a rifle to Mendoza}{]}
Here.

MENDOZA. Have the nails been strewn in the road?

THE \textit{\emph{ROWDY}} SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Two ahnces of em.

MENDOZA. Good! {[}\textit{To the Frenchman}{]} With me, Duval. If
the nails fail, puncture their tires with a bullet.\ {}{[}\textit{He
gives the rifle to Duval, who follows him up the hill. Mendoza produces
an opera glass. The others hurry across to the road and disappear
to the north}{]}.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{on the hill, using his glass}{]} Two only,
a capitalist and his chauffeur. They look English.

DUVAL. \emph{Angliche}! Aoh yess. \emph{Cochons}! {[}\textit{Handling
the} \textit{\emph{rifle}}{]} \textit{Faut} \emph{tire, n'est}-\textit{ce}-\textit{pas}?

MENDOZA. No:\ the nails have gone home. Their tire is down:\ they
stop.

DUVAL.\ {}{[}\textit{shouting to the others}{]} \emph{Fondez sur
eux,} \textit{nom} \textit{de} \textit{Dieu}!

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{rebuking his excitement}{]} \textit{Du} \textit{calme},
\textit{\emph{Duval}}:\ keep your hair on. They take it quietly.
Let us descend and receive them.

\emph{Mendoza descends, passing behind the fire and coming forward,
whilst Tanner and Straker, in their motoring goggles, leather coats,
and caps, are led in from the road by brigands.}

TANNER. Is this the gentleman you describe as your boss? Does he speak
English?

THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT. Course he does. Y'don't suppowz we Hinglishmen
lets ahrselves be bossed by a bloomin Spenniard, do you?

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{with dignity}{]} Allow me to introduce myself:\ 
Mendoza, President of the League of the Sierra! {[}\textit{Posing
loftily}{]} I am a brigand:\ I live by robbing the rich.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{promptly}{]} I am a gentleman:\ I live by
robbing the poor. Shake hands.

THE ENGLISH SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!

\emph{General laughter and good humor. Tanner and Mendoza shake hands.}

\emph{The Brigands drop into their former places.}

STRAKER. Ere!\ where do I come in?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{introducing}{]} My friend and chauffeur.

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{suspiciously}{]} Well, which
is he?\ friend or show-foor? It makes all the difference you know.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{explaining}{]} We should expect ransom for
a friend. A professional chauffeur is free of the mountains. He even
takes a trifling percentage of his principal's ransom if he will honor
us by accepting it.

STRAKER. I see. Just to encourage me to come this way again. Well,
I'll think about it.

DUVAL.\ {}{[}\textit{impulsively rushing across to Straker}{]} \textit{Mon}
\textit{fr\`{e}re}! {[}\textit{He embraces him rapturously and kisses
him on both cheeks}{]}.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{disguested}{]} Ere, git out:\ don't be silly.
Who are you, pray?

DUVAL. Duval:\ Social-Democrat.

STRAKER. Oh, you're a Social-Democrat, are you?

THE ANARCHIST.\ He means that he has sold out to the parliamentary
humbugs and the bourgeoisie. Compromise!\ that is his faith.

DUVAL.\ {}{[}\textit{furiously}{]} I understand what he say. He say
Bourgeois. He say Compromise. \textit{Jamais} \textit{de} \textit{la}
\textit{vie}! \emph{Miserable menteur}---

STRAKER. See here, Captain Mendoza, ow much o this sort o thing do
you put up with here? Are we avin a pleasure trip in the mountains,
or are we at a Socialist meetin?

THE MAJORITY. Hear, hear! Shut up. Chuck it. Sit down, \textit{etc}.\ \textit{etc}.
{[}\textit{The Social-Democrats and the Anarchist are hurtled into
the background. Straker, after superintending this proceeding with
satisfaction, places himself on Mendoza's left, Tanner being on his
right}{]}.

MENDOZA. Can we offer you anything? Broiled rabbit and prickly pears\mbox{---}

TANNER. Thank you:\ we have dined.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{to his followers}{]} Gentlemen:\ business
is over for the day. Go as you please until morning.

\emph{The Brigands disperse into groups lazily. Some go into the cave.
Others sit down or lie down to sleep in the open. A few produce a
pack of cards and move off towards the road; for it is now starlight;
and they know that motor cars have lamps which can be turned to account
for lighting a card party.}

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{calling after them}{]} Don't none of you go
fooling with that car, d'ye hear?

MENDOZA. No fear, \textit{Monsieur} \textit{l\'{e}} \emph{Chauffeur}.
The first one we captured cured us of that.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{interested}{]} What did it do?

MENDOZA. It carried three brave comrades of ours, who did not know
how to stop it, into Granada, and capsized them opposite the police
station. Since then we never touch one without sending for the chauffeur.
Shall we chat at our ease?

TANNER. By all means.

\emph{Tanner, Mendoza, and Straker sit down on the turf by the fire.
Mendoza delicately waives his presidential dignity, of which the right
to sit on the squared stone block is the appanage, by sitting on the
ground like his guests, and using the stone only as a support for
his back.}

MENDOZA. It is the custom in Spain always to put off business until
to-morrow. In fact, you have arrived out of office hours. However,
if you would prefer to settle the question of ransom at once, I am
at your service.

TANNER. To-morrow will do for me. I am rich enough to pay anything
in reason.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{respectfully, much struck by this admission}{]}
You are a remarkable man, sir. Our guests usually describe themselves
as miserably poor.

TANNER. Pooh! Miserably poor people don't own motor cars.

MENDOZA. Precisely what we say to them.

TANNER. Treat us well:\ we shall not prove ungrateful.

STRAKER. No prickly pears and broiled rabbits, you know. Don't tell
me you can't do us a bit better than that if you like.

MENDOZA. Wine, kids, milk, cheese and bread can be procured for ready
money.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{graciously}{]} Now you're talking.

TANNER. Are you all Socialists here, may I ask?

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{repudiating this humiliating misconception}{]}
Oh no, no, no:\ nothing of the kind, I assure you. We naturally have
modern views as to the justice of the existing distribution of wealth:\ 
otherwise we should lose our self-respect. But nothing that you could
take exception to, except two or three faddists.

TANNER. I had no intention of suggesting anything discreditable. In
fact, I am a bit of a Socialist myself.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{drily}{]} Most rich men are, I notice.

MENDOZA. Quite so. It has reached us, I admit. It is in the air of
the century.

STRAKER. Socialism must be looking up a bit if your chaps are taking
to it.

MENDOZA. That is true, sir. A movement which is confined to philosophers
and honest men can never exercise any real political influence:\ there
are too few of them. Until a movement shows itself capable of spreading
among brigands, it can never hope for a political majority.

TANNER. But are your brigands any less honest than ordinary citizens?

MENDOZA. Sir:\ I will be frank with you. Brigandage is abnormal.
Abnormal professions attract two classes:\ those who are not good
enough for ordinary bourgeois life and those who are too good for
it. We are dregs and scum, sir:\ the dregs very filthy, the scum
very superior.

STRAKER. Take care!\ some o the dregs'll hear you.

MENDOZA. It does not matter:\ each brigand thinks himself scum, and
likes to hear the others called dregs.

TANNER. Come!\ you are a wit.\ {}{[}\textit{Mendoza inclines his
head, flattered}{]}. May one ask you a blunt question?

MENDOZA. As blunt as you please.

TANNER. How does it pay a man of your talent to shepherd such a flock
as this on broiled rabbit and prickly pears? I have seen men less
gifted, and I'll swear less honest, supping at the Savoy on \emph{foie
gras} and champagne.

MENDOZA. Pooh!\ they have all had their turn at the broiled rabbit,
just as I shall have my turn at the Savoy. Indeed, I have had a turn
there already\mbox{---}as waiter.

TANNER. A waiter! You astonish me!

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{reflectively}{]} Yes:\ I, Mendoza of the
Sierra, was a waiter. Hence, perhaps, my cosmopolitanism.\ {}{[}\textit{With
sudden intensity}{]} Shall I tell you the story of my life?

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{apprehensively}{]} If it ain't too long, old
chap\mbox{---}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{interrupting him}{]} Tsh-sh:\ you are a Philistine,
Henry:\ you have no romance in you.\ {}{[}\textit{To Mendoza}{]}
You interest me extremely, President. Never mind Henry:\ he can go
to sleep.

MENDOZA. The woman I loved\mbox{---}

STRAKER. Oh, this is a love story, is it? Right you are. Go on:\ I
was only afraid you were going to talk about yourself.

MENDOZA. Myself! I have thrown myself away for her sake:\ that is
why I am here. No matter:\ I count the world well lost for her. She
had, I pledge you my word, the most magnificent head of hair I ever
saw. She had humor; she had intellect; she could cook to perfection;
and her highly strung temperament made her uncertain, incalculable,
variable, capricious, cruel, in a word, enchanting.

STRAKER. A six shillin novel sort o woman, all but the cookin. \textit{Er}
name was Lady Gladys Plantagenet, wasn't it?

MENDOZA. No, sir:\ she was not an earl's daughter. Photography, reproduced
by the half-tone process, has made me familiar with the appearance
of the daughters of the English peerage; and I can honestly say that
I would have sold the lot, faces, dowries, clothes, titles, and all,
for a smile from this woman. Yet she was a woman of the people, a
worker:\ otherwise\mbox{---}let me reciprocate your bluntness\mbox{---}I
should have scorned her.

TANNER. Very properly. And did she respond to your love?

MENDOZA. Should I be here if she did? She objected to marry a Jew.

TANNER. On religious grounds?

MENDOZA. No:\ she was a freethinker. She said that every Jew considers
in his heart that English people are dirty in their habits.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{surprised}{]} Dirty!

MENDOZA. It showed her extraordinary knowledge of the world; for it
is undoubtedly true. Our elaborate sanitary code makes us unduly contemptuous
of the Gentile.

TANNER. Did you ever hear that, Henry?

STRAKER. I've heard my sister say so. She was cook in a Jewish family
once.

MENDOZA. I could not deny it; neither could I eradicate the impression
it made on her mind. I could have got round any other objection; but
no woman can stand a suspicion of indelicacy as to her person. My
entreaties were in vain:\ she always retorted that she wasn't good
enough for me, and recommended me to marry an accursed barmaid named
Rebecca Lazarus, whom I loathed. I talked of suicide:\ she offered
me a packet of beetle poison to do it with. I hinted at murder:\ she
went into hysterics; and as I am a living man I went to America so
that she might sleep without dreaming that I was stealing upstairs
to cut her throat. In America I went out west and fell in with a man
who was wanted by the police for holding up trains. It was he who
had the idea of holding up motors cars\mbox{---}in the South of Europe:\ a
welcome idea to a desperate and disappointed man. He gave me some
valuable introductions to capitalists of the right sort. I formed
a syndicate; and the present enterprise is the result. I became leader,
as the Jew always becomes leader, by his brains and imagination. But
with all my pride of race I would give everything I possess to be
an Englishman. I am like a boy:\ I cut her name on the trees and
her initials on the sod. When I am alone I lie down and tear my wretched
hair and cry Louisa\mbox{---}

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{startled}{]} Louisa!

MENDOZA. It is her name\mbox{---} Louisa\mbox{---} Louisa Straker\mbox{---}

TANNER. Straker!

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{scrambling up on his knees most indignantly}{]}
Look here:\ Louisa Straker is my sister, see? Wot do you mean by
gassin about her like this? Wot she got to do with you?

MENDOZA. A dramatic coincidence! You are Enry, her favorite brother!

STRAKER. Oo are you callin Enry? What call have you to take a liberty
with my name or with hers? For two pins I'd punch your fat ed, so
I would.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{with grandiose calm}{]} If I let you do it,
will you promise to brag of it afterwards to her? She will be reminded
of her Mendoza:\ that is all I desire.

TANNER. This is genuine devotion, Henry. You should respect it.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{fiercely}{]} Funk, more likely.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{springing to his feet}{]} Funk! Young man:\ 
I come of a famous family of fighters; and as your sister well knows,
you would have as much chance against me as a perambulator against
your motor car.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{secretly daunted, but rising from his knees
with an air of reckless pugnacity}{]} I ain't afraid of you. With
your Louisa! Louisa! Miss Straker is good enough for you, I should
think.

MENDOZA. I wish you could persuade her to think so.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{exasperated}{]} Here\mbox{---}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{rising quickly and interposing}{]} Oh come,
Henry:\ even if you could fight the President you can't fight the
whole League of the Sierra. Sit down again and be friendly. A cat
may look at a king; and even a President of brigands may look at your
sister. All this family pride is really very old fashioned.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{subdued, but grumbling}{]} Let him look at
her. But wot does he mean by makin out that she ever looked at im?
{[}\textit{Reluctantly resuming his couch on the turf}{]} Ear him
talk, one ud think she was keepin company with him.\ {}{[}\textit{He
turns his back on them and composes himself to sleep}{]}.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{to Tanner, becoming more confidential as he
finds himself virtually alone with a sympathetic listener in the still
starlight of the mountains; for all the rest are asleep by this time}{]}
It was just so with her, sir. Her intellect reached forward into the
twentieth century:\ her social prejudices and family affections reached
back into the dark ages. Ah, sir, how the words of Shakespear seem
to fit every crisis in our emotions! \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

I loved Louisa: 40,000 brothers \\*

\mbox{Could not with all their quantity of love} \\*

Make up my sum.

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} And so on. I forget the rest. Call it madness if you will\mbox{---}infatuation.
I am an able man, a strong man:\ in ten years I should have owned
a first-class hotel. I met her; and you see! I am a brigand, an outcast.
Even Shakespear cannot do justice to what I feel for Louisa. Let me
read you some lines that I have written about her myself. However
slight their literary merit may be, they express what I feel better
than any casual words can. {[}\textit{He produces a packet of hotel
bills scrawled with manuscript, and kneels at the fire to decipher
them, poking it with a stick to make it glow}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{clapping him rudely on the shoulder}{]} Put
them in the fire, President.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{startled}{]} Eh?

TANNER. You are sacrificing your career to a monomania.

MENDOZA. I know it.

TANNER. No you don't. No man would commit such a crime against himself
if he really knew what he was doing. How can you look round at these
august hills, look up at this divine sky, taste this finely tempered
air, and then talk like a literary hack on a second floor in Bloomsbury?

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his head}{]} The Sierra is no better
than Bloomsbury when once the novelty has worn off. Besides, these
mountains make you dream of women\mbox{---}of women with magnificent
hair.

TANNER. Of Louisa, in short. They will not make me dream of women,
my friend:\ I am heartwhole.

MENDOZA. Do not boast until morning, sir. This is a strange country
for dreams.

TANNER. Well, we shall see. Goodnight.\ {}{[}\textit{He lies down
and composes himself to sleep}{]}.

\emph{Mendoza, with a sigh, follows his example; and for a few moments
there is peace in the Sierra. Then Mendoza sits up suddenly and says
pleadingly to Tanner\mbox{---}}

MENDOZA. Just allow me to read a few lines before you go to sleep.
I should really like your opinion of them.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{drowsily}{]} Go on. I am listening.

MENDOZA. \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

I saw thee first in Whitsun week \\*

Louisa, Louisa---

\end{verse} \end{flushleft}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{roaring himself}{]} My dear President, Louisa
is a very pretty name; but it really doesn't rhyme well to Whitsun
week.

MENDOZA. Of course not. Louisa is not the rhyme, but the refrain.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{subsiding}{]} Ah, the refrain. I beg your pardon.
Go on.

MENDOZA. Perhaps you do not care for that one:\ I think you will
like this better.\ {}{[}\textit{He recites, in rich soft tones, and
to slow time}{]} \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

Louisa, I love thee. \\*

I love thee, Louisa. \\*

Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee. \\*

\mbox{One name and one phrase make my music,} \\*

\mbox{Louisa. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa, I love thee.}



Mendoza thy lover, \\*

Thy lover, Mendoza, \\*

Mendoza adoringly lives for Louisa. \\*

\mbox{There's nothing but that in the world for Mendoza.} \\*

\mbox{Louisa, Louisa, Mendoza adores thee.}

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} {[}\textit{Affected}{]} There is no merit in producing beautiful
lines upon such a name. Louisa is an exquisite name, is it not?

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{all but asleep, responds with a faint groan}{]}.

MENDOZA. \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

O wert thou, Louisa, \\*

The wife of Mendoza, \\*

Mendoza's Louisa, Louisa Mendoza, \\*

\mbox{How blest were the life of Louisa's Mendoza!} \\*

\mbox{How painless his longing of love for Louisa!}

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} That is real poetry\mbox{---}from the heart\mbox{---}from the heart
of hearts. Don't you think it will move her?

\emph{No answer.}

MENDOZA. {[}\textit{Resignedly}{]} Asleep, as usual. Doggrel to all
the world; heavenly music to me! Idiot that I am to wear my heart
on my sleeve! {[}\textit{He composes himself to sleep, murmuring}{]}
Louisa, I love thee; I love thee, Louisa; Louisa, Louisa, Louisa,
I\mbox{---}

\emph{Straker snores; rolls over on his side; and relapses into sleep.
Stillness settles on the Sierra; and the darkness deepens. The fire
has again buried itself in white ash and ceased to glow. The peaks
show unfathomably dark against the starry firmament; but now the stars
dim and vanish; and the sky seems to steal away out of the universe.
Instead of the Sierra there is nothing; omnipresent nothing. No sky,
no peaks, no light, no sound, no time nor space, utter void. Then
somewhere the beginning of a pallor, and with it a faint throbbing
buzz as of a ghostly violoncello palpitating on the same note endlessly.
A couple of ghostly violins presently take advantage of this bass}

\begin{center}\includegraphics[%
  width=1\columnwidth]{mands10-mus1g.jpg}\end{center}

\noindent \emph{and therewith the pallor reveals a man in the void,
an incorporeal but visible man, seated, absurdly enough, on nothing.
For a moment he raises his head as the music passes him by. Then,
with a heavy sigh, he droops in utter dejection; and the violins,
discouraged, retrace their melody in despair and at last give it up,
extinguished by wailings from uncanny wind instruments, thus:\mbox{---}}

\begin{center}\includegraphics[%
  width=1\columnwidth]{mands10-mus2g.jpg}\end{center}

\emph{It is all very odd. One recognizes the Mozartian strain; and
on this hint, and by the aid of certain sparkles of violet light in
the pallor, the man's costume explains itself as that of a Spanish
nobleman of the XV-XVI century. Don Juan, of course; but where?\ why?\ how?
Besides, in the brief lifting of his face, now hidden by his hat brim,
there was a curious suggestion of Tanner. A more critical, fastidious,
handsome face, paler and colder, without Tanner's impetuous credulity
and enthusiasm, and without a touch of his modern plutocratic vulgarity,
but still a resemblance, even an identity. The name too:\ Don Juan
Tenorio, John Tanner. Where on earth\mbox{-----}or elsewhere\mbox{---}have
we got to from the XX century and the Sierra?}

\emph{Another pallor in the void, this time not violet, but a disagreeable
smoky yellow. With it, the whisper of a ghostly clarionet turning
this tune into infinite sadness:}

\begin{center}\includegraphics[%
  width=1\columnwidth]{mands10-mus3g.jpg}\end{center}

\emph{The yellowish pallor moves:\ there is an old crone wandering
in the void, bent and toothless; draped, as well as one can guess,
in the coarse brown frock of some religious order. She wanders and
wanders in her slow hopeless way, much as a wasp flies in its rapid
busy way, until she blunders against the thing she seeks:\ companionship.
With a sob of relief the poor old creature clutches at the presence
of the man and addresses him in her dry unlovely voice, which can
still express pride and resolution as well as suffering.}

THE OLD WOMAN. Excuse me; but I am so lonely; and this place is so
awful.

DON JUAN. A new comer?

THE OLD WOMAN. Yes:\ I suppose I died this morning. I confessed;
I had extreme unction; I was in bed with my family about me and my
eyes fixed on the cross. Then it grew dark; and when the light came
back it was this light by which I walk seeing nothing. I have wandered
for hours in horrible loneliness.

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{sighing}{]} Ah!\ you have not yet lost the
sense of time. One soon does, in eternity.

THE OLD WOMAN. Where are we?

DON JUAN. In hell.

THE OLD WOMAN {[}\textit{proudly}{]} Hell! I in hell! How dare you?

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{unimpressed}{]} Why not, Señora?

THE OLD WOMAN. You do not know to whom you are speaking. I am a lady,
and a faithful daughter of the Church.

DON JUAN. I do not doubt it.

THE OLD WOMAN. But how then can I be in hell? Purgatory, perhaps:\ 
I have not been perfect:\ who has? But hell!\ oh, you are lying.

DON JUAN. Hell, Señora, I assure you; hell at its best that is, its
most solitary\mbox{---}though perhaps you would prefer company.

THE OLD WOMAN. But I have sincerely repented; I have confessed.

DON JUAN. How much?

THE OLD WOMAN. More sins than I really committed. I loved confession.

DON JUAN. Ah, that is perhaps as bad as confessing too little. At
all events, Señora, whether by oversight or intention, you are certainly
damned, like myself; and there is nothing for it now but to make the
best of it.

THE OLD WOMAN {[}\textit{indignantly}{]} Oh!\ and I might have been
so much wickeder! All my good deeds wasted! It is unjust.

DON JUAN. No:\ you were fully and clearly warned. For your bad deeds,
vicarious atonement, mercy without justice. For your good deeds, justice
without mercy. We have many good people here.

THE OLD WOMAN. Were you a good man?

DON JUAN. I was a murderer.

THE OLD WOMAN. A murderer! Oh, how dare they send me to herd with
murderers! I was not as bad as that:\ I was a good woman. There is
some mistake:\ where can I have it set right?

DON JUAN. I do not know whether mistakes can be corrected here. Probably
they will not admit a mistake even if they have made one.

THE OLD WOMAN. But whom can I ask?

DON JUAN. I should ask the Devil, Señora:\ he understands the ways
of this place, which is more than I ever could.

THE OLD WOMAN. The Devil! \emph{I} speak to the Devil!

DON JUAN. In hell, Señora, the Devil is the leader of the best society.

THE OLD WOMAN. I tell you, wretch, I know I am not in hell.

DON JUAN. How do you know?

THE OLD WOMAN. Because I feel no pain.

DON JUAN. Oh, then there is no mistake:\ you are intentionally damned.

THE OLD WOMAN. Why do you say that?

DON JUAN. Because hell, Señora, is a place for the wicked. The wicked
are quite comfortable in it:\ it was made for them. You tell me you
feel no pain. I conclude you are one of those for whom Hell exists.

THE OLD WOMAN. Do you feel no pain?

DON JUAN. I am not one of the wicked, Señora; therefore it bores me,
bores me beyond description, beyond belief.

THE OLD WOMAN. Not one of the wicked! You said you were a murderer.

DON JUAN. Only a duel. I ran my sword through an old man who was trying
to run his through me.

THE OLD WOMAN. If you were a gentleman, that was not a murder.

DON JUAN. The old man called it murder, because he was, he said, defending
his daughter's honor. By this he meant that because I foolishly fell
in love with her and told her so, she screamed; and he tried to assassinate
me after calling me insulting names.

THE OLD WOMAN. You were like all men. Libertines and murderers all,
all, all!

DON JUAN. And yet we meet here, dear lady.

THE OLD WOMAN. Listen to me. My father was slain by just such a wretch
as you, in just such a duel, for just such a cause. I screamed:\ it
was my duty. My father drew on my assailant:\ his honor demanded
it. He fell:\ that was the reward of honor. I am here:\ in hell,
you tell me that is the reward of duty. Is there justice in heaven?

DON JUAN. No; but there is justice in hell:\ heaven is far above
such idle human personalities. You will be welcome in hell, Señora.
Hell is the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven
deadly virtues. All the wickedness on earth is done in their name:\ where
else but in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you
that the truly damned are those who are happy in hell?

THE OLD WOMAN. And are you happy here?

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{Springing to his feet}{]} No; and that is
the enigma on which I ponder in darkness. Why am I here? I, who repudiated
all duty, trampled honor underfoot, and laughed at justice!

THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, what do I care why you are here? Why am I here?
I, who sacrificed all my inclinations to womanly virtue and propriety!

DON JUAN. Patience, lady:\ you will be perfectly happy and at home
here. As with the poet, {}``Hell is a city much like Seville.''

THE OLD WOMAN. Happy!\ here!\ where I am nothing!\ where I am nobody!

DON JUAN. Not at all:\ you are a lady; and wherever ladies are is
hell. Do not be surprised or terrified:\ you will find everything
here that a lady can desire, including devils who will serve you from
sheer love of servitude, and magnify your importance for the sake
of dignifying their service\mbox{---}the best of servants.

THE OLD WOMAN. My servants will be devils.

DON JUAN. Have you ever had servants who were not devils?

THE OLD WOMAN. Never:\ they were devils, perfect devils, all of them.
But that is only a manner of speaking. I thought you meant that my
servants here would be real devils.

DON JUAN. No more real devils than you will be a real lady. Nothing
is real here. That is the horror of damnation.

THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, this is all madness. This is worse than fire and
the worm.

DON JUAN. For you, perhaps, there are consolations. For instance:\ 
how old were you when you changed from time to eternity?

THE OLD WOMAN. Do not ask me how old I was as if I were a thing of
the past. I am 77.

DON JUAN. A ripe age, Señora. But in hell old age is not tolerated.
It is too real. Here we worship Love and Beauty. Our souls being entirely
damned, we cultivate our hearts. As a lady of 77, you would not have
a single acquaintance in hell.

THE OLD WOMAN. How can I help my age, man?

DON JUAN. You forget that you have left your age behind you in the
realm of time. You are no more 77 than you are 7 or 17 or 27.

THE OLD WOMAN. Nonsense!

DON JUAN. Consider, Señora:\ was not this true even when you lived
on earth? When you were 70, were you really older underneath your
wrinkles and your grey hams than when you were 30?

THE OLD WOMAN. No, younger:\ at 30 I was a fool. But of what use
is it to feel younger and look older?

DON JUAN. You see, Señora, the look was only an illusion. Your wrinkles
lied, just as the plump smooth skin of many a stupid girl of 17, with
heavy spirits and decrepit ideas, lies about her age? Well, here we
have no bodies:\ we see each other as bodies only because we learnt
to think about one another under that aspect when we were alive; and
we still think in that way, knowing no other. But we can appear to
one another at what age we choose. You have but to will any of your
old looks back, and back they will come.

THE OLD WOMAN. It cannot be true.

DON JUAN. Try.

THE OLD WOMAN. Seventeen!

DON JUAN. Stop. Before you decide, I had better tell you that these
things are a matter of fashion. Occasionally we have a rage for 17;
but it does not last long. Just at present the fashionable age is
40\mbox{---}or say 37; but there are signs of a change. If you were
at all good-looking at 27, I should suggest your trying that, and
setting a new fashion.

THE OLD WOMAN. I do not believe a word you are saying. However, 27
be it.\ {}{[}\textit{Whisk!}\ \textit{the old woman becomes a young
one, and so handsome that in the radiance into which her dull yellow
halo has suddenly lightened one might almost mistake her for Ann Whitefield}{]}.

DON JUAN. Do\~{n}a Ana de Ulloa!

ANA. What? You know me!

DON JUAN. And you forget me!

ANA. I cannot see your face.\ {}{[}\textit{He raises his hat}{]}.
Don Juan Tenorio! Monster! You who slew my father!\ even here you
pursue me.

DON JUAN. I protest I do not pursue you. Allow me to withdraw {[}\textit{going}{]}.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{reining his arm}{]} You shall not leave me alone
in this dreadful place.

DON JUAN. Provided my staying be not interpreted as pursuit.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{releasing him}{]} You may well wonder how I can
endure your presence. My dear, dear father!

DON JUAN. Would you like to see him?

ANA. My father \emph{here}!!!

DON JUAN. No:\ he is in heaven.

ANA. I knew it. My noble father! He is looking down on us now. What
must he feel to see his daughter in this place, and in conversation
with his murderer!

DON JUAN. By the way, if we should meet him\mbox{---}

ANA. How can we meet him? He is in heaven.

DON JUAN. He condescends to look in upon us here from time to time.
Heaven bores him. So let me warn you that if you meet him he will
be mortally offended if you speak of me as his murderer! He maintains
that he was a much better swordsman than I, and that if his foot had
not slipped he would have killed me. No doubt he is right:\ I was
not a good fencer. I never dispute the point; so we are excellent
friends.

ANA. It is no dishonor to a soldier to be proud of his skill in arms.

DON JUAN. You would rather not meet him, probably.

ANA. How dare you say that?

DON JUAN. Oh, that is the usual feeling here. You may remember that
on earth\mbox{---}though of course we never confessed it\mbox{---}the
death of anyone we knew, even those we liked best, was always mingled
with a certain satisfaction at being finally done with them.

ANA. Monster! Never, never.

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{placidly}{]} I see you recognize the feeling.
Yes:\ a funeral was always a festivity in black, especially the funeral
of a relative. At all events, family ties are rarely kept up here.
Your father is quite accustomed to this:\ he will not expect any
devotion from you.

ANA. Wretch:\ I wore mourning for him all my life.

DON JUAN. Yes:\ it became you. But a life of mourning is one thing:\ 
an eternity of it quite another. Besides, here you are as dead as
he. Can anything be more ridiculous than one dead person mourning
for another? Do not look shocked, my dear Ana; and do not be alarmed:\ 
there is plenty of humbug in hell (indeed there is hardly anything
else); but the humbug of death and age and change is dropped because
here \emph{we} are all dead and all eternal. You will pick up our
ways soon.

ANA. And will all the men call me their dear Ana?

DON JUAN. No. That was a slip of the tongue. I beg your pardon.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{almost tenderly}{]} Juan:\ did you really love
me when you behaved so disgracefully to me?

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{impatiently}{]} Oh, I beg you not to begin
talking about love. Here they talk of nothing else but love\mbox{---}its
beauty, its holiness, its spirituality, its devil knows what!\mbox{---}excuse
me; but it does so bore me. They don't know what they're talking about.
I do. They think they have achieved the perfection of love because
they have no bodies. Sheer imaginative debauchery! Faugh!

ANA. Has even death failed to refine your soul, Juan? Has the terrible
judgment of which my father's statue was the minister taught you no
reverence?

DON JUAN. How is that very flattering statue, by the way? Does it
still come to supper with naughty people and cast them into this bottomless
pit?

ANA. It has been a great expense to me. The boys in the monastery
school would not let it alone:\ the mischievous ones broke it; and
the studious ones wrote their names on it. Three new noses in two
years, and fingers without end. I had to leave it to its fate at last;
and now I fear it is shockingly mutilated. My poor father!

DON JUAN. Hush! Listen! {[}\textit{Two great chords rolling on syncopated
waves of sound break forth:\ D minor and its dominant:\ a round
of dreadful joy to all musicians}{]}. Ha! Mozart's statue music. It
is your father. You had better disappear until I prepare him.\ {}{[}\textit{She
vanishes}{]}.

\emph{From the void comes a living statue of white marble, designed
to represent a majestic old man. But he waives his majesty with infinite
grace; walks with a feather-like step; and makes every wrinkle in
his war worn visage brim over with holiday joyousness. To his sculptor
he owes a perfectly trained figure, which he carries erect and trim;
and the ends of his moustache curl up, elastic as watchsprings, giving
him an air which, but for its Spanish dignity, would be called jaunty.
He is on the pleasantest terms with Don Juan. His voice, save for
a much more distinguished intonation, is so like the voice of Roebuck
Ramsden that it calls attention to the fact that they are not unlike
one another in spite of their very different fashion of shaving.}

DON JUAN. Ah, here you are, my friend. Why don't you learn to sing
the splendid music Mozart has written for you?

THE STATUE. Unluckily he has written it for a bass voice. Mine is
a counter tenor. Well:\ have you repented yet?

DON JUAN. I have too much consideration for you to repent, Don Gonzalo.
If I did, you would have no excuse for coming from Heaven to argue
with me.

THE STATUE. True. Remain obdurate, my boy. I wish I had killed you,
as I should have done but for an accident. Then I should have come
here; and you would have had a statue and a reputation for piety to
live up to. Any news?

DON JUAN. Yes:\ your daughter is dead.

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{puzzled}{]} My daughter? {[}\textit{Recollecting}{]}
Oh!\ the one you were taken with. Let me see:\ what was her name?

DON JUAN. Ana.

THE STATUE. To be sure:\ Ana. A goodlooking girl, if I recollect
aright. Have you warned Whatshisname\mbox{---}her husband?

DON JUAN. My friend Ottavio? No:\ I have not seen him since Ana arrived.

\emph{Ana comes indignantly to light.}

ANA. What does this mean? Ottavio here and \emph{your} friend! And
you, father, have forgotten my name. You are indeed turned to stone.

THE STATUE. My dear:\ I am so much more admired in marble than I
ever was in my own person that I have retained the shape the sculptor
gave me. He was one of the first men of his day:\ you must acknowledge
that.

ANA. Father! Vanity!\ personal vanity!\ from you!

THE STATUE. Ah, you outlived that weakness, my daughter:\ you must
be nearly 80 by this time. I was cut off (by an accident) in my 64th
year, and am considerably your junior in consequence. Besides, my
child, in this place, what our libertine friend here would call the
farce of parental wisdom is dropped. Regard me, I beg, as a fellow
creature, not as a father.

ANA. You speak as this villain speaks.

THE STATUE. Juan is a sound thinker, Ana. A bad fencer, but a sound
thinker.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{horror creeping upon her}{]} I begin to understand.
These are devils, mocking me. I had better pray.

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{consoling her}{]} No, no, no, my child:\ 
do not pray. If you do, you will throw away the main advantage of
this place. Written over the gate here are the words {}``Leave every
hope behind, ye who enter.'' Only think what a relief that is! For
what is hope? A form of moral responsibility. Here there is no hope,
and consequently no duty, no work, nothing to be gained by praying,
nothing to be lost by doing what you like. Hell, in short, is a place
where you have nothing to do but amuse yourself.\ {}{[}\textit{Don
Juan sighs deeply}{]}. You sigh, friend Juan; but if you dwelt in
heaven, as I do, you would realize your advantages.

DON JUAN. You are in good spirits to-day, Commander. You are positively
brilliant. What is the matter?

THE STATUE. I have come to a momentous decision, my boy. But first,
where is our friend the Devil? I must consult him in the matter. And
Ana would like to make his acquaintance, no doubt.

ANA. You are preparing some torment for me.

DON JUAN. All that is superstition, Ana. Reassure yourself. Remember:\ 
the devil is not so black as he is painted.

THE STATUE. Let us give him a call.

\emph{At the wave of the statue's hand the great chords roll out again
but this time Mozart's music gets grotesquely adulterated with Gounod's.
A scarlet halo begins to glow; and into it the Devil rises, very Mephistophelean,
and not at all unlike Mendoza, though not so interesting. He looks
older; is getting prematurely bald; and, in spite of an effusion of
good-nature and friendliness, is peevish and sensitive when his advances
are not reciprocated. He does not inspire much confidence in his powers
of hard work or endurance, and is, on the whole, a disagreeably self-indulgent
looking person; but he is clever and plausible, though perceptibly
less well bred than the two other men, and enormously less vital than
the woman.}

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{heartily}{]} Have I the pleasure of again
receiving a visit from the illustrious Commander of \textit{\emph{Calatrava}}?
{[}\textit{Coldly}{]} Don Juan, your servant.\ {}{[}\textit{Politely}{]}
And a strange lady? My respects, Señora.

ANA. Are you\mbox{---}

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{bowing}{]} Lucifer, at your service.

ANA. I shall go mad.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{gallantly}{]} Ah, Señora, do not be anxious.
You come to us from earth, full of the prejudices and terrors of that
priest-ridden place. You have heard me ill spoken of; and yet, believe
me, I have hosts of friends there.

ANA. Yes:\ you reign in their hearts.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his head}{]} You flatter me, Señora;
but you are mistaken. It is true that the world cannot get on without
me; but it never gives me credit for that:\ in its heart it mistrusts
and hates me. Its sympathies are all with misery, with poverty, with
starvation of the body and of the heart. I call on it to sympathize
with joy, with love, with happiness, with beauty.

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{nauseated}{]} Excuse me:\ I am going. You
know I cannot stand this.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{angrily}{]} Yes:\ I know that you are no
friend of mine.

THE STATUE. What harm is he doing you, Juan? It seems to me that he
was talking excellent sense when you interrupted him.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{warmly shaking the statue's hand}{]} Thank
you, my friend:\ thank you. You have always understood me:\ he has
always disparaged and avoided me.

DON JUAN. I have treated you with perfect courtesy.

THE DEVIL. Courtesy! What is courtesy? I care nothing for mere courtesy.
Give me warmth of heart, true sincerity, the bond of sympathy with
love and joy\mbox{---}

DON JUAN. You are making me ill.

THE DEVIL. There! {[}\textit{Appealing to the statue}{]} You hear,
sir! Oh, by what irony of fate was this cold selfish egotist sent
to my kingdom, and you taken to the icy mansions of the sky!

THE STATUE. I can't complain. I was a hypocrite; and it served me
right to be sent to heaven.

THE DEVIL. Why, sir, do you not join us, and leave a sphere for which
your temperament is too sympathetic, your heart too warm, your capacity
for enjoyment too generous?

THE STATUE. I have this day resolved to do so. In future, excellent
Son of the Morning, I am yours. I have left Heaven for ever.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{again grasping his hand}{]} Ah, what an
honor for me! What a triumph for our cause! Thank you, thank you.
And now, my friend\mbox{---}I may call you so at last\mbox{---}could
you not persuade \emph{him} to take the place you have left vacant
above?

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his head}{]} I cannot conscientiously
recommend anybody with whom I am on friendly terms to deliberately
make himself dull and uncomfortable.

THE DEVIL. Of course not; but are you sure \emph{he} would be uncomfortable?
Of course you know best:\ you brought him here originally; and we
had the greatest hopes of him. His sentiments were in the best taste
of our best people. You remember how he sang? {[}\textit{He begins
to sing in a nasal operatic baritone, tremulous from an eternity of
misuse in the French manner}{]}.

\begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \small

\textit{Vivan l\'{e} femmine!} \\*

\textit{Viva il buon vino!}

\end{verse} \end{flushleft}

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{taking up the tune an octave higher in
his counter tenor}{]}

\begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \small

\textit{Sostegno a gloria} \\*

\textit{D'umanita.}

\end{verse} \end{flushleft}

THE DEVIL. Precisely. Well, he never sings for us now.

DON JUAN. Do you complain of that? Hell is full of musical amateurs:\ 
music is the brandy of the damned. May not one lost soul be permitted
to abstain?

THE DEVIL. You dare blaspheme against the sublimest of the arts!

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{with cold disgust}{]} You talk like a hysterical
woman fawning on a fiddler.

THE DEVIL. I am not angry. I merely pity you. You have no soul; and
you are unconscious of all that you lose. Now you, Señor Commander,
are a born musician. How well you sing! Mozart would be delighted
if he were still here; but he moped and went to heaven. Curious how
these clever men, whom you would have supposed born to be popular
here, have turned out social failures, like Don Juan!

DON JUAN. I am really very sorry to be a social failure.

THE DEVIL. Not that we don't admire your intellect, you know. We do.
But I look at the matter from your own point of view. You don't get
on with us. The place doesn't suit you. The truth is, you have\mbox{---}I
won't say no heart; for we know that beneath all your affected cynicism
you have a warm one.

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{shrinking}{]} Don't, please don't.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{nettled}{]} Well, you've no capacity for
enjoyment. Will that satisfy you?

DON JUAN. It is a somewhat less insufferable form of cant than the
other. But if you'll allow me, I'll take refuge, as usual, in solitude.

THE DEVIL. Why not take refuge in Heaven? That's the proper place
for you.\ {}{[}\textit{To Ana}{]} Come, Señora!\ could you not persuade
him for his own good to try a change of air?

ANA. But can he go to Heaven if he wants to?

THE DEVIL. What's to prevent him?

ANA. Can anybody\mbox{---}can I go to Heaven if I want to?

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{rather contemptuously}{]} Certainly, if
your taste lies that way.

ANA. But why doesn't everybody go to Heaven, then?

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{chuckling}{]} I can tell you that, my dear.
It's because heaven is the most angelically dull place in all creation:\ 
that's why.

THE DEVIL. His excellency the Commander puts it with military bluntness;
but the strain of living in Heaven is intolerable. There is a notion
that I was turned out of it; but as a matter of fact nothing could
have induced me to stay there. I simply left it and organized this
place.

THE STATUE. I don't wonder at it. Nobody could stand an eternity of
heaven.

THE DEVIL. Oh, it suits some people. Let us be just, Commander:\ it
is a question of temperament. I don't admire the heavenly temperament:\ 
I don't understand it:\ I don't know that I particularly want to
understand it; but it takes all sorts to make a universe. There is
no accounting for tastes:\ there are people who like it. I think
Don Juan would like it.

DON JUAN. But\mbox{---}pardon my frank\-ness\mbox{---}could you
really go back there if you desired to; or are the grapes sour?

THE DEVIL. Back there! I often go back there. Have you never read
the book of Job? Have you any canonical authority for assuming that
there is any barrier between our circle and the other one?

ANA. But surely there is a great gulf fixed.

THE DEVIL. Dear lady:\ a parable must not be taken literally. The
gulf is the difference between the angelic and the diabolic temperament.
What more impassable gulf could you have? Think of what you have seen
on earth. There is no physical gulf between the philosopher's class
room and the bull ring; but the bull fighters do not come to the class
room for all that. Have you ever been in the country where I have
the largest following\mbox{---}England? There they have great race-courses,
and also concert rooms where they play the classical compositions
of his Excellency's friend Mozart. Those who go to the race-courses
can stay away from them and go to the classical concerts instead if
they like:\ there is no law against it; for Englishmen never will
be slaves:\ they are free to do whatever the Government and public
opinion allows them to do. And the classical concert is admitted to
be a higher, more cultivated, poetic, intellectual, ennobling place
than the race-course. But do the lovers of racing desert their sport
and flock to the concert room? Not they. They would suffer there all
the weariness the Commander has suffered in heaven. There is the great
gulf of the parable between the two places. A mere physical gulf they
could bridge; or at least I could bridge it for them (the earth is
full of Devil's Bridges); but the gulf of dislike is impassable and
eternal. And that is the only gulf that separates my friends here
from those who are invidiously called the blest.

ANA. I shall go to heaven at once.

THE STATUE. My child; one word of warning first. Let me complete my
friend Lucifer's similitude of the classical concert. At every one
of those concerts in England you will find rows of weary people who
are there, not because they really like classical music, but because
they think they ought to like it. Well, there is the same thing in
heaven. A number of people sit there in glory, not because they are
happy, but because they think they owe it to their position to be
in heaven. They are almost all English.

THE DEVIL. Yes:\ the Southerners give it up and join me just as you
have done. But the English really do not seem to know when they are
thoroughly miserable. An Englishman thinks he is moral when he is
only uncomfortable.

THE STATUE. In short, my daughter, if you go to Heaven without being
naturally qualified for it, you will not enjoy yourself there.

ANA. And who dares say that I am not naturally qualified for it? The
most distinguished princes of the Church have never questioned it.
I owe it to myself to leave this place at once.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{offended}{]} As you please, Señora. I should
have expected better taste from you.

ANA. Father:\ I shall expect you to come with me. You cannot stay
here. What will people say?

THE STATUE. People! Why, the best people are here\mbox{---}princes
of the church and all. So few go to Heaven, and so many come here,
that the blest, once called a heavenly host, are a continually dwindling
minority. The saints, the fathers, the elect of long ago are the cranks,
the faddists, the outsiders of to-day.

THE DEVIL. It is true. From the beginning of my career I knew that
I should win in the long run by sheer weight of public opinion, in
spite of the long campaign of misrepresentation and calumny against
me. At bottom the universe is a constitutional one; and with such
a majority as mine I cannot be kept permanently out of office.

DON JUAN. I think, Ana, you had better stay here.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{jealously}{]} You do not want me to go with you.

DON JUAN. Surely you do not want to enter Heaven in the company of
a reprobate like me.

ANA. All souls are equally precious. You repent, do you not?

DON JUAN. My dear Ana, you are silly. Do you suppose heaven is like
earth, where people persuade themselves that what is done can be undone
by repentance; that what is spoken can be unspoken by withdrawing
it; that what is true can be annihilated by a general agreement to
give it the lie? No:\ heaven is the home of the masters of reality:\ 
that is why I am going thither.

ANA. Thank you:\ I am going to heaven for happiness. I have had quite
enough of reality on earth.

DON JUAN. Then you must stay here; for hell is the home of the unreal
and of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven,
which is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from
earth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a
nursery in which men and women play at being heros and heroines, saints
and sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool's paradise
by their bodies:\ hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease,
death above all, make them slaves of reality:\ thrice a day meals
must be eaten and digested:\ thrice a century a new generation must
be engendered:\  ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all
driven at last to have but one prayer {}``Make me a healthy animal.''
But here you escape the tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not
an animal at all:\ you are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a
convention, deathless, ageless:\ in a word, bodiless. There are no
social questions here, no political questions, no religious questions,
best of all, perhaps, no sanitary questions. Here you call your appearance
beauty, your emotions love, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations
virtue, just as you did on earth; but here there are no hard facts
to contradict you, no ironic contrast of your needs with your pretensions,
no human comedy, nothing but a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama.
As our German friend put it in his poem, {}``the poetically nonsensical
here is good sense; and the Eternal Feminine draws us ever upward
and on''---without getting us a step farther. And yet you want to
leave this paradise!

ANA. But if Hell be so beautiful as this, how glorious must heaven
be!

\emph{The Devil, the Statue, and Don Juan all begin to speak at once
in violent protest; then stop, abashed.}

DON JUAN. I beg your pardon.

THE DEVIL. Not at all. I interrupted you.

THE STATUE. You were going to say something.

DON JUAN. After you, gentlemen.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{to Don Juan}{]} You have been so eloquent
on the advantages of my dominions that I leave you to do equal justice
to the drawbacks of the alternative establishment.

DON JUAN. In Heaven, as I picture it, dear lady, you live and work
instead of playing and pretending. You face things as they are; you
escape nothing but glamor; and your steadfastness and your peril are
your glory. If the play still goes on here and on earth, and all the
world is a stage, Heaven is at least behind the scenes. But Heaven
cannot be described by metaphor. Thither I shall go presently, because
there I hope to escape at last from lies and from the tedious, vulgar
pursuit of happiness, to spend my eons in contemplation\mbox{---}

THE STATUE. Ugh!

DON JUAN. Señor Commander:\ I do not blame your disgust:\ a picture
gallery is a dull place for a blind man. But even as you enjoy the
contemplation of such romantic mirages as beauty and pleasure; so
would I enjoy the contemplation of that which interests me above all
things namely, Life:\ the force that ever strives to attain greater
power of contemplating itself. What made this brain of mine, do you
think? Not the need to move my limbs; for a rat with half my brains
moves as well as I.\ Not merely the need to do, but the need to know
what I do, lest in my blind efforts to live I should be slaying myself.

THE STATUE. You would have slain yourself in your blind efforts to
fence but for my foot slipping, my friend.

DON JUAN. Audacious ribald:\ your laughter will finish in hideous
boredom before morning.

THE STATUE. Ha ha! Do you remember how I frightened you when I said
something like that to you from my pedestal in Seville? It sounds
rather flat without my trombones.

DON JUAN. They tell me it generally sounds flat with them, Commander.

ANA. Oh, do not interrupt with these frivolities, father. Is there
nothing in Heaven but contemplation, Juan?

DON JUAN. In the Heaven I seek, no other joy. But there is the work
of helping Life in its struggle upward. Think of how it wastes and
scatters itself, how it raises up obstacles to itself and destroys
itself in its ignorance and blindness. It needs a brain, this irresistible
force, lest in its ignorance it should resist itself. What a piece
of work is man!\ says the poet. Yes:\ but what a blunderer! Here
is the highest miracle of organization yet attained by life, the most
intensely alive thing that exists, the most conscious of all the organisms;
and yet, how wretched are his brains! Stupidity made sordid and cruel
by the realities learnt from toil and poverty:\ Imagination resolved
to starve sooner than face these realities, piling up illusions to
hide them, and calling itself cleverness, genius! And each accusing
the other of its own defect:\ Stupidity accusing Imagination of folly,
and Imagination accusing Stupidity of ignorance:\ whereas, alas!\ Stupidity
has all the knowledge, and Imagination all the intelligence.

THE DEVIL. And a pretty kettle of fish they make of it between them.
Did I not say, when I was arranging that affair of Faust's, that all
Man's reason has done for him is to make him beastlier than any beast.
One splendid body is worth the brains of a hundred dyspeptic, flatulent
philosophers.

DON JUAN. You forget that brainless magnificence of body has been
tried. Things immeasurably greater than man in every respect but brain
have existed and perished. The \textit{\emph{megatherium}}, the icthyosaurus
have paced the earth with seven-league steps and hidden the day with
cloud vast wings. Where are they now? Fossils in museums, and so few
and imperfect at that, that a knuckle bone or a tooth of one of them
is prized beyond the lives of a thousand soldiers. These things lived
and wanted to live; but for lack of brains they did not know how to
carry out their purpose, and so destroyed themselves.

THE DEVIL. And is Man any the less destroying himself for all this
boasted brain of his? Have you walked up and down upon the earth lately?
I have; and I have examined Man's wonderful inventions. And I tell
you that in the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts
of death he outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and
machinery all the slaughter of plague, pestilence and famine. The
peasant I tempt to-day eats and drinks what was eaten and drunk by
the peasants of ten thousand years ago; and the house he lives in
has not altered as much in a thousand centuries as the fashion of
a lady's bonnet in a score of weeks. But when he goes out to slay,
he carries a marvel of mechanism that lets loose at the touch of his
finger all the hidden molecular energies, and leaves the javelin,
the arrow, the blowpipe of his fathers far behind. In the arts of
peace Man is a bungler. I have seen his cotton factories and the like,
with machinery that a greedy dog could have invented if it had wanted
money instead of food. I know his clumsy typewriters and bungling
locomotives and tedious bicycles:\ they are toys compared to the
Maxim gun, the submarine torpedo boat. There is nothing in Man's industrial
machinery but his greed and sloth:\ his heart is in his weapons.
This marvellous force of Life of which you boast is a force of Death:\ Man
measures his strength by his destructiveness. What is his religion?
An excuse for hating \emph{me}. What is his law? An excuse for hanging
\emph{you}. What is his morality? Gentility!\ an excuse for consuming
without producing. What is his art? An excuse for gloating over pictures
of slaughter. What are his politics? Either the worship of a despot
because a despot can kill, or parliamentary cockfighting. I spent
an evening lately in a certain celebrated legislature, and heard the
pot lecturing the kettle for its blackness, and ministers answering
questions. When I left I chalked up on the door the old nursery saying\mbox{---}{}``Ask
no questions and you will be told no lies.'' I bought a sixpenny
family magazine, and found it full of pictures of young men shooting
and stabbing one another. I saw a man die:\ he was a London bricklayer's
laborer with seven children. He left seventeen pounds club money;
and his wife spent it all on his funeral and went into the workhouse
with the children next day. She would not have spent sevenpence on
her children's schooling:\ the law had to force her to let them be
taught gratuitously; but on death she spent all she had. Their imagination
glows, their energies rise up at the idea of death, these people:\ 
they love it; and the more horrible it is the more they enjoy it.
Hell is a place far above their comprehension:\ they derive their
notion of it from two of the greatest fools that ever lived, an Italian
and an Englishman. The Italian described it as a place of mud, frost,
filth, fire, and venomous serpents:\ all torture. This ass, when
he was not lying about me, was maundering about some woman whom he
saw once in the street. The Englishman described me as being expelled
from Heaven by cannons and gunpowder; and to this day every Briton
believes that the whole of his silly story is in the Bible. What else
he says I do not know; for it is all in a long poem which neither
I nor anyone else ever succeeded in wading through. It is the same
in everything. The highest form of literature is the tragedy, a play
in which everybody is murdered at the end. In the old chronicles you
read of earthquakes and pestilences, and are told that these showed
the power and majesty of God and the littleness of Man. Nowadays the
chronicles describe battles. In a battle two bodies of men shoot at
one another with bullets and explosive shells until one body runs
away, when the others chase the fugitives on horseback and cut them
to pieces as they fly. And this, the chronicle concludes, shows the
greatness and majesty of empires, and the littleness of the vanquished.
Over such battles the people run about the streets yelling with delight,
and egg their Governments on to spend hundreds of millions of money
in the slaughter, whilst the strongest Ministers dare not spend an
extra penny in the pound against the poverty and pestilence through
which they themselves daily walk. I could give you a thousand instances;
but they all come to the same thing:\ the power that governs the
earth is not the power of Life but of Death; and the inner need that
has nerved Life to the effort of organizing itself into the human
being is not the need for higher life but for a more efficient engine
of destruction. The plague, the famine, the earthquake, the tempest
were too spasmodic in their action; the tiger and crocodile were too
easily satiated and not cruel enough:\ something more constantly,
more ruthlessly, more ingeniously destructive was needed; and that
something was Man, the inventor of the rack, the stake, the gallows,
and the electrocutor; of the sword and gun; above all, of justice,
duty, patriotism and all the other isms by which even those who are
clever enough to be humanely disposed are persuaded to become the
most destructive of all the destroyers.

DON JUAN. Pshaw!\ all this is old. Your weak side, my diabolic friend,
is that you have always been a gull:\ you take Man at his own valuation.
Nothing would flatter him more than your opinion of him. He loves
to think of himself as bold and bad. He is neither one nor the other:\ 
he is only a coward. Call him tyrant, murderer, pirate, bully; and
he will adore you, and swagger about with the consciousness of having
the blood of the old sea kings in his veins. Call him liar and thief;
and he will only take an action against you for libel. But call him
coward; and he will go mad with rage:\ he will face death to outface
that stinging truth. Man gives every reason for his conduct save one,
every excuse for his crimes save one, every plea for his safety save
one; and that one is his cowardice. Yet all his civilization is founded
on his cowardice, on his abject tameness, which he calls his respectability.
There are limits to what a mule or an ass will stand; but Man will
suffer himself to be degraded until his vileness becomes so loathsome
to his oppressors that they themselves are forced to reform it.

THE DEVIL. Precisely. And these are the creatures in whom you discover
what you call a Life Force!

DON JUAN. Yes; for now comes the most surprising part of the whole
business.

THE STATUE. What's that?

DON JUAN. Why, that you can make any of these cowards brave by simply
putting an idea into his head.

THE STATUE. Stuff! As an old soldier I admit the cowardice:\ it's
as universal as sea sickness, and matters just as little. But that
about putting an idea into a man's head is stuff and nonsense. In
a battle all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood and
the knowledge that it's more dangerous to lose than to win.

DON JUAN. That is perhaps why battles are so useless. But men never
really overcome fear until they imagine they are fighting to further
a universal purpose\mbox{---}fighting for an idea, as they call it.
Why was the Crusader braver than the pirate? Because he fought, not
for himself, but for the Cross. What force was it that met him with
a valor as reckless as his own? The force of men who fought, not for
themselves, but for Islam. They took Spain from us, though we were
fighting for our very hearths and homes; but when we, too, fought
for that mighty idea, a Catholic Church, we swept them back to Africa.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{ironically}{]} What!\ you a Catholic, Señor
Don Juan! A devotee! My congratulations.

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{seriously}{]} Come come!\ as a soldier,
I can listen to nothing against the Church.

DON JUAN. Have no fear, Commander:\ this idea of a Catholic Church
will survive Islam, will survive the Cross, will survive even that
vulgar pageant of incompetent schoolboyish gladiators which you call
the Army.

THE STATUE. Juan:\ you will force me to call you to account for this.

DON JUAN. Useless:\ I cannot fence. Every idea for which Man will
die will be a Catholic idea. When the Spaniard learns at last that
he is no better than the Saracen, and his prophet no better than Mahomet,
he will arise, more Catholic than ever, and die on a barricade across
the filthy slum he starves in, for universal liberty and equality.

THE STATUE. Bosh!

DON JUAN. What you call bosh is the only thing men dare die for. Later
on, Liberty will not be Catholic enough:\ men will die for human
perfection, to which they will sacrifice all their liberty gladly.

THE DEVIL. \textit{\emph{Ay}}:\ they will never be at a loss for
an excuse for killing one another.

DON JUAN. What of that? It is not death that matters, but the fear
of death. It is not killing and dying that degrade us, but base living,
and accepting the wages and profits of degradation. Better ten dead
men than one live slave or his master. Men shall yet rise up, father
against son and brother against brother, and kill one another for
the great Catholic idea of abolishing slavery.

THE DEVIL. Yes, when the Liberty and Equality of which you prate shall
have made free white Christians cheaper in the labor market than by
auction at the block.

DON JUAN. Never fear!\ the white laborer shall have his turn too.
But I am not now defending the illusory forms the great ideas take.
I am giving you examples of the fact that this creature Man, who in
his own selfish affairs is a coward to the backbone, will fight for
an idea like a hero. He may be abject as a citizen; but he is dangerous
as a fanatic. He can only be enslaved whilst he is spiritually weak
enough to listen to reason. I tell you, gentlemen, if you can show
a man a piece of what he now calls God's work to do, and what he will
later on call by many new names, you can make him entirely reckless
of the consequences to himself personally.

ANA. Yes:\ he shirks all his responsibilities, and leaves his wife
to grapple with them.

THE STATUE. Well said, daughter. Do not let him talk you out of your
common sense.

THE DEVIL. Alas!\ Señor Commander, now that we have got on to the
subject of Woman, he will talk more than ever. However, I confess
it is for me the one supremely interesting subject.

DON JUAN. To a woman, Señora, man's duties and responsibilities begin
and end with the task of getting bread for her children. To her, Man
is only a means to the end of getting children and rearing them.

ANA. Is that your idea of a woman's mind? I call it cynical and disgusting
materialism.

DON JUAN. Pardon me, Ana:\ I said nothing about a woman's whole mind.
I spoke of her view of Man as a separate sex. It is no more cynical
than her view of herself as above all things a Mother. Sexually, Woman
is Nature's contrivance for perpetuating its highest achievement.
Sexually, Man is Woman's contrivance for fulfilling Nature's behest
in the most economical way. She knows by instinct that far back in
the evolutional process she invented him, differentiated him, created
him in order to produce something better than the single-sexed process
can produce. Whilst he fulfils the purpose for which she made him,
he is welcome to his dreams, his follies, his ideals, his heroisms,
provided that the keystone of them all is the worship of woman, of
motherhood, of the family, of the hearth. But how rash and dangerous
it was to invent a separate creature whose sole function was her own
impregnation! For mark what has happened. First, Man has multiplied
on her hands until there are as many men as women; so that she has
been unable to employ for her purposes more than a fraction of the
immense energy she has left at his disposal by saving him the exhausting
labor of gestation. This superfluous energy has gone to his brain
and to his muscle. He has become too strong to be controlled by her
bodily, and too imaginative and mentally vigorous to be content with
mere self-reproduction. He has created civilization without consulting
her, taking her domestic labor for granted as the foundation of it.

ANA. \emph{That} is true, at all events.

THE DEVIL. Yes; and this civilization!\ what is it, after all?

DON JUAN. After all, an excellent peg to hang your cynical commonplaces
on; but \emph{before} all, it is an attempt on Man's part to make
himself something more than the mere instrument of Woman's purpose.
So far, the result of Life's continual effort not only to maintain
itself, but to achieve higher and higher organization and completer
self-consciousness, is only, at best, a doubtful campaign between
its forces and those of Death and Degeneration. The battles in this
campaign are mere blunders, mostly won, like actual military battles,
in spite of the commanders.

THE STATUE. That is a dig at me. No matter:\ go on, go on.

DON JUAN. It is a dig at a much higher power than you, Commander.
Still, you must have noticed in your profession that even a stupid
general can win battles when the enemy's general is a little stupider.

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{very seriously}{]} Most true, Juan, most
true. Some donkeys have amazing luck.

DON JUAN. Well, the Life Force is stupid; but it is not so stupid
as the forces of Death and Degeneration. Besides, these are in its
pay all the time. And so Life wins, after a fashion. What mere copiousness
of fecundity can supply and mere greed preserve, we possess. The survival
of whatever form of civilization can produce the best rifle and the
best fed riflemen is assured.

THE DEVIL. Exactly!\ the survival, not of the most effective means
of Life but of the most effective means of Death. You always come
back to my point, in spite of your wrigglings and evasions and sophistries,
not to mention the intolerable length of your speeches.

DON JUAN. Oh come!\ who began making long speeches? However, if I
overtax your intellect, you can leave us and seek the society of love
and beauty and the rest of your favorite boredoms.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{much offended}{]} This is not fair, Don
Juan, and not civil. I am also on the intellectual plane. Nobody can
appreciate it more than I do. I am arguing fairly with you, and, I
think, utterly refuting you. Let us go on for another hour if you
like.

DON JUAN. Good:\ let us.

THE STATUE. Not that I see any prospect of your coming to any point
in particular, Juan. Still, since in this place, instead of merely
killing time we have to kill eternity, go ahead by all means.

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{somewhat impatiently}{]} My point, you marbleheaded
old masterpiece, is only a step ahead of you. Are we agreed that Life
is a force which has made innumerable experiments in organizing itself;
that the mammoth and the man, the mouse and the \textit{\emph{megatherium}},
the flies and the fleas and the Fathers of the Church, are all more
or less successful attempts to build up that raw force into higher
and higher individuals, the ideal individual being omnipotent, omniscient,
infallible, and withal completely, unilludedly self-conscious:\ in
short, a god?

THE DEVIL. I agree, for the sake of argument.

THE STATUE. I agree, for the sake of avoiding argument.

ANA. I most emphatically disagree as regards the Fathers of the Church;
and I must beg you not to drag them into the argument.

DON JUAN. I did so purely for the sake of alliteration, Ana; and I
shall make no further allusion to them. And now, since we are, with
that exception, agreed so far, will you not agree with me further
that Life has not measured the success of its attempts at godhead
by the beauty or bodily perfection of the result, since in both these
respects the birds, as our friend Aristophanes long ago pointed out,
are so extraordinarily superior, with their power of flight and their
lovely plumage, and, may I add, the touching poetry of their loves
and nestings, that it is inconceivable that Life, having once produced
them, should, if love and beauty were her object, start off on another
line and labor at the clumsy elephant and the hideous ape, whose grandchildren
we are?

ANA. Aristophanes was a heathen; and you, Juan, I am afraid, are very
little better.

THE DEVIL. You conclude, then, that Life was driving at clumsiness
and ugliness?

DON JUAN. No, perverse devil that you are, a thousand times no. Life
was driving at brains\mbox{---}at its darling object:\ an organ
by which it can attain not only self-consciousness but self-understanding.

THE STATUE. This is metaphysics, Juan. Why the devil should\mbox{---}{[}\textit{to
the Devil}{]} I \emph{beg} your pardon.

THE DEVIL. Pray don't mention it. I have always regarded the use of
my name to secure additional emphasis as a high compliment to me.
It is quite at your service, Commander.

THE STATUE. Thank you:\ that's very good of you. Even in heaven,
I never quite got out of my old military habits of speech. What I
was going to ask Juan was why Life should bother itself about getting
a brain. Why should it want to understand itself? Why not be content
to enjoy itself?

DON JUAN. Without a brain, Commander, you would enjoy yourself without
knowing it, and so lose all the fun.

THE STATUE. True, most true. But I am quite content with brain enough
to know that I'm enjoying myself. I don't want to understand why.
In fact, I'd rather not. My experience is that one's pleasures don't
bear thinking about.

DON JUAN. That is why intellect is so unpopular. But to Life, the
force behind the Man, intellect is a necessity, because without it
he blunders into death. Just as Life, after ages of struggle, evolved
that wonderful bodily organ the eye, so that the living organism could
see where it was going and what was coming to help or threaten it,
and thus avoid a thousand dangers that formerly slew it, so it is
evolving to-day a mind's eye that shall see, not the physical world,
but the purpose of Life, and thereby enable the individual to work
for that purpose instead of thwarting and baffling it by setting up
shortsighted personal aims as at present. Even as it is, only one
sort of man has ever been happy, has ever been universally respected
among all the conflicts of interests and illusions.

THE STATUE. You mean the military man.

DON JUAN. Commander:\ I do not mean the military man. When the military
man approaches, the world locks up its spoons and packs off its womankind.
No:\ I sing, not arms and the hero, but the philosophic man:\ he
who seeks in contemplation to discover the inner will of the world,
in invention to discover the means of fulfilling that will, and in
action to do that will by the so-discovered means. Of all other sorts
of men I declare myself tired. They're tedious failures. When I was
on earth, professors of all sorts prowled round me feeling for an
unhealthy spot in me on which they could fasten. The doctors of medicine
bade me consider what I must do to save my body, and offered me quack
cures for imaginary diseases. I replied that I was not a hypochondriac;
so they called me Ignoramus and went their way. The doctors of divinity
bade me consider what I must do to save my soul; but I was not a spiritual
hypochondriac any more than a bodily one, and would not trouble myself
about that either; so they called me Atheist and went their way. After
them came the politician, who said there was only one purpose in Nature,
and that was to get him into parliament. I told him I did not care
whether he got into parliament or not; so he called me Mugwump and
went his way. Then came the romantic man, the Artist, with his love
songs and his paintings and his poems; and with him I had great delight
for many years, and some profit; for I cultivated my senses for his
sake; and his songs taught me to hear better, his paintings to see
better, and his poems to feel more deeply. But he led me at last into
the worship of Woman.

ANA. Juan!

DON JUAN. Yes:\ I came to believe that in her voice was all the music
of the song, in her face all the beauty of the painting, and in her
soul all the emotion of the poem.

ANA. And you were disappointed, I suppose. Well, was it her fault
that you attributed all these perfections to her?

DON JUAN. Yes, partly. For with a wonderful instinctive cunning, she
kept silent and allowed me to glorify her; to mistake my own visions,
thoughts, and feelings for hers. Now my friend the romantic man was
often too poor or too timid to approach those women who were beautiful
or refined enough to seem to realize his ideal; and so he went to
his grave believing in his dream. But I was more favored by nature
and circumstance. I was of noble birth and rich; and when my person
did not please, my conversation flattered, though I generally found
myself fortunate in both.

THE STATUE. Coxcomb!

DON JUAN. Yes; but even my coxcombry pleased. Well, I found that when
I had touched a woman's imagination, she would allow me to persuade
myself that she loved me; but when my suit was granted she never said
{}``I am happy:\ my love is satisfied'':\ she always said, first,
{}``At last, the barriers are down,'' and second, {}``When will
you come again?''

ANA. That is exactly what men say.

DON JUAN. I protest I never said it. But all women say it. Well, these
two speeches always alarmed me; for the first meant that the lady's
impulse had been solely to throw down my fortifications and gain my
citadel; and the second openly announced that henceforth she regarded
me as her property, and counted my time as already wholly at her disposal.

THE DEVIL. That is where your want of heart came in.

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{shaking his head}{]} You shouldn't repeat
what a woman says, Juan.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{severely}{]} It should be sacred to you.

THE STATUE. Still, they certainly do always say it. I never minded
the barriers; but there was always a slight shock about the other,
unless one was very hard hit indeed.

DON JUAN. Then the lady, who had been happy and idle enough before,
became anxious, preoccupied with me, always intriguing, conspiring,
pursuing, watching, waiting, bent wholly on making sure of her prey\mbox{---}I
being the prey, you understand. Now this was not what I had bargained
for. It may have been very proper and very natural; but it was not
music, painting, poetry and joy incarnated in a beautiful woman. I
ran away from it. I ran away from it very often:\ in fact I became
famous for running away from it.

ANA. Infamous, you mean,

DON JUAN. I did not run away from you. Do you blame me for running
away from the others?

ANA. Nonsense, man. You are talking to a woman of 77 now. If you had
had the chance, you would have run away from me too\mbox{---}if I
had let you. You would not have found it so easy with me as with some
of the others. If men will not be faithful to their home and their
duties, they must be made to be. I daresay you all want to marry lovely
incarnations of music and painting and poetry. Well, you can't have
them, because they don't exist. If flesh and blood is not good enough
for you you must go without:\ that's all. Women have to put up with
flesh-and-blood husbands\mbox{---}and little enough of that too,
sometimes; and you will have to put up with flesh-and-blood wives.
{[}\emph{The Devil looks dubious. The Statue makes a wry face.}{]}
I see you don't like that, any of you; but it's true, for all that;
so if you don't like it you can lump it.

DON JUAN. My dear lady, you have put my whole case against romance
into a few sentences. That is just why I turned my back on the romantic
man with the artist nature, as he called his infatuation. I thanked
him for teaching me to use my eyes and ears; but I told him that his
beauty worshipping and happiness hunting and woman idealizing was
not worth a dump as a philosophy of life; so he called me Philistine
and went his way.

ANA. It seems that Woman taught you something, too, with all her defects.

DON JUAN. She did more:\ she interpreted all the other teaching for
me. Ah, my friends, when the barriers were down for the first time,
what an astounding illumination! I had been prepared for infatuation,
for intoxication, for all the illusions of love's young dream; and
lo!\ never was my perception clearer, nor my criticism more ruthless.
The most jealous rival of my mistress never saw every blemish in her
more keenly than I.\ I was not duped:\ I took her without chloroform.

ANA. But you did take her.

DON JUAN. That was the revelation. Up to that moment I had never lost
the sense of being my own master; never consciously taken a single
step until my reason had examined and approved it. I had come to believe
that I was a purely rational creature:\ a thinker! I said, with the
foolish philosopher, {}``I think; therefore I am.'' It was Woman
who taught me to say {}``I am; therefore I think.'' And also {}``I
would think more; therefore I must be more.''

THE STATUE. This is extremely abstract and metaphysical, Juan. If
you would stick to the concrete, and put your discoveries in the form
of entertaining anecdotes about your adventures with women, your conversation
would be easier to follow.

DON JUAN. Bah!\ what need I add? Do you not understand that when
I stood face to face with Woman, every fibre in my clear critical
brain warned me to spare her and save myself. My morals said No. My
conscience said No. My chivalry and pity for her said No. My prudent
regard for myself said No. My ear, practised on a thousand songs and
symphonies; my eye, exercised on a thousand paintings; tore her voice,
her features, her color to shreds. I caught all those tell-tale resemblances
to her father and mother by which I knew what she would be like in
thirty years time. I noted the gleam of gold from a dead tooth in
the laughing mouth:\ I made curious observations of the strange odors
of the chemistry of the nerves. The visions of my romantic reveries,
in which I had trod the plains of heaven with a deathless, ageless
creature of coral and ivory, deserted me in that supreme hour. I remembered
them and desperately strove to recover their illusion; but they now
seemed the emptiest of inventions:\ my judgment was not to be corrupted:\ my
brain still said No on every issue. And whilst I was in the act of
framing my excuse to the lady, Life seized me and threw me into her
arms as a sailor throws a scrap of fish into the mouth of a seabird.

THE STATUE. You might as well have gone without thinking such a lot
about it, Juan. You are like all the clever men:\ you have more brains
than is good for you.

THE DEVIL. And were you not the happier for the experience, Señor
Don Juan?

DON JUAN. The happier, no:\ the wiser, yes. That moment introduced
me for the first time to myself, and, through myself, to the world.
I saw then how useless it is to attempt to impose conditions on the
irresistible force of Life; to preach prudence, careful selection,
virtue, honor, chastity---

ANA. Don Juan:\ a word against chastity is an insult to me.

DON JUAN. I say nothing against your chastity, Señora, since it took
the form of a husband and twelve children. What more could you have
done had you been the most abandoned of women?

ANA. I could have had twelve husbands and no children that's what
I could have done, Juan. And let me tell you that that would have
made all the difference to the earth which I replenished.

THE STATUE. Bravo Ana! Juan:\ you are floored, quelled, annihilated.

DON JUAN. No; for though that difference is the true essential difference\mbox{---}Dona
Ana has, I admit, gone straight to the real point\mbox{---}yet it
is not a difference of love or chastity, or even constancy; for twelve
children by twelve different husbands would have replenished the earth
perhaps more effectively. Suppose my friend Ottavio had died when
you were thirty, you would never have remained a widow:\ you were
too beautiful. Suppose the successor of Ottavio had died when you
were forty, you would still have been irresistible; and a woman who
marries twice marries three times if she becomes free to do so. Twelve
lawful children borne by one highly respectable lady to three different
fathers is not impossible nor condemned by public opinion. That such
a lady may be more law abiding than the poor girl whom we used to
spurn into the gutter for bearing one unlawful infant is no doubt
true; but dare you say she is less self-indulgent?

ANA. She is less virtuous:\ that is enough for me.

DON JUAN. In that case, what is virtue but the Trade Unionism of the
married? Let us face the facts, dear Ana. The Life Force respects
marriage only because marriage is a contrivance of its own to secure
the greatest number of children and the closest care of them. For
honor, chastity and all the rest of your moral figments it cares not
a rap. Marriage is the most licentious of human institutions\mbox{---}

ANA. Juan!

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{protesting}{]} Really!\mbox{---}

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{determinedly}{]} I say the most licentious
of human institutions:\ that is the secret of its popularity. And
a woman seeking a husband is the most unscrupulous of all the beasts
of prey. The confusion of marriage with morality has done more to
destroy the conscience of the human race than any other single error.
Come, Ana!\ do not look shocked:\ you know better than any of us
that marriage is a mantrap baited with simulated accomplishments and
delusive idealizations. When your sainted mother, by dint of scoldings
and punishments, forced you to learn how to play half a dozen pieces
on the spinet which she hated as much as you did\mbox{---}had she
any other purpose than to delude your suitors into the belief that
your husband would have in his home an angel who would fill it with
melody, or at least play him to sleep after dinner? You married my
friend Ottavio:\ well, did you ever open the spinet from the hour
when the Church united him to you?

ANA. You are a fool, Juan. A young married woman has something else
to do than sit at the spinet without any support for her back; so
she gets out of the habit of playing.

DON JUAN. Not if she loves music. No:\ believe me, she only throws
away the bait when the bird is in the net.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{bitterly}{]} And men, I suppose, never throw off
the mask when their bird is in the net. The husband never becomes
negligent, selfish, brutal\mbox{---}oh never!

DON JUAN. What do these recriminations prove, Ana? Only that the hero
is as gross an imposture as the heroine.

ANA. It is all nonsense:\ most marriages are perfectly comfortable.

DON JUAN. {}``Perfectly'' is a strong expression, Ana. What you
mean is that sensible people make the best of one another. Send me
to the galleys and chain me to the felon whose number happens to be
next before mine; and I must accept the inevitable and make the best
of the companionship. Many such companionships, they tell me, are
touchingly affectionate; and most are at least tolerably friendly.
But that does not make a chain a desirable ornament nor the galleys
an abode of bliss. Those who talk most about the blessings of marriage
and the constancy of its vows are the very people who declare that
if the chain were broken and the prisoners left free to choose, the
whole social fabric would fly asunder. You cannot have the argument
both ways. If the prisoner is happy, why lock him in? If he is not,
why pretend that he is?

ANA. At all events, let me take an old woman's privilege again, and
tell you flatly that marriage peoples the world and debauchery does
not.

DON JUAN. How if a time comes when this shall cease to be true? Do
you not know that where there is a will there is a way\mbox{---}that
whatever Man really wishes to do he will finally discover a means
of doing? Well, you have done your best, you virtuous ladies, and
others of your way of thinking, to bend Man's mind wholly towards
honorable love as the highest good, and to understand by honorable
love romance and beauty and happiness in the possession of beautiful,
refined, delicate, affectionate women. You have taught women to value
their own youth, health, shapeliness, and refinement above all things.
Well, what place have squalling babies and household cares in this
exquisite paradise of the senses and emotions? Is it not the inevitable
end of it all that the human will shall say to the human brain:\ Invent
me a means by which I can have love, beauty, romance, emotion, passion
without their wretched penalties, their expenses, their worries, their
trials, their illnesses and agonies and risks of death, their retinue
of servants and nurses and doctors and schoolmasters.

THE DEVIL. All this, Señor Don Juan, is realized here in my realm.

DON JUAN. Yes, at the cost of death. Man will not take it at that
price:\ he demands the romantic delights of your hell whilst he is
still on earth. Well, the means will be found:\ the brain will not
fail when the will is in earnest. The day is coming when great nations
will find their numbers dwindling from census to census; when the
six roomed villa will rise in price above the family mansion; when
the viciously reckless poor and the stupidly pious rich will delay
the extinction of the race only by degrading it; whilst the boldly
prudent, the thriftily selfish and ambitious, the imaginative and
poetic, the lovers of money and solid comfort, the worshippers of
success, art, and of love, will all oppose to the Force of Life the
device of sterility.

THE STATUE. That is all very eloquent, my young friend; but if you
had lived to Ana's \textit{\emph{age}}, or even to mine, you would
have learned that the people who get rid of the fear of poverty and
children and all the other family troubles, and devote themselves
to having a good time of it, only leave their minds free for the fear
of old age and ugliness and impotence and death. The childless laborer
is more tormented by his wife's idleness and her constant demands
for amusement and distraction than he could be by twenty children;
and his wife is more wretched than he. I have had my share of vanity;
for as a young man I was admired by women; and as a statue I am praised
by art critics. But I confess that had I found nothing to do in the
world but wallow in these delights I should have cut my throat. When
I married Ana's mother\mbox{---}or perhaps, to be strictly correct,
I should rather say when I at last gave in and allowed Ana's mother
to marry me\mbox{---}I knew that I was planting thorns in my pillow,
and that marriage for me, a swaggering young officer thitherto unvanquished,
meant defeat and capture.

ANA.\ {}{[}\textit{scandalized}{]} Father!

THE STATUE. I am sorry to shock you, my love; but since Juan has stripped
every rag of decency from the discussion I may as well tell the frozen
truth.

ANA. Hmf! I suppose I was one of the thorns.

THE STATUE. By no means:\ you were often a rose. You see, your mother
had most of the trouble you gave.

DON JUAN. Then may I ask, Commander, why you have left Heaven to come
here and wallow, as you express it, in sentimental beatitudes which
you confess would once have driven you to cut your throat?

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{struck by this}{]} Egad, that's true.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{alarmed}{]} What! You are going back from
your word.\ {}{[}\textit{To Don Juan}{]} And all your philosophizing
has been nothing but a mask for proselytizing! {[}\textit{To the Statue}{]}
Have you forgotten already the hideous dulness from which I am offering
you a refuge here? {[}\textit{To Don Juan}{]} And does your demonstration
of the approaching sterilization and extinction of mankind lead to
anything better than making the most of those pleasures of art and
love which you yourself admit refined you, elevated you, developed
you?

DON JUAN. I never demonstrated the extinction of mankind. Life cannot
will its own extinction either in its blind amorphous state or in
any of the forms into which it has organized itself. I had not finished
when His Excellency interrupted me.

THE STATUE. I begin to doubt whether you ever will finish, my friend.
You are extremely fond of hearing yourself talk.

DON JUAN. True; but since you have endured so much.\ you may as well
endure to the end. Long before this sterilization which I described
becomes more than a clearly foreseen possibility, the reaction will
begin. The great central purpose of breeding the race, \textit{\emph{ay}},
breeding it to heights now deemed superhuman:\ that purpose which
is now hidden in a mephitic cloud of love and romance and prudery
and fastidiousness, will break through into clear sunlight as a purpose
no longer to be confused with the gratification of personal fancies,
the impossible realization of boys' and girls' dreams of bliss, or
the need of older people for companionship or money. The plain-spoken
marriage services of the vernacular Churches will no longer be abbreviated
and half suppressed as indelicate. The sober decency, earnestness
and authority of their declaration of the real purpose of marriage
will be honored and accepted, whilst their romantic vowings and pledgings
and until-death-do-us-partings and the like will be expunged as unbearable
frivolities. Do my sex the justice to admit, Señora, that we have
always recognized that the sex relation is not a personal or friendly
relation at all.

ANA. Not a personal or friendly relation! What relation is more personal?
more sacred? more holy?

DON JUAN. Sacred and holy, if you like, Ana, but not personally friendly.
Your relation to God is sacred and holy:\ dare you call it personally
friendly? In the sex relation the universal creative energy, of which
the parties are both the helpless agents, over-rides and sweeps away
all personal considerations and dispenses with all personal relations.
The pair may be utter strangers to one another, speaking different
languages, differing in race and color, in age and disposition, with
no bond between them but a possibility of that fecundity for the sake
of which the Life Force throws them into one another's arms at the
exchange of a glance. Do we not recognize this by allowing marriages
to be made by parents without consulting the woman? Have you not often
expressed your disgust at the immorality of the English nation, in
which women and men of noble birth become acquainted and court each
other like peasants? And how much does even the peasant know of his
bride or she of him before he engages himself? Why, you would not
make a man your lawyer or your family doctor on so slight an acquaintance
as you would fall in love with and marry him!

ANA. Yes, Juan:\ we know the libertine's philosophy. Always ignore
the consequences to the woman.

DON JUAN. The consequences, yes:\ they justify her fierce grip of
the man. But surely you do not call that attachment a sentimental
one. As well call the policeman's attachment to his prisoner a love
relation.

ANA. You see you have to confess that marriage is necessary, though,
according to you, love is the slightest of all the relations.

DON JUAN. How do you know that it is not the greatest of all the relations?
far too great to be a personal matter. Could your father have served
his country if he had refused to kill any enemy of Spain unless he
personally hated him? Can a woman serve her country if she refuses
to marry any man she does not personally love? You know it is not
so:\ the woman of noble birth marries as the man of noble birth fights,
on political and family grounds, not on personal ones.

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{impressed}{]} A very clever point that,
Juan:\ I must think it over. You are really full of ideas. How did
you come to think of this one?

DON JUAN. I learnt it by experience. When I was on earth, and made
those proposals to ladies which, though universally condemned, have
made me so interesting a hero of legend, I was not infrequently met
in some such way as this. The lady would say that she would countenance
my advances, provided they were honorable. On inquiring what that
proviso meant, I found that it meant that I proposed to get possession
of her property if she had any, or to undertake her support for life
if she had not; that I desired her continual companionship, counsel
and conversation to the end of my days, and would bind myself under
penalties to be always enraptured by them; and, above all, that I
would turn my back on all other women for ever for her sake. I did
not object to these conditions because they were exorbitant and inhuman:\ 
it was their extraordinary irrelevance that prostrated me. I invariably
replied with perfect frankness that I had never dreamt of any of these
things; that unless the lady's character and intellect were equal
or superior to my own, her conversation must degrade and her counsel
mislead me; that her constant companionship might, for all I knew,
become intolerably tedious to me; that I could not answer for my feelings
for a week in advance, much less to the end of my life; that to cut
me off from all natural and unconstrained relations with the rest
of my fellow creatures would narrow and warp me if I submitted to
it, and, if not, would bring me under the curse of clandestinity;
that, finally, my proposals to her were wholly unconnected with any
of these matters, and were the outcome of a perfectly simple impulse
of my manhood towards her womanhood.

ANA. You mean that it was an immoral impulse.

DON JUAN. Nature, my dear lady, is what you call immoral. I blush
for it; but I cannot help it. Nature is a pandar, Time a wrecker,
and Death a murderer. I have always preferred to stand up to those
facts and build institutions on their recognition. You prefer to propitiate
the three devils by proclaiming their chastity, their thrift, and
their loving kindness; and to base your institutions on \textit{\emph{these}}
\textit{\emph{flatteries}}. Is it any wonder that the institutions
do not work smoothly?

THE STATUE. What used the ladies to say, Juan?

DON JUAN. Oh, come! Confidence for confidence. First tell me what
you used to say to the ladies.

THE STATUE. I! Oh, I swore that I would be faithful to the death;
that I should die if they refused me; that no woman could ever be
to me what she was\mbox{---}

ANA. She? Who?

THE STATUE. Whoever it happened to be at the time, my dear. I had
certain things I always said. One of them was that even when I was
eighty, one white hair of the woman I loved would make me tremble
more than the thickest gold tress from the most beautiful young head.
Another was that I could not bear the thought of anyone else being
the mother of my children.

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{revolted}{]} You old rascal!

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{Stoutly}{]} Not a bit; for I really believed
it with all my soul at the moment. I had a heart:\ not like you.
And it was this sincerity that made me successful.

DON JUAN. Sincerity! To be fool enough to believe a ramping, stamping,
thumping lie:\ that is what you call sincerity! To be so greedy for
a woman that you deceive yourself in your eagerness to deceive her:\ 
sincerity, you call it!

THE STATUE. Oh, damn your sophistries! I was a man in love, not a
lawyer. And the women loved me for it, bless them!

DON JUAN. They made you think so. What will you say when I tell you
that though I played the lawyer so callously, they made me think so
too? I also had my moments of infatuation in which I gushed nonsense
and believed it. Sometimes the desire to give pleasure by saying beautiful
things so rose in me on the flood of emotion that I said them recklessly.
At other times I argued against myself with a devilish coldness that
drew tears. But I found it just as hard to escape in the one case
as in the others. When the lady's instinct was set on me, there was
nothing for it but lifelong servitude or flight.

ANA. You dare boast, before me and my father, that every woman found
you irresistible.

DON JUAN. Am I boasting? It seems to me that I cut the most pitiable
of figures. Besides, I said {}``when the lady's instinct was set
on me.'' It was not always so; and then, heavens!\ what transports
of virtuous indignation!\ what overwhelming defiance to the dastardly
seducer!\ what scenes of Imogen and Iachimo!

ANA. I made no scenes. I simply called my father.

DON JUAN. And he came, sword in hand, to vindicate outraged honor
and morality by murdering me.

THE STATUE. Murdering! What do you mean? Did I kill you or did you
kill me?

DON JUAN. Which of us was the better fencer?

THE STATUE. I was.

DON JUAN. Of course you were. And yet you, the hero of those scandalous
adventures you have just been relating to us, you had the effrontery
to pose as the avenger of outraged morality and condemn me to death!
You would have slain me but for an accident.

THE STATUE. I was expected to, Juan. That is how things were arranged
on earth. I was not a social reformer; and I always did what it was
customary for a gentleman to do.

DON JUAN. That may account for your attacking me, but not for the
revolting hypocrisy of your subsequent proceedings as a statue.

THE STATUE. That all came of my going to Heaven.

THE DEVIL. I still fail to see, Señor Don Juan, that these episodes
in your earthly career and in that of the Señor Commander in any way
discredit my view of life. Here, I repeat, you have all that you sought
without anything that you shrank from.

DON JUAN. On the contrary, here I have everything that disappointed
me without anything that I have not already tried and found wanting.
I tell you that as long as I can conceive something better than myself
I cannot be easy unless I am striving to bring it into existence or
clearing the way for it. That is the law of my life. That is the working
within me of Life's incessant aspiration to higher organization, wider,
deeper, intenser self-consciousness, and clearer self-understanding.
It was the supremacy of this purpose that reduced love for me to the
mere pleasure of a moment, art for me to the mere schooling of my
faculties, religion for me to a mere excuse for laziness, since it
had set up a God who looked at the world and saw that it was good,
against the instinct in me that looked through my eyes at the world
and saw that it could be improved. I tell you that in the pursuit
of my own pleasure, my own health, my own fortune, I have never known
happiness. It was not love for Woman that delivered me into her hands:\ 
it was fatigue, exhaustion. When I was a child, and bruised my head
against a stone, I ran to the nearest woman and cried away my pain
against her apron. When I grew up, and bruised my soul against the
brutalities and stupidities with which I had to strive, I did again
just what I had done as a child. I have enjoyed, too, my rests, my
\textit{\emph{recuperations}}, my breathing times, my very \textit{\emph{prostrations}}
after strife; but rather would I be dragged through all the circles
of the foolish Italian's Inferno than through the pleasures of Europe.
That is what has made this place of eternal pleasures so deadly to
me. It is the absence of this instinct in you that makes you that
strange monster called a Devil. It is the success with which you have
diverted the attention of men from their real purpose, which in one
degree or another is the same as mine, to yours, that has earned you
the name of The Tempter. It is the fact that they are doing your will,
or rather drifting with your want of will, instead of doing their
own, that makes them the uncomfortable, false, restless, artificial,
petulant, wretched creatures they are.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{mortified}{]} Señor Don Juan:\ you are
uncivil to my friends.

DON JUAN. Pooh!\ why should I be civil to them or to you? In this
Palace of Lies a truth or two will not hurt you. Your friends are
all the dullest dogs I know. They are not beautiful:\ they are only
decorated. They are not clean:\ they are only shaved and starched.
They are not dignified:\ they are only fashionably dressed. They
are not educated:\ they are only college passmen. They are not religious:\ they
are only pew-renters. They are not moral:\ they are only conventional.
They are not virtuous:\ they are only cowardly. They are not even
vicious:\ they are only {}``frail.'' They are not artistic:\ they
are only lascivious. They are not prosperous:\ they are only rich.
They are not loyal, they are only servile; not dutiful, only sheepish;
not public spirited, only patriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome;
not determined, only obstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not
self-controlled, only obtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not
kind, only sentimental; not social, only gregarious; not considerate,
only polite; not intelligent, only opinionated; not progressive, only
factious; not imaginative, only superstitious; not just, only vindictive;
not generous, only propitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and
not truthful at all\mbox{---}liars every one of them, to the very
backbone of their souls.

THE STATUE. Your flow of words is simply amazing, Juan. How I wish
I could have talked like that to my soldiers.

THE DEVIL. It is mere talk, though. It has all been said before; but
what change has it ever made? What notice has the world ever taken
of it?

DON JUAN. Yes, it is mere talk. But why is it mere talk? Because,
my friend, beauty, purity, respectability, religion, morality, art,
patriotism, bravery and the rest are nothing but words which I or
anyone else can turn inside out like a glove. Were they realities,
you would have to plead guilty to my indictment; but fortunately for
your self-respect, my diabolical friend, they are not realities. As
you say, they are mere words, useful for duping barbarians into adopting
civilization, or the civilized poor into submitting to be robbed and
enslaved. That is the family secret of the governing caste; and if
we who are of that caste aimed at more Life for the world instead
of at more power and luxury for our miserable selves, that secret
would make us great. Now, since I, being a nobleman, am in the secret
too, think how tedious to me must be your unending cant about all
these moralistic figments, and how squalidly disastrous your sacrifice
of your lives to them! If you even believed in your moral game enough
to play it fairly, it would be interesting to watch; but you don't:\ 
you cheat at every trick; and if your opponent outcheats you, you
upset the table and try to murder him.

THE DEVIL. On earth there may be some truth in this, because the people
are uneducated and cannot appreciate my religion of love and beauty;
but here\mbox{---}

DON JUAN. Oh yes:\ I know. Here there is nothing but love and beauty.
Ugh!\ it is like sitting for all eternity at the first act of a fashionable
play, before the complications begin. Never in my worst moments of
superstitious terror on earth did I dream that Hell was so horrible.
I live, like a hairdresser, in the continual contemplation of beauty,
toying with silken tresses. I breathe an atmosphere of sweetness,
like a confectioner's shopboy. Commander:\ are there any beautiful
women in Heaven?

THE STATUE. None. Absolutely none. All dowdies. Not two pennorth of
jewellery among a dozen of them. They might be men of fifty.

DON JUAN. I am impatient to get there. Is the word beauty ever mentioned;
and are there any artistic people?

THE STATUE. I give you my word they won't admire a fine statue even
when it walks past them.

DON JUAN. I go.

THE DEVIL. Don Juan:\ shall I be frank with you?

DON JUAN. Were you not so before?

THE DEVIL. As far as I went, yes. But I will now go further, and confess
to you that men get tired of everything, of heaven no less than of
hell; and that all history is nothing but a record of the oscillations
of the world between these two extremes. An epoch is but a swing of
the pendulum; and each generation thinks the world is progressing
because it is always moving. But when you are as old as I am; when
you have a thousand times wearied of heaven, like myself and the Commander,
and a thousand times wearied of hell, as you are wearied now, you
will no longer imagine that every swing from heaven to hell is an
emancipation, every swing from hell to heaven an evolution. Where
you now see reform, progress, fulfilment of upward tendency, continual
ascent by Man on the stepping stones of his dead selves to higher
things, you will see nothing but an infinite comedy of illusion. You
will discover the profound truth of the saying of my friend Koheleth,
that there is nothing new under the sun. \textit{Vanitas} \emph{vanitatum}---

DON JUAN.\ {}{[}\textit{out of all patience}{]} By Heaven, this is
worse than your cant about love and beauty. Clever dolt that you are,
is a man no better than a worm, or a dog than a wolf, because he gets
tired of everything? Shall he give up eating because he destroys his
appetite in the act of gratifying it? Is a field idle when it is fallow?
Can the Commander expend his hellish energy here without accumulating
heavenly energy for his next term of blessedness? Granted that the
great Life Force has hit on the device of the clockmaker's pendulum,
and uses the earth for its bob; that the history of each oscillation,
which seems so novel to us the actors, is but the history of the last
oscillation repeated; nay more, that in the unthinkable infinitude
of time the sun throws off the earth and catches it again a thousand
times as a circus rider throws up a ball, and that the total of all
our epochs is but the moment between the toss and the catch, has the
colossal mechanism no purpose?

THE DEVIL. None, my friend. You think, because you have a purpose,
Nature must have one. You might as well expect it to have fingers
and toes because you have them.

DON JUAN. But I should not have them if they served no purpose. And
I, my friend, am as much a part of Nature as my own finger is a part
of me. If my finger is the organ by which I grasp the sword and the
\textit{mandoline}, my brain is the organ by which Nature strives
to understand itself. My dog's brain serves only my dog's purposes;
but my brain labors at a knowledge which does nothing for me personally
but make my body bitter to me and my decay and death a calamity. Were
I not possessed with a purpose beyond my own I had better be a ploughman
than a philosopher; for the ploughman lives as long as the philosopher,
eats more, sleeps better, and rejoices in the wife of his bosom with
less misgiving. This is because the philosopher is in the grip of
the Life Force. This Life Force says to him {}``I have done a thousand
wonderful things unconsciously by merely willing to live and following
the line of least resistance:\ now I want to know myself and my destination,
and choose my path; so I have made a special brain\mbox{---}a philosopher's
brain\mbox{---}to grasp this knowledge for me as the husbandman's
hand grasps the plough for me. {}``And this'' says the Life Force
to the philosopher {}``must thou strive to do for me until thou diest,
when I will make another brain and another philosopher to carry on
the work.''

THE DEVIL. What is the use of knowing?

DON JUAN. Why, to be able to choose the line of greatest advantage
instead of yielding in the direction of the least resistance. Does
a ship sail to its destination no better than a log drifts nowhither?
The philosopher is Nature's pilot. And there you have our difference:\ 
to be in hell is to drift:\ to be in heaven is to steer.

THE DEVIL. On the rocks, most likely.

DON JUAN. Pooh!\ which ship goes oftenest on the rocks or to the
bottom\mbox{---}the drifting ship or the ship with a pilot on board?

THE DEVIL. Well, well, go your way, Señor Don Juan. I prefer to be
my own master and not the tool of any blundering universal force.
I know that beauty is good to look at; that music is good to hear;
that love is good to feel; and that they are all good to think about
and talk about. I know that to be well exercised in these sensations,
emotions, and studies is to be a refined and cultivated being. Whatever
they may say of me in churches on earth, I know that it is universally
admitted in good society that the prince of Darkness is a gentleman;
and that is enough for me. As to your Life Force, which you think
irresistible, it is the most resistible thing in the world for a person
of any character. But if you are naturally vulgar and credulous, as
all reformers are, it will thrust you first into religion, where you
will sprinkle water on babies to save their souls from me; then it
will drive you from religion into science, where you will snatch the
babies from the water sprinkling and inoculate them with disease to
save them from catching it accidentally; then you will take to politics,
where you will become the catspaw of corrupt functionaries and the
henchman of ambitious humbugs; and the end will be despair and decrepitude,
broken nerve and shattered hopes, vain regrets for that worst and
silliest of wastes and sacrifices, the waste and sacrifice of the
power of enjoyment:\ in a word, the punishment of the fool who pursues
the better before he has secured the good.

DON JUAN. But at least I shall not be bored. The service of the Life
Force has that advantage, at all events. So fare you well, Señor Satan.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{amiably}{]} Fare you well, Don Juan. I shall
often think of our interesting chats about things in general. I wish
you every happiness:\ Heaven, as I said before, suits some people.
But if you should change your mind, do not forget that the gates are
always open here to the repentant prodigal. If you feel at any time
that warmth of heart, sincere unforced affection, innocent enjoyment,
and warm, breathing, palpitating reality\mbox{---}

DON JUAN. Why not say flesh and blood at once, though we have left
those two greasy commonplaces behind us?

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{angrily}{]} You throw my friendly farewell
back in my teeth, then, Don Juan?

DON JUAN. By no means. But though there is much to be learnt from
a cynical devil, I really cannot stand a sentimental one. Señor Commander:\ 
you know the way to the frontier of hell and heaven. Be good enough
to direct me.

THE STATUE. Oh, the frontier is only the difference between two ways
of looking at things. Any road will take you across it if you really
want to get there.

DON JUAN. Good.\ {}{[}\textit{saluting Do\~{n}a Ana}{]} Señora:\ your
servant.

ANA. But I am going with you.

DON JUAN. I can find my own way to heaven, Ana; but I cannot find
yours {[}\textit{he vanishes}{]}.

ANA. How annoying!

THE STATUE.\ {}{[}\textit{calling after him}{]} \emph{Bon voyage},
Juan! {[}\textit{He wafts a final blast of his great rolling chords
after him as a parting salute. A faint echo of the first ghostly melody
comes back in acknowledgment}{]}. Ah!\ there he goes.\ {}{[}\textit{Puffing
a long breath out through his lips}{]} Whew! How he does talk! They'll
never stand it in heaven.

THE DEVIL.\ {}{[}\textit{gloomily}{]} His going is a political defeat.
I cannot keep these Life Worshippers:\ they all go. This is the greatest
loss I have had since that Dutch painter went\mbox{---}a fellow who
would paint a hag of 70 with as much enjoyment as a Venus of 20.

THE STATUE. I remember:\ he came to heaven. Rembrandt.

THE DEVIL. \textit{\emph{Ay}}, Rembrandt. There a something unnatural
about these fellows. Do not listen to their gospel, Señor Commander:\ it
is dangerous. Beware of the pursuit of the Superhuman:\ it leads
to an indiscriminate contempt for the Human. To a man, horses and
dogs and cats are mere species, outside the moral world. Well, to
the Superman, men and women are a mere species too, also outside the
moral world. This Don Juan was kind to women and courteous to men
as your daughter here was kind to her pet cats and dogs; but such
kindness is a denial of the exclusively human character of the soul.

THE STATUE. And who the deuce is the Superman?

THE DEVIL. Oh, the latest fashion among the Life Force fanatics. Did
you not meet in Heaven, among the new arrivals, that German Polish
madman\mbox{---}what was his name? Nietzsche?

THE STATUE. Never heard of him.

THE DEVIL. Well, he came here first, before he recovered his wits.
I had some hopes of him; but he was a confirmed Life Force worshipper.
It was he who raked up the Superman, who is as old as Prometheus;
and the 20th century will run after this newest of the old crazes
when it gets tired of the world, the flesh, and your humble servant.

THE STATUE. Superman is a good cry; and a good cry is half the battle.
I should like to see this Nietzsche.

THE DEVIL. Unfortunately he met Wagner here, and had a quarrel with
him.

THE STATUE. Quite right, too. Mozart for me!

THE DEVIL. Oh, it was not about music. Wagner once drifted into Life
Force worship, and invented a Superman called Siegfried. But he came
to his senses afterwards. So when they met here, Nietzsche denounced
him as a renegade; and Wagner wrote a pamphlet to prove that Nietzsche
was a Jew; and it ended in Nietzsche's going to heaven in a huff.
And a good riddance too. And now, my friend, let us hasten to my palace
and celebrate your arrival with a grand musical service.

THE STATUE. With pleasure:\ you're most kind.

THE DEVIL. This way, Commander. We go down the old trap {[}\textit{he
places himself on the grave trap}{]}.

THE STATUE. Good.\ {}{[}\textit{Reflectively}{]} All the same, the
Superman is a fine conception. There is something statuesque about
it.\ {}{[}\textit{He places himself on the grave trap beside The
Devil. It begins to descend slowly. Red glow from the abyss}{]}. Ah,
this reminds me of old times.

THE DEVIL. And me also.

ANA. Stop! {[}\textit{The trap stops}{]}.

THE DEVIL. You, Señora, cannot come this way. You will have an apotheosis.
But you will be at the palace before us.

ANA. That is not what I stopped you for. Tell me where can I find
the Superman?

THE DEVIL. He is not yet created, Señora.

THE STATUE. And never will be, probably. Let us proceed:\ the red
fire will make me sneeze.\ {}{[}\textit{They descend}{]}.

ANA. Not yet created! Then my work is not yet done.\ {}{[}\textit{Crossing
herself devoutly}{]} I believe in the Life to Come.\ {}{[}\textit{Crying
to the universe}{]} A father\mbox{---}a father for the Superman!

\emph{She vanishes into the void; and again there is nothing:\ all
existence seems suspended infinitely. Then, vaguely, there is a live
human voice crying somewhere. One sees, with a shock, a mountain peak
showing faintly against a lighter background. The sky has returned
from afar; and we suddenly remember where we were. The cry becomes
distinct and urgent:\ it says Automobile, Automobile. The complete
reality comes back with a rush:\ in a moment it is full morning in
the Sierra; and the brigands are scrambling to their feet and making
for the road as the goatherd runs down from the hill, warning them
of the approach of another motor. Tanner and Mendoza rise amazedly
and stare at one another with scattered wits. Straker sits up to yawn
for a moment before he gets on his feet, making it a point of honor
not to show any undue interest in the excitement of the bandits. Mendoza
gives a quick look to see that his followers are attending to the
alarm; then exchanges a private word with Tanner.}

MENDOZA. Did you dream?

TANNER. Damnably. Did you?

MENDOZA. Yes. I forget what. You were in it.

TANNER. So were you. Amazing

MENDOZA. I warned you.\ {}{[}\textit{a shot is heard from the road}{]}.
Dolts!\ they will play with that gun.\ {}{[}\textit{The brigands
come running back scared}{]}. Who fired that shot? {[}\textit{to Duval}{]}
Was it you?

DUVAL.\ {}{[}\textit{breathless}{]} I have not shoot. Dey shoot first.

ANARCHIST.\ I told you to begin by abolishing the State. Now we are
all lost.

THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{stampeding across the amphitheatre}{]}
Run, everybody.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{collaring him; throwing him on his back; and
drawing a knife}{]} I stab the man who stirs.\ {}{[}\textit{He blocks
the way. The stampede it checked}{]}. What has happened?

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT, A motor\mbox{---}

THE ANARCHIST.\ Three men\mbox{---}

DUVAL. \textit{Deux} \textit{femmes}---

MENDOZA. Three men and two women! Why have you not brought them here?
Are you afraid of them?

THE ROWDY ONE.\ {}{[}\textit{getting up}{]} Thyve a hescort. Ow,
de-ooh lut's ook it, Mendowza.

THE SULKY ONE. Two armored cars full o soldiers at the end o the valley.

ANARCHIST.\ The shot was fired in the air. It was a signal.

\emph{Straker whistles his favorite air, which falls on the ears of
the brigands like a funeral march.}

TANNER. It is not an escort, but an expedition to capture you. We
were advised to wait for it; but I was in a hurry.

THE ROWDY ONE.\ {}{[}\textit{in an agony of apprehension}{]} And
Ow my good Lord, ere we are, wytin for em! Lut's tike to the mahntns.

MENDOZA. Idiot, what do you know about the mountains? Are you a Spaniard?
You would be given up by the first shepherd you met. Besides, we are
already within range of their rifles.

THE ROWDY ONE. Bat\mbox{---}

MENDOZA. Silence. Leave this to me.\ {}{[}\textit{To Tanner}{]} Comrade:\ 
you will not betray us.

STRAKER. Oo are you callin comrade?

MENDOZA. Last night the advantage was with me. The robber of the poor
was at the mercy of the robber of the rich. You offered your hand:\ 
I took it.

TANNER. I bring no charge against you, comrade. We have spent a pleasant
evening with you:\ that is all.

STRAKER. I gev my and to nobody, see?

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{turning on him impressively}{]} Young man,
if I am tried, I shall plead guilty, and explain what drove me from
England, home and duty. Do you wish to have the respectable name of
Straker dragged through the mud of a Spanish criminal court? The police
will search me. They will find Louisa's portrait. It will be published
in the illustrated papers. You blench. It will be your doing, remember.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{with baffled rage}{]} I don't care about the
court. It's avin our name mixed up with yours that I object to, you
blackmailin swine, you.

MENDOZA. Language unworthy of Louisa's brother! But no matter:\ you
are muzzled:\ that is enough for us.\ {}{[}\textit{He turns to face
his own men, who back uneasily across the amphitheatre towards the
cave to take refuge behind him, as a fresh party, muffled for motoring,
comes from the road in riotous spirits. Ann, who makes straight for
Tanner, comes first; then Violet, helped over the rough ground by
Hector holding her right hand and Ramsden her left. Mendoza goes to
his presidential block and seats himself calmly with his rank and
file grouped behind him, and his Staff, consisting of Duval and the
Anarchist on his right and the two Social-Democrats on his left, supporting
him in flank}{]}.

ANN. It's Jack!

TANNER. Caught!

HECTOR. Why, certainly it is. I said it was you, Tanner, We've just
been stopped by a puncture:\ the road is full of nails.

VIOLET. What are you doing here with all these men?

ANN. Why did you leave us without a word of warning?

HECTOR. I want that bunch of roses, Miss Whitefield.\ {}{[}\textit{To
Tanner}{]} When we found you were gone, Miss Whitefield bet me a bunch
of roses my car would not overtake yours before you reached Monte
Carlo.

TANNER. But this is not the road to Monte Carlo.

HECTOR. No matter. Miss Whitefield tracked you at every stopping place:\ 
she is a regular Sherlock Holmes.

TANNER. The Life Force! I am lost.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{Bounding gaily down from the road into the
amphitheatre, and coming between Tanner and Straker}{]} I am so glad
you are safe, old chap. We were afraid you had been captured by brigands.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{who has been staring at Mendoza}{]} I seem
to remember the face of your friend here.\ {}{[}\textit{Mendoza rises
politely and advances with a smile between Ann and Ramsden}{]}.

HECTOR. Why, so do I.

OCTAVIUS. I know you perfectly well, Sir; but I can't think where
I have met you.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{to Violet}{]} Do \emph{you} remember me, madam?

VIOLET. Oh, quite well; but I am so stupid about names.

MENDOZA. It was at the Savoy Hotel.\ {}{[}\textit{To Hector}{]} You,
sir, used to come with this lady {[}\textit{Violet}{]} to lunch.\ {}{[}\textit{To
Octavius}{]} You, sir, often brought this lady {[}\textit{Ann}{]}
and her mother to dinner on your way to the Lyceum Theatre.\ {}{[}\textit{To
Ramsden}{]} You, sir, used to come to supper, with {[}\textit{dropping
his voice to a confidential but perfectly audible whisper}{]} several
different ladies.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{angrily}{]} Well, what is that to you, pray?

OCTAVIUS. Why, Violet, I thought you hardly knew one another before
this trip, you and Malone!

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{vexed}{]} I suppose this person was the manager.

MENDOZA. The waiter, madam. I have a grateful recollection of you
all. I gathered from the bountiful way in which you treated me that
you all enjoyed your visits very much.

VIOLET. What impertinence! {[}\textit{She turns her back on him, and
goes up the hill with Hector}{]}.

RAMSDEN. That will do, my friend. You do not expect these ladies to
treat you as an acquaintance, I suppose, because you have waited on
them at table.

MENDOZA. Pardon me:\ it was you who claimed my acquaintance. The
ladies followed your example. However, this display of the unfortunate
manners of your class closes the incident. For the future, you will
please address me with the respect due to a stranger and fellow traveller.\ {}{[}\textit{He
turns haughtily away and resumes his presidential seat}{]}.

TANNER. There! I have found one man on my journey capable of reasonable
conversation; and you all instinctively insult him. Even the New Man
is as bad as any of you. Enry:\ you have behaved just like a miserable
gentleman.

STRAKER. Gentleman! Not me.

RAMSDEN. Really, Tanner, this tone\mbox{---}

ANN. Don't mind him, Granny:\ you ought to know him by this time
{[}\textit{she takes his arm and coaxes him away to the hill to join
Violet and Hector. Octavius follows her, doglike}{]}.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{calling from the hill}{]} Here are the soldiers.
They are getting out of their motors.

DUVAL.\ {}{[}\textit{panicstricken}{]} Oh, \textit{nom} \textit{de}
\textit{Dieu}!

THE ANARCHIST.\ Fools:\ the State is about to crush you because
you spared it at the prompting of the political hangers-on of the
bourgeoisie.

THE SULKY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{argumentative to the last}{]}
On the contrary, only by capturing the State machine\mbox{---}

THE ANARCHIST.\ It is going to capture you.

THE ROWDY SOCIAL-DEMOCRAT.\ {}{[}\textit{his anguish culminating}{]}
Ow, chock it. Wot are we ere for? \emph{Wot} are we wytin for?

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{between his teeth}{]} Go on. Talk politics,
you idiots:\ nothing sounds more respectable. Keep it up, I tell
you.

\emph{The soldiers line the road, commanding the amphitheatre with
their rifles. The brigands, struggling with an over-whelming impulse
to hide behind one another, look as unconcerned as they can. Mendoza
rises superbly, with undaunted front. The officer in command steps
down from the road in to the amphitheatre; looks hard at the brigands;
and then inquiringly at Tanner.}

THE OFFICER. Who are these men, Señor Ingles?

TANNER. My escort.

\emph{Mendoza, with a Mephistophelean smile, bows profoundly. An irrepressible
grin runs from face to face among the brigands. They touch their hats,
except the Anarchist, who defies the State with folded arms.}


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT IV}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT IV}

\markboth{MAN AND SUPERMAN}{ACT IV}

\emph{The garden of a villa in Granada. Whoever wishes to know what
it is like must go to Granada and see. One may prosaically specify
a group of hills dotted with villas, the Alhambra on the top of one
of the hills, and a considerable town in the valley, approached by
dusty white roads in which the children, no matter what they are doing
or thinking about, automatically whine for halfpence and reach out
little clutching brown palms for them; but there is nothing in this
description except the A1hambra, the begging, and the color of the
roads, that does not fit Surrey as well as Spain. The difference is
that the Surrey hills are comparatively small and ugly, and should
properly be called the Surrey} \textit{Protuberances}\emph{; but these
Spanish hills are of mountain stock:\ the amenity which conceals
their size does not compromise their dignity.}

\emph{This particular garden is on a hill opposite the Alhambra; and
the villa is as expensive and pretentious as a villa must be if it
is to be let furnished by the week to opulent American and English
visitors. If we stand on the lawn at the foot of the garden and look
uphill, our horizon is the stone balustrade of a flagged platform
on the edge of infinite space at the top of the hill. Between us and
this platform is a flower garden with a circular basin and fountain
in the centre, surrounded by geometrical flower beds, gravel paths,
and clipped yew trees in the genteelest order. The garden is higher
than our lawn; so we reach it by a few steps in the middle of its
embankment. The platform is higher again than the garden, from which
we mount a couple more steps to look over the balustrade at a fine
view of the town up the valley and of the hills that stretch away
beyond it to where, in the remotest distance, they become mountains.
On our left is the villa, accessible by steps from the left hand corner
of the garden. Returning from the platform through the garden and
down again to the lawn (a movement which leaves the villa behind us
on our right) we find evidence of literary interests on the part of
the tenants in the fact that there is no tennis net nor set of croquet
hoops, but, on our left, a little iron garden table with books on
it, mostly yellow-backed, and a chair beside it. A chair on the right
has also a couple of open books upon it. There are no newspapers,
a circumstance which, with the absence of games, might lead an intelligent
spectator to the most far reaching conclusions as to the sort of people
who live in the villa. Such speculations are checked, however, on
this delightfully fine afternoon, by the appearance at a little gate
in a paling an our left, of Henry Straker in his professional costume.
He opens the gate for an elderly gentleman, and follows him on to
the lawn.}

\emph{This elderly gentleman defies the Spanish sun in a black frock
coat, tall silk bat, trousers in which narrow stripes of dark grey
and lilac blend into a highly respectable color, and a black necktie
tied into a bow over spotless linen. Probably therefore a man whose
social position needs constant and scrupulous affirmation without
regard to climate:\ one who would dress thus for the middle of the
Sahara or the top of Mont Blanc. And since he has not the stamp of
the class which accepts as its life-mission the advertizing and maintenance
of first rate tailoring and millinery, he looks vulgar in his finery,
though in a working dress of any kind he would look dignified enough.
He is a bullet cheeked man with a red complexion, stubbly hair, smallish
eyes, a hard mouth that folds down at the corners, and a dogged chin.
The looseness of skin that comes with age has attacked his throat
and the laps of his cheeks; but he is still hard as an apple above
the mouth; so that the upper half of his face looks younger than the
lower. He has the self-confidence of one who has made money, and something
of the truculence of one who has made it in a brutalizing struggle,
his civility having under it a perceptible menace that he has other
methods in reserve if necessary. Withal, a man to be rather pitied
when he is not to be feared; for there is something pathetic about
him at times, as if the huge commercial machine which has worked him
into his frock coat had allowed him very little of his own way and
left his affections hungry and baffled. At the first word that falls
from him it is clear that he is an Irishman whose native intonation
has clung to him through many changes of place and rank. One can only
guess that the original material of his speech was perhaps the surly
Kerry brogue; but the degradation of speech that occurs in London,
Glasgow, Dublin and big cities generally has been at work on it so
long that nobody but an arrant cockney would dream of calling it a
brogue now; for its music is almost gone, though its surliness is
still perceptible. Straker, as a very obvious cockney, inspires him
with implacable contempt, as a stupid Englishman who cannot even speak
his own language properly. Straker, on the other hand, regards the
old gentleman's accent as a joke thoughtfully provided by Providence
expressly for the amusement of the British race, and treats him normally
with the indulgence due to an inferior and unlucky species, but occasionally
with indignant alarm when the old gentleman shows signs of intending
his Irish nonsense to be taken seriously.}

STRAKER. I'll go tell the young lady. She said you'd prefer to stay
here {[}\textit{he turns to go up through the garden to the villa}{]}.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{who has been looking round him with lively
curiosity}{]} The young lady? That's Miss Violet, eh?

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{stopping on the steps with sudden suspicion}{]}
Well, you know, don't you?

MALONE. Do I?

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{his temper rising}{]} Well, do you or don't
you?

MALONE. What business is that of yours?

\emph{Straker, now highly indignant, comes back from the steps and
confronts the visitor.}

STRAKER. I'll tell you what business it is of mine. Miss Robinson\mbox{---}

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{interrupting}{]} Oh, her name is Robinson,
is it? Thank you.

STRAKER. Why, you don't know even her name?

MALONE. Yes I do, now that you've told me.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{after a moment of stupefaction at the old
man's readiness in repartee}{]} Look here:\ what do you mean by gittin
into my car and lettin me bring you here if you're not the person
I took that note to?

MALONE. Who else did you take it to, pray?

STRAKER. I took it to Mr.\ Ector Malone, at Miss Robinson's request,
see? Miss Robinson is not my principal:\ I took it to oblige her.
I know Mr.\ Malone; and he ain't you, not by a long chalk. At the
hotel they told me that your name is Ector Malone.

MALONE. Hector Malone.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{with calm superiority}{]} Hector in your own
country:\ that's what comes o livin in provincial places like Ireland
and America. Over here you're Ector:\ if you avn't noticed it before
you soon will.

\emph{The growing strain of the conversation is here relieved by Violet,
who has sallied from the villa and through the garden to the steps,
which she now descends, coming very opportunely between Malone and
Straker.}

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{to Straker}{]} Did you take my message?

STRAKER. Yes, miss. I took it to the hotel and sent it up, expecting
to see young Mr.\ Malone. Then out walks this gent, and says it's
all right and he'll come with me. So as the hotel people said he was
Mr.\
Ector Malone, I fetched him. And now he goes back on what he said.
But if he isn't the gentleman you meant, say the word:\ it's easy
enough to fetch him back again.

MALONE. I should esteem it a great favor if I might have a short conversation
with you, madam. I am Hector's father, as this bright Britisher would
have guessed in the course of another hour or so.

STRAKER.\ {}{[}\textit{coolly defiant}{]} No, not in another year
or so. When we've ad you as long to polish up as we've ad im, perhaps
you'll begin to look a little bit up to is mark. At present you fall
a long way short. You've got too many aitches, for one thing.\ {}{[}\textit{To
Violet, amiably}{]} All right, Miss:\ you want to talk to him:\ I
shan't intrude.\ {}{[}\textit{He nods affably to Malone and goes
out through the little gate in the paling}{]}.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{very civilly}{]} I am so sorry, Mr.\ Malone,
if that man has been rude to you. But what can we do? He is our chauffeur.

MALONE. Your what?

VIOLET. The driver of our automobile. He can drive a motor car at
seventy miles an hour, and mend it when it breaks down. We are dependent
on our motor cars; and our motor cars are dependent on him; so of
course we are dependent on him.

MALONE. I've noticed, madam, that every thousand dollars an Englishman
gets seems to add one to the number of people he's dependent on. However,
you needn't apologize for your man:\ I made him talk on purpose.
By doing so I learnt that you're staying here in Grannida with a party
of English, including my son Hector.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{conversationally}{]} Yes. We intended to go
to Nice; but we had to follow a rather eccentric member of our party
who started first and came here. Won't you sit down? {[}\textit{She
clears the nearest chair of the two books on it}{]}.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{impressed by this attention}{]} Thank you.\ {}{[}\textit{He
sits down, examining her curiously as she goes to the iron table to
put down the books. When she turns to him again, he says}{]} Miss
Robinson, I believe?

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{sitting down}{]} Yes.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{Taking a letter from his pocket}{]} Your note
to Hector runs as follows {[}\textit{Violet is unable to repress a
start. He pauses quietly to take out and put on his spectacles, which
have gold rims}{]}:\ {}{}``Dearest:\ they have all gone to the
Alhambra for the afternoon. I have shammed headache and have the garden
all to myself. Jump into Jack's motor:\ Straker will rattle you here
in a jiffy. Quick, quick, quick. Your loving Violet.'' {[}\textit{He
looks at her; but by this time she has recovered herself, and meets
his spectacles with perfect composure. He continues slowly}{]} Now
I don't know on what terms young people associate in English society;
but in America that note would be considered to imply a very considerable
degree of affectionate intimacy between the parties.

VIOLET. Yes:\ I know your son very well, Mr.\ Malone. Have you any
objection?

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{somewhat taken aback}{]} No, no objection exactly.
Provided it is understood that my son is altogether dependent on me,
and that I have to be consulted in any important step he may propose
to take.

VIOLET. I am sure you would not be unreasonable with him, Mr.\ Malone.

MALONE. I hope not, Miss Robinson; but at your age you might think
many things unreasonable that don't seem so to me.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{with a little shrug}{]} Oh well, I suppose
there's no use our playing at cross purposes, Mr.\ Malone. Hector
wants to marry me.

MALONE. I inferred from your note that he might. Well, Miss Robinson,
he is his own master; but if he marries you he shall not have a rap
from me.\ {}{[}\textit{He takes off his spectacles and pockets them
with the note}{]}.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{with some severity}{]} That is not very complimentary
to me, Mr.\ Malone.

MALONE. I say nothing against you, Miss Robinson:\ I daresay you
are an amiable and excellent young lady. But I have other views for
Hector.

VIOLET. Hector may not have other views for himself, Mr.\ Malone.

MALONE. Possibly not. Then he does without me:\ that's all. I daresay
you are prepared for that. When a young lady writes to a young man
to come to her quick, quick, quick, money seems nothing and love seems
everything.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{sharply}{]} I beg your pardon, Mr.\ Malone:\ 
I do not think anything so foolish. Hector must have money.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{staggered}{]} Oh, very well, very well. No
doubt he can work for it.

VIOLET. What is the use of having money if you have to work for it?
{[}\textit{She rises impatiently}{]}. It's all nonsense, Mr.\ Malone:\ 
you must enable your son to keep up his position. It is his right.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{grimly}{]} I should not advise you to marry
him on the strength of that right, Miss Robinson.

\emph{Violet, who has almost lost her temper, controls herself with
an effort; unclenches her fingers; and resumes her seat with studied
tranquillity and reasonableness.}

VIOLET. What objection have you to me, pray? My social position is
as good as Hector's, to say the least. He admits it.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{shrewdly}{]} You tell him so from time to time,
eh? Hector's social position in England, Miss Robinson, is just what
I choose to buy for him. I have made him a fair offer. Let him pick
out the most historic house, castle or abbey that England contains.
The day that he tells me he wants it for a wife worthy of its traditions,
I buy it for him, and give him the means of keeping it up.

VIOLET. What do you mean by a wife worthy of its traditions? Cannot
any well bred woman keep such a house for him?

MALONE. No:\ she must be born to it.

VIOLET. Hector was not born to it, was he?

MALONE. His granmother was a barefooted Irish girl that nursed me
by a turf fire. Let him marry another such, and I will not stint her
marriage portion. Let him raise himself socially with my money or
raise somebody else so long as there is a social profit somewhere,
I'll regard my expenditure as justified. But there must be a profit
for someone. A marriage with you would leave things just where they
are.

VIOLET. Many of my relations would object very much to my marrying
the grandson of a common woman, Mr.\ Malone. That may be prejudice;
but so is your desire to have him marry a title prejudice.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{rising, and approaching her with a scrutiny
in which there is a good deal of reluctant respect}{]} You seem a
pretty straightforward downright sort of a young woman.

VIOLET. I do not see why I should be made miserably poor because I
cannot make profits for you. Why do you want to make Hector unhappy?

MALONE. He will get over it all right enough. Men thrive better on
disappointments in love than on disappointments in money. I daresay
you think that sordid; but I know what I'm talking about. My father
died of starvation in Ireland in the black 47. Maybe you've heard
of it.

VIOLET. The Famine?

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{with smouldering passion}{]} No, the starvation.
When a country is full of food, and exporting it, there can be no
famine. My father was starved dead; and I was starved out to America
in my mother's arms. English rule drove me and mine out of Ireland.
Well, you can keep Ireland. I and my like are coming back to buy England;
and we'll buy the best of it. I want no middle class properties and
no middle class women for Hector. That's straightforward isn't it,
like yourself?

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{icily pitying his sentimentality}{]} Really,
Mr.\ Malone, I am astonished to hear a man of your age and good sense
talking in that romantic way. Do you suppose English noblemen will
sell their places to you for the asking?

MALONE. I have the refusal of two of the oldest family mansions in
England. One historic owner can't afford to keep all the rooms dusted:\ 
the other can't afford the death duties. What do you say now?

VIOLET. Of course it is very scandalous; but surely you know that
the Government will sooner or later put a stop to all these Socialistic
attacks on property.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{grinning}{]} \textit{\emph{D'y}}\emph{'} think
they'll be able to get that done before I buy the house\mbox{---}or
rather the abbey? They're both abbeys.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{putting that aside rather impatiently}{]} Oh,
well, let us talk sense, Mr.\ Malone. You must feel that we haven't
been talking sense so far.

MALONE. I can't say I do. I mean all I say.

VIOLET. Then you don't know Hector as I do. He is romantic and faddy\mbox{---}he
gets it from you, I fancy\mbox{---}and he wants a certain sort of
wife to take care of him. Not a faddy sort of person, you know.

MALONE. Somebody like you, perhaps?

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{quietly}{]} Well, yes. But you cannot very
well ask me to undertake this with absolutely no means of keeping
up his position.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{alarmed}{]} Stop a bit, stop a bit. Where are
we getting to? I'm not aware that I'm asking you to undertake anything.

VIOLET. Of course, Mr.\ Malone, you can make it very difficult for
me to speak to you if you choose to misunderstand me.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{half bewildered}{]} I don't wish to take any
unfair advantage; but we seem to have got off the straight track somehow.

\emph{Straker, with the air of a man who has been making haste, opens
the little gate, and admits Hector, who, snorting with indignation,
comes upon the lawn, and is making for his father when Violet, greatly
dismayed, springs up and intercepts him. Straker does not wait; at
least he does not remain visibly within earshot.}

VIOLET. Oh, how unlucky! Now please, Hector, say nothing. Go away
until I have finished speaking to your father.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{inexorably}{]} No, Violet:\ I mean to have
this thing out, right away.\ {}{[}\textit{He puts her aside; passes
her by; and faces his father, whose cheeks darken as his Irish blood
begins to simmer}{]}. Dad:\ you've not played this hand straight.

MALONE. Hwat d'y'mean?

HECTOR. You've opened a letter addressed to me. You've impersonated
me and stolen a march on this lady. That's dishonorable.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{threateningly}{]} Now you take care what you're
saying, Hector. Take care, I tell you.

HECTOR. I have taken care. I am taking care. I'm taking care of my
honor and my position in English society.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{hotly}{]} Your position has been got by my
money:\ do you know that?

HECTOR. Well, you've just spoiled it all by opening that letter. A
letter from an English lady, not addressed to you\mbox{---}a confidential
letter!\ a delicate letter!\ a private letter opened by my father!
That's a sort of thing a man can't struggle against in England. The
sooner we go back together the better.\ {}{[}\textit{He appeals mutely
to the heavens to witness the shame and anguish of two outcasts}{]}.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{snubbing him with an instinctive dislike for
scene making}{]} Don't be unreasonable, Hector. It was quite natural
of Mr.\ Malone to open my letter:\ his name was on the envelope.

MALONE. There! You've no common sense, Hector. I thank you, Miss Robinson.

HECTOR. I thank you, too. It's very kind of you. My father knows no
better.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{furiously clenching his fists}{]} Hector\mbox{---}

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{with undaunted moral force}{]} Oh, it's no
use hectoring me. A private letter's a private letter, dad:\ you
can't get over that.

MALONE {[}\textit{raising his voice}{]} I won't be talked back to
by you, \textit{\emph{d'y}}\emph{'} hear?

VIOLET. Ssh!\ please, \emph{please}. Here they all come.

\emph{Father and son, checked, glare mutely at one another as Tanner
comes in through the little gate with Ramsden, followed by Octavius
and Ann.}

VIOLET. Back already!

TANNER. The Alhambra is not open this afternoon.

VIOLET. What a sell!

\emph{Tanner passes on, and presently finds himself between Hector
and a strange elder, both apparently on the verge of personal combat.
He looks from one to the other for an explanation. They sulkily avoid
his eye, and nurse their wrath in silence.}

RAMSDEN. Is it wise for you to be out in the sunshine with such a
headache, Violet?

TANNER. Have you recovered too, Malone?

VIOLET. Oh, I forgot. We have not all met before. Mr.\ Malone:\ won't
you introduce your father?

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{with Roman firmness}{]} No, I will not. He
is no father of mine.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{very angry}{]} You disown your dad before your
English friends, do you?

VIOLET. Oh please don't make a scene.

\emph{Ann and Octavius, lingering near the gate, exchange an astonished
glance, and discreetly withdraw up the steps to the garden, where
they can enjoy the disturbance without intruding. On their way to
the steps Ann sends a little grimace of mute sympathy to Violet, who
is standing with her back to the little table, looking on in helpless
annoyance as her husband soars to higher and higher moral} \textit{eminences}
\emph{without the least regard to the old man's millions.}

HECTOR. I'm very sorry, Miss Robinson; but I'm contending for a principle.
I am a son, and, I hope, a dutiful one; but before everything I'm
a Man!!! And when dad treats my private letters as his own, and takes
it on himself to say that I shan't marry you if I am happy and fortunate
enough to gain your consent, then I just snap my fingers and go my
own way.

TANNER. Marry Violet!

RAMSDEN. Are you in your senses?

TANNER. Do you forget what we told you?

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{recklessly}{]} I don't care what you told me.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{scandalized}{]} Tut tut, sir! Monstrous! {[}\textit{he
flings away towards the gate, his elbows quivering with indignation}{]}

TANNER. Another madman! These men in love should be locked up. {[}\textit{He
gives Hector up as hopeless, and turns away towards the garden, but
Malone, taking offence in a new direction, follows him and compels
him, by the aggressivenes of his tone, to stop}{]}.

MALONE. I don't understand this. Is Hector not good enough for this
lady, pray?

TANNER. My dear sir, the lady is married already. Hector knows it;
and yet he persists in his infatuation. Take him home and lock him
up.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{bitterly}{]} So this is the high-born social
tone I've spoilt by my ignorant, uncultivated behavior! Makin love
to a married woman! {[}\textit{He comes angrily between Hector and
Violet, and almost bawls into Hector's left ear}{]} You've picked
up that habit of the British aristocracy, have you?

HECTOR. That's all right. Don't you trouble yourself about that. I'll
answer for the morality of what I'm doing.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{coming forward to Hector's right hand with
flashing eyes}{]} Well said, Malone! You also see that mere marriage
laws are not morality! I agree with you; but unfortunately Violet
does not.

MALONE. I take leave to doubt that, sir.\ {}{[}\textit{Turning on
Violet}{]} Let me tell you, Mrs.\ Robinson, or whatever your right
name is, you had no right to send that letter to my son when you were
the wife of another man.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{outraged}{]} This is the last straw. Dad:\ you
have insulted my wife.

MALONE. \emph{Your} wife!

TANNER. \emph{You} the missing husband! Another moral impostor! {[}\textit{He
smites his brow, and collapses into Malone's chair}{]}.

MALONE. You've married without my consent!

RAMSDEN. You have deliberately humbugged us, sir!

HECTOR. Here:\ I have had just about enough of being badgered. Violet
and I are married:\ that's the long and the short of it. Now what
have you got to say\mbox{---}any of you?

MALONE. I know what I've got to say. She's married a beggar.

HECTOR. No; she's married a Worker {[}\textit{his American pronunciation
imparts an overwhelming intensity to this simple and unpopular word}{]}.
I start to earn my own living this very afternoon.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{sneering angrily}{]} Yes:\ you're very plucky
now, because you got your remittance from me yesterday or this morning,
I reckon. Wait til it's spent. You won't be so full of cheek then.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{producing a letter from his pocketbook}{]}
Here it is {[}\textit{thrusting it on his father}{]}. Now you just
take your remittance and yourself out of my life. I'm done with remittances;
and I'm done with you. I don't sell the privilege of insulting my
wife for a thousand dollars.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{deeply wounded and full of concern}{]} Hector:\ 
you don't know what poverty is.

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{fervidly}{]} Well, I want to know what it is.
I want'be a Man. Violet:\ you come along with me, to your own home:\ 
I'll see you through.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{jumping down from the garden to the lawn
and running to Hector's left hand}{]} I hope you'll shake hands with
me before you go, Hector. I admire and respect you more than I can
say.\ {}{[}\textit{He is affected almost to tears as they shake hands}{]}.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{also almost in tears, but of vexation}{]} Oh
don't be an idiot, Tavy. Hector's about as fit to become a workman
as you are.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{rising from his chair on the other ride of
Hector}{]} Never fear:\ there's no question of his becoming a navvy,
Mrs.\ Malone. {[}\textit{To Hector}{]} There's really no difficulty
about capital to start with. Treat me as a friend:\ draw on me.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{impulsively}{]} Or on me.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{with fierce jealousy}{]} Who wants your dirty
money? Who should he draw on but his own father? {[}\textit{Tanner
and Octavius recoil, Octavius rather hurt, Tanner consoled by the
solution of the money difficulty. Violet looks up hopefully}{]}. Hector:\ 
don't be rash, my boy. I'm sorry for what I said:\ I never meant
to insult Violet:\ I take it all back. She's just the wife you want:\ there!

HECTOR.\ {}{[}\textit{Patting him on the shoulder}{]} Well, that's
all right, dad. Say no more:\ we're friends again. Only, I take no
money from anybody.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{pleading abjectly}{]} Don't be hard on me,
Hector. I'd rather you quarrelled and took the money than made friends
and starved. You don't know what the world is:\ I do.

HECTOR. No, no, \emph{no}. That's fixed:\ that's not going to change.\ {}{[}\textit{He
passes his father inexorably by, and goes to Violet}{]}. Come, Mrs.\
Malone:\ you've got to move to the hotel with me, and take your proper
place before the world.

VIOLET. But I must go in, dear, and tell Davis to pack. Won't you
go on and make them give you a room overlooking the garden for me?
I'll join you in half an hour.

HECTOR. Very well. You'll dine with us, Dad, won't you?

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{eager to conciliate him}{]} Yes, yes.

HECTOR. See you all later.\ {}{[}\textit{He waves his hand to Ann,
who has now been joined by Tanner, Octavius, and Ramsden in the garden,
and goes out through the little gate, leaving his father and Violet
together on the lawn}{]}.

MALONE. You'll try to bring him to his senses, Violet:\ I know you
will.

VIOLET. I had no idea he could be so headstrong. If he goes on like
that, what can I do?

MALONE. Don't be discurridged:\ domestic pressure may be slow; but
it's sure. You'll wear him down. Promise me you will.

VIOLET. I will do my best. Of course I think it's the greatest nonsense
deliberately making us poor like that.

MALONE. Of course it is.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{after a moment's reflection}{]} You had better
give me the remittance. He will want it for his hotel bill. I'll see
whether I can induce him to accept it. Not now, of course, but presently.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{eagerly}{]} Yes, yes, yes:\ that's just the
thing {[}\textit{he hands her the thousand dollar bill, and adds cunningly}{]}
Y'understand that this is only a bachelor allowance.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{Coolly}{]} Oh, quite.\ {}{[}\textit{She takes
it}{]}. Thank you. By the way, Mr.\ Malone, those two houses you
mentioned\mbox{---}the abbeys.

MALONE. Yes?

VIOLET. Don't take one of them until I've seen it. One never knows
what may be wrong with these places.

MALONE. I won't. I'll do nothing without consulting you, never fear.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{politely, but without a ray of gratitude}{]}
Thanks:\ that will be much the best way.\ {}{[}\textit{She goes
calmly back to the villa, escorted obsequiously by Malone to the upper
end of the garden}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{drawing Ramsden's attention to Malone's cringing
attitude as he takes leave of Violet}{]} And that poor devil is a
billionaire!\ one of the master spirits of the age! Led on a string
like a pug dog by the first girl who takes the trouble to despise
him. I wonder will it ever come to that with me.\ {}{[}\textit{He
comes down to the lawn.}{]}

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{following him}{]} The sooner the better for
you.

MALONE.\ {}{[}\textit{clapping his hands as he returns through the
garden}{]} That'll be a grand woman for Hector. I wouldn't exchange
her for ten duchesses.\ {}{[}\textit{He descends to the lawn and
comes between Tanner and Ramsden}{]}.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{very civil to the billionaire}{]} It's an
unexpected pleasure to find you in this corner of the world, Mr.\ Malone.
Have you come to buy up the Alhambra?

MALONE. Well, I don't say I mightn't. I think I could do better with
it than the Spanish government. But that's not what I came about.
To tell you the truth, about a month ago I overheard a deal between
two men over a bundle of shares. They differed about the price:\ they
were young and greedy, and didn't know that if the shares were worth
what was bid for them they must be worth what was asked, the margin
being too small to be of any account, you see. To amuse meself, I
cut in and bought the shares. Well, to this day I haven't found out
what the business is. The office is in this town; and the name is
Mendoza, Limited. Now whether Mendoza's a mine, or a steamboat line,
or a bank, or a patent article\mbox{---}

TANNER. He's a man. I know him:\ his principles are thoroughly commercial.
Let us take you round the town in our motor, Mr.\ Malone, and call
on him on the way.

MALONE. If you'll be so kind, yes. And may I ask who\mbox{---}

TANNER. Mr.\ Roebuck Ramsden, a very old friend of your daughter-in-law.

MALONE. Happy to meet you, Mr.\ Ramsden.

RAMSDEN. Thank you. Mr.\ Tanner is also one of our circle.

MALONE. Glad to know you also, Mr.\ Tanner.

TANNER. Thanks.\ {}{[}\textit{Malone and Ramsden go out very amicably
through the little gate. Tanner calls to Octavius, who is wandering
in the garden with Ann}{]} Tavy! {[}\textit{Tavy comes to the steps,
Tanner whispers loudly to him}{]} Violet has married a financier of
brigands.\ {}{[}\textit{Tanner hurries away to overtake Malone and
Ramsden. Ann strolls to the steps with an idle impulse to torment
Octavius}{]}.

ANN. Won't you go with them, Tavy?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{tears suddenly flushing his eyes}{]} You
cut me to the heart, Ann, by wanting me to go {[}\textit{he comes
down on the lawn to hide his face from her. She follows him caressingly}{]}.

ANN. Poor Ricky Ticky Tavy! Poor heart!

OCTAVIUS. It belongs to you, Ann. Forgive me:\ I must speak of it.
I love you. You know I love you.

ANN. What's the good, Tavy? You know that my mother is determined
that I shall marry Jack.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{amazed}{]} Jack!

ANN. It seems absurd, doesn't it?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{with growing resentment}{]} Do you mean to
say that Jack has been playing with me all this time? That he has
been urging me not to marry you because he intends to marry you himself?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{alarmed}{]} No no:\ you mustn't lead him to believe
that I said that:\ I don't for a moment think that Jack knows his
own mind. But it's clear from my father's will that he wished me to
marry Jack. And my mother is set on it.

OCTAVIUS. But you are not bound to sacrifice yourself always to the
wishes of your parents.

ANN. My father loved me. My mother loves me. Surely their wishes are
a better guide than my own selfishness.

OCTAVIUS. Oh, I know how unselfish you are, Ann. But believe me\mbox{---}though
I know I am speaking in my own interest\mbox{---}there is another
side to this question. Is it fair to Jack to marry him if you do not
love him? Is it fair to destroy my happiness as well as your own if
you can bring yourself to love me?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{looking at him with a faint impulse of pity}{]}
Tavy, my dear, you are a nice creature\mbox{---}a good boy.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{humiliated}{]} Is that all?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{mischievously in spite of her pity}{]} That's
a great deal, I assure you. You would always worship the ground I
trod on, wouldn't you?

OCTAVIUS. I do. It sounds ridiculous; but it's no exaggeration. I
do; and I always shall.

ANN. Always is a long word, Tavy. You see, I shall have to live up
always to your idea of my divinity; and I don't think I could do that
if we were married. But if I marry Jack, you'll never be disillusioned\mbox{---}at
least not until I grow too old.

OCTAVIUS. I too shall grow old, Ann. And when I am eighty, one white
hair of the woman I love will make me tremble more than the thickest
gold tress from the most beautiful young head.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{quite touched}{]} Oh, that's poetry, Tavy, real
poetry. It gives me that strange sudden sense of an echo from a former
existence which always seems to me such a striking proof that we have
immortal souls.

OCTAVIUS. Do you believe that is true?

ANN. Tavy, if it is to become true you must lose me as well as love
me.

OCTAVIUS. Oh! {[}\textit{he hastily sits down at the little table
and covers his face with his hands}{]}.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{with conviction}{]} Tavy:\ I wouldn't for worlds
destroy your illusions. I can neither take you nor let you go. I can
see exactly what will suit you. You must be a sentimental old bachelor
for my sake.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{desperately}{]} Ann:\ I'll kill myself.

ANN. Oh no you won't:\ that wouldn't be kind. You won't have a bad
time. You will be very nice to women; and you will go a good deal
to the opera. A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man
in London if he has a comfortable income.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{considerably cooled, but believing that he
is only recovering his self-control}{]} I know you mean to be kind,
Ann. Jack has persuaded you that cynicism is a good tonic for me.\ {}{[}\textit{He
rises with quiet dignity}{]}.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{studying him slyly}{]} You see, I'm disillusionizing
you already. That's what I dread.

OCTAVIUS. You do not dread disillusionizing Jack.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{her face lighting up with mischievous ecstasy\mbox{---}whispering}{]}
I can't:\ he has no illusions about me. I shall surprise Jack the
other way. Getting over an unfavorable impression is ever so much
easier than living up to an ideal. Oh, I shall enrapture Jack sometimes!

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{resuming the calm phase of despair, and beginning
to enjoy his broken heart and delicate attitude without knowing it}{]}
I don't doubt that. You will enrapture him always. And he\mbox{---}the
fool!\mbox{---}thinks you would make him wretched.

ANN. Yes:\ that's the difficulty, so far.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{heroically}{]} Shall I tell him that you
love?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{quickly}{]} Oh no:\ he'd run away again.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{shocked}{]} Ann:\ would you marry an unwilling
man?

ANN. What a queer creature you are, Tavy! There's no such thing as
a willing man when you really go for him.\ {}{[}\textit{She laughs
naughtily}{]}. I'm shocking you, I suppose. But you know you are really
getting a sort of satisfaction already in being out of danger yourself.

OCTAVIUS {[}\textit{startled}{]} Satisfaction! {[}\textit{Reproachfully}{]}
You say that to me!

ANN. Well, if it were really agony, would you ask for more of it?

OCTAVIUS. Have I asked for more of it?

ANN. You have offered to tell Jack that I love him. That's self-sacrifice,
I suppose; but there must be some satisfaction in it. Perhaps it's
because you're a poet. You are like the bird that presses its breast
against the sharp thorn to make itself sing.

OCTAVIUS. It's quite simple. I love you; and I want you to be happy.
You don't love me; so I can't make you happy myself; but I can help
another man to do it.

ANN. Yes:\ it seems quite simple. But I doubt if we ever know why
we do things. The only really simple thing is to go straight for what
you want and grab it. I suppose I don't love you, Tavy; but sometimes
I feel as if I should like to make a man of you somehow. You are very
foolish about women.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{almost coldly}{]} I am content to be what
I am in that respect.

ANN. Then you must keep away from them, and only dream about them.
I wouldn't marry you for worlds, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS. I have no hope, Ann:\ I accept my ill luck. But I don't
think you quite know how much it hurts.

ANN. You are so softhearted! It's queer that you should be so different
from Violet. Violet's as hard as nails.

OCTAVIUS. Oh no. I am sure Violet is thoroughly womanly at heart.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{with some impatience}{]} Why do you say that?
Is it unwomanly to be thoughtful and businesslike and sensible? Do
you want Violet to be an idiot\mbox{---}or something worse, like
me?

OCTAVIUS. Something worse\mbox{---}like you! What do you mean, Ann?

ANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect
for Violet. She gets her own way always.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{sighing}{]} So do you.

ANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing\mbox{---}without
having to make people sentimental about her.

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{with brotherly callousness}{]} Nobody could
get very sentimental about Violet, I think, pretty as she is.

ANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them.

OCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise
on men's instincts in that way.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{throwing up her hands}{]} Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky
Ticky Tavy, heaven help the woman who marries you!

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{his passion reviving at the name}{]} Oh why,
why, why do you say that? Don't torment me. I don't understand.

ANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men?

OCTAVIUS. Do you think I could marry such a woman\mbox{---}I, who
have known and loved you?

ANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise.
So that's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive
me, and that the subject is closed.

OCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And
if the wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed.

ANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear.\ {}{[}\textit{She pats
his check; has an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of
distaste which prevents her; finally runs away through the garden
and into the villa}{]}.

\emph{Octavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on
his arms and sobbing softly. Mrs.\ Whitefield, who has been pottering
round the Granada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her
hand, comes in through the gate and sees him.}

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{running to him and lifting his head}{]}
What's the matter, Tavy? Are you ill?

OCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{still holding his head, anxiously}{]}
But you're crying. Is it about Violet's marriage?

OCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet?

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{restoring the head to its owner}{]}
I met Roebuck and that awful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not
ill? What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{affectionately}{]} It's noth\-ing\mbox{---}only
a man's broken heart. Doesn't that sound ridiculous?

MRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything
to you?

OCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't think for a moment that
I blame you.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{startled}{]} For what?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{pressing her hand consolingly}{]} For nothing.
I said I didn't blame you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. But I haven't done anything. What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS.\ {}{[}\textit{smiling sadly}{]} Can't you guess? I daresay
you are right to prefer Jack to me as a husband for Ann; but I love
Ann; and it hurts rather.\ {}{[}\textit{He rises and moves away from
her towards the middle of the lawn}{]}.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{following him hastily}{]} Does Ann
say that I want her to marry Jack?

OCTAVIUS. Yes:\ she has told me.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{thoughtfully}{]} Then I'm very sorry
for you, Tavy. It's only her way of saying \emph{she} wants to marry
Jack. Little she cares what I say or what I want!

OCTAVIUS. But she would not say it unless she believed it. Surely
you don't suspect Ann of\mbox{---}of \emph{deceit}!!

MRS WHITEFIELD. Well, never mind, Tavy. I don't know which is best
for a young man:\ to know too little, like you, or too much, like
Jack.

\emph{Tanner returns.}

TANNER. Well, I've disposed of old Malone. I've introduced him to
Mendoza, Limited; and left the two brigands together to talk it out.
Hullo, Tavy!\ anything wrong?

OCTAVIUS. I must go wash my face, I see.\ {}{[}\textit{To Mrs.\ Whitefield}{]}
Tell him what you wish.\ {}{[}\textit{To Tanner}{]} You may take
it from me, Jack, that Ann approves of it.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{puzzled by his manner}{]} Approves of what?

OCTAVIUS. Of what Mrs.\ Whitefield wishes.\ {}{[}\textit{He goes
his way with sad dignity to the villa}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{to Mrs.\ Whitefield}{]} This is very mysterious.
What is it you wish? It shall be done, whatever it is.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{with snivelling gratitude}{]} Thank
you, Jack.\ {}{[}\textit{She sits down. Tanner brings the other chair
from the table and sits close to her with his elbows on his knees,
giving her his whole attention}{]}. I don't know why it is that other
people's children are so nice to me, and that my own have so little
consideration for me. It's no wonder I don't seem able to care for
Ann and Rhoda as I do for you and Tavy and Violet. It's a very queer
world. It used to be so straightforward and simple; and now nobody
seems to think and feel as they ought. Nothing has been right since
that speech that Professor Tyndall made at Belfast.

TANNER. Yes:\ life is more complicated than we used to think. But
what am I to do for you?

MRS WHITEFIELD. That's just what I want to tell you. Of course you'll
marry Ann whether I like it myself or not\mbox{---}

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{starting}{]} It seems to me that I shall presently
be married to Ann whether I like it myself or not.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{peacefully}{]} Oh, very likely you
will:\ you know what she is when she has set her mind on anything.
But don't put it on me:\ that's all I ask. Tavy has just let out
that she's been saying that I am making her marry you; and the poor
boy is breaking his heart about it; for he is in love with her himself,
though what he sees in her so wonderful, goodness knows:\ I don't.
It's no use telling Tavy that Ann puts things into people's heads
by telling them that I want them when the thought of them never crossed
my mind. It only sets Tavy against me. But you know better than that.
So if you marry her, don't put the blame on me.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{emphatically}{]} I haven't the slightest intention
of marrying her.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{slyly}{]} She'd suit you better than
Tavy. She'd meet her match in you, Jack. I'd like to see her meet
her match.

TANNER. No man is a match for a woman, except with a poker and a pair
of hobnailed boots. Not always even then. Anyhow, I can't take the
poker to her. I should be a mere slave.

MRS WHITEFIELD. No:\ she's afraid of you. At all events, you would
tell her the truth about herself. She wouldn't be able to slip out
of it as she does with me.

TANNER. Everybody would call me a brute if I told Ann the truth about
herself in terms of her own moral code. To begin with, Ann says things
that are not strictly true.

MRS WHITEFIELD. I'm glad somebody sees she is not an angel.

TANNER. In short\mbox{---}to put it as a husband would put it when
exasperated to the point of speaking out\mbox{---}she is a liar.
And since she has plunged Tavy head over ears in love with her without
any intention of marrying him, she is a coquette, according to the
standard definition of a coquette as a woman who rouses passions she
has no intention of gratifying. And as she has now reduced you to
the point of being willing to sacrifice me at the altar for the mere
satisfaction of getting me to call her a liar to her face, I may conclude
that she is a bully as well. She can't bully men as she bullies women;
so she habitually and unscrupulously uses her personal fascination
to make men give her whatever she wants. That makes her almost something
for which I know no polite name.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{in mild expostulation}{]} Well, you
can't expect perfection, Jack.

TANNER. I don't. But what annoys me is that Ann does. I know perfectly
well that all this about her being a liar and a bully and a coquette
and so forth is a trumped-up moral indictment which might be brought
against anybody. We all lie; we all bully as much as we dare; we all
bid for admiration without the least intention of earning it; we all
get as much rent as we can out of our powers of fascination. If Ann
would admit this I shouldn't quarrel with her. But she won't. If she
has children she'll take advantage of their telling lies to amuse
herself by whacking them. If another woman makes eyes at me, she'll
refuse to know a coquette. She will do just what she likes herself
whilst insisting on everybody else doing what the conventional code
prescribes. In short, I can stand everything except her confounded
hypocrisy. That's what beats me.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{carried away by the relief of hearing
her own opinion so eloquently expressed}{]} Oh, she is a hypocrite.
She is:\ she is. Isn't she?

TANNER. Then why do you want to marry me to her?

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{querulously}{]} There now!\ put it
on me, of course. I never thought of it until Tavy told me she said
I did. But, you know, I'm very fond of Tavy:\ he's a sort of son
to me; and I don't want him to be trampled on and made wretched.

TANNER. Whereas I don't matter, I suppose.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, you are different, somehow:\ you are able to
take care of yourself. You'd serve her out. And anyhow, she must marry
somebody.

TANNER. Aha!\ there speaks the life instinct. You detest her; but
you feel that you must get her married.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{rising, shocked}{]} Do you mean that
I detest my own daughter! Surely you don't believe me to be so wicked
and unnatural as that, merely because I see her faults.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{cynically}{]} You love her, then?

MRS WHITEFIELD. Why, of course I do. What queer things you say, Jack!
We can't help loving our own blood relations.

TANNER. Well, perhaps it saves unpleasantness to say so. But for my
part, I suspect that the tables of consanguinity have a natural basis
in a natural repugnance {[}\textit{he rises}{]}.

MRS WHITEFIELD. You shouldn't say things like that, Jack. I hope you
won't tell Ann that I have been speaking to you. I only wanted to
set myself right with you and Tavy. I couldn't sit mumchance and have
everything put on me.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{politely}{]} Quite so.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{dissatisfied}{]} And now I've only
made matters worse. Tavy's angry with me because I don't worship Ann.
And when it's been put into my head that Ann ought to marry you, what
can I say except that it would serve her right?

TANNER. Thank you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Now don't be silly and twist what I say into something
I don't mean. I ought to have fair play\mbox{---}

\emph{Ann comes from the villa, followed presently by Violet, who
is dressed for driving.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{coming to her mother's right hand with threatening
suavity}{]} Well, mamma darling, you seem to be having a delightful
chat with Jack. We can hear you all over the place.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{appalled}{]} Have you overheard\mbox{---}

TANNER. Never fear:\ Ann is only\mbox{---}well, we were discussing
that habit of hers just now. She hasn't heard a word.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{stoutly}{]} I don't care whether she
has or not:\ I have a right to say what I please.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{arriving on the lawn and coming between Mrs.\ Whitefield
and Tanner}{]} I've come to say goodbye. I'm off for my honeymoon.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{crying}{]} Oh don't say that, Violet.
And no wedding, no breakfast, no clothes, nor anything.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{petting her}{]} It won't be for long.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Don't let him take you to America. Promise me that
you won't.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{very decidedly}{]} I should think not, indeed.
Don't cry, dear:\ I'm only going to the hotel.

MRS WHITEFIELD. But going in that dress, with your luggage, makes
one realize\mbox{---}{[}\textit{she chokes, and then breaks out again}{]}
How I wish you were my daughter, Violet!

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{soothing her}{]} There, there:\ so I am. Ann
will be jealous.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Ann doesn't care a bit for me.

ANN. Fie, mother! Come, now:\ you mustn't cry any more:\ you know
Violet doesn't like it {[}\textit{Mrs.\ Whitefield dries her eyes,
and subsides}{]}.

VIOLET. Goodbye, Jack.

TANNER. Goodbye, Violet.

VIOLET. The sooner you get married too, the better. You will be much
less misunderstood.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{restively}{]} I quite expect to get married
in the course of the afternoon. You all seem to have set your minds
on it.

VIOLET. You might do worse.\ {}{[}\textit{To Mrs.\ Whitefield:\ putting
her arm round her}{]} Let me take you to the hotel with me:\ the
drive will do you good. Come in and get a wrap.\ {}{[}\textit{She
takes her towards the villa}{]}.

MRS WHITEFIELD.\ {}{[}\textit{as they go up through the garden}{]}
I don't know what I shall do when you are gone, with no one but Ann
in the house; and she always occupied with the men! It's not to be
expected that your husband will care to be bothered with an old woman
like me. Oh, you needn't tell me:\ politeness is all very well; but
I know what people think\mbox{---}{[}\textit{She talks herself and
Violet out of sight and hearing}{]}.

\emph{Ann, musing on Violet's opportune advice, approaches Tanner;
examines him humorously for a moment from toe to top; and finally
delivers her opinion.}

ANN. Violet is quite right. You ought to get married.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{explosively}{]} Ann:\ I will not marry you.
Do you hear? I won't, won't, won't, won't, \emph{won't} marry you.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{placidly}{]} Well, nobody axd you, sir she said,
sir she said, sir she said. So that's settled.

TANNER. Yes, nobody has asked me; but everybody treats the thing as
settled. It's in the air. When we meet, the others go away on absurd
pretexts to leave us alone together. Ramsden no longer scowls at me:\ 
his eye beams, as if he were already giving you away to me in church.
Tavy refers me to your mother and gives me his blessing. Straker openly
treats you as his future employer:\ it was he who first told me of
it.

ANN. Was that why you ran away?

TANNER. Yes, only to be stopped by a lovesick brigand and run down
like a truant schoolboy.

ANN. Well, if you don't want to be married, you needn't be {[}\textit{she
turns away from him and sits down, much at her ease}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{following her}{]} Does any man want to be hanged?
Yet men let themselves be hanged without a struggle for life, though
they could at least give the chaplain a black eye. We do the world's
will, not our own. I have a frightful feeling that I shall let myself
be married because it is the world's will that you should have a husband.

ANN. I daresay I shall, someday.

TANNER. But why me\mbox{---}me of all men? Marriage is to me apostasy,
profanation of the sanctuary of my soul, violation of my manhood,
sale of my birthright, shameful surrender, ignominious capitulation,
acceptance of defeat. I shall decay like a thing that has served its
purpose and is done with; I shall change from a man with a future
to a man with a past; I shall see in the greasy eyes of all the other
husbands their relief at the arrival of a new prisoner to share their
ignominy. The young men will scorn me as one who has sold out:\ to
the young women I, who have always been an enigma and a possibility,
shall be merely somebody else's property\mbox{---}and damaged goods
at that:\ a secondhand man at best.

ANN. Well, your wife can put on a cap and make herself ugly to keep
you in countenance, like my grandmother.

TANNER. So that she may make her triumph more insolent by publicly
throwing away the bait the moment the trap snaps on the victim!

ANN. After all, though, what difference would it make? Beauty is all
very well at first sight; but who ever looks at it when it has been
in the house three days? I thought our pictures very lovely when papa
bought them; but I haven't looked at them for years. You never bother
about my looks:\ you are too well used to me. I might be the umbrella
stand.

TANNER. You lie, you vampire:\ you lie.

ANN. Flatterer. Why are you trying to fascinate me, Jack, if you don't
want to marry me?

TANNER. The Life Force. I am in the grip of the Life Force.

ANN. I don't understand in the least:\ it sounds like the Life Guards.

TANNER. Why don't you marry Tavy? He is willing. Can you not be satisfied
unless your prey struggles?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{turning to him as if to let him into a secret}{]}
Tavy will never marry. Haven't you noticed that that sort of man never
marries?

TANNER. What!\ a man who idolizes women who sees nothing in nature
but romantic scenery for love duets! Tavy, the chivalrous, the faithful,
the tenderhearted and true! Tavy never marry! Why, he was born to
be swept up by the first pair of blue eyes he meets in the street.

ANN. Yes, I know. All the same, Jack, men like that always live in
comfortable bachelor lodgings with broken hearts, and are adored by
their landladies, and never get married. Men like you always get married.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{Smiting his brow}{]} How frightfully, horribly
true! It has been staring me in the face all my life; and I never
saw it before.

ANN. Oh, it's the same with women. The poetic temperament's a very
nice temperament, very amiable, very harmless and poetic, I daresay;
but it's an old maid's temperament.

TANNER. Barren. The Life Force passes it by.

ANN. If that's what you mean by the Life Force, yes.

TANNER. You don't care for Tavy?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{looking round carefully to make sure that Tavy
is not within earshot}{]} No.

TANNER. And you do care for me?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{rising quietly and shaking her finger at him}{]}
Now Jack! Behave yourself.

TANNER. Infamous, abandoned woman! Devil!

ANN. Boa-constrictor! Elephant!

TANNER. Hypocrite!

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{Softly}{]} I must be, for my future husband's
sake.

TANNER. For mine! {[}\textit{Correcting himself savagely}{]} I mean
for his.

ANN. {[}\textit{ignoring the correction}{]} Yes, for yours. You had
better marry what you call a hypocrite, Jack. Women who are not hypocrites
go about in rational dress and are insulted and get into all sorts
of hot water. And then their husbands get dragged in too, and live
in continual dread of fresh complications. Wouldn't you prefer a wife
you could depend on?

TANNER. No, a thousand times no:\ hot water is the revolutionist's
element. You clean men as you clean milkpails, by scalding them.

ANN. Cold water has its uses too. It's healthy.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{despairingly}{]} Oh, you are witty:\ at the
supreme moment the Life Force endows you with every quality. Well,
I too can be a hypocrite. Your father's will appointed me your guardian,
not your suitor. I shall be faithful to my trust.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{in low siren tones}{]} He asked me who would I
have as my guardian before he made that will. I chose you!

TANNER. The will is yours then! The trap was laid from the beginning.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{concentrating all her magic}{]} From the beginning
from our childhood\mbox{---}for both of us\mbox{---}by the Life
Force.

TANNER. I will not marry you. I will not marry you.

ANN. Oh; you will, you will.

TANNER. I tell you, no, no, no.

ANN. I tell you, yes, yes, yes.

TANNER. \emph{No}.

ANN. {[}\textit{coaxing \mbox{---} imploring \mbox{---} almost exhausted}{]}
Yes. Before it is too late for repentance. Yes.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{struck by the echo from the past}{]} When did
all this happen to me before? Are we two dreaming?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{suddenly losing her courage, with an anguish that
she does not conceal}{]} No. We are awake; and you have said no:\ that
is all.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{brutally}{]} Well?

ANN. Well, I made a mistake:\ you do not love me.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{seizing her in his arms}{]} It is false:\ I
love you. The Life Force enchants me:\ I have the whole world in
my arms when I clasp you. But I am fighting for my freedom, for my
honor, for myself, one and indivisible.

ANN. Your happiness will be worth them all.

TANNER. You would sell freedom and honor and self for happiness?

ANN. It will not be all happiness for me. Perhaps death.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{groaning}{]} Oh, that clutch holds and hurts.
What have you grasped in me? Is there a father's heart as well as
a mother's?

ANN. Take care, Jack:\ if anyone comes while we are like this, you
will have to marry me.

TANNER. If we two stood now on the edge of a precipice, I would hold
you tight and jump.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{panting, failing more and more under the strain}{]}
Jack:\ let me go. I have dared so frightfully\mbox{---}it is lasting
longer than I thought. Let me go:\ I can't bear it.

TANNER. Nor I.\ Let it kill us.

ANN. Yes:\ I don't care. I am at the end of my forces. I don't care.
I think I am going to faint.

\emph{At this moment Violet and Octavius come from the villa with
Mrs.\ Whitefield, who is wrapped up for driving. Simultaneously Malone
and Ramsden, followed by Mendoza and Straker, come in through the
little gate in the paling. Tanner shamefacedly releases Ann, who raises
her hand giddily to her forehead.}

MALONE. Take care. Something's the matter with the lady.

RAMSDEN. What does this mean?

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{running between Ann and Tanner}{]} Are you
ill?

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{reeling, with a supreme effort}{]} I have promised
to marry Jack.\ {}{[}\textit{She swoons. Violet kneels by her and
chafes her band. Tanner runs round to her other hand, and tries to
lift her bead. Octavius goes to Violet's assistance, but does not
know what to do. Mrs.\ Whitefield hurries back into the villa. Octavius,
Malone and Ramsden run to Ann and crowd round her, stooping to assist.
Straker coolly comes to Ann's feet, and Mendoza to her head, both
upright and self-possessed}{]}.

STRAKER. Now then, ladies and gentlemen:\ she don't want a crowd
round her:\ she wants air\mbox{---}all the air she can git. If you
please, gents\mbox{---} {[}\textit{Malone and Ramsden allow him to
drive them gently past Ann and up the lawn towards the garden, where
Octavius, who has already become conscious of his uselessness, joins
them. Straker, following them up, pauses for a moment to instruct
Tanner}{]}. Don't lift \textit{\emph{er}} ed, Mr.\ Tanner:\ let
it go flat so's the blood can run back into it.

MENDOZA. He is right, Mr.\ Tanner. Trust to the air of the Sierra.
{[}\textit{He withdraws delicately to the garden steps}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{rising}{]} I yield to your superior knowledge
of physiology, Henry.\ {}{[}\textit{He withdraws to the corner of
the lawn; and Octavius immediately hurries down to him}{]}.

TAVY.\ {}{[}\textit{aside to Tanner, grasping his hand}{]} Jack:\ 
be very happy.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{aside to Tavy}{]} I never asked her. It is
a trap for me. {[}\textit{He goes up the lawn towards the garden.
Octavius remains petrified}{]}.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{intercepting Mrs.\ Whitefield, who comes
from the villa with a glass of brandy}{]} What is this, madam {[}\textit{he
takes it from her}{]}?

MRS WHITEFIELD. A little brandy.

MENDOZA. The worst thing you could give her. Allow me.\ {}{[}\textit{He
swallows it}{]}. Trust to the air of the Sierra, madam.

\emph{For a moment the men all forget Ann and stare at Mendoza.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{in Violet's ear, clutching her round the neck}{]}
Violet, did Jack say anything when I fainted?

VIOLET. No.

ANN. Ah! {[}\textit{with a sigh of intense relief she relapses}{]}.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, she's fainted again.

\emph{They are about to rush back to her; but Mendoza stops them with
a warning gesture.}

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{supine}{]} No I haven't. I'm quite happy.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{suddenly walking determinedly to her, and snatching
her hand from Violet to feel her pulse}{]} Why, her pulse is positively
bounding. Come, get up. What nonsense! Up with you.\ {}{[}\textit{He
gets her up summarily}{]}.

ANN. Yes:\ I feel strong enough now. But you very nearly killed me,
Jack, for all that.

MALONE. A rough wooer, eh? They're the best sort, Miss Whitefield.
I congratulate Mr.\ Tanner; and I hope to meet you and him as frequent
guests at the Abbey.

ANN. Thank you.\ {}{[}\textit{She goes past Malone to Octavius}{]}
Ricky Ticky Tavy:\ congratulate me.\ {}{[}\textit{Aside to him}{]}
I want to make you cry for the last time.

TAVY.\ {}{[}\textit{steadfastly}{]} No more tears. I am happy in
your happiness. And I believe in you in spite of everything.

RAMSDEN.\ {}{[}\textit{coming between Malone and Tanner}{]} You are
a happy man, Jack Tanner. I envy you.

MENDOZA.\ {}{[}\textit{advancing between Violet and Tanner}{]} Sir:\ 
there are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire.
The other is to get it. Mine and yours, sir.

TANNER. Mr.\ Mendoza:\ I have no heart's desires. Ramsden:\ it
is very easy for you to call me a happy man:\ you are only a spectator.
I am one of the principals; and I know better. Ann:\ stop tempting
Tavy, and come back to me.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{complying}{]} You are absurd, Jack.\ {}{[}\textit{She
takes his proffered arm}{]}.

TANNER.\ {}{[}\textit{continuing}{]} I solemnly say that I am not
a happy man. Ann looks happy; but she is only triumphant, successful,
victorious. That is not happiness, but the price for which the strong
sell their happiness. What we have both done this afternoon is to
renounce tranquillity, above all renounce the romantic possibilities
of an unknown future, for the cares of a household and a family. I
beg that no man may seize the occasion to get half drunk and utter
imbecile speeches and coarse pleasantries at my expense. We propose
to furnish our own house according to our own taste; and I hereby
give notice that the seven or eight travelling clocks, the four or
five dressing cases, the salad bowls, the carvers and fish slices,
the copy of Tennyson in extra morocco, and all the other articles
you are preparing to heap upon us, will be instantly sold, and the
proceeds devoted to circulating free copies of the Revolutionist's
Handbook. The wedding will take place three days after our return
to England, by special license, at the office of the district superintendent
registrar, in the presence of my solicitor and his clerk, who, like
his clients, will be in ordinary walking dress.

VIOLET.\ {}{[}\textit{with intense conviction}{]} You are a brute,
Jack.

ANN.\ {}{[}\textit{looking at him with fond pride and caressing his
arm}{]} Never mind her, dear. Go on talking.

TANNER. Talking!

\emph{Universal laughter.}


\chapter*{\raggedright{}The Revolutionist's Handbook and Pocket Companion }

\markboth{MAN AND SUPERMAN}{THE REVOLUTIONIST'S HANDBOOK}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{THE REVOLUTIONIST'S HANDBOOK\\
AND POCKET COMPANION}

\begin{center}\noun{BY JOHN TANNER, M.I.R.C. }\end{center}

\begin{center}\noun{(Member of the Idle Rich Class).}\end{center}


\section*{\raggedright{}PREFACE TO THE REVOLUTIONIST'S HANDBOOK}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{PREFACE}

\begin{quote}
{}``No one can contemplate the present condition of the masses of
the people without desiring something like a revolution for the better.''---\noun{Sir
Robert Giffen}. \emph{Essays in Finance}, vol. ii. p. 393.
\end{quote}

\subsection*{FOREWORD}

A revolutionist is one who desires to discard the existing social
order and try another.

The constitution of England is revolutionary. To a Russian or Anglo-Indian
bureaucrat, a general election is as much a revolution as a referendum
or plebiscite in which the people fight instead of voting. The French
Revolution overthrew one set of rulers and substituted another with
different interests and different views. That is what a general election
enables the people to do in England every seven years if they choose.
Revolution is therefore a national institution in England; and its
advocacy by an Englishman needs no apology.

Every man is a revolutionist concerning the thing he understands.
For example, every person who has mastered a profession is a sceptic
concerning it, and consequently a revolutionist. Every genuine religious
person is a heretic and therefore a revolutionist.

All who achieve real distinction in life begin as revolutionists.
The most distinguished persons become more revolutionary as they grow
older, though they are commonly supposed to become more conservative
owing to their loss of faith in conventional methods of reform.

Any person under the age of thirty, who, having any knowledge of the
existing social order, is not a revolutionist, is an inferior.


\subsection*{AND YET}

Revolutions have never lightened the burden of tyranny:\ they have
only shifted it to another shoulder.

\bigskip{}

\begin{flushright}JOHN TANNER\end{flushright}


\section*{\raggedright{}I. ON GOOD BREEDING}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{I. ON GOOD BREEDING}

If there were no God, said the eighteenth century Deist, it would
be necessary to invent Him. Now this XVIII century god was \emph{deus
ex machina}, the god who helped those who could not help themselves,
the god of the lazy and incapable. The nineteenth century decided
that there is indeed no such god; and now Man must take in hand all
the work that he used to shirk with an idle prayer. He must, in effect,
change himself into the political Providence which he formerly conceived
as god; and such change is not only possible, but the only sort of
change that is real. The mere transfiguration of institutions, as
from military and priestly dominance to commercial and scientific
dominance, from commercial dominance to proletarian democracy, from
slavery to serfdom, from serfdom to capitalism, from monarchy to republicanism,
from polytheism to monotheism, from monotheism to atheism, from atheism
to pantheistic humanitarianism, from general illiteracy to general
literacy, from romance to realism, from realism to mysticism, from
metaphysics to physics, are all but changes from Tweedledum to Tweedledee:\ 
\emph{plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose}. But the changes from
the crab apple to the pippin, from the wolf and fox to the house dog,
from the charger of Henry V to the brewer's draught horse and the
race-horse, are real; for here Man has played the god, subduing Nature
to his intention, and ennobling or debasing Life for a set purpose.
And what can be done with a wolf can be done with a man. If such monsters
as the tramp and the gentleman can appear as mere by-products of Man's
individual greed and folly, what might we not hope for as a main product
of his universal aspiration?

This is no new conclusion. The despair of institutions, and the inexorable
{}``ye must be born again,'' with Mrs Poyser's stipulation, {}``and
born different,'' recurs in every generation. The cry for the Superman
did not begin with Nietzsche, nor will it end with his vogue. But
it has always been silenced by the same question:\  what kind of
person is this Superman to be? You ask, not for a super-apple, but
for an eatable apple; not for a superhorse, but for a horse of greater
draught or velocity. Neither is it of any use to ask for a Superman:\ you
must furnish a specification of the sort of man you want. Unfortunately
you do not know what sort of man you want. Some sort of good-looking
philosopher-athlete, with a handsome healthy woman for his mate, perhaps.

Vague as this is, it is a great advance on the popular demand for
a perfect gentleman and a perfect lady. And, after all, no market
demand in the world takes the form of exact technical specification
of the article required. Excellent poultry and potatoes are produced
to satisfy the demand of housewives who do not know the technical
differences between a tuber and a chicken. They will tell you that
the proof of the pudding is in the eating; and they are right. The
proof of the Superman will be in the living; and we shall find out
how to produce him by the old method of trial and error, and not by
waiting for a completely convincing prescription of his ingredients.

Certain common and obvious mistakes may be ruled out from the beginning.
For example, we agree that we want superior mind; but we need not
fall into the football club folly of counting on this as a product
of superior body. Yet if we recoil so far as to conclude that superior
mind consists in being the dupe of our ethical classifications of
virtues and vices, in short, of conventional morality, we shall fall
out of the frying-pan of the football club into the fire of the Sunday
School. If we must choose between a race of athletes and a race of
{}``good'' men, let us have the athletes:\ better Samson and Milo
than Calvin and Robespierre. But neither alternative is worth changing
for:\ Samson is no more a Superman than Calvin. What then are we
to do?


\section*{\raggedright{}II. PROPERTY AND MARRIAGE}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{II. PROPERTY AND MARRIAGE}

Let us hurry over the obstacles set up by property and marriage. Revolutionists
make too much of them. No doubt it is easy to demonstrate that property
will destroy society unless society destroys it. No doubt, also, property
has hitherto held its own and destroyed all the empires. But that
was because the superficial objection to it (that it distributes social
wealth and the social labor burden in a grotesquely inequitable manner)
did not threaten the existence of the race, but only the individual
happiness of its units, and finally the maintenance of some irrelevant
political form or other, such as a nation, an empire, or the like.
Now as happiness never matters to Nature, as she neither recognizes
flags and frontiers nor cares a straw whether the economic system
adopted by a society is feudal, capitalistic, or collectivist, provided
it keeps the race afoot (the hive and the anthill being as acceptable
to her as Utopia), the demonstrations of Socialists, though irrefutable,
will never make any serious impression on property. The knell of that
over-rated institution will not sound until it is felt to conflict
with some more vital matter than mere personal inequities in industrial
economy. No such conflict was perceived whilst society had not yet
grown beyond national communities too small and simple to overtax
Man's limited political capacity disastrously. But we have now reached
the stage of international organization. Man's political capacity
and magnanimity are clearly beaten by the vastness and complexity
of the problems forced on him. And it is at this anxious moment that
he finds, when he looks upward for a mightier mind to help him, that
the heavens are empty. He will presently see that his discarded formula
that Man is the Temple of the Holy Ghost happens to be precisely true,
and that it is only through his own brain and hand that this Holy
Ghost, formally the most nebulous person in the Trinity, and now become
its sole survivor as it has always been its real Unity, can help him
in any way. And so, if the Superman is to come, he must be born of
Woman by Man's intentional and well-considered contrivance. Conviction
of this will smash everything that opposes it. Even Property and Marriage,
which laugh at the laborer's petty complaint that he is defrauded
of {}``surplus value,'' and at the domestic miseries of the slaves
of the wedding ring, will themselves be laughed aside as the lightest
of trifles if they cross this conception when it becomes a fully realized
vital purpose of the race.

That they must cross it becomes obvious the moment we acknowledge
the futility of breeding men for special qualities as we breed cocks
for game, greyhounds for speed, or sheep for mutton. What is really
important in Man is the part of him that we do not yet understand.
Of much of it we are not even conscious, just as we are not normally
conscious of keeping up our circulation by our heart-pump, though
if we neglect it we die. We are therefore driven to the conclusion
that when we have carried selection as far as we can by rejecting
from the list of eligible parents all persons who are uninteresting,
unpromising, or blemished without any set-off, we shall still have
to trust to the guidance of fancy (\emph{alias} Voice of Nature),
both in the breeders and the parents, for that superiority in the
unconscious self which will be the true characteristic of the Superman.

At this point we perceive the importance of giving fancy the widest
possible field. To cut humanity up into small cliques, and effectively
limit the selection of the individual to his own clique, is to postpone
the Superman for eons, if not for ever. Not only should every person
be nourished and trained as a possible parent, but there should be
no possibility of such an obstacle to natural selection as the objection
of a countess to a navvy or of a duke to a charwoman. Equality is
essential to good breeding; and equality, as all economists know,
is incompatible with property.

Besides, equality is an essential condition of bad breeding also;
and bad breeding is indispensable to the weeding out of the human
race. When the conception of heredity took hold of the scientific
imagination in the middle of last century, its devotees announced
that it was a crime to marry the lunatic to the lunatic or the consumptive
to the consumptive. But pray are we to try to correct our diseased
stocks by infecting our healthy stocks with them? Clearly the attraction
which disease has for diseased people is beneficial to the race. If
two really unhealthy people get married, they will, as likely as not,
have a great number of children who will all die before they reach
maturity. This is a far more satisfactory arrangement than the tragedy
of a union between a healthy and an unhealthy person. Though more
costly than sterilization of the unhealthy, it has the enormous advantage
that in the event of our notions of health and unhealth being erroneous
(which to some extent they most certainly are), the error will be
corrected by experience instead of confirmed by evasion.

One fact must be faced resolutely, in spite of the shrieks of the
romantic. There is no evidence that the best citizens are the offspring
of congenial marriages, or that a conflict of temperament is not a
highly important part of what breeders call crossing. On the contrary,
it is quite sufficiently probable that good results may be obtained
from parents who would be extremely unsuitable companions and partners,
to make it certain that the experiment of mating them will sooner
or later be tried purposely almost as often as it is now tried accidentally.
But mating such couples must clearly not involve marrying them. In
conjugation two complementary persons may supply one another's deficiencies:\ 
in the domestic partnership of marriage they only feel them and suffer
from them. Thus the son of a robust, cheerful, eupeptic British country
squire, with the tastes and range of his class, and of a clever, imaginative,
intellectual, highly civilized Jewess, might be very superior to both
his parents; but it is not likely that the Jewess would find the squire
an interesting companion, or his habits, his friends, his place and
mode of life congenial to her. Therefore marriage, whilst it is made
an indispensable condition of mating, will delay the advent of the
Superman as effectually as Property, and will be modified by the impulse
towards him just as effectually.

The practical abrogation of Property and Marriage as they exist at
present will occur without being much noticed. To the mass of men,
the intelligent abolition of property would mean nothing except an
increase in the quantity of food, clothing, housing, and comfort at
their personal disposal, as well as a greater control over their time
and circumstances. Very few persons now make any distinction between
virtually complete property and property held on such highly developed
public conditions as to place its income on the same footing as that
of a propertyless clergyman, officer, or civil servant. A landed proprietor
may still drive men and women off his land, demolish their dwellings,
and replace them with sheep or deer; and in the unregulated trades
the private trader may still spunge on the regulated trades and sacrifice
the life and health of the nation as lawlessly as the Manchester cotton
manufacturers did at the beginning of last century. But though the
Factory Code on the one hand, and Trade Union organization on the
other, have, within the lifetime of men still living, converted the
old unrestricted property of the cotton manufacturer in his mill and
the cotton spinner in his labor into a mere permission to trade or
work on stringent public or collective conditions, imposed in the
interest of the general welfare without any regard for individual
hard cases, people in Lancashire still speak of their {}``property''
in the old terms, meaning nothing more by it than the things a thief
can be punished for stealing. The total abolition of property, and
the conversion of every citizen into a salaried functionary in the
public service, would leave much more than 99 per cent of the nation
quite unconscious of any greater change than now takes place when
the son of a shipowner goes into the navy. They would still call their
watches and umbrellas and back gardens their property.

Marriage also will persist as a name attached to a general custom
long after the custom itself will have altered. For example, modern
English marriage, as modified by divorce and by Married Women's Property
Acts, differs more from early XIX century marriage than Byron's marriage
did from Shakespear's. At the present moment marriage in England differs
not only from marriage in France, but from marriage in Scotland. Marriage
as modified by the divorce laws in South Dakota would be called mere
promiscuity in Clapham. Yet the Americans, far from taking a profligate
and cynical view of marriage, do homage to its ideals with a seriousness
that seems old fashioned in Clapham. Neither in England nor America
would a proposal to abolish marriage be tolerated for a moment; and
yet nothing is more certain than that in both countries the progressive
modification of the marriage contract will be continued until it is
no more onerous nor irrevocable than any ordinary commercial deed
of partnership. Were even this dispensed with, people would still
call themselves husbands and wives; describe their companionships
as marriages; and be for the most part unconscious that they were
any less married than Henry VIII. For though a glance at the legal
conditions of marriage in different Christian countries shews that
marriage varies legally from frontier to frontier, domesticity varies
so little that most people believe their own marriage laws to be universal.
Consequently here again, as in the case of Property, the absolute
confidence of the public in the stability of the institution's name,
makes it all the easier to alter its substance.

However, it cannot be denied that one of the changes in public opinion
demanded by the need for the Superman is a very unexpected one. It
is nothing less than the dissolution of the present necessary association
of marriage with conjugation, which most unmarried people regard as
the very diagnostic of marriage. They are wrong, of course:\ it would
be quite as near the truth to say that conjugation is the one purely
accidental and incidental condition of marriage. Conjugation is essential
to nothing but the propagation of the race; and the moment that paramount
need is provided for otherwise than by marriage, conjugation, from
Nature's creative point of view, ceases to be essential in marriage.
But marriage does not thereupon cease to be so economical, convenient,
and comfortable, that the Superman might safely bribe the matrimonomaniacs
by offering to revive all the old inhuman stringency and irrevocability
of marriage, to abolish divorce, to confirm the horrible bond which
still chains decent people to drunkards, criminals, and wasters, provided
only the complete extrication of conjugation from it were conceded
to him. For if people could form domestic companionships on no easier
terms than these, they would still marry. The Roman Catholic, forbidden
by his Church to avail himself of the divorce laws, marries as freely
as the South Dakotan Presbyterians who can change partners with a
facility that scandalizes the old world; and were his Church to dare
a further step towards Christianity and enjoin celibacy on its laity
as well as on its clergy, marriages would still be contracted for
the sake of domesticity by perfectly obedient sons and daughters of
the Church. One need not further pursue these hypotheses:\ they are
only suggested here to help the reader to analyse marriage into its
two functions of regulating conjugation and supplying a form of domesticity.
These two functions are quite separable; and domesticity is the only
one of the two which is essential to the existence of marriage, because
conjugation without domesticity is not marriage at all, whereas domesticity
without conjugation is still marriage:\ in fact it is necessarily
the actual condition of all fertile marriages during a great part
of their duration, and of some marriages during the whole of it.

Taking it, then, that Property and Marriage, by destroying Equality
and thus hampering sexual selection with irrelevant conditions, are
hostile to the evolution of the Superman, it is easy to understand
why the only generally known modern experiment in breeding the human
race took place in a community which discarded both institutions.


\section*{\raggedright{}III. THE PERFECTIONIST EXPERIMENT AT ONEIDA CREEK}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{III. THE PERFECTIONIST EXPERIMENT\\
AT ONEIDA CREEK}

In 1848 the Oneida Community was founded in America to carry out a
resolution arrived at by a handful of Perfectionist Communists {}``that
we will devote ourselves exclusively to the establishment of the Kingdom
of God.'' Though the American nation declared that this sort of thing
was not to be tolerated in a Christian country, the Oneida Community
held its own for over thirty years, during which period it seems to
have produced healthier children and done and suffered less evil than
any Joint Stock Company on record. It was, however, a highly selected
community; for a genuine communist (roughly definable as an intensely
proud person who proposes to enrich the common fund instead of to
spunge on it) is superior to an ordinary joint stock capitalist precisely
as an ordinary joint stock capitalist is superior to a pirate. Further,
the Perfectionists were mightily shepherded by their chief Noyes,
one of those chance attempts at the Superman which occur from time
to time in spite of the interference of Man's blundering institutions.
The existence of Noyes simplified the breeding problem for the Communists,
the question as to what sort of man they should strive to breed being
settled at once by the obvious desirability of breeding another Noyes.

But an experiment conducted by a handful of people, who, after thirty
years of immunity from the unintentional child slaughter that goes
on by ignorant parents in private homes, numbered only 300, could
do very little except prove that Communists, under the guidance of
a Superman {}``devoted exclusively to the establishment of the Kingdom
of God,'' and caring no more for property and marriage than a Camberwell
minister cares for Hindoo Caste or Suttee, might make a much better
job of their lives than ordinary folk under the harrow of both these
institutions. Yet their Superman himself admitted that this apparent
success was only part of the abnormal phenomenon of his own occurrence;
for when he came to the end of his powers through age, he himself
guided and organized the voluntary relapse of the communists into
marriage, capitalism, and customary private life, thus admitting that
the real social solution was not what a casual Superman could persuade
a picked company to do for him, but what a whole community of Supermen
would do spontaneously. If Noyes had had to organize, not a few dozen
Perfectionists, but the whole United States, America would have beaten
him as completely as England beat Oliver Cromwell, France Napoleon,
or Rome Julius Cæsar. Cromwell learnt by bitter experience that God
himself cannot raise a people above its own level, and that even though
you stir a nation to sacrifice all its appetites to its conscience,
the result will still depend wholly on what sort of conscience the
nation has got. Napoleon seems to have ended by regarding mankind
as a troublesome pack of hounds only worth keeping for the sport of
hunting with them. Cæsar's capacity for fighting without hatred or
resentment was defeated by the determination of his soldiers to kill
their enemies in the field instead of taking them prisoners to be
spared by Cæsar; and his civil supremacy was purchased by colossal
bribery of the citizens of Rome. What great rulers cannot do, codes
and religions cannot do. Man reads his own nature into every ordinance:\ if
you devise a superhuman commandment so cunningly that it cannot be
misinterpreted in terms of his will, he will denounce it as seditious
blasphemy, or else disregard it as either crazy or totally unintelligible.
Parliaments and synods may tinker as much as they please with their
codes and creeds as circumstances alter the balance of classes and
their interests; and, as a result of the tinkering, there may be an
occasional illusion of moral evolution, as when the victory of the
commercial caste over the military caste leads to the substitution
of social boycotting and pecuniary damages for duelling. At certain
moments there may even be a considerable material advance, as when
the conquest of political power by the working class produces a better
distribution of wealth through the simple action of the selfishness
of the new masters; but all this is mere readjustment and reformation:\ until
the heart and mind of the people is changed the very greatest man
will no more dare to govern on the assumption that all are as great
as he than a drover dare leave his flock to find its way through the
streets as he himself would. Until there is an England in which every
man is a Cromwell, a France in which every man is a Napoleon, a Rome
in which every man is a Cæsar, a Germany in which every man is a Luther
plus a Goethe, the world will be no more improved by its heroes than
a Brixton villa is improved by the pyramid of Cheops. The production
of such nations is the only real change possible to us.


\section*{\raggedright{}IV. MAN'S OBJECTION TO HIS OWN IMPROVEMENT}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{IV. MAN'S OBJECTION TO HIS\\
OWN IMPROVEMENT}

But would such a change be tolerated if Man must rise above himself
to desire it? It would, through his misconception of its nature. Man
does desire an ideal Superman with such energy as he can spare from
his nutrition, and has in every age magnified the best living substitute
for it he can find. His least incompetent general is set up as an
Alexander; his king is the first gentleman in the world; his Pope
is a saint. He is never without an array of human idols who are all
nothing but sham Supermen. That the real Superman will snap his superfingers
at all Man's present trumpery ideals of right, duty, honor, justice,
religion, even decency, and accept moral obligations beyond present
human endurance, is a thing that contemporary Man does not foresee:\ 
in fact he does not notice it when our casual Supermen do it in his
very face. He actually does it himself every day without knowing it.
He will therefore make no objection to the production of a race of
what he calls Great Men or Heroes, because he will imagine them, not
as true Supermen, but as himself endowed with infinite brains, infinite
courage, and infinite money.

The most troublesome opposition will arise from the general fear of
mankind that any interference with our conjugal customs will be an
interference with our pleasures and our romance. This fear, by putting
on airs of offended morality, has always intimidated people who have
not measured its essential weakness; but it will prevail with those
degenerates only in whom the instinct of fertility has faded into
a mere itching for pleasure. The modern devices for combining pleasure
with sterility, now universally known and accessible, enable these
persons to weed themselves out of the race, a process already vigorously
at work; and the consequent survival of the intelligently fertile
means the survival of the partizans of the Superman; for what is proposed
is nothing but the replacement of the old unintelligent, inevitable,
almost unconscious fertility by an intelligently controlled, conscious
fertility, and the elimination of the mere voluptuary from the evolutionary
process.%
\footnote{The part played in evolution by the voluptuary will be the same as
that already played by the glutton. The glutton, as the man with the
strongest motive for nourishing himself, will always take more pains
than his fellows to get food. When food is so difficult to get that
only great exertions can secure a sufficient supply of it, the glutton's
appetite develops his cunning and enterprise to the utmost; and he
becomes not only the best fed but the ablest man in the community.
But in more hospitable climates, or where the social organization
of the food supply makes it easy for a man to overeat, then the glutton
eats himself out of health and finally out of existence. All other
voluptuaries prosper and perish in the same way; way; and this is
why the survival of the fittest means finally the survival of the
self-controlled, because they alone can adapt themselves to the perpetual
shifting of conditions produced by industrial progress.%
} Even if this selective agency had not been invented, the purpose
of the race would still shatter the opposition of individual instincts.
Not only do the bees and the ants satisfy their reproductive and parental
instincts vicariously; but marriage itself successfully imposes celibacy
on millions of unmarried normal men and women. In short, the individual
instinct in this matter, overwhelming as it is thoughtlessly supposed
to be, is really a finally negligible one.


\section*{\raggedright{}V. THE POLITICAL NEED FOR THE SUPERMAN}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{V. THE POLITICAL NEED FOR\\
THE SUPERMAN}

The need for the Superman is, in its most imperative aspect, a political
one. We have been driven to Proletarian Democracy by the failure of
all the alternative systems; for these depended on the existence of
Supermen acting as despots or oligarchs; and not only were these Supermen
not always or even often forthcoming at the right moment and in an
eligible social position, but when they were forthcoming they could
not, except for a short time and by morally suicidal coercive methods,
impose superhumanity on those whom they governed; so, by mere force
of {}``human nature,'' government by consent of the governed has
supplanted the old plan of governing the citizen as a public-schoolboy
is governed.

Now we have yet to see the man who, having any practical experience
of Proletarian Democracy, has any belief in its capacity for solving
great political problems, or even for doing ordinary parochial work
intelligently and economically. Only under despotisms and oligarchies
has the Radical faith in {}``universal suffrage'' as a political
panacea arisen. It withers the moment it is exposed to practical trial,
because Democracy cannot rise above the level of the human material
of which its voters are made. Switzerland seems happy in comparison
with Russia; but if Russia were as small as Switzerland, and had her
social problems simplified in the same way by impregnable natural
fortifications and a population educated by the same variety and intimacy
of international intercourse, there might be little to choose between
them. At all events Australia and Canada, which are virtually protected
democratic republics, and France and the United States, which are
avowedly independent democratic republics, are neither healthy, wealthy,
nor wise; and they would be worse instead of better if their popular
ministers were not experts in the art of dodging popular enthusiasms
and duping popular ignorance. The politician who once had to learn
how to flatter Kings has now to learn how to fascinate, amuse, coax,
humbug, frighten, or otherwise strike the fancy of the electorate;
and though in advanced modern States, where the artizan is better
educated than the King, it takes a much bigger man to be a successful
demagogue than to be a successful courtier, yet he who holds popular
convictions with prodigious energy is the man for the mob, whilst
the frailer sceptic who is cautiously feeling his way towards the
next century has no chance unless he happens by accident to have the
specific artistic talent of the mountebank as well, in which case
it is as a mountebank that he catches votes, and not as a meliorist.
Consequently the demagogue, though he professes (and fails) to readjust
matters in the interests of the majority of the electors, yet stereotypes
mediocrity, organizes intolerance, disparages exhibitions of uncommon
qualities, and glorifies conspicuous exhibitions of common ones. He
manages a small job well:\ he muddles rhetorically through a large
one. When a great political movement takes place, it is not consciously
led nor organized:\ the unconscious self in mankind breaks its way
through the problem as an elephant breaks through a jungle; and the
politicians make speeches about whatever happens in the process, which,
with the best intentions, they do all in their power to prevent. Finally,
when social aggregation arrives at a point demanding international
organization before the demagogues and electorates have learnt how
to manage even a country parish properly much less internationalize
Constantinople, the whole political business goes to smash; and presently
we have Ruins of Empires, New Zealanders sitting on a broken arch
of London Bridge, and so forth.

To that recurrent catastrophe we shall certainly come again unless
we can have a Democracy of Supermen; and the production of such a
Democracy is the only change that is now hopeful enough to nerve us
to the effort that Revolution demands.


\section*{\raggedright{}VI. PRUDERY EXPLAINED}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{VI. PRUDERY EXPLAINED}

Why the bees should pamper their mothers whilst we pamper only our
operatic \emph{prima donnas} is a question worth reflecting on. Our
notion of treating a mother is, not to increase her supply of food,
but to cut it off by forbidding her to work in a factory for a month
after her confinement. Everything that can make birth a misfortune
to the parents as well as a danger to the mother is conscientiously
done. When a great French writer, Emil Zola, alarmed at the sterilization
of his nation, wrote an eloquent and powerful book to restore the
prestige of parentage, it was at once assumed in England that a work
of this character, with such a title as \emph{Fecundity}, was too
abominable to be translated, and that any attempt to deal with the
relations of the sexes from any other than the voluptuary or romantic
point of view must be sternly put down. Now if this assumption were
really founded on public opinion, it would indicate an attitude of
disgust and resentment towards the Life Force that could only arise
in a diseased and moribund community in which Ibsen's Hedda Gabler
would be the typical woman. But it has no vital foundation at all.
The prudery of the newspapers is, like the prudery of the dinner table,
a mere difficulty of education and language. We are not taught to
think decently on these subjects, and consequently we have no language
for them except indecent language. We therefore have to declare them
unfit for public discussion, because the only terms in which we can
conduct the discussion are unfit for public use. Physiologists, who
have a technical vocabulary at their disposal, find no difficulty;
and masters of language who think decently can write popular stories
like Zola's \emph{Fecundity} or Tolstoy's \emph{Resurrection} without
giving the smallest offence to readers who can also think decently.
But the ordinary modern journalist, who has never discussed such matters
except in ribaldry, cannot write a simple comment on a divorce case
without a conscious shamefulness or a furtive facetiousness that makes
it impossible to read the comment aloud in company. All this ribaldry
and prudery (the two are the same) does not mean that people do not
feel decently on the subject:\ on the contrary, it is just the depth
and seriousness of our feeling that makes its desecration by vile
language and coarse humor intolerable; so that at last we cannot bear
to have it spoken of at all because only one in a thousand can speak
of it without wounding our self-respect, especially the self-respect
of women. Add to the horrors of popular language the horrors of popular
poverty. In crowded populations poverty destroys the possibility of
cleanliness; and in the absence of cleanliness many of the natural
conditions of life become offensive and noxious, with the result that
at last the association of uncleanliness with these natural conditions
becomes so overpowering that among civilized people (that is, people
massed in the labyrinths of slums we call cities), half their bodily
life becomes a guilty secret, unmentionable except to the doctor in
emergencies; and Hedda Gabler shoots herself because maternity is
so unladylike. In short, popular prudery is only a mere incident of
popular squalor:\ the subjects which it taboos remain the most interesting
and earnest of subjects in spite of it.


\section*{\raggedright{}VII. PROGRESS AN ILLUSION}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{VII. PROGRESS AN ILLUSION}

Unfortunately the earnest people get drawn off the track of evolution
by the illusion of progress. Any Socialist can convince us easily
that the difference between Man as he is and Man as he might become,
without further evolution, under millennial conditions of nutrition,
environment, and training, is enormous. He can shew that inequality
and iniquitous distribution of wealth and allotment of labor have
arisen through an unscientific economic system, and that Man, faulty
as he is, no more intended to establish any such ordered disorder
than a moth intends to be burnt when it flies into a candle flame.
He can shew that the difference between the grace and strength of
the acrobat and the bent back of the rheumatic field laborer is a
difference produced by conditions, not by nature. He can shew that
many of the most detestable human vices are not radical, but are mere
reactions of our institutions on our very virtues. The Anarchist,
the Fabian, the Salvationist, the Vegetarian, the doctor, the lawyer,
the parson, the professor of ethics, the gymnast, the soldier, the
sportsman, the inventor, the political program-maker, all have some
prescription for bettering us; and almost all their remedies are physically
possible and aimed at admitted evils. To them the limit of progress
is, at worst, the completion of all the suggested reforms and the
levelling up of all men to the point attained already by the most
highly nourished and cultivated in mind and body.

Here, then, as it seems to them, is an enormous field for the energy
of the reformer. Here are many noble goals attainable by many of those
paths up the Hill Difficulty along which great spirits love to aspire.
Unhappily, the hill will never be climbed by Man as we know him. It
need not be denied that if we all struggled bravely to the end of
the reformers' paths we should improve the world prodigiously. But
there is no more hope in that If than in the equally plausible assurance
that if the sky falls we shall all catch larks. We are not going to
tread those paths:\ we have not sufficient energy. We do not desire
the end enough:\ indeed in more cases we do not effectively desire
it at all. Ask any man would he like to be a better man; and he will
say yes, most piously. Ask him would he like to have a million of
money; and he will say yes, most sincerely. But the pious citizen
who would like to be a better man goes on behaving just as he did
before. And the tramp who would like the million does not take the
trouble to earn ten shillings:\ multitudes of men and women, all
eager to accept a legacy of a million, live and die without having
ever possessed five pounds at one time, although beggars have died
in rags on mattresses stuffed with gold which they accumulated because
they desired it enough to nerve them to get it and keep it. The economists
who discovered that demand created supply soon had to limit the proposition
to {}``effective demand,'' which turned out, in the final analysis,
to mean nothing more than supply itself; and this holds good in politics,
morals, and all other departments as well:\  the actual supply is
the measure of the effective demand; and the mere aspirations and
professions produce nothing. No community has ever yet passed beyond
the initial phases in which its pugnacity and fanaticism enabled it
to found a nation, and its cupidity to establish and develop a commercial
civilization. Even these stages have never been attained by public
spirit, but always by intolerant wilfulness and brute force. Take
the Reform Bill of 1832 as an example of a conflict between two sections
of educated Englishmen concerning a political measure which was as
obviously necessary and inevitable as any political measure has ever
been or is ever likely to be. It was not passed until the gentlemen
of Birmingham had made arrangements to cut the throats of the gentlemen
of St. James's parish in due military form. It would not have been
passed to this day if there had been no force behind it except the
logic and public conscience of the Utilitarians. A despotic ruler
with as much sense as Queen Elizabeth would have done better than
the mob of grown-up Eton boys who governed us then by privilege, and
who, since the introduction of practically Manhood Suffrage in 1884,
now govern us at the request of proletarian Democracy.

At the present time we have, instead of the Utilitarians, the Fabian
Society, with its peaceful, constitutional, moral, economical policy
of Socialism, which needs nothing for its bloodless and benevolent
realization except that the English people shall understand it and
approve of it. But why are the Fabians well spoken of in circles where
thirty years ago the word Socialist was understood as equivalent to
cut-throat and incendiary? Not because the English have the smallest
intention of studying or adopting the Fabian policy, but because they
believe that the Fabians, by eliminating the element of intimidation
from the Socialist agitation, have drawn the teeth of insurgent poverty
and saved the existing order from the only method of attack it really
fears. Of course, if the nation adopted the Fabian policy, it would
be carried out by brute force exactly as our present property system
is. It would become the law; and those who resisted it would be fined,
sold up, knocked on the head by policemen, thrown into prison, and
in the last resort {}``executed'' just as they are when they break
the present law. But as our proprietary class has no fear of that
conversion taking place, whereas it does fear sporadic cut-throats
and gunpowder plots, and strives with all its might to hide the fact
that there is no moral difference whatever between the methods by
which it enforces its proprietary rights and the method by which the
dynamitard asserts his conception of natural human rights, the Fabian
Society is patted on the back just as the Christian Social Union is,
whilst the Socialist who says bluntly that a Social revolution can
be made only as all other revolutions have been made, by the people
who want it killing, coercing, and intimidating the people who don't
want it, is denounced as a misleader of the people, and imprisoned
with hard labor to shew him how much sincerity there is in the objection
of his captors to physical force.

Are we then to repudiate Fabian methods, and return to those of the
barricader, or adopt those of the dynamitard and the assassin? On
the contrary, we are to recognize that both are fundamentally futile.
It seems easy for the dynamitard to say {}``Have you not just admitted
that nothing is ever conceded except to physical force? Did not Gladstone
admit that the Irish Church was disestablished, not by the spirit
of Liberalism, but by the explosion which wrecked Clerkenwell prison?''
Well, we need not foolishly and timidly deny it. Let it be fully granted.
Let us grant, further, that all this lies in the nature of things;
that the most ardent Socialist, if he owns property, can by no means
do otherwise than Conservative proprietors until property is forcibly
abolished by the whole nation; nay, that ballots, and parliamentary
divisions, in spite of their vain ceremony, of discussion, differ
from battles only as the bloodless surrender of an outnumbered force
in the field differs from Waterloo or Trafalgar. I make a present
of all these admissions to the Fenian who collects money from thoughtless
Irishmen in America to blow up Dublin Castle; to the detective who
persuades foolish young workmen to order bombs from the nearest ironmonger
and then delivers them up to penal servitude; to our military and
naval commanders who believe, not in preaching, but in an ultimatum
backed by plenty of lyddite; and, generally, to all whom it may concern.
But of what use is it to substitute the way of the reckless and bloodyminded
for the way of the cautious and humane? Is England any the better
for the wreck of Clerkenwell prison, or Ireland for the disestablishment
of the Irish Church? Is there the smallest reason to suppose that
the nation which sheepishly let Charles and Laud and Strafford coerce
it, gained anything because it afterwards, still more sheepishly,
let a few strongminded Puritans, inflamed by the masterpieces of Jewish
revolutionary literature, cut off the heads of the three? Suppose
the Gunpowder plot had succeeded, and set a Fawkes dynasty permanently
on the throne, would it have made any difference to the present state
of the nation? The guillotine was used in France up to the limit of
human endurance, both on Girondins and Jacobins. Fouquier Tinville
followed Marie Antoinette to the scaffold; and Marie Antoinette might
have asked the crowd, just as pointedly as Fouquier did, whether their
bread would be any cheaper when her head was off. And what came of
it all? The Imperial France of the Rougon Macquart family, and the
Republican France of the Panama scandal and the Dreyfus case. Was
the difference worth the guillotining of all those unlucky ladies
and gentlemen, useless and mischievous as many of them were? Would
any sane man guillotine a mouse to bring about such a result? Turn
to Republican America. America has no Star Chamber, and no feudal
barons. But it has Trusts; and it has millionaires whose factories,
fenced in by live electric wires and defended by Pinkerton retainers
with magazine rifles, would have made a Radical of Reginald Front
de Boeuf. Would Washington or Franklin have lifted a finger in the
cause of American Independence if they had foreseen its reality?

No:\ what Cæsar, Cromwell, Napoleon could not do with all the physical
force and moral prestige of the State in their hands, cannot be done
by enthusiastic criminals and lunatics. Even the Jews, who, from Moses
to Marx and Lassalle, have inspired all the revolutions, have had
to confess that, after all, the dog will return to his vomit and the
sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire; and we may as well
make up our minds that Man will return to his idols and his cupidities,
in spite of {}``movements'' and all revolutions, until his nature
is changed. Until then, his early successes in building commercial
civilizations (and such civilizations, Good Heavens!)\ are but preliminaries
to the inevitable later stage, now threatening us, in which the passions
which built the civilization become fatal instead of productive, just
as the same qualities which make the lion king in the forest ensure
his destruction when he enters a city. Nothing can save society then
except the clear head and the wide purpose:\  war and competition,
potent instruments of selection and evolution in one epoch, become
ruinous instruments of degeneration in the next. In the breeding of
animals and plants, varieties which have arisen by selection through
many generations relapse precipitously into the wild type in a generation
or two when selection ceases; and in the same way a civilization in
which lusty pugnacity and greed have ceased to act as selective agents
and have begun to obstruct and destroy, rushes downwards and backwards
with a suddenness that enables an observer to see with consternation
the upward steps of many centuries retraced in a single lifetime.
This has often occurred even within the period covered by history;
and in every instance the turning point has been reached long before
the attainment, or even the general advocacy on paper, of the levelling-up
of the mass to the highest point attainable by the best nourished
and cultivated normal individuals.

We must therefore frankly give up the notion that Man as he exists
is capable of net progress. There will always be an illusion of progress,
because wherever we are conscious of an evil we remedy it, and therefore
always seem to ourselves to be progressing, forgetting that most of
the evils we see are the effects, finally become acute, of long-unnoticed
retrogressions; that our compromising remedies seldom fully recover
the lost ground; above all, that on the lines along which we are degenerating,
good has become evil in our eyes, and is being undone in the name
of progress precisely as evil is undone and replaced by good on the
lines along which we are evolving. This is indeed the Illusion of
Illusions; for it gives us infallible and appalling assurance that
if our political ruin is to come, it will be effected by ardent reformers
and supported by enthusiastic patriots as a series of necessary steps
in our progress. Let the Reformer, the Progressive, the Meliorist
then reconsider himself and his eternal ifs and ans which never become
pots and pans. Whilst Man remains what he is, there can be no progress
beyond the point already attained and fallen headlong from at every
attempt at civilization; and since even that point is but a pinnacle
to which a few people cling in giddy terror above an abyss of squalor,
mere progress should no longer charm us.


\section*{\raggedright{}VIII. THE CONCEIT OF CIVILIZATION}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{VIII. THE CONCEIT OF CIVILIZATION}

After all, the progress illusion is not so very subtle. We begin by
reading the satires of our fathers' contemporaries; and we conclude
(usually quite ignorantly) that the abuses exposed by them are things
of the past. We see also that reforms of crying evils are frequently
produced by the sectional shifting of political power from oppressors
to oppressed. The poor man is given a vote by the Liberals in the
hope that he will cast it for his emancipators. The hope is not fulfilled;
but the lifelong imprisonment of penniless men for debt ceases; Factory
Acts are passed to mitigate sweating; schooling is made free and compulsory;
sanitary by-laws are multiplied; public steps are taken to house the
masses decently; the bare-footed get boots; rags become rare; and
bathrooms and pianos, smart tweeds and starched collars, reach numbers
of people who once, as {}``the unsoaped,'' played the Jew's harp
or the accordion in moleskins and belchers. Some of these changes
are gains:\ some of them are losses. Some of them are not changes
at all:\ all of them are merely the changes that money makes. Still,
they produce an illusion of bustling progress; and the reading class
infers from them that the abuses of the early Victorian period no
longer exist except as amusing pages in the novels of Dickens. But
the moment we look for a reform due to character and not to money,
to statesmanship and not to interest or mutiny, we are disillusioned.
For example, we remembered the maladministration and incompetence
revealed by the Crimean War as part of a bygone state of things until
the South African war shewed that the nation and the War Office, like
those poor Bourbons who have been so impudently blamed for a universal
characteristic, had learnt nothing and forgotten nothing. We had hardly
recovered from the fruitless irritation of this discovery when it
transpired that the officers' mess of our most select regiment included
a flogging club presided over by the senior subaltern. The disclosure
provoked some disgust at the details of this schoolboyish debauchery,
but no surprise at the apparent absence of any conception of manly
honor and virtue, of personal courage and self-respect, in the front
rank of our chivalry. In civil affairs we had assumed that the sycophancy
and idolatry which encouraged Charles I. to undervalue the Puritan
revolt of the XVII century had been long outgrown; but it has needed
nothing but favorable circumstances to revive, with added abjectness
to compensate for its lost piety. We have relapsed into disputes about
transubstantiation at the very moment when the discovery of the wide
prevalence of theophagy as a tribal custom has deprived us of the
last excuse for believing that our official religious rites differ
in essentials from those of barbarians. The Christian doctrine of
the uselessness of punishment and the wickedness of revenge has not,
in spite of its simple common sense, found a single convert among
the nations:\ Christianity means nothing to the masses but a sensational
public execution which is made an excuse for other executions. In
its name we take ten years of a thief's life minute by minute in the
slow misery and degradation of modern reformed imprisonment with as
little remorse as Laud and his Star Chamber clipped the ears of Bastwick
and Burton. We dug up and mutilated the remains of the Mahdi the other
day exactly as we dug up and mutilated the remains of Cromwell two
centuries ago. We have demanded the decapitation of the Chinese Boxer
princes as any Tartar would have done; and our military and naval
expeditions to kill, burn, and destroy tribes and villages for knocking
an Englishman on the head are so common a part of our Imperial routine
that the last dozen of them has not called forth as much pity as can
be counted on by any lady criminal. The judicial use of torture to
extort confession is supposed to be a relic of darker ages; but whilst
these pages are being written an English judge has sentenced a forger
to twenty years penal servitude with an open declaration that the
sentence will be carried out in full unless he confesses where he
has hidden the notes he forged. And no comment whatever is made, either
on this or on a telegram from the seat of war in Somaliland mentioning
that certain information has been given by a prisoner of war {}``under
punishment.'' Even if these reports are false, the fact that they
are accepted without protest as indicating a natural and proper course
of public conduct shews that we are still as ready to resort to torture
as Bacon was. As to vindictive cruelty, an incident in the South African
war, when the relatives and friends of a prisoner were forced to witness
his execution, betrayed a baseness of temper and character which hardly
leaves us the right to plume ourselves on our superiority to Edward
III. at the surrender of Calais. And the democratic American officer
indulges in torture in the Philippines just as the aristocratic English
officer did in South Africa. The incidents of the white invasion of
Africa in search of ivory, gold, diamonds, and sport, have proved
that the modern European is the same beast of prey that formerly marched
to the conquest of new worlds under Alexander, Antony, and Pizarro.
Parliaments and vestries are just what they were when Cromwell suppressed
them and Dickens derided them. The democratic politician remains exactly
as Plato described him; the physician is still the credulous impostor
and petulant scientific coxcomb whom Molière ridiculed; the schoolmaster
remains at best a pedantic child farmer and at worst a flagellomaniac;
arbitrations are more dreaded by honest men than lawsuits; the philanthropist
is still a parasite on misery as the doctor is on disease; the miracles
of priestcraft are none the less fraudulent and mischievous because
they are now called scientific experiments and conducted by professors;
witchcraft, in the modern form of patent medicines and prophylactic
inoculations, is rampant; the landowner who is no longer powerful
enough to set the mantrap of Rhampsinitis improves on it by barbed
wire; the modern gentleman who is too lazy to daub his face with vermilion
as a symbol of bravery employs a laundress to daub his shirt with
starch as a symbol of cleanliness; we shake our heads at the dirt
of the middle ages in cities made grimy with soot and foul and disgusting
with shameless tobacco smoking; holy water, in its latest form of
disinfectant fluid, is more widely used and believed in than ever;
public health authorities deliberately go through incantations with
burning sulphur (which they know to be useless) because the people
believe in it as devoutly as the Italian peasant believes in the liquefaction
of the blood of St Januarius; and straightforward public lying has
reached gigantic developments, there being nothing to choose in this
respect between the pickpocket at the police station and the minister
on the treasury bench, the editor in the newspaper office, the city
magnate advertizing bicycle tires that do not side-slip, the clergyman
subscribing the thirty-nine articles, and the vivisector who pledges
his knightly honor that no animal operated on in the physiological
laboratory suffers the slightest pain. Hypocrisy is at its worst;
for we not only persecute bigotedly but sincerely in the name of the
cure-mongering witchcraft we do believe in, but callously and hypocritically
in the name of the Evangelical creed that our rulers privately smile
at as the Italian patricians of the fifth century smiled at Jupiter
and Venus. Sport is, as it has always been, murderous excitement;
the impulse to slaughter is universal; and museums are set up throughout
the country to encourage little children and elderly gentlemen to
make collections of corpses preserved in alcohol, and to steal birds'
eggs and keep them as the red Indian used to keep scalps. Coercion
with the lash is as natural to an Englishman as it was to Solomon
spoiling Rehoboam:\ indeed, the comparison is unfair to the Jews
in view of the facts that the Mosaic law forbade more than forty lashes
in the name of humanity, and that floggings of a thousand lashes were
inflicted on English soldiers in the XVIII and XIX centuries, and
would be inflicted still but for the change in the balance of political
power between the military caste and the commercial classes and the
proletariat. In spite of that change, flogging is still an institution
in the public school, in the military prison, on the training ship,
and in that school of littleness called the home. The lascivious clamor
of the flagellomaniac for more of it, constant as the clamor for more
insolence, more war, and lower rates, is tolerated and even gratified
because, having no moral ends in view, we have sense enough to see
that nothing but brute coercion can impose our selfish will on others.
Cowardice is universal; patriotism, public opinion, parental duty,
discipline, religion, morality, are only fine names for intimidation;
and cruelty, gluttony, and credulity keep cowardice in countenance.
We cut the throat of a calf and hang it up by the heels to bleed to
death so that our veal cutlet may be white; we nail geese to a board
and cram them with food because we like the taste of liver disease;
we tear birds to pieces to decorate our women's hats; we mutilate
domestic animals for no reason at all except to follow an instinctively
cruel fashion; and we connive at the most abominable tortures in the
hope of discovering some magical cure for our own diseases by them.

Now please observe that these are not exceptional developments of
our admitted vices, deplored and prayed against by all good men. Not
a word has been said here of the excesses of our Neros, of whom we
have the full usual percentage. With the exception of the few military
examples, which are mentioned mainly to shew that the education and
standing of a gentleman, reinforced by the strongest conventions of
honor, \emph{esprit de corps}, publicity and responsibility, afford
no better guarantees of conduct than the passions of a mob, the illustrations
given above are commonplaces taken from the daily practices of our
best citizens, vehemently defended in our newspapers and in our pulpits.
The very humanitarians who abhor them are stirred to murder by them:\
the dagger of Brutus and Ravaillac is still active in the hands of
Caserio and Luccheni; and the pistol has come to its aid in the hands
of Guiteau and Czolgosz. Our remedies are still limited to endurance
or assassination; and the assassin is still judicially assassinated
on the principle that two blacks make a white. The only novelty is
in our methods:\ through the discovery of dynamite the overloaded
musket of Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh has been superseded by the bomb;
but Ravachol's heart burns just as Hamilton's did. The world will
not bear thinking of to those who know what it is, even with the largest
discount for the restraints of poverty on the poor and cowardice on
the rich.

All that can be said for us is that people must and do live and let
live up to a certain point. Even the horse, with his docked tail and
bitted jaw, finds his slavery mitigated by the fact that a total disregard
of his need for food and rest would put his master to the expense
of buying a new horse every second day; for you cannot work a horse
to death and then pick up another one for nothing, as you can a laborer.
But this natural check on inconsiderate selfishness is itself checked,
partly by our shortsightedness, and partly by deliberate calculation;
so that beside the man who, to his own loss, will shorten his horse's
life in mere stinginess, we have the tramway company which discovers
actuarially that though a horse may live from 24 to 40 years, yet
it pays better to work him to death in 4 and then replace him by a
fresh victim. And human slavery, which has reached its worst recorded
point within our own time in the form of free wage labor, has encountered
the same personal and commercial limits to both its aggravation and
its mitigation. Now that the freedom of wage labor has produced a
scarcity of it, as in South Africa, the leading English newspaper
and the leading English weekly review have openly and without apology
demanded a return to compulsory labor:\ that is, to the methods by
which, as we believe, the Egyptians built the pyramids. We know now
that the crusade against chattel slavery in the XIX century succeeded
solely because chattel slavery was neither the most effective nor
the least humane method of labor exploitation; and the world is now
feeling its way towards a still more effective system which shall
abolish the freedom of the worker without again making his exploiter
responsible for him.

Still, there is always some mitigation:\ there is the fear of revolt;
and there are the effects of kindliness and affection. Let it be repeated
therefore that no indictment is here laid against the world on the
score of what its criminals and monsters do. The fires of Smithfield
and of the Inquisition were lighted by earnestly pious people, who
were kind and good as kindness and goodness go. And when a negro is
dipped in kerosene and set on fire in America at the present time,
he is not a good man lynched by ruffians:\ he is a criminal lynched
by crowds of respectable, charitable, virtuously indignant, high-minded
citizens, who, though they act outside the law, are at least more
merciful than the American legislators and judges who not so long
ago condemned men to solitary confinement for periods, not of five
months, as our own practice is, but of five years and more. The things
that our moral monsters do may be left out of account with St. Bartholomew
massacres and other momentary outbursts of social disorder. Judge
us by the admitted and respected practice of our most reputable circles;
and, if you know the facts and are strong enough to look them in the
face, you must admit that unless we are replaced by a more highly
evolved animal\mbox{---}in short, by the Superman\mbox{---}the world
must remain a den of dangerous animals among whom our few accidental
supermen, our Shakespears, Goethes, Shelleys, and their like, must
live as precariously as lion tamers do, taking the humor of their
situation, and the dignity of their superiority, as a set-off to the
horror of the one and the loneliness of the other.


\section*{\raggedright{}IX. THE VERDICT OF HISTORY}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{IX. THE VERDICT OF HISTORY}

It may be said that though the wild beast breaks out in Man and casts
him back momentarily into barbarism under the excitement of war and
crime, yet his normal life is higher than the normal life of his forefathers.
This view is very acceptable to Englishmen, who always lean sincerely
to virtue's side as long as it costs them nothing either in money
or in thought. They feel deeply the injustice of foreigners, who allow
them no credit for this conditional high-mindedness. But there is
no reason to suppose that our ancestors were less capable of it than
we are. To all such claims for the existence of a progressive moral
evolution operating visibly from grandfather to grandson, there is
the conclusive reply that a thousand years of such evolution would
have produced enormous social changes, of which the historical evidence
would be overwhelming. But not Macaulay himself, the most confident
of Whig meliorists, can produce any such evidence that will bear cross-examination.
Compare our conduct and our codes with those mentioned contemporarily
in such ancient scriptures and classics as have come down to us, and
you will find no jot of ground for the belief that any moral progress
whatever has been made in historic time, in spite of all the romantic
attempts of historians to reconstruct the past on that assumption.
Within that time it has happened to nations as to private families
and individuals that they have flourished and decayed, repented and
hardened their hearts, submitted and protested, acted and reacted,
oscillated between natural and artificial sanitation (the oldest house
in the world, unearthed the other day in Crete, has quite modern sanitary
arrangements), and rung a thousand changes on the different scales
of income and pressure of population, firmly believing all the time
that mankind was advancing by leaps and bounds because men were constantly
busy. And the mere chapter of accidents has left a small accumulation
of chance discoveries, such as the wheel, the arch, the safety pin,
gunpowder, the magnet, the Voltaic pile and so forth:\ things which,
unlike the gospels and philosophic treatises of the sages, can be
usefully understood and applied by common men; so that steam locomotion
is possible without a nation of Stephensons, although national Christianity
is impossible without a nation of Christs. But does any man seriously
believe that the chauffeur who drives a motor car from Paris to Berlin
is a more highly evolved man than the charioteer of Achilles, or that
a modern Prime Minister is a more enlightened ruler than Cæsar because
he rides a tricycle, writes his dispatches by the electric light,
and instructs his stockbroker through the telephone?

Enough, then, of this goose-cackle about Progress:\ Man, as he is,
never will nor can add a cubit to his stature by any of its quackeries,
political, scientific, educational, religious, or artistic. What is
likely to happen when this conviction gets into the minds of the men
whose present faith in these illusions is the cement of our social
system, can be imagined only by those who know how suddenly a civilization
which has long ceased to think (or in the old phrase, to watch and
pray) can fall to pieces when the vulgar belief in its hypocrisies
and impostures can no longer hold out against its failures and scandals.
When religious and ethical formulae become so obsolete that no man
of strong mind can believe them, they have also reached the point
at which no man of high character will profess them; and from, that
moment until they are formally disestablished, they stand at the door
of every profession and every public office to keep out every able
man who is not a sophist or a liar. A nation which revises its parish
councils once in three years, but will not revise its articles of
religion once in three hundred, even when those articles avowedly
began as a political compromise dictated by Mr Facing-Both-Ways, is
a nation that needs remaking.

Our only hope, then, is in evolution. We must replace the man by the
superman. It is frightful for the citizen, as the years pass him,
to see his own contemporaries so exactly reproduced by the younger
generation, that his companions of thirty years ago have their counterparts
in every city crowd, where he had to check himself repeatedly in the
act of saluting as an old friend some young man to whom he is only
an elderly stranger. All hope of advance dies in his bosom as he watches
them:\ he knows that they will do just what their fathers did, and
that the few voices which will still, as always before, exhort them
to do something else and be something better, might as well spare
their breath to cool their porridge (if they can get any). Men like
Ruskin and Carlyle will preach to Smith and Brown for the sake of
preaching, just as St Francis preached to the birds and St Anthony
to the fishes. But Smith and Brown, like the fishes and birds, remain
as they are; and poets who plan Utopias and prove that nothing is
necessary for their realization but that Man should will them, perceive
at last, like Richard Wagner, that the fact to be faced is that Man
does not effectively will them. And he never will until he becomes
Superman.

And so we arrive at the end of the Socialist's dream of {}``the socialization
of the means of production and exchange,'' of the Positivist's dream
of moralizing the capitalist, and of the ethical professor's, legislator's,
educator's dream of putting commandments and codes and lessons and
examination marks on a man as harness is put on a horse, ermine on
a judge, pipeclay on a soldier, or a wig on an actor, and pretending
that his nature has been changed. The only fundamental and possible
Socialism is the socialization of the selective breeding of Man:\ in
other terms, of human evolution. We must eliminate the Yahoo, or his
vote will wreck the commonwealth.


\section*{\raggedright{}X. THE METHOD}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{X. THE METHOD}

As to the method, what can be said as yet except that where there
is a will, there is a way? If there be no will, we are lost. That
is a possibility for our crazy little empire, if not for the universe;
and as such possibilities are not to be entertained without despair,
we must, whilst we survive, proceed on the assumption that we have
still energy enough to not only will to live, but to will to live
better. That may mean that we must establish a State Department of
Evolution, with a seat in the Cabinet for its chief, and a revenue
to defray the cost of direct State experiments, and provide inducements
to private persons to achieve successful results. It may mean a private
society or a chartered company for the improvement of human live stock.
But for the present it is far more likely to mean a blatant repudiation
of such proposals as indecent and immoral, with, nevertheless, a general
secret pushing of the human will in the repudiated direction; so that
all sorts of institutions and public authorities will under some pretext
or other feel their way furtively towards the Superman. Mr Graham
Wallas has already ventured to suggest, as Chairman of the School
Management Committee of the London School Board, that the accepted
policy of the Sterilization of the Schoolmistress, however administratively
convenient, is open to criticism from the national stock-breeding
point of view; and this is as good an example as any of the way in
which the drift towards the Superman may operate in spite of all our
hypocrisies. One thing at least is clear to begin with. If a woman
can, by careful selection of a father, and nourishment of herself,
produce a citizen with efficient senses, sound organs, and a good
digestion, she should clearly be secured a sufficient reward for that
natural service to make her willing to undertake and repeat it. Whether
she be financed in the undertaking by herself, or by the father, or
by a speculative capitalist, or by a new department of, say, the Royal
Dublin Society, or (as at present) by the War Office maintaining her
{}``on the strength'' and authorizing a particular soldier to marry
her, or by a local authority under a by-law directing that women may
under certain circumstances have a year's leave of absence on full
salary, or by the central government, does not matter provided the
result be satisfactory.

It is a melancholy fact that as the vast majority of women and their
husbands have, under existing circumstances, not enough nourishment,
no capital, no credit, and no knowledge of science or business, they
would, if the State would pay for birth as it now pays for death,
be exploited by joint stock companies for dividends, just as they
are in ordinary industries. Even a joint stock human stud farm (piously
disguised as a reformed Foundling Hospital or something of that sort)
might well, under proper inspection and regulation, produce better
results than our present reliance on promiscuous marriage. It may
be objected that when an ordinary contractor produces stores for sale
to the Government, and the Government rejects them as not up to the
required standard, the condemned goods are either sold for what they
will fetch or else scrapped:\ that is, treated as waste material;
whereas if the goods consisted of human beings, all that could be
done would be to let them loose or send them to the nearest workhouse.
But there is nothing new in private enterprise throwing its human
refuse on the cheap labor market and the workhouse; and the refuse
of the new industry would presumably be better bred than the staple
product of ordinary poverty. In our present happy-go-lucky industrial
disorder, all the human products, successful or not, would have to
be thrown on the labor market; but the unsuccessful ones would not
entitle the company to a bounty and so would be a dead loss to it.
The practical commercial difficulty would be the uncertainty and the
cost in time and money of the first experiments. Purely commercial
capital would not touch such heroic operations during the experimental
stage; and in any case the strength of mind needed for so momentous
a new departure could not be fairly expected from the Stock Exchange.
It will have to be handled by statesmen with character enough to tell
our democracy and plutocracy that statecraft does not consist in flattering
their follies or applying their suburban standards of propriety to
the affairs of four continents. The matter must be taken up either
by the State or by some organization strong enough to impose respect
upon the State.

The novelty of any such experiment, however, is only in the scale
of it. In one conspicuous case, that of royalty, the State does already
select the parents on purely political grounds; and in the peerage,
though the heir to a dukedom is legally free to marry a dairymaid,
yet the social pressure on him to confine his choice to politically
and socially eligible mates is so overwhelming that he is really no
more free to marry the dairymaid than George IV was to marry Mrs Fitzherbert;
and such a marriage could only occur as a result of extraordinary
strength of character on the part of the dairymaid acting upon extraordinary
weakness on the part of the duke. Let those who think the whole conception
of intelligent breeding absurd and scandalous ask themselves why George
IV was not allowed to choose his own wife whilst any tinker could
marry whom he pleased? Simply because it did not matter a rap politically
whom the tinker married, whereas it mattered very much whom the king
married. The way in which all considerations of the king's personal
rights, of the claims of the heart, of the sanctity of the marriage
oath, and of romantic morality crumpled up before this political need
shews how negligible all these apparently irresistible prejudices
are when they come into conflict with the demand for quality in our
rulers. We learn the same lesson from the case of the soldier, whose
marriage, when it is permitted at all, is despotically controlled
with a view solely to military efficiency.

Well, nowadays it is not the King that rules, but the tinker. Dynastic
wars are no longer feared, dynastic alliances no longer valued. Marriages
in royal families are becoming rapidly less political, and more popular,
domestic, and romantic. If all the kings in Europe were made as free
to-morrow as King Cophetua, nobody but their aunts and chamberlains
would feel a moment's anxiety as to the consequences. On the other
hand a sense of the social importance of the tinker's marriage has
been steadily growing. We have made a public matter of his wife's
health in the month after her confinement. We have taken the minds
of his children out of his hands and put them into those of our State
schoolmaster. We shall presently make their bodily nourishment independent
of him. But they are still riff-raff; and to hand the country over
to riff-raff is national suicide, since riff-raff can neither govern
nor will let anyone else govern except the highest bidder of bread
and circuses. There is no public enthusiast alive of twenty years'
practical democratic experience who believes in the political adequacy
of the electorate or of the bodies it elects. The overthrow of the
aristocrat has created the necessity for the Superman.

Englishmen hate Liberty and Equality too much to understand them.
But every Englishman loves and desires a pedigree. And in that he
is right. King Demos must be bred like all other Kings; and with Must
there is no arguing. It is idle for an individual writer to carry
so great a matter further in a pamphlet. A conference on the subject
is the next step needed. It will be attended by men and women who,
no longer believing that they can live for ever, are seeking for some
immortal work into which they can build the best of themselves before
their refuse is thrown into that arch dust destructor, the cremation
furnace.


\section*{\raggedright{}Maxims for Revolutionists}


\subsection*{\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{MAXIMS FOR REVOLUTIONISTS}}


\subsection*{THE GOLDEN RULE}

Do not do unto others as you would that they should do unto you. Their
tastes may not be the same.

Never resist temptation:\ prove all things:\ hold fast that which
is good.

Do not love your neighbor as yourself. If you are on good terms with
yourself it is an impertinence:\ if on bad, an injury.

The golden rule is that there are no golden rules.


\subsection*{IDOLATRY}

The art of government is the organization of idolatry.

The bureaucracy consists of functionaries; the aristocracy, of idols;
the democracy, of idolaters.

The populace cannot understand the bureaucracy:\ it can only worship
the national idols.

The savage bows down to idols of wood and stone:\ the civilized man
to idols of flesh and blood.

A limited monarchy is a device for combining the inertia of a wooden
idol with the credibility of a flesh and blood one.

When the wooden idol does not answer the peasant's prayer, he beats
it:\ when the flesh and blood idol does not satisfy the civilized
man, he cuts its head off.

He who slays a king and he who dies for him are alike idolaters.


\subsection*{ROYALTY}

Kings are not born:\ they are made by artificial hallucination. When
the process is interrupted by adversity at a critical age, as in the
case of Charles II, the subject becomes sane and never completely
recovers his kingliness.

The Court is the servant's hall of the sovereign.

Vulgarity in a king flatters the majority of the nation.

The flunkeyism propagated by the throne is the price we pay for its
political convenience.


\subsection*{DEMOCRACY}

If the lesser mind could measure the greater as a foot-rule can measure
a pyramid, there would be finality in universal suffrage. As it is,
the political problem remains unsolved.

Democracy substitutes election by the incompetent many for appointment
by the corrupt few.

Democratic republics can no more dispense with national idols than
monarchies with public functionaries.

Government presents only one problem:\ the discovery of a trustworthy
anthropometric method.


\subsection*{IMPERIALISM}

Excess of insularity makes a Briton an Imperialist.

Excess of local self-assertion makes a colonist an Imperialist.

A colonial Imperialist is one who raises colonial troops, equips a
colonial squadron, claims a Federal Parliament sending its measures
to the Throne instead of to the Colonial Office, and, being finally
brought by this means into insoluble conflict with the insular British
Imperialist, {}``cuts the painter'' and breaks up the Empire.


\subsection*{LIBERTY AND EQUALITY}

He who confuses political liberty with freedom and political equality
with similarity has never thought for five minutes about either.

Nothing can be unconditional:\ consequently nothing can be free.

Liberty means responsibility. That is why most men dread it.

The duke inquires contemptuously whether his gamekeeper is the equal
of the Astronomer Royal; but he insists that they shall both be hanged
equally if they murder him.

The notion that the colonel need be a better man than the private
is as confused as the notion that the keystone need be stronger than
the coping stone.

Where equality is undisputed, so also is subordination.

Equality is fundamental in every department of social organization.

The relation of superior to inferior excludes good manners.


\subsection*{EDUCATION}

When a man teaches something he does not know to somebody else who
has no aptitude for it, and gives him a certificate of proficiency,
the latter has completed the education of a gentleman.

A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition,
and art into pedantry. Hence University education.

The best brought-up children are those who have seen their parents
as they are. Hypocrisy is not the parent's first duty.

The vilest abortionist is he who attempts to mould a child's character.

At the University every great treatise is postponed until its author
attains impartial judgment and perfect knowledge. If a horse could
wait as long for its shoes and would pay for them in advance, our
blacksmiths would all be college dons.

He who can, does. He who cannot, teaches.

A learned man is an idler who kills time with study. Beware of his
false knowledge:\ it is more dangerous than ignorance.

Activity is the only road to knowledge.

Every fool believes what his teachers tell him, and calls his credulity
science or morality as confidently as his father called it divine
revelation.

No man fully capable of his own language ever masters another.

No man can be a pure specialist without being in the strict sense
an idiot.

Do not give your children moral and religious instruction unless you
are quite sure they will not take it too seriously. Better be the
mother of Henri Quatre and Nell Gwynne than of Robespierre and Queen
Mary Tudor.


\subsection*{MARRIAGE}

Marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation
with the maximum of opportunity.

Marriage is the only legal contract which abrogates as between the
parties all the laws that safeguard the particular relation to which
it refers.

The essential function of marriage is the continuance of the race,
as stated in the Book of Common Prayer.

The accidental function of marriage is the gratification of the amoristic
sentiment of mankind.

The artificial sterilization of marriage makes it possible for marriage
to fulfil its accidental function whilst neglecting its essential
one.

The most revolutionary invention of the XIX century was the artificial
sterilization of marriage.

Any marriage system which condemns a majority of the population to
celibacy will be violently wrecked on the pretext that it outrages
morality.

Polygamy, when tried under modern democratic conditions, as by the
Mormons, is wrecked by the revolt of the mass of inferior men who
are condemned to celibacy by it; for the maternal instinct leads a
woman to prefer a tenth share in a first rate man to the exclusive
possession of a third rate one. Polyandry has not been tried under
these conditions.

The minimum of national celibacy (ascertained by dividing the number
of males in the community by the number of females, and taking the
quotient as the number of wives or husbands permitted to each person)
is secured in England (where the quotient is 1) by the institution
of monogamy.

The modern sentimental term for the national minimum of celibacy is
Purity.

Marriage, or any other form of promiscuous amoristic monogamy, is
fatal to large States because it puts its ban on the deliberate breeding
of man as a political animal.


\subsection*{CRIME AND PUNISHMENT}

All scoundrelism is summed up in the phrase {}``\emph{Que Messieurs
les Assassins commencent}!''

The man who has graduated from the flogging block at Eton to the bench
from which he sentences the garotter to be flogged is the same social
product as the garotter who has been kicked by his father and cuffed
by his mother until he has grown strong enough to throttle and rob
the rich citizen whose money he desires.

Imprisonment is as irrevocable as death.

Criminals do not die by the hands of the law. They die by the hands
of other men.

The assassin Czolgosz made President McKinley a hero by assassinating
him. The United States of America made Czolgosz a hero by the same
process.

Assassination on the scaffold is the worst form of assassination,
because there it is invested with the approval of society.

It is the deed that teaches, not the name we give it. Murder and capital
punishment are not opposites that cancel one another, but similars
that breed their kind.

Crime is only the retail department of what, in wholesale, we call
penal law.

When a man wants to murder a tiger he calls it sport:\ when the tiger
wants to murder him he calls it ferocity. The distinction between
Crime and Justice is no greater.

Whilst we have prisons it matters little which of us occupy the cells.

The most anxious man in a prison is the governor.

It is not necessary to replace a guillotined criminal:\ it is necessary
to replace a guillotined social system.


\subsection*{TITLES}

Titles distinguish the mediocre, embarrass the superior, and are disgraced
by the inferior.

Great men refuse titles because they are jealous of them.


\subsection*{HONOR}

There are no perfectly honorable men; but every true man has one main
point of honor and a few minor ones.

You cannot believe in honor until you have achieved it. Better keep
yourself clean and bright:\ you are the window through which you
must see the world.

Your word can never be as good as your bond, because your memory can
never be as trustworthy as your honor.


\subsection*{PROPERTY}

Property, said Proudhon, is theft. This is the only perfect truism
that has been uttered on the subject.


\subsection*{SERVANTS}

When domestic servants are treated as human beings it is not worth
while to keep them.

The relation of master and servant is advantageous only to masters
who do not scruple to abuse their authority, and to servants who do
not scruple to abuse their trust.

The perfect servant, when his master makes humane advances to him,
feels that his existence is threatened, and hastens to change his
place.

Masters and servants are both tyrannical; but the masters are the
more dependent of the two.

A man enjoys what he uses, not what his servants use.

Man is the only animal which esteems itself rich in proportion to
the number and voracity of its parasites.

Ladies and gentlemen are permitted to have friends in the kennel,
but not in the kitchen.

Domestic servants, by making spoiled children of their masters, are
forced to intimidate them in order to be able to live with them.

In a slave state, the slaves rule:\ in Mayfair, the tradesman rules.


\subsection*{HOW TO BEAT CHILDREN}

If you strike a child, take care that you strike it in anger, even
at the risk of maiming it for life. A blow in cold blood neither can
nor should be forgiven.

If you beat children for pleasure, avow your object frankly, and play
the game according to the rules, as a foxhunter does; and you will
do comparatively little harm. No foxhunter is such a cad as to pretend
that he hunts the fox to teach it not to steal chickens, or that he
suffers more acutely than the fox at the death. Remember that even
in childbeating there is the sportsman's way and the cad's way.


\subsection*{RELIGION}

Beware of the man whose god is in the skies.

What a man believes may be ascertained, not from his creed, but from
the assumptions on which he habitually acts.


\subsection*{VIRTUES AND VICES}

No specific virtue or vice in a man implies the existence of any other
specific virtue or vice in him, however closely the imagination may
associate them.

Virtue consists, not in abstaining from vice, but in not desiring
it.

Self-denial is not a virtue:\ it is only the effect of prudence on
rascality.

Obedience simulates subordination as fear of the police simulates
honesty.

Disobedience, the rarest and most courageous of the virtues, is seldom
distinguished from neglect, the laziest and commonest of the vices.

Vice is waste of life. Poverty, obedience, and celibacy are the canonical
vices.

Economy is the art of making the most of life.

The love of economy is the root of all virtue.


\subsection*{FAIRPLAY}

The love of fairplay is a spectator's virtue, not a principal's.


\subsection*{GREATNESS}

Greatness is only one of the sensations of littleness.

In heaven an angel is nobody in particular.

Greatness is the secular name for Divinity:\ both mean simply what
lies beyond us.

If a great man could make us understand him, we should hang him.

We admit that when the divinity we worshipped made itself visible
and comprehensible we crucified it.

To a mathematician the eleventh means only a single unit:\ to the
bushman who cannot count further than his ten fingers it is an incalculable
myriad.

The difference between the shallowest routineer and the deepest thinker
appears, to the latter, trifling; to the former, infinite.

In a stupid nation the man of genius becomes a god:\ everybody worships
him and nobody does his will.


\subsection*{BEAUTY AND HAPPINESS, ART AND RICHES}

Happiness and Beauty are by-products.

Folly is the direct pursuit of Happiness and Beauty.

Riches and Art are spurious receipts for the production of Happiness
and Beauty.

He who desires a lifetime of happiness with a beautiful woman desires
to enjoy the taste of wine by keeping his mouth always full of it.

The most intolerable pain is produced by prolonging the keenest pleasure.

The man with toothache thinks everyone happy whose teeth are sound.
The poverty stricken man makes the same mistake about the rich man.

The more a man possesses over and above what he uses, the more careworn
he becomes.

The tyranny that forbids you to make the road with pick and shovel
is worse than that which prevents you from lolling along it in a carriage
and pair.

In an ugly and unhappy world the richest man can purchase nothing
but ugliness and unhappiness.

In his efforts to escape from ugliness and unhappiness the rich man
intensifies both. Every new yard of West End creates a new acre of
East End.

The XIX century was the Age of Faith in Fine Art. The results are
before us.


\subsection*{THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN}

The fatal reservation of the gentleman is that he sacrifices everything
to his honor except his gentility.

A gentleman of our days is one who has money enough to do what every
fool would do if he could afford it:\ that is, consume without producing.

The true diagnostic of modern gentility is parasitism.

No elaboration of physical or moral accomplishment can atone for the
sin of parasitism.

A modern gentleman is necessarily the enemy of his country. Even in
war he does not fight to defend it, but to prevent his power of preying
on it from passing to a foreigner. Such combatants are patriots in
the same sense as two dogs fighting for a bone are lovers of animals.

The North American Indian was a type of the sportsman warrior gentleman.
The Periclean Athenian was a type of the intellectually and artistically
cultivated gentleman. Both were political failures. The modern gentleman,
without the hardihood of the one or the culture of the other, has
the appetite of both put together. He will not succeed where they
failed.

He who believes in education, criminal law, and sport, needs only
property to make him a perfect modern gentleman.


\subsection*{MODERATION}

Moderation is never applauded for its own sake.

A moderately honest man with a moderately faithful wife, moderate
drinkers both, in a moderately healthy house:\ that is the true middle
class unit.


\subsection*{THE UNCONSCIOUS SELF}

The unconscious self is the real genius. Your breathing goes wrong
the moment your conscious self meddles with it.

Except during the nine months before he draws his first breath, no
man manages his affairs as well as a tree does.


\subsection*{REASON}

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world:\ the unreasonable
one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all
progress depends on the unreasonable man.

The man who listens to Reason is lost:\ Reason enslaves all whose
minds are not strong enough to master her.


\subsection*{DECENCY}

Decency is Indecency's Conspiracy of Silence.


\subsection*{EXPERIENCE}

Men are wise in proportion, not to their experience, but to their
capacity for experience.

If we could learn from mere experience, the stones of London would
be wiser than its wisest men.


\subsection*{TIME'S REVENGES}

Those whom we called brutes had their revenge when Darwin shewed us
that they are our cousins.

The thieves had their revenge when Marx convicted the bourgeoisie
of theft.


\subsection*{GOOD INTENTIONS}

Hell is paved with good intentions, not with bad ones.

All men mean well.


\subsection*{NATURAL RIGHTS}

The Master of Arts, by proving that no man has any natural rights,
compels himself to take his own for granted.

The right to live is abused whenever it is not constantly challenged.


\subsection*{\emph{FAUTE DE MIEUX}}

In my childhood I demurred to the description of a certain young lady
as {}``the pretty Miss So and So.'' My aunt rebuked me by saying
{}``Remember always that the least plain sister is the family beauty.''

No age or condition is without its heroes. The least incapable general
in a nation is its Cæsar, the least imbecile statesman its Solon,
the least confused thinker its Socrates, the least commonplace poet
its Shakespear.


\subsection*{CHARITY}

Charity is the most mischievous sort of pruriency.

Those who minister to poverty and disease are accomplices in the two
worst of all the crimes.

He who gives money he has not earned is generous with other people's
labor.

Every genuinely benevolent person loathes almsgiving and mendicity.


\subsection*{FAME}

Life levels all men:\ death reveals the eminent.


\subsection*{DISCIPLINE}

Mutiny Acts are needed only by officers who command without authority.
Divine right needs no whip.


\subsection*{WOMEN IN THE HOME}

Home is the girl's prison and the woman's workhouse.


\subsection*{CIVILIZATION}

Civilization is a disease produced by the practice of building societies
with rotten material.

Those who admire modern civilization usually identify it with the
steam engine and the electric telegraph.

Those who understand the steam engine and the electric telegraph spend
their lives in trying to replace them with something better.

The imagination cannot conceive a viler criminal than he who should
build another London like the present one, nor a greater benefactor
than he who should destroy it.


\subsection*{GAMBLING}

The most popular method of distributing wealth is the method of the
roulette table.

The roulette table pays nobody except him that keeps it. Nevertheless
a passion for gaming is common, though a passion for keeping roulette
tables is unknown.

Gambling promises the poor what Property performs for the rich:\ that
is why the bishops dare not denounce it fundamentally.


\subsection*{THE SOCIAL QUESTION}

Do not waste your time on Social Questions. What is the matter with
the poor is Poverty:\ what is the matter with the rich is Uselessness.


\subsection*{STRAY SAYINGS}

We are told that when Jehovah created the world he saw that it was
good. What would he say now?

The conversion of a savage to Christianity is the conversion of Christianity
to savagery.

No man dares say so much of what he thinks as to appear to himself
an extremist.

\emph{Mens sana in corpore sano} is a foolish saying. The sound body
is a product of the sound mind.

Decadence can find agents only when it wears the mask of progress.

In moments of progress the noble succeed, because things are going
their way:\ in moments of decadence the base succeed for the same
reason:\  hence the world is never without the exhilaration of contemporary
success.

The reformer for whom the world is not good enough finds himself shoulder
to shoulder with him that is not good enough for the world.

Every man over forty is a scoundrel.

Youth, which is forgiven everything, forgives itself nothing:\ age,
which forgives itself everything, is forgiven nothing.

When we learn to sing that Britons never will be masters we shall
make an end of slavery.

Do not mistake your objection to defeat for an objection to fighting,
your objection to being a slave for an objection to slavery, your
objection to not being as rich as your neighbor for an objection to
poverty. The cowardly, the insubordinate, and the envious share your
objections.

Take care to get what you like or you will be forced to like what
you get. Where there is no ventilation fresh air is declared unwholesome.
Where there is no religion hypocrisy becomes good taste. Where there
is no knowledge ignorance calls itself science.

If the wicked flourish and the fittest survive, Nature must be the
God of rascals.

If history repeats itself, and the unexpected always happens, how
incapable must Man be of learning from experience!

Compassion is the fellow-feeling of the unsound.

Those who understand evil pardon it:\ those who resent it destroy
it.

Acquired notions of propriety are stronger than natural instincts.

It is easier to recruit for monasteries and convents than to induce
an Arab woman to uncover her mouth in public, or a British officer
to walk through Bond Street in a golfing cap on an afternoon in May.
It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid.

The Chinese tame fowls by clipping their wings, and women by deforming
their feet. A petticoat round the ankles serves equally well.

Political Economy and Social Economy are amusing intellectual games;
but Vital Economy is the Philosopher Stone.

When a heretic wishes to avoid martyrdom he speaks of {}``Orthodoxy,
True and False'' and demonstrates that the True is his heresy.

Beware of the man who does not return your blow:\ he neither forgives
you nor allows you to forgive yourself.

If you injure your neighbor, better not do it by halves.

Sentimentality is the error of supposing that quarter can be given
or taken in moral conflicts.

Two starving men cannot be twice as hungry as one; but two rascals
can be ten times as vicious as one.

Make your cross your crutch; but when you see another man do it, beware
of him.


\subsection*{SELF-SACRIFICE}

Self-sacrifice enables us to sacrifice other people without blushing.

If you begin by sacrificing yourself to those you love, you will end
by hating those to whom you have sacrificed yourself. 
\end{document}
