CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE Joseph Whitmore Barry dramatic library THE GIFT OF TWO FRIENDS OF Cornell University 1934 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012967125 JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND AND MAJOR BARBARA O, PSHAW. SHAW! By JOHN B. TABB. A GOD there exists. It la stated,. ». Who has often to be berated; And he says " 'Tis ot Shaw That I stand most In awe, Tho' he claims we are closely related." JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND AND MAJOR BARBARA • BY BERNARD SHAW BRENTANO'S • NEW YORK MCMVII wj / 1 op c. I Copyright, 1907, hy O. Bernard Shaw THE TROW PRESS • NEW YORK PREFACE FOR POLITICIANS /John Bull's Other Island was written in 1904 at the ^ request of Mr. William Butler Yeats, as a patriotic con- tribution to the repertory of the Irish Literary Theatre.] Like most people who have asked me to write plays, Mr. Yeats got rather more than he bargained for. The play was at that time beyond the resources of the new Abbey Theatre, which the Irish enterprise owed to the public spirit of Miss A. E. F. Horniman (an Englishwoman, of course), who, twelve years ago, played an important part in the history of the modern English stage as well as in my own personal destiny by providing the neces- sary capital for that memorable season at the Avenue Theatre which forced my Arms and The Man and Mr. Yeats's Land of Heart's Desire on the recalcitrant Lon- don playgoer, and gave a third Irish playwright. Dr. John Todhunter, an opportunity which the commercial theatres could not have aflForded him. There was another reason for changing the destina- tion of John Bull's Other Island. It was uncongenial to the whole spirit of the neo-Gaelic movement, which is bent on creating a new Ireland after its own ideal, whereas Wy play is a very uncompromising presentment of the real old Ireland.'^ The next thing that happened was the production of the play in London at the Court Theatre by Messrs. Vedrenne and Barker, and its im- mediate and enormous popularity with delighted and flattered English audiences. This constituted it a suc- cessful commercial play, and made it unnecessary to resort to the special machinery or tax the special re- sources of the Irish Literary Theatre for its production. vi John Bull's Other Island How Tom Broadbent Took It. Now I have a good deal more to say about the rela- tions between the Irish and the English than will be found in my play. Writing the play for an Irish audi- ence, I thought it would be good for them to be shewn very clearly that the loudest laugh they could raise at the expense of the absurdest Englishman was not really a laugh on their side; that he would succeed where they would fail; that he could inspire strong affection and loyalty in an Irishman who knew the world and was moved only to dislike, mistrust, impatience and even exasperation by his own countrymen; that his power of taking himself seriously, and his insensibility to any- thing funny in danger and destruction, was the first condition of economy and concentration of force, sus- tained purpose, and rational conduct. But the need for this lesson in Ireland is the measure of its demoralizing superfluousness in England. English audiences very naturally swallowed it eagerly and smacked their lips over it, laughing all the more heartily because they felt that they were taking a caricature of themselves with the most tolerant and largeminded goodhumor. They were perfectly willing to allow me to represent Tom Broadbent as infatuated in politics, hypnotized by his newspaper-leader-writers and parliamentary orators into an utter paralysis of his common sense, without moral delicacy or social tact, provided I made him cheerful, robust, goodnatured, free from envy, and above all, a successful muddler-through in business and love. Not only did no English critic allow that the success in busi- ness of Messrs. English Broadbent and Irish Doyle might possibly have been due to some extent to Doyle but one writer actually dwelt with much feeling on the pathos of Doyle's failure as an engineer (a circumstance not mentioned nor suggested in my play) in contrast Preface for Politicians vii with Broadbent's solid success. No doubt, when the play is performed in Ireland, the Dublin critics will regard it as self-evident that without Doyle Broadbent would have become bankrupt in six months. I should say, myself, that the combination was probably much more elFective than either of the partners would have been alone. I am persuaded further: — without pretending to know more about it than anyone else — that Broadbent's special contribution was simply the strength, self-satis- faction, social confidence and cheerful bumptiousness that money, comfort, and, good feeding bring to all healthy people; and that Doyle's special contribution was the freedom from illusion, the power of facing facts, the nervous industry, the sharpened wits, the sen- sitive pride of the imaginative man who has fought his way up through social persecution and poverty. I do not say that the confidence of the Englishman in Broad- bent is not for the moment justified. The virtues of the English soil are not less real because they consist of coal and iron, not of metaphysical sources of charac- ter. The virtues of Broadbent are not less real because they are the virtues of the money that coal and iron has produced. But as the mineral virtues are being dis- covered and developed in other soils, their derivative virtues are appearing so rapidly in other nations that Broadbent's relative advantage is vanishing. In truth I am afraid (the misgiving is natural to a by-this-time slightly elderly playwright) that Broadbent is out of date. The successfu l Englishman o f tod ay, when he is not a transplanted "Scotchman or Irishman, often turns out on investigation to be, if not an American, an Italian, or a Jew, at least to be depending on the brains, the nervous energy, and the freedom from romantic illusions (often called cynicism) of such foreigners for the man- agement of his sources of income. At all events I am persuaded that a modern nation that is satisfied with Broadbent is in a dream. Much as I like him, I object viii John Bull's Other Island to be governed by him, or entangled in his political destiny. I therefore propose to give him a piece of my mind here, as an Irishman, full of an instinctive pity for those of my fellow-creatures who are only English. What Is an Irishman? When I say that I am an Irishman I mean that I was born in Ireland, and that my native language is the English of Swift and not the unspeakable jargon of the mid-XIX. century London newspapers. My extraction is the extraction of most Englishmen: that is, I have no tra«e in me of the commercially imported North Spanish strain which passes for aboriginal Irish: I am a genuine typical Irishman of the Danish, Norman, Cromwellian, and (of course) Scotch invasions. I am violently and arrogantly Protestant by family tradition; but let no English Government therefore count on my allegiance: I am English enough to be an inveterate Republican and Home Ruler. It is true that one of my grandfathers was an Orangeman; but then his sister was an abbess; and his uncle, I am proud to say, was hanged as a rebel. When I look round me on the hybrid cosmopolitans, slum poisoned or square pampered, who call themselves Englishmen today, and see them bullied by the Irish Protestant garrison as no Bengalee now lets himself be bullied by an Englishman; when I see the Irishman everywhere standing clearheaded, sane, hardily callous to the boyish sentimentalities, susceptibilities, and credu- lities that make the Englishman the dupe of every char- latan and the idolater of every numskull, I perceive that Ireland is the only spot on earth which still produces the ideal Englishman of history. Blackguard, bully, drunkard, liar, foul-mouth, flatterer, beggar, backbiter, venal functionary, corrupt judge, envious friend, vin- dictive opponent, unparalleled political traitor: all these your Irishman may easily be, just as he may be a gen- Preface for Politicians ix tleman (a species extinct in England, and nobody a penny the worse) ; but he is never quite the hysterical, nonsense-crammed, fact-proof, truth-terrified, unbal- lasted sport of all the bogey panics and all the silly enthusiasms that now calls itself " God's Englishman." England cannot do without its Irish and its Scots today, because it cannot do without at least a little sanity. The Protestant Garrison. The more Protestant an Irishman is — ^the more Eng- lish he is, if it flatters you to have it put that way, the more intolerable he finds it to be ruled by English in- stead of Irish folly. A " loyal " Irishman is an abhor- rent phenomenon, because it is an unnatural one. No doubt English rule is vigorously exploited in the inter- ests of the property, power, and promotion of the Irish classes as against the Irish masses. Our delicacy is part of a keen sense of reality which makes us a very practical, and even, on occasion, a very coarse people. The Irish soldier takes the King's shilling and drinks the King's health; and the Irish squire takes the title deeds of the English settlement and rises uncovered to the strains of the English national anthem. But do not mistake this cupboard loyalty for anything deeper. It gains a broad base from the normal attachment of every reasonable man to the established government as long as it is bearable; for we all, after a certain age, prefer peace to revolution and order to chaos, other things being equal. Such considerations produce loyal Irishmen as they produce loyal Poles and Fins, loyal Hindoos, loyal Filipinos, and faithful slaves. But there is nothing more in it than that. If there is an entire lack of gall in the feeling of the Irish gentry towards the English, it is because the Englishman is always gaping admiringly at the Irishman as at some clever child prodigy. He overrates him with a generosity born X John Bull's Other Island of a traditional conviction of his own superiority in the deeper aspects of human character. As the Irish gentle- man^ tracing his pedigree to the conquest or one of the invasions, is equally convinced that if this superiority really exists, he is the genuine true blue heir to it, and as he is easily able to hold his own in all the superficial social accomplishments, he finds English society agree- able, and English houses very comfortable, Irish estab- lishments being generally straitened by an attempt to keep a park and a stable on an income which would not justify an Englishman in venturing upon a whoUy de- tached villa. Our Temperaments Contrasted. But however pleasant the relations between the Protestant garrison and the English gentry may be, they are always essentially of the nature of an entente cordiale between foreigners. Personally I like English- men much better than Irishmen (no doubt because they make more of me) just as many Englishmen like French- men better than Englishmen, and never go on board a Peninsular and Oriental steamer when one of the ships of the Messageries Maritimes is available. But I never think of an Englishman as my countryman. I should as soon think of applying that term to a German. And the Englishman has the same feeling. When a French- man fails to make the distinction, we both feel a certain disparagement involved in the misapprehension. Mac- aulay, seeing that the Irish had in Swift an author worth stealing, tried to annex him by contending that he must be classed as an Englishman because he was not an aboriginal Celt. He might as well have refused the name of Briton to Addison because he did not stain himself blue and attach scythes to the poles of his sedan chair. In spite of all such trifling with facts, the actual distinction between the idolatrous Englishman and the Preface for Politicians xi fact-facing Irishman, of the same extraction though they be, remains to explode those two hoUowest of fictions, the Irish and English " races." There is no Irish race any more than there is an English race or a Yankee race. There is an Irish climate, which will stamp an immigrant more deeply and durably in two years, apparently, than the English climate will in two hundred. It is rein- forced by an artificial economic climate which does some of the work attributed to the natural geographic one; but the geographic climate is eternal and irresistible, making a mankind and a womankind that Kent, Middle- sex, and East Anglia cannot produce and do not want to imitate. How can I sketch the broad lines of the contrast as they strike me ? Roughly I should say that the English- man is wholly at the mercy of his imagination, having no sense of reality to check it. The Irishman, with a far subtler and more fastidious imagination, has one eye always on things as they are. If you compare Moore's visionary Minstrel Boy with Mr. Rudyard Kipling's quasi-realistic Soldiers Three, you may yawn over Moore or gush over him, but you will not suspect him of having had any illusions about the contemporary British pri- vate; whilst as to Mr. Kipling, you will see that he has not, and unless he settles in Ireland for a few years will always remain constitutionally and congenitally in- capable of having, the faintest inkling of the reality which he idolizes as Tommy Atkins. Perhaps you have never thought of illustrating the contrast between Eng- lish and Irish by Moore and Mr. Kipling, or even by Parnell and Gladstone. Sir Boyle Roche and Shakespear may seem more to your point. Let me find you a more dramatic instance. Think of the famous meeting be- tween the Duke of Wellington, that intensely Irish Irishman, and Nelson, that intensely English English- man. Wellington's contemptuous disgust at Nelson's theatricality as a professed hero, patriot, and rhapsode. Xll John Bull's Other Island a theatricality which in an Irishman would have been an insufferably vulgar affectation, was quite natural and inevitable. Wellington's formula for that kind of thing was a well known Irish one: "Sir: dont be a damned fool." It is the formula of all Irishmen for all English- men to this day. It is the formula of Larry Doyle for Tom Broadbent in my play, in spite of Doyle's affection for Tom. Nelson's genius, instead of producing intel- lectual keenness and scrupulousness, produced mere de- lirium. He was drunk with glory, exalted by his fervent faith in the sound British patriotism of the Almighty, nerved by the vulgarest anti-foreign prejudice, and ap- parently unchastened by any reflections on the fact that he had never had to fight a technically capable and properly equipped enemy except on land, where he had never been successful. Compare Wellington, who had to fight Napoleon's armies. Napoleon's marshals, and finally Napoleon himself, without one moment of illusion as to the human material he had to command, without one gush of the " Kiss me. Hardy " emotion which enabled Nelson to idolize his crews and his staff, with- out forgetting even in his dreams that the normal British ofiicer of that time was an incapable amateur (as he stiU is) and the normal British soldier a never-do-well (he is now a depressed and respectable young man). No wonder Wellington became an accomplished comedian in the art of anti-climax, scandalizing the unfortunate Croker, responding to the demand for glorious senti- ments by the most disenchanting touches of realism, and, generally, pricking the English windbag at its most explosive crises of distention. Nelson, intensely nervous and theatrical, made an enormous fuss about victories so cheap that he would have deserved shooting if he had lost them, and, not content with lavishing splendid fight- ing on helpless adversaries like the heroic De Brueys or Villeneuve (who had not even the illusion of heroism when he went like a lamb to the slaughter), got himself Preface for Politicians xiii killed by his passion for exposing hiiaself to death in that sublime defiance of it which was perhaps the su- preme tribute of the exquisite coward to the King of Terrors (for^ believe me, you cannot be a hero without being a coward: supersense cuts both ways), the result being a tremendous effect on the gallery. Wellington, most capable of captains, was neither a hero nor a patriot: perhaps not even a coward; and had it not been for the Nelsonic anecdotes invented for him — " Up guards, and at em" and so forth — and the fact that the antagonist with whom he finally closed was such a master of theatrical effect that Wellington could not fight him without getting into his limelight, nor over- throw him (most unfortunately for us all) without draw- ing the eyes of the whole world to the catastrophe, the Iron Duke would have been almost forgotten by this time. Now that contrast is English against Irish all over, and is the more delicious because the real Irishman in it is the Englishman of tradition, whilst the real Englishman is the traditional theatrical foreigner. The value of the illustration lies in the fact that both Nelson and Wellington were both in the highest degree efficient, and both in the highest degree incompatible with one another on any other footing than one of inde- pendence. The government of Nelson by Wellington or of Wellington by Nelson is felt at once to be a dis- honorable outrage to the governed and a finally impos- sible task for the governor. I daresay some Englishmen will now try to steal Wellington as Macaulay tried to steal Swift. And he may plead with some truth that though it seems impos- sible that any other country than England could produce a hero so utterly devoid of common sense, intellectual delicacy, and international chivalry as Nelson, it may be contended that Wellington was rather an eighteenth cen- tury aristocratic type, than a specifically Irish type. George IV. and Byron, contrasted with Gladstone, seem xiv John Bull's Other Island Irish in respect of a certain humorous blackguardism, and a power of appreciating art and sentiment without being duped by them into mistaking romantic figments for realities. But faithlessness and the need for carry- ing off the worthlessness and impotence that accompany itj produce in all nations a gay, sceptical, amusing, blas- pheming, witty fashion which suits the flexibility of the Irish mind very well; and the contrast between this fashion and the energetic infatuations that have enabled intellectually ridiculous men, without wit or humor, to go on crusades and make successful revolutions, must not be confused with the contrast between the English and Irish idiosyncrasies. The Irishman makes a dis- tinction which the Englishman is too lazy intellectually (the intellectual laziness and slovenliness of the English is almost beyond belief) to make. The Englishman, impressed with the dissoluteness of the faithless wits of the Restoration and the Regency, and with the victories of the wilful zealots of the patriotic, religious, and revo- lutionary wars, jumps to the conclusion that wilfulness is the main thing. In this he is right. But he overdoes his jump so far as to conclude also that stupidity and wrong-headedness are better guarantees of efficiency and trustworthiness than intellectual vivacity, which he mis- trusts as a common symptom of worthlessness, vice and instability. Now in this he is most dangerously wrong. Whether the Irishman grasps the truth as firmly as the Englishman may be open to question; but he is certainly comparatively free from the error. That affectionate and admiring love of sentimental stupidity for its own sake, both in men and women, which shines so steadily through the novels of Thackeray, would hardly be pos- sible in the works of an Irish novelist. Even Dickens, though too vital a genius and too severely educated in the school of shabby-genteel poverty to have any doubt of the national danger of fatheadedness in high places, evidently assumes rather too hastily the superiority of Preface for Politicians xv Mr. Meagles to Sir John Chester and Harold Skimpole. I On the other hand, it takes an Irishman years of resi- j dance in England to learn to respect and like a block- ! head. An Englishman will not respect nor like anyone else. Every English statesman has to maintain his popu- i larity by pretending to be ruder, more ignorant, more sentimental, more superstitious, more stupid than any man who has lived behind the scenes of public life for ten minutes can possibly be. Nobody dares to publish really intimate memoirs of him or really private letters , of his until his whole generation has passed away, and' his party can no longer be compromised by the discovery' that the platitudinizing twaddler and hypocritical oppor- tunist was really a man of some perception as well ass of strong constitution, peg-away industry, personal ambif tion, and party keenness. English Stupidity Excused. I do not claim it as a natural superiority in the Irish nation that it dislikes and mistrusts fools, and expects its political leaders to be clever and humbug-proof. It may be that if our resources included the armed force and virtually unlimited money which push the political and military figureheads of England through bungled enter- prises to a muddled success, and create an illusion of some miraculous and divine innate English quality that enables a general to become a conqueror with abilities that would not suffice to save a cabman from having his license marked, and a member of parliament to become Prime Minister with the outlook on life of a sporting country solicitor educated by a private governess, I have no doubt we should lapse into gross intellectual sottish- ness, and prefer leaders who encouraged our vulgarities by sharing them, and flattered us by associating them with purchased successes, to our betters. But as it is, we cannot afi^ord that sort of encouragement and flattery xvi John Bull's Other Island in Ireland. The odds against which our leaders have to fight would be too heavy for the fourth-rate English- men whose leadership consists for the most part in mark- ing time ostentatiously until they are violently shoved, and then stumbling blindly forward (or backward) wherever the shove sends them. We cannot crush Eng- land as a Pickford's van might crush a perambulator. We are the perambulator and England the Pickford. We must study her and our real weaknesses and real strength ; we must practise upon her slow conscience and her quick terrors; we must deal in ideas and political principles since we cannot deal in bayonets; we must outwit, outwork, outstay her; we must embarrass, bully, even conspire and assassinate when nothing else wiU move her, if we are not all to be driven deeper and deeper into the shame and misery of our servitude. Our leaders must be not only determined enough, but clever enough to do this. We have no illusions as to the exist- ence of any mysterious Irish pluck, Irish honesty, Irish bias on the part of Providence, or sterling Irish solidity of character, that will enable an Irish blockhead to hold his own against England. Blockheads are of no use to us: we were compelled to follow a supercilious, unpopu- lar, tongue-tied, aristocratic Protestant Parnell, although there was no lack among us of fluent imbeciles, with majestic presences and oceans of dignity and sentiment, to promote into his place could they have done his work for us. It is obviously convenient that Mr. Redmond should be a better speaker and rhetorician than Parnell; but if he began to use his powers to make himself agree- able instead of making himself reckoned with by the enemy; if he set to work to manufacture and support English shams and hypocrisies instead of exposing and denouncing them; if he constituted himself the per- manent apologist of doing nothing, and, when the people insisted on his doing something, only roused himself to discover how to pretend to do it without really changing Preface for Politicians xvii anything, he would lose his leadership as certainly as an English politician would, by the same course, attain a permanent place on the front bench. In short, our cir- cumstances place a premium on political ability whilst the circumstances of England discount it; and the qual- ity of the supply naturally follows the demand. If you miss in my writings that hero-worship of dotards and duffers which is planting England with statues of disas- trous statesmen and absurd generals, the explanation is simply that I am an Irishman and you an Englishman. Irish Protestantism Really Protestant. When I repeat that I am an Irish Protestant, I come to a part of the relation between England and Ireland that you will never understand unless I insist on ex- plaining it to you with that Irish insistence on intel- lectual clarity to which my English critics are so in- tensely recalcitrant. First, let me tell you that in Ireland Protestantism is really Protestant. It is true that there is an Irish Protestant Church (disestablished some 35 years ago) in spite of the fact that a Protestant Church is, funda- mentally, a contradiction in terms. But this means only that the Protestants use the word Church to denote their secular organization, without troubling themselves about the metaphysical sense of Christ's famous pun, " Upon this rock I will build my church." The Church of Eng- land, which is a reformed Anglican Catholic Anti- Protestant Church, is quite another affair. An Anglican is acutely conscious that he is not a Wesleyan ; and many Anglican clergymen do not hesitate to teach that all Methodists incur damnation. In Ireland all that the member of the Irish Protestant Church knows is that he is not a Roman Catholic. The decorations of even the " lowest " English Church seem to him to be ex- xviii John Bull's Other Island travaganily RituaUstic and Popish. I myself entered the Irish Church by baptism, a ceremony performed by my micle in " his own church." But I was sent, with many boys of my own denomination, to a Wesleyan school where the Wesleyan catechism was taught with- out the least protest on the part of the parents, although there was so little presumption in favor of any boy there being a Wesleyan that if all the Church boys had been withdrawn at any moment, the school would have become bankrupt. And this was by no means analogous to the case of those working class members of the Church of England in London, who send their daughters to Eoman Catholic schools rather than to the public elementary schools. They do so for the definite reason that the ntms teach girls good manners and sweetness of speech, which have no place in the County Council curriculum. But in Ireland the Church parent sends his son to a Wesleyan school (if it is convenient and socially eligible) because he is indifferent to the form of Protestantism, provided it is Protestantism. There is also in Ireland a characteristically Protestant refusal to take ceremonies and even sacraments very seriously except by way of strenuous objection to them when they are conducted with candles or incense. For example, I was never con- firmed, although the ceremony was perhaps specially needed in my case as the failure of my appointed god- father to appear at the font led to his responsibilities being assumed on the spot, at my uncle's order, by the sexton. And my case was a very common one, even among people quite untouched by modern scepticisms. Apart from the weekly churchgoing, which holds its own as a respectable habit, the initiations are perfunctory, the omissions regarded as negligible. The distinction be- tween churchman and dissenter, which in England is a class distinction, a political distinction, and even occa- sionally a religious distinction, does not exist. Nobody is surprised in Ireland to find that the squire who is the Preface for Politicians xix local pillar of the formerly established Church is also a Plymouth Brother, and, except on certain special or fashionable occasions, attends the Methodist meeting- house. The parson has no priestly character and no priestly influence: the High Church curate of course exists and has his vogue among religious epicures of the other sex; but the general attitude of his congregation towards him is that of Dr. ClilFord. The clause in the Apostles' creed professing belief in a Catholic Church is a standing puzzle to Protestant children; and when they grow up they dismiss it from their minds moVe often than liiey solve it, because they really are not Catholics but Protestants to the extremest practicable degree of individualism. It is true that they talk of church and chapel with all the Anglican contempt for chapel; but in Ireland the chapel means the Boman Catholic church, for which the Irish Protestant reserves all the class rancor, the political hostility, the religious bigotry, and the bad blood generally that in England separates the Establishment from the non-conforming Protestant organizations. When a vulgar Irish Protes- tant speaks of a " Papist " he feels exactly as a vulgar Anglican vicar does when he speaks of a Dissenter. And when the vicar is Anglican enough to call himself a Catholic priest, wear a cassock, and bless his flock with two iingers, he becomes horrifically incomprehensible to the Irish Protestant Churchman, who, on his part, puz- zles the Anglican by regarding a Methodist as tolerantly as an Irishman who likes grog regards an Irishman who prefers punch. A Fundamental Anomaly. Now nothing can be more anomalous, and at bottom impossible, than a Conservative Protestant party stand- ing for the established order against a revolutionary XX John Bull's Other Island Catholic party. The Protestant is theoretically an anarchist as far as anarchism is practicable in human society: that is, he is an individualist, a freethinker, a self -helper, a Whig, a Liberal, a mistruster and vilifier of the State, a rebel. The Catholic is theoretically a CoUectivist, a self-abnegator, a Tory, a Conservative, a supporter of Church and State one and undivisible, an obeyer. This would be a statement of fact as well as of theory if men were Protestants and Catholics by tem- perament and adult choice instead of by family tradi- tion. The peasant who supposed that Wordsworth's son would carry on the business now the old gentleman was gone was not a whit more foolish than we who laugh at his ignorance of the nature of poetry whilst we take it as a matter of course that a son should " carry on " his father's religion. Hence, owing to our family sys- tem, the Catholic Churches are recruited daily at the font by temperamental Protestants, and the Protestant organizations by temperamental Catholics, with conse- quences most disconcerting to those who expect history to be deducible from the religious professions of the men who make it. Still, though the Eoman Catholic Church may occa- sionally catch such Tartars as Luther and Voltaire, or the Protestant organizations as Newman and Manning, the general run of mankind takes its impress from the atmosphere in which it is brought up. In Ireland the Roman Catholic peasant cannot escape the religious at- mosphere of his Church. Except when he breaks out like a naughty child he is docile; he is reverent; he is content to regard knowledge as something not his busi- ness; he is a child before his Church, and accepts it as the highest authority in science and philosophy. He speaks of himself as a son of the Church, calling his priest father instead of brother or Mister. To rebel politically, he must break away from parish tutelage and follow a Protestant leader on national questions. His Preface for Politicians xxi Church naturally fosters his submissiveness. The Brit- ish Government and the Vatican may differ very vehe- mently as to whose subject the Irishman is to be; but they are quite agreed as to the propriety of his being a subject. Of the two, the British Government allows him more liberty, giving him as complete a democratic control of local government as his means will enable him to use, and a voice in the election of a formidable minor- ity in the House of Commons, besides allowing him to read and learn what he likes — except when it makes a tufthunting onslaught on a seditious newspaper. But if he dared to claim a voice in the selection of his parish priest, or a representative at the Vatican, he would be denounced from the altar as an almost inconceivable blasphemer; and his educational opportunities are so restricted by his Church that he is heavily handicapped in every walk of life that requires any literacy. It is the aim of his priest to make him and keep him a sub- missive Conservative; and nothing but gross economic oppression and religious persecution could have pro- duced the strange phenomenon of a revolutionary move- ment not only tolerated by the Clericals, but, up to a certain point, even encouraged by them. If there is such a thing as political science, with natural laws like any other science, it is certain that only the most violent external force could effect and maintain this unnatural combination of political revolution with Papal reaction, and of hardy individualism and independence with despotism and subjugation. That violent external force is the clumsy thumb of English rule. If you would be good enough, ladies and gentlemen of England, to take your thumb away and leave us free to do something else than bite it, the un- naturally combined elements in Irish politics would fly asunder and recombine according to their proper na- ture with results entirely satisfactory to real Protes- tantism. xxii John Bull's Other Island The Nature of Political Hatred. Just reconsider the Home Hule question in the light of that very English characteristic of the Irish people, their political hatred of priests. Do not be distracted by the shriek of indignant denial from the Catholic papers and from those who have witnessed the charming relations between the Irish peasantry and their spiritual fathers. I am perfectly aware that the Irish love their priests as devotedly as the French loved them before the Revolution or as the Italians loved them before they imprisoned the Pope in the Vatican. They love their landlords too: many an Irish gentleman has found in his nurse a foster-mother more interested in him than his actual mother. They love the English, as every Englishman who travels in Ireland can testify. Please do not suppose that I speak satirically: the world is full of authentic examples of the concurrence of human kindliness with political rancor. Slaves and schoolboys often love their masters; Napoleon and his soldiers made desperate efforts to save from drowning the Russian soldiers under whom they had broken the ice with their cannon; even the relations between noncon- formist peasants and country parsons in England are not invariably imkindly; in the southern States of America planters are often traditionally fond of negroes and kind to them, with substantial retunjs in humble affection; soldiers and sailors often admire and cheer their officers sincerely and heartily; nowhere is actual personal intercourse found compatible for long with the intolerable friction of hatred and malice. But people who persist in pleading these amiabilities as political factors must be summarily bundled out of the room when questions of State are to be discussed. Just as an Irish- man may have English friends whom he may prefer to any Irishman of his acquaintance, and be kind, hospi- table, and serviceable in his intercourse with English- Preface for Politicians xxiii men, whilst being perfectly prepared to make the Shannon run red with English blood if Irish freedom could be obtained at that price; so an Irish Catholic may like his priest as a man and revere him as a confessor and spiritual pastor whilst being implacably determined to seize the first opportunity of throwing off his yoke. This is political hatred: the only hatred that civilization allows to be mortal hatred. The Revolt Against the Priest. Realize, then, that the popular party in Ireland is seething with rebellion against the tyranny of the Church. Imagine the feelings of an English farmer if the parson refused to marry him for less than £20, and if he had virtually no other way of getting married! Imagine the Church Rates revived in the form of an imofficial Income Tax scientifically adjusted to your tax- able capacity by an intimate knowledge of your affairs verified in the confessional! Imagine being one of a peasantry reputed the poorest in the world, under the thumb of a priesthood reputed the richest in the world ! Imagine a Catholic middle class continually defeated in the struggle of professional, official, and fashionable life by the superior education of its Protestant competitors, and yet forbidden by its priests to resort to the only efficient universities in the country! Imagine trying to get a modern education in a seminary of priests, where every modern book worth reading is on the index, and the earth is still regarded, not perhaps as absolutely flat, yet as being far from so spherical as Protestants allege ! Imagine being forbidden to read this preface because it proclaims your own grievance ! And imagine being bound to submit to all this because the popular side must hold together at all costs in the face of the Protestant enemy! That is, roughly, the predicament of Roman Catholic Ireland. xxiv John Bull's Other Island Protestant Loyalty: A Forecast. Now let us have a look at Protestant Ireland. I have already said that a "loyal" Irishman is an abhorrent phenomenon, because he is an unnatural one. In Ire- land it is not "loyalty" to drink the English king's health and stand uncovered to the English national an- them: it is simply exploitation of English rule in the interests of the property, power, and promotion of the Irish classes as against the Irish masses. From any other point of view it is cowardice and dishonor. I have known a Protestant go to Dublin Castle to be sworn in as a special constable, quite resolved to take the baton and break the heads of a patriotic faction just then upsetting the peace of the town, yet back out at the last moment because he could not bring himself to swallow the oath of allegiance tendered with the baton. There is no such thing as genuine loyalty in Ireland. There is a separation of the Irish people into two hostile camps : one Protestant, gentlemanly, and oligarchical; the other Eoman Catholic, popular, and democratic. The oligarchy governs Ireland as a bureaucracy deriving authority from the king of England. It cannot cast him o£P without casting off its own ascendancy. Therefore it naturally exploits him sedulously, drinking his health, waving his flag, playing his anthem, and using the foolish word " traitor " freely in its cups. But let the English Gov- ernment make a step towards the democratic party, and the Protestant garrison revolts at once, not with tears and prayers and anguish of soul and years of trembling reluctance, as the parliamentarians of the XVII century revolted against Charles I, but with acrid promptitude and strident threatenings. When England finally aban- dons the garrison by yielding to the demand for Home Rule, the Protestants will not go under, nor will they waste much time in sulking over their betrayal, and com- paring their fate with that of Gordon left by Gladstone Preface for Politicians xxv to perish on the spears of heathen fanatics. They can- not afford to retire into an Irish Faubourg St. Germain. They will take an energetic part in the national govern- ment, which will be sorely in need of parliamentary and official forces independent of Rome. They will get not only the Protestant votes, but the votes of Catholics in that spirit of toleration which is everywhere extended to heresies that happen to be politically serviceable to the orthodox. They will not relax their determination to hold every inch of the government of Ireland that they can grasp; but as that government will then be a na- tional Irish government instead of as now an English government, their determination will make them the van- guard of Irish Nationalism and Democracy as against Romanism and Sacerdotalism, leaving English Unionists grieved and shocked at their discovery of the true value of an Irish Protestant's loyalty. But there will be no open break in the tradition of the party. The Protestants will still be the party of Union, which will then mean, not the Repeal of Home Rule, but the maintenance of the Federal Union of English- speaking commonwealths, now theatrically called the Empire. They will pull down the Union Jack without the smallest scruple; but they know the value of the Channel Fleet, and will cling closer than brothers to that and any other Imperial asset that can be exploited for the protection of Ireland against foreign aggression or the sharing of expenses with the British taxpayer. They know that the Irish coast is for the English in- vasion-scaremonger the heel of Achilles, and that they can use this to make him pay for the boot. Protestant Pugnacity. If any Englishman feels incredulous as to this view of Protestantism as an essentially Nationalist force in Ireland, let him ask himself which leader he, if he were xxvi John Bull's Other Island an Irishman, would rather have back from the grave to fight England: the Catholic Daniel O'Connell or the Protestant Parnell. O'Connell organized the Nationalist movement only to draw its teeth, to break its determina- tion, and to declare that Repeal of the Union was not worth the shedding of a drop of blood. He died in the bosom of his Church, not in the bosom of his country. The Protestant leaders, from Lord Edward Fitzgerald to Parnell, have never divided their devotion. If any Englishman thinks that they would have been more sparing of blood than the English themselves are, if only so cheap a fluid could have purchased the honor of Ireland, he greatly mistakes the Irish Protestant temper. The notion that Ireland is the only country in the world not worth shedding a drop of blood for is not a Protes- tant one, and certainly not countenanced by English practice. It was hardly reasonable to ask Parnell to shed blood quant, suff. in Egypt to put an end to the misgovernment of the Khedive and replace him by Lord Cromer for the sake of the English bondholders, and then to expect him to become a Tolstoy an or an O'Con- nellite in regard to his ovrn country. With a wholly Protestant Ireland at his back he might have bullied England into conceding Home Rule; for the insensi- bility of the English governing classes to philosophical, moral, social considerations — ^in short, to any considera- tions which require a little intellectual exertion and sympathetic alertness — ^is tempered, as we Irish well know, by an absurd-ww ceptibilitv to intim|dation^^ . For let me halt a moment 'here to impress on you, O English reader, that no fact has been more deeply stamped into us than that we can do nothing with an English Government unless we frighten it, any more than you can yourself. When power and riches are thrown haphazard into children's cradles as they are in England, you get a governing class without industry, character, courage, or real experience; and under such Preface for Politicians xxvii circumstances reforms are produced only by catastrophes followed by panics in which " something must be done." Thus it costs a cholera epidemic to achieve a Public Health Act, a Crimean War to reform the Civil Service, and a gunpowder plot to disestablish the Irish Church. It was by the light, not of reason, but of the moon, that the need for paying serious attention to the Irish land question was seen in England. It cost the American War of Independence and the Irish Volunteer movement to obtain the Irish parliament of 1782, the constitution of which far overshot the nationalist mark of today in the matter of independence. It is vain to plead that this is human nature and not class weakness. The Japanese have proved that it is possible to conduct social and political changes intelli- gently and providentially instead of drifting along help- lessly until public disasters compel a terrified and in- considerate rearrangement. Innumerable experiments in local government have shewn that when men are neither too poor to be honest nor too rich to understand and share the needs of the people — as in New Zealand, for example — they can govern much more providently than our little circle of aristocrats and plutocrats. The Just Englishman. English Unionists, when asked what they have to say in defence of their rule of subject peoples, often reply that the Englishman is just, leaving us divided between our derision of so monstrously inhuman a pretension, and our impatience with so gross a confusion of the mutually exclusive functions of judge and legislator. For there is only one condition on which a man can do justice between two litigants, and that is that he shall have no interest in common with either of them, whereas it is only by having every interest in common with both of them that he can govern them tolerably. The indis- xxviii John Bull's Other Island pensable preliminary to Democracy is the representation of every interest: the indispensable preliminary to justice is the elimination of every interest. When we want an arbitrator or an umpire, we turn to a stranger: when we want a government, a stranger is the one person we will not endure. The Englishman in India, for example, stands, a very statue of justice, between two natives. He says, in eifect, " I am impartial in your religious disputes, because I believe in neither of your regions. I am impartial in your conflicts of custom ai$ sentiment, because your customs and sentiments are different from, and abysmally inferior to, my own. F^ally, I am impartial as to your interests, because they ar6 both equally opposed to mine, which is to keep you both equally powerless against me in order that I may extract money from you to pay salaries and pensions to myself and my fellow Englishmen as judges and rulers over you. In return for which you get the inestimable benefit of a government that does absolute justice as between Indian and Indian, being wholly preoccupied with the maintenance of absolute injustice as between India and England. It will be observed that no Englishman, without mak- ing himself ridiculous, could pretend to be perfectly just or disinterested in English affairs, or would tolerate a proposal to establish the Indian or Irish system in Great Britain. Yet if the justice of the Englishman is suffi- cient to ensure the welfare of India or Ireland, it ought to suffice equally for England. But the English are wise enough to refuse to trust to English justice themselves, preferring democracy. They can hardly blame the Irish for taking the same view. In short, dear English reader, the Irish Protestant stands outside that English Mutual Admiration Society which you call the Union or the Empire. You may buy a common and not ineffective variety of Irish Protestant by delegating your powers to him and in effect making Preface for Politicians xxix him the oppressor and you his sorely bullied and both- ered catspaw and military maintainer; but if you offer him nothing for his loyalty except the natural superior- ity of the English character, you will — well, try the experiment, and see what will happen ! You would have a ten-times better chance with the Roman Catholic; for he has been saturated from his youth up with the Im- perial idea of foreign rule by a spiritually superior international power, and is trained to submission and abnegation of his private judgment. A Roman Catholic garrison would take its orders from England and let her rule Ireland if England were Roman Catholic. The Protestant garrison simply seizes on the English power; uses it for its own purposes; and occasionally orders the English Government to remove an Irish secretary who has dared to apply English ideas to the affairs of the garrison. Whereupon the English Government abjectly removes him, and implores him, as a gentleman and a loyal Englishman, not to reproach it in the face of the Nationalist enemy. Such incidents naturally do not shake the sturdy con- viction of the Irish Protestant that he is more than a match for any English Government in determination and intelligence. Here, no doubt, he flatters himself; for his advantage is not really an advantage of character, but of comparative directness of interest, concentration of force on one narrow issue, simplicity of aim, with freedom from the scruples and responsibilities of world- politics. The business is Irish business, not English; and he is Irish. And his object, which is simply to secure the dominance of his own caste and creed behind the power of England, is simpler and clearer than the confused aims of English Cabinets struggling ineptly with the burdens of empire, and biassed by the pressure of capital anywhere rather than in Ireland. He has no responsibility, no interest, no status outside his own country and his own movement, which means that he XXX John Bull's Other Island has no conscience in dealing with England; whereas England, having a very uneasy conscience, and many hindering and hampering responsibilities and interests in dealing with him, gets bullied and driven by him, and finally learns sympathy with Nationalist aims by her experience of the tyranny of the Orange party. Irish Catholicism Fore cast. Let us suppose that the establishment of a national government were to annihilate the oligarchic party by absorbing the Protestant garrison and making it a Prot- estant National Guard. The Roman Catholic laity, now a cipher, would organize itself; and a revolt against Rome and against the priesthood would ensue. The Roman Catholic Church would become the official Irish Church. The Irish parliament would insist on a voice in the promotion of churchmen; fees and contributions would be regulated; blackmail would be resisted; sweat- ing in conventual factories and workshops would be stopped; and the ban would be taken off the universities. In a word, the Roman Catholic Church, against which Dublin Castle is powerless, would meet the one force on earth that can cope with it victoriously. That force is Democracy, a thing far more Catholic than itself. Until that force is let loose against it, the Protestant garrison can do nothing to the priesthood except con- solidate it and drive the people to rally round it in defence of their altars against the foreigner and the heretic. When it is let loose, the Catholic laity will make as short work of sacerdotal tyranny in Ireland as it has done in France and Italy. And in doing so it wiU be forced to face the old problem of the relations of Church and State. A Roman Catholic party must submit to Rome: an anti-clerical Catholic party must of necessity become an Irish Catholic party. The Holy Roman Empire, like the other Empires, has no future Preface for Politicians xxxi except as a Federation of national Catholic Churches; for Christianity can no more escape Democracy than Democracy can escape Socialism. It is noteworthy in this connection that the Anglican Catholics have played and are playing a notable part in the Socialist movement in England in opposition to the individualist Secularists of the urban proletariat; but they are quit of the pre- liminary dead lift that awaits the Irish Catholic. Their Church has thrown off the yoke of Rome, and is safely and permanently Anglicized. But the Catholic Church in Ireland is still Roman. Home Rule will herald the day when the Vatican will go the way of Dublin Castle, and the island of the saints assume the headship of her own Church. It may seem incredible that long after the last Orangeman shall lay down his chalk for ever, the familiar scrawl on every blank wall in the north of Ireland " To hell with the Pope ! " may reappear in the south, traced by the hands of Catholics who shall have forgotten the traditional counter legend, " To hell with King William ! " (of glorious, pious and immortal mem- ory) ; but it may happen so. " The island of the saints " is no idle phrase. Religious genius is one of our national products; and Ireland is no bad rock to build a Church on. Holy and beautiful is the soul of Catholic Ireland: her prayers are lovelier than the teeth and claws of Protestantism, but not so effective in dealing with the English. English Voltaireanism. Let me familiarize the situation by shewing how closely it reproduces the English situation in its essen- tials. In England, as in France, the struggle between the priesthood and the laity has produced a vast body of Voltaireans. But the essential identity of the French and English movements has been obscured by the ig- norance of the ordinary Englishman, who, instead of xxxii John Bull's Other Island knowing the distinctive tenets of his church or sect, vaguely believes them to be the eternal truth as opposed to the damnable error of all the other denominations. He thinks of Voltaire as a French " infidel," instead of as the champion of the laity against the official theocracy of the State Church. The Nonconformist leaders of our Free Churches are all Voltaireans. The warcry of the Passive Resisters is Voltaire's warcry, " Ecrasez I'in- fame." No account need be taken of the technical dif- ference between Voltaire's " infame " and T)i. Clifford's. One was the unreformed Roman Church of France: the other is the reformed Anglican Church ; but in both cases the attack has been on a priestly tyranny and a profes- sional monopoly. Voltaire convinced the Genevan minis- ters that he was the philosophic champion of their Protestant, Individualistic, Democratic Deism against the State Church of Roman Catholic France; and his heroic energy and beneficence as a philanthropist, which now only makes the list of achievements on his monu- ment at Ferney the most impressive epitaph in Europe, then made the most earnest of the Lutheran ministers glad to claim a common inspiration with him. Unfor- tunately Voltaire had an irrepressible sense of humor. He joked about Habakkuk; and jokes about Habakkuk smelt too strongly of brimstone to be tolerated by Prot- estants to whom the Bible was not a literature but a fetish and a talisman. And so VoltairCj in spite of the church he " erected to God," became in England the bogey-atheist of three generations of English igno- ramuses, instead of the legitimate successor of Martin Luther and John Knox. Nowadays, however, Voltaire's jokes are either for- gotten or else fall flat on a world which no longer venerates Habakkuk; and his true position is becoming apparent. The fact that Voltaire was a Roman Catholic layman, educated at a Jesuit college, is the conclusive reply to the shallow people who imagine that Ireland Preface for Politicians xxx delivered up to the Irish democracy — ^that is, to t Catholic laity — would be delivered up to the tyran: of the priesthood. Suppose ! Suppose, now, that the conquest of France by Hen V of England had endured, and that France in t XVIII century had been governed by an English vicer through a Hugenot bureaucracy and a judicial ben appointed on the understanding that loyalty for thi meant loyalty to England, and patriotism a willingn< to die in defence of the English conquest and of t English Church, would not Voltaire in that case ha been the meanest of traitors and self-seekers if he h played the game of England by joining in its campai against his own and his country's Church? The ener he threw into the defence of Calais and Sirven woi have been thrown into the defence of the Frenchro whom the English would have called " rebels " ; and would have been forced to identify the cause of f reedi and democracy with the cause of " I'inf ame." T French revolution would have been a revolution agaii England and English rule instead of against aristocra and ecclesiasticism ; and all the intellectual and spiriti forces in France, from Turgot to De Tocqueville, woi have been burnt up in mere anti-Anglicism and nation ist dithyrambs instead of contributing to political sciei and broadening the thought of the world. What would have happened in France is what has hE pened in Ireland; and that is why it is only the sma minded Irish, incapable of conceiving what religic freedom means to a country, who do not loathe Engl: rule. For in Ireland England is nothing but the Pop policeman. She imagines she is holding the Vatic cardinals at bay when she is really strangling the V taires, the Foxes and Penns, the Cliffords, Horto xxxiv John Bull's Other Island Campbells, Walters, and Silvester Homes, who are to be found among the Eoman Catholic laity as plentifully as among the Anglican Catholic laity in England. She gets nothing out of Ireland but infinite trouble, infinite confusion and hindrance in her own legislation, a hatred that circulates through the whole world and poisons it against her, a reproach that makes her professions of sympathy with Finland and Macedonia ridiculous and hypocritical, whilst the priest takes all the spoils, in money, in power, in pride, and in popularity. Ireland's Real Grievance. But it is not the spoils that matter. It is the waste, the sterilization, the perversion of fruitful brain power into flatulent protest against unnecessary evil, the use of our very entrails to tie our own hands and seal our own lips in the name of our honor and patriotism. As far as money or comfort is concerned, the average Irishman has a more tolerable life — especially now that the popu- lation is so scanty — ^than the average Englishman. It is true that in Ireland the poor man is robbed and starved and oppressed under judicial forms which confer the imposing title of justice on a crude system of bludgeon- ing and perjury. But so is the Englishman. The Eng- lishman, more docile, less dangerous, too lazy intellectu- ally to use such political and legal power as lies within his reach, suffers more and makes less fuss about it than the Irishman. But at least he has nobody to blame but himself and his fellow countrymen. He does not doubt that if an effective majority of the English people, made up their minds to alter the Constitution, as the majority of the Irish people have made up their minds to obtain Home Rule, they could alter it without having to fight an overwhelmingly powerful and rich neighbor- ing nation, and fight, too, with ropes round their necks. He. can attack any institution in his country without Preface for Politicians xxxv betraying it to foreign vengeance and foreign oppres- sion. True, his landlord may turn him out of his cottage I'f he goes to a Methodist chapel instead of to the parish church. His customers may stop their orders if he votes Liberal instead of Conservative. English ladies and gentlemen -who would perish sooner than shoot a fox do these things without the smallest sense of indecency and dishonor. But they cannot muzzle his intellectual leaders. The English philosopher, the English author, the English orator can attack every abuse and expose every superstition without strengthening the hands of any common enemy. In Ireland every such attack, every such exposure, is a service to England and a stab to Ireland. If you expose the tyranny and rapacity of the Church, it is an argument in favor of Protestant ascend- ency. If you denounce the nepotism and jobbery of the new local authorities, you are demonstrating the unfit- ness of the Irish to govern themselves, and the superior- ity of the old oligarchical grand juries. And there is the same pressure on the other side. The Protestant must stand by the garrison at all costs: the Unionist must wink at every bureaucratic abuse, connive at every tyranny, magnify every official blockhead, be- cause their exposure would be a victory for the National- ist enemy. Every Irishman is in Lancelot's position: his honor rooted in dishonor stands; and faith unfaithful keeps him falsely true. The Curse of Nationalism. It is hardly possible for an Englishman to understand all that this implies. A conquered nation is like a man with cancer: he can think of nothing else, and is forced to place himself, to the exclusion of all better company, in the hands of quacks who profess to treat or cure cancer. The windbags of the two rival platforms are the most insufferable of all windbags. It requires neither xxxvi John Bull's Other Island knowledge, character, conscience, diligence in public affairs, nor any virtue, private or communal, to thump the Nationalist or Orange tub: nay, it puts a premium on the rancor or callousness that has given rise to the proverb that if you put an Irishman on a spit you can always get another Irishman to baste him. Jingo oratory in England is sickening enough to serious people : indeed one evening's mafficking in London produced a deter- mined call for the police. Well, in Ireland all political oratory is Jingo oratory; and all political demonstrations are maffickings. English rule is such an intolerable abomination that no other subject can reach the people. Nationalism stands between Ireland and the light of the world. Nobody in Ireland of any intelligence likes Nationalism any more than a man with a broken arm likes having it set. A healthy nation is as unconscious of its nationality as a healthy man of his bones. But if you break a nation's nationality it will think of nothing else but getting it set again. It will listen to no re- former, to no philosopher, to no preacher, until the de- mand of the Nationalist is granted. It will attend to no business, however vital, except the business of unifica- tion and liberation. That is why everything is in abeyance in Ireland pending the achievement of Home Rule. The great movements of the human spirit which sweep in waves over Europe are stopped on the Irish coast by the Eng- lish guns of the Pigeon House Fort. Only a quaint little oiTshoot of English pre-Raphaelitism called the Gaelic movement has got a footing by using Nationalism as a stalking-horse, and popularizing itself as an attack on the native language of the Irish people, which is most fortunately also the native language of half the world, including England. Every election is fought on nationalist grounds; every appointment is made on na- tionalist grounds; every judge is a partisan in the nation- alist conflict; every speech is a dreary recapitulation of Preface for Politicians xxxvii nationalist twaddle; every lecture is a corruption of history to flatter nationalism or defame it; every school is a recruiting station; every church is a barrack; and every Irishman is unspeakably tired of the whole miser- able business, which nevertheless is, and perforce must remain his first business until Home Rule makes an end of it, and sweeps the nationalist and the garrison hack together into the dustbin. There is indeed no greater curse to a nation than a'J nationalist movement, which is only the agonizing symp- tom of a suppressed natural function. Conquered nations lose their place in the world's march because they can do nothing but strive to get rid of their nationalist movements by recovering their national lib- erty. All demonstrations of the virtues of a foreign government, though often conclusive, are as useless as demonstrations of the superiority of artificial teeth, glass eyes, silver windpipes, and patent wooden legs to the natural products. Like Democracy, national self-gov- ernment is not for the good of the people: it is for the satisfaction of the people. One Antonine emperor, one St. Louis, one Richelieu, may be worth ten democracies in point of what is called good government; but there is no satisfaction for the people in them. To deprive a dyspeptic of his dinner and hand it over to a man who can digest it better is a highly logical proceeding; but it is not a sensible one. To take the government of Ireland away from the Irish and hand it over to the English on the ground that they can govern better would be a precisely parallel case if the English had managed their own affairs so well as to place their superior faculty for governing beyond question. But as the English are avowed muddlers — rather proud of it, in fact — even the logic of that case against Home Rule is not complete. Read Mr. Charles Booth's account of London, Mr. Rowntree's account of York, and the latest official report on Dundee; and then pretend, if you can, that English- xxxviii John Bull's Other Island men and Scotchmen have not more cause to hand over their affairs to an Irish parliament than to clamor for another nation's cities to devastate and another people's business to mismanage. A Natural Eight. The question is not one of logic at all, but of natural rigljt. English universities have for some time past en- couraged an extremely foolish academic exercise which consists in disproving the existence of natural rights on the ground that they cannot be deduced from the princi- ples of any known political system. If they could, they would not be natural rights but acquired ones. Acquired rights are deduced from political constitutions; but po- litical <:onstitutions are deduced from natural rights. When a man insists on certain liberties without the slightest regard to demonstrations that they are not for his own good, nor for the public good, nor moral, nor reasonable, nor decent, nor compatible with the existing constitution of society, then he is said to claim a natural right to that liberty. When, for instance, he insists, in spite of the irrefutable demonstrations of many able pessimists, from the author of the book of Ecclesiastes to Schopenhauer, that life is an evil, on living, he is asserting a natural right to live. When he insists on a vote in order that his country may be governed according to his ignorance instead of the wisdom of the Privy Council, he is asserting a natural right to self-govern- ment. When he insists on guiding himself at 21 by his own inexperience and folly and immaturity instead of by the experience and sagacity of his father, or the well stored mind of his grandmother, he is asserting a natural right to independence. Even if Home Rule were as unhealthy as an Englishman's eating, as intemperate as his drinking, as filthy as his smoking, as licentious as his domesticity, as corrupt as his elections, as murder- Preface for Politicians xxxix ously greedy as his commerce, as cruel as his prisons, and as merciless as his streets, Ireland's claim to self- government would still be as good as England's. King James the First proved so cleverly and conclusively that the satisfaction of natural rights was incompatible with good government that his courtiers called him Solomon. We, more enlightened, call him Fool, solely because we have learnt that nations insist on being governed by their own consent — or, as they put it, by themselves and for themselves — and that they will finally upset a good government which denies them this even if the alter- native be a bad government which at least creates and maintains an illusion of democracy. America, as far as one can ascertain, is much worse governed, and has a much more disgraceful political history than England under Charles I ; but the American Republic is the stabler government because it starts from a formal concession of natural rights, and keeps up an illusion of safeguard- ing them by an elaborate machinery of democratic elec- tion. And the final reason why Ireland must have Home Rule is that she has a natural right to it. A Warning. Finally, some words of warning to both nations. Ire- land has been deliberately ruined again and again by England. Unable to compete with us industrially, she has destroyed our industries by the brute force of pro- hibitive taxation. She was perfectly right. That brute force was a more honorable weapon than the poverty which we used to undersell her. We lived with and as our pigs, and let loose our wares in the Englishman's market at prices which he could compete with only by living like a pig himself. Having the alternative of stopping our industry altogether, he very naturally and properly availed himself of it. We should have done the same in his place. To bear malice against him on xl John BuU's Other Island that score is to poison our blood and weaken our con- stitutions with unintelligent rancor. In wrecking all the industries that were based on the poverty of our people England did us an enormous service. In omitting to do the same on her own soil, she did herself a wrong that has rotted her almost to the marrow. I hope that when Home Rule is at last achieved, one of our first legislative acts will be to fortify the subsistence of our people behind the bulwark of a standard wage, and impose crushing import duties on every English trade that flourishes in the slum and fattens on the starvation of our unfortunate neighbors. Down with the Soldier ! Now for England's share of warning. Let her look to her Empire; for imless she makes it such a Federa- tion for civil strength and defence that all free peoples will cling to it voluntarily, it will inevitably become a military tyranny to prevent them from abandoning it; and such a tyranny will drain the English taxpayer of his money more effectually than its worst cruelties can ever drain its victims of their liberty. A political scheme that cannot be carried out except by soldiers will not be a permanent one. The soldier is an anachronism of which we must get rid. Among people who are proof against the suggestions of romantic fiction there can no longer be any question of the fact that military service produces moral imbecility, ferocity, and cowardice, and that the defence of nations must be undertaken by the civil enterprise of men enjoying all the rights and liber- ties of citizenship, and trained by the exacting discipline of democratic freedom and responsibility. For perma- nent work the soldier is worse than useless: such effi- ciency as he has is the result of dehumanization and disablement. His whole training tends to make him a weakling. He has the easiest of lives : he has no freedom Preface for Politicians xli and no responsibility. He is politically and socially a child, with rations instead of rights, treated like a child, punished like a child, dressed prettily and washed and combed like a child, excused for outbreaks of naughti- ness like a child, forbidden to marry like a child, and called Tommy like a child. He has no real work to keep him from going mad except housemaid's work: all the rest is forced exercise, in the form of endless re- hearsals for a destructive and terrifying performance which may never come off, and which, when it does come oflf, is not like the rehearsals. His oiEcer has not even housekeeper's work to keep him sane. The work of organizing and commanding bodies of men, which builds up the character and resource of the large class of civilians who live by it, only demoralizes the military officer, because his orders, however disastrous or of- fensive, must be obeyed without regard to consequences: for instance, if he calls his men dogs, and perverts a musketry drill order to make them kneel to him as an act of personal humiliation, and thereby provokes a mutiny among men not yet thoroughly broken in to the abjectness of the military condition, he is not, as might be expected, shot, but, at worst, reprimanded, whilst the leader of the mutiny, instead of getting the Victoria Cross and a public testimonial, is condemned to five years' penal servitude by Lynch Law (technically called martial law) administered by a trade union of officers. Compare with this the position of, for instance, our railway managers or our heads of explosive factories. They have to handle large bodies of men whose care- lessness or insubordination may cause wholesale destruc- tion of life and property; yet any of these men may insult them, defy them, or assault them without special penalties of any sort. The military commander dares not face these conditions: he lives in perpetual terror of his men, and will undertake their command only when they are stripped of all their civil rights, gagged, and xlii John Bull's Other Island boiind hand and foot by a barbarous slave code. Thus the officer learns to punish, but never to rule; and when an emergency like the Indian Mutiny comes, he breaks down; and the situation has to be saved by a few un- typical officers with character enough to have retained their civilian qualities in spite of the messroom. This, unfortunately, is learnt by the public, not on the spot, but from Lord Roberts fifty years later. Since the Mutiny we have had the Crimean and South African wars, the Dreyfus affair in France, the incidents of the anti-militarist campaign by the Social-Democrats in Germany, and now the Denshawai affair in the Nile delta, all heaping on us sensational demonstrations of the fact that soldiers pay the penalty of their slavery and outlawry by becoming, relatively to free civilians, destructive, cruel, dishonest, tyrannical, hysterical, men- dacious, alarmists at home and terrorists abroad, politi- cally reactionary, and professionally incapable. If it were humanly possible to militarize all the humanity out of a man, there would be absolutely no defence to this indictment. But the military system is so idiotically academic and impossible, and renders its victims so in- capable of carrying it out with any thoroughness except when, in an occasional hysterical outburst of terror and violence, that hackneyed comedy of civil life, the weak man putting his foot down, becomes the military tragedy of the armed man burning, flogging and murdering in a panic, that a body of soldiers and officers is in the main, and under normal circumstances, much like any other body of laborers and gentlemen. Many of us count among our personal friends and relatives officers whose amiable and honorable character seems to contradict everything I have just said about the military character. You have only to describe Lynch courts and acts of ter- rorism to them as the work of Ribbonmen, Dacoits, Moonlighters, Boxers, or — to use the general term most familiar to them — " natives," and their honest and gen- Preface for Politicians xliii erous indignation knows no bounds: they feel about them like men, not like soldiers. But the moment you bring the professional side of them uppermost by de- scribing precisely the same proceedings to them as the work of regular armies, they defend them, applaud them, and are ready to take part in them as if their humanity had been blown out like a candle. You find that there is a blind spot on their moral retina, and that this blind spot is the military spot. The excuse, when any excuse is made, is that dis- cipline is supremely important in war. Now most sol- diers have no experience of war; and to assume that those who have are therefore qualified to legislate for it, is as absurd as to assume that a man who has been run over by an omnibus is thereby qualified to draw up wise regulations for the trafiic of London. Neither our military novices nor our veterans are clever enough to see that in the field, discipline either keeps itself or goes to pieces; for humanity under fire is a quite differ- ent thing from humanity in barracks: when there is danger the difficulty is never to find men who will obey, but men who can command. It is in time of peace, when an army is either a police force (in which case its work can be better done by a civilian constabulary) or an absurdity, that discipline is difficult, because the wasted life of the soldier is unnatural, except to a lazy man, and his servitude galling and senseless, except to a docile one. Still, the soldier is a man, and the officer sometimes a gentleman in the literal sense of the word; and so, what with humanity, laziness, and docility com- bined, they manage to rub along with only occasional outbursts of mutiny on the one side and class rancor and class cowardice on the other. They are not even discontented; for the military and naval codes simplify life for them just as it is simplified for children. No soldier is asked to think for himself, to judge for himself, to consult his own honor and man- xliv John Bull's Other Island hood, to dread any consequence except the consequence of punishment to his own person. The rules are plain and simple; the ceremonies of respect and submission are as easy and mechanical as a prayer wheel; the orders are always to be obeyed thoughtlessly, however inept or dishonorable they may be. As the late Laureate said in the two stinging lines in which he branded the British soldier with the dishonor of Esau, " theirs not to reason why: theirs but to do and die." To the moral imbecile and political sluggard these conditions are as congenial and attractive as they are abhorrent and intolerable to the William Tell temperament. Just as the most incor- rigible criminal is always, we are told, the best behaved convict, so the man with least conscience and initiative makes the best behaved soldier, and that not wholly through mere fear of punishment, but through a genuine fitness for and consequent happiness in the childQiite military life. Such men dread freedom and responsi- bility as a weak man dreads a risk or a heavy burden; and the objection to the military system is that it tends to produce such men by a weakening disuse of the moral muscles. No doubt this weakness is just what the mili- tary system aims at, its ideal soldier being, not a complete man, but a docile unit of cannonfodder which can be trusted to respond promptly and certainly to the external stimulus of a shouted order, and is intimidated to the pitch of being afraid to run away from a battle. It may be doubted whether even in the Prussian heyday of the system, when floggings of hundreds and even thousands of lashes were matters of ordinary routine, this detestable ideal was ever realized; but your courts- martial are not practical enough to take that into ac- count: it is characteristic of the military mind continu- ally to ignore human nature and cry for the moon instead of facing modern social facts and accepting modern democratic conditions. And when I say the military mind, I repeat that I am not forgetting the Preface for Politicians xlv patent fact that the military mind and the humane mind can exist in the same person; so that an officer who will take all the civilian risks, from city traffic to f oxhmiting, without uneasiness, and who will manage all the civil employees on his estate and in his house and stables without the aid of a Mutiny Act, Will also, in his military capacity, frantically declare that he dare not walk about in a foreign country unless every crime of violence against an Englishman in uniform is punished by the bombardment and destruction of a whole village, or the wholesale flogging and execution of every native in the neighborhood, and also that unless he and his fellow officers have power, without the intervention of a jury, to punish the slightest self-assertion or hesitation to obey orders, however grossly insulting or disastrous those orders may be, with sentences which are reserved in civil life for the worst crimes, he cannot secure the obedience and respect of his men, and the country will accordingly lose all its colonies and dependencies, and be helplessly conquered in the German invasion which he confidently expects to occur in the course of a fort- night or so. That is to say, in so far as he is an ordinary gentleman he behaves sensibly and courageously; and in so far as he is a military man he gives way without shame to the grossest folly, cruelty and poltroonery. If any other profession in the world had been stained by these vices, and by false witness, forgery, swindling, torture, compulsion of men's families to attend their executions, digging up and mutilation of dead enemies, all wantonly added to the devastation proper to its own business, as the military profession has been within re- cent memory in England, France, and the United States of America (to mention no other countries), it would be very difficult to induce men of capacity and character to enter it. And in England it is, in fact, largely de- pendent for its recruits on the refuse of industrial life, and for its officers on the aristocratic and plutocratic xlvi John Bull's Other Island refuse of political and diplomatic life, who join the army and pay for their positions in the more or less fashionable clubs which the regimental messes provide them with — clubs which, by the way, occasionally figure in ragging scandals as circles of extremely coarse moral character. Now in countries which are denied Home Rule: that is, in which the government does not rest on the consent of the people, it must rest on military coercion ; and the bureaucracy, however civil and legal it may be in form and even in the character of its best officials, must con- nive at all the atrocities of military rule, and become infected in the end with the chronic panic characteristic of militarism. In recent witness whereof, let me shift the scene from Ireland to Egypt, and tell the story 6f the Denshawai affair of June I906 by way of object lesson. The Denshawai Horror. Denshawai is a little Egyptian village in the Nile delta. Besides the dilapidated huts among the reeds by the roadside, and the palm trees, there are towers of unbaked brick, as unaccountable to an English villager as a Kentish oast-house to an Egyptian. These towers are pigeon houses; for the villagers keep pigeons just as an English farmer keeps poultry. Try to imagine the feelings of an English village if a party of Chinese officers suddenly appeared and began shooting the ducks, the geese, the hens and the turkeys, and carried them off, asserting that they were wild birds, as everybody in China knew, and that the pretended indignation of the farmers was a cloak for hatred of the Chinese, and perhaps for a plot to overthrow the religion of Confucius and establish the Church of Eng- land in its place! Well, that is the British equivalent of what happened at Denshawai when a party of Eng- Preface for Politicians xlvii lish officers went pigeon-shooting there the year before last. The inhabitants complained and memorialized; but they obtained no redress: the law failed them in their hour of need. So one leading family of pigeon farmers, Mahfouz by name, despaired of the law; and its head, Hassan Mahfouz, aged 60, made up his mind not to submit tamely to a repetition of the outrage. Also, Brit- ish officers were ordered not to shoot pigeons in the villages without the consent of the Omdeh, or head man, though nothing was settled as to what might happen to the Omdeh if he ventured to refuse. Fancy the feelings of Denshawai when on the ISth of June last there drove to the village four khaki-clad British officers with guns, one of them being a shooter of the year before, accompanied by one other officer on horseback, and also by a dragoman and an Ombashi, or police official! The oriental blood of Hassan Mahfouz boiled; and he warned them that they would not be allowed to shoot pigeons ; but as they did not understand his language, the warning had no effect. They sent their dragoman to ask the Omdeh's permission to shoot; but the Omdeh was away; and all the interpreter could get from the Omdeh's deputy, who knew better than to dare an absolute refusal, was the pretty obvious reply that they might shoot if they went far enough away from the village. On the strength of this welcome, they went from 100 to 300 yards away from the houses (these distances were afterwards officially averaged at 500 yards), and began shooting the villagers' pigeons. The villagers remonstrated and finally seized the gun of the youngest officer. It went off in the struggle, and wounded three men and the wife of one Abd-el-Nebi, a yoimg man of 25. Now the lady, though, as it turned out, only temporarily disabled by a charge of pigeon shot in the softest part of her person, gave herself up for dead; and the feeling in the village was much as if our imaginary Chinese officers, on being interfered with xlviii John Bull's Other Island in their slaughter of turkeys, had killed an English farmer's wife. Abd-el-Nebi, her husband, took the mat- ter to heart, not altogether without reason, we may admit. His threshing floor also caught fire somehow (the official English theory is that he set it on fire as a signal for revolt to the entire Moslem world) ; and all the lads and loafers in the place were presently on the spot. The other officers, seeing their friend in trouble, joined him. Abd-el-Nebi hit the supposed murderer of his wife with a stick; Hassan Mahfouz used a stick also; and the lads and loafers began to throw stones and bricks. Five London policemen would have seen that there was noth- ing to be done but fight their way out, as there is no use arguing with an irritated mob, especially if you do not know its language. Had the shooting party been in the charge of a capable non-commissioned officer, he would perhaps have got it safely off. As it was, the officers tried propitiation, making their overtures in pan- tomime. They gave up their guns; they offered watches and money to the crowd, crying Baksheesh; and the senior officer actually collared the junior and pretended to arrest him for the murder of the woman. Naturally they were mobbed worse than before; and what they did not give to the crowd was taken from them, whether as payment for the pigeons, blood money, or simple plun- der was not gone into. The officers, two Irishmen and three Englishmen, having made a hopeless mess of it, and being now in serious danger, made for their car- riages, but were dragged out of them again, one of the coachmen being knocked senseless. They then " agreed to run," the arrangement being that the Englishmen, being the juniors, should run away to camp and bring help to the Irishmen. They bolted accordingly; but the third, the youngest, seeing the two Irishmen hard put to it, went back and stood by them. Of the two fugitives, one, after a long race in the Egyptian afternoon sun, got to the next village and there dropped, smitten by Preface for Politicians xlix sunstroke, of which he died. The other ran on and met a patrol, which started to the rescue. Meanwhile, the other three officers had been taken out of the hands of the lads and the loafers, of Abd-el-Nebi and Hassan Mahfouz, by the elders and watchmen, and saved from further injury, but not before they had been severely knocked about, one of them having one of the bones of his left arm broken near the wrist — simple fracture of the thin end of the ulna. They were also brought to the threshing floor; shewn the wounded woman; informed by gestures that they deserved to have their throats cut for murdering her; and kicked (with naked feet, fortunately); but at this point the elders and constables stopped the mobbing. Finally the three were sent off to camp in their carriages ; and the incident ended for that day. No English mob, under similar provocation, would have behaved any better; and few would have done as little mischief. It is not many months since an old man — ^not a foreigner and not an unbeliever — was kicked to death in the streets of London because the action of a park constable in turning him out of a public park ex- posed him to suspicion of misconduct. At Denshawai, the officers were not on duty. In their private capacity as sportsmen, they committed a serious depredation on a very poor village by slaughtering its stock. In an English village they would have been tolerated because the farmers would have expected compensation for dam- age, and the villagers coals and blankets and employ- ment in country house, garden and stable, or as beaters, huntsmen and the like, from them. But Denshawai had no such inducements to submit to their thoughtless and selfish aggression. One of them had apparently killed a woman and wounded three men with his gun: in fact his own comrade virtually convicted him of it before the crowd by collaring him as a prisoner. In short, the officers had given outrageous provocation; and they had 1 John Bull's Other Island shown an amiable but disastrous want of determination and judgment in dealing with the riot they provoked. They should have been severely reprimanded and in- formed that they had themselves to thank for what hap- pened to them; and the villagers who assaulted them should have been treated with leniency, and assured that pigeon-shooting would not be allowed in future. That is what should have ensued. Now for what actually did ensue. Abd-el-Nebi, in consideration of the injury to his wife, was only sentenced to penal servitude for life. And our clemency did not stop there. His wife was not punished at all— not even charged with stealing the shot which was found in her person. And lest Abd-el- Nebi should feel lonely at 25 in beginning penal servi- tude for the rest of his days, another young man, of 20, was sent to penal servitude for life with him. No such sentimentality was shewn to Hassan Mah- fouz. An Egyptian pigeon farmer who objects to Brit- ish sport; threatens British officers and gentlemen when they shoot his pigeons; and actually hits those officers with a substantial stick, is clearly a ruffian to be made an example of. Penal servitude was not enough for a man of 60 who looked 70, and might not have lived to suffer five years of it. So Hassan was hanged; but as a special mark of consideration for his family, he was hanged in full view of his own house, with his wives and children and grandchildren enjoying the spectacle from the roof. And lest this privilege should excite jealousy in other households, three other Denshavians were hanged with him. They went through the cere- mony with dignity, professing their faith (" Mahometan, I regret to say," Mr. Pecksniff would have said). Has- san, however, " in a loud voice invoked ruin upon the houses of those who had given evidence against him"; and Darweesh was impatient and presumed to tell the hangman to be quick. But then Darweesh was a bit of Preface for Politicians li a brigand: he had been imprisoned for bearing false witness; and his resistance to the British invasion is the only oflScially recorded incident of his life which is entirely to his credit. He and Abd-el-Nebi (who had been imprisoned for theft) were the only disreputable characters among the punished. Ages of the four hanged men respectively, 60, 50, 22 and 20. Hanging, however, is the least sensational form of public execution: it lacks those elements of blood and torture for which the military and bureaucratic imagina- tion lusts. So, as they had room for only one man on the gallows, and had to leave him hanging half an hour to make sure work and give his family plenty of time to watch him swinging (" slowly turning round and round on himself," as the local papers described it), thus having two hours to kill as well as four men, they kept the entertainment going by flogging eight men with fifty lashes each: eleven more than the utmost permitted by the law of Moses in times which our Army of Occu- pation no doubt considers barbarous. But then Moses conceived his law as being what he called the law of God, and not simply an instrument for the gratification of his own cruelty and terror. It is unspeakably reas- suring to learn from the British official reports laid be- fore parliament that " due dignity was observed in carrying out the executions," that " all possible human- ity was shown in carrying them out," and that " the arrangements were admirable, and reflect great credit on all concerned." As this last testimonial apparently does not refer to the victims, they are evidently officially considered not to have been concerned in the proceedings at all. Finally, Lord Cromer certifies that the English- man in charge of the proceedings is " a singularly hu- mane man, and is very popular amongst the natives of Egypt by reason of the great sympathy he has always shown for them." It will be seen that Parliamentary Papers, Nos. 3 and 4, Egypt, 1906, are not lacking in lii John Bull's Other Island unconscious humor. The official walrus pledges himself in every case for the kindliness of the official carpenter. One man was actually let off, to the great danger of the British Empire perhaps. Still, as he was an epilep- tic, and had already had several fits in the court of Judge Lynch, the doctor said Better not; and he escaped. This was very inconvenient; for the number of floggees had been made up solely to fill the time occupied by the hangings at the rate of two floggings per hanging; and the breakdown of the arrangement through Said Suleiman Kheirallah's inconsiderate indisposition made the execution of Darweesh tedious, as he was hanging for fully quarter of an hour without any flogging to amuse his fellow villagers and the officers and men of the Inniskilling Dragoons, the military mounted police, and the mounted infantry. A few spare sentences of flogging should have been kept in hand to provide against accidents. In any case there was not time to flog everybody, nor to flog iiiree of the floggees enough; so these three had a year's hard labor apiece in addition to their floggings. Six others were not flogged at all, but were sent to penal servitude for seven years each. One man got fifteen years. Total for the morning's work: four hanged, two to penal servitude for life, one to fifteen years penal servitude, six to seven years penal servitude, three to imprisonment for a year with hard labor and fifty lashes, and five to fifty lashes. Lord Cromer certifies that these proceedings were " just and necessary." He also gives his reasons. It appears that the boasted justice introduced into Egypt by the English in 1882 was imaginary, and that the real work of coping with Egyptian disorder was done by Brigandage Commissions, composed of Egyptians. These Commissions, when an offence was reported, descended on the inculpated village; seized everybody concerned; and plied them with tortures, mentionable Preface for Politicians liii and unmentionable, until they accused everybody they were expected to accuse. The accused were in turn tortured until they confessed anything and everything they were accused of. They were then killed, flogged, or sent to penal servitude. This was the reality behind the illusion that soothed us after bombarding Alexan- dria. The bloodless, white-gloved native courts set up to flatter our sense of imperial justice had, apparently, about as much to do with the actual government of the fellaheen as the annual court which awards the Dun- mow flitch of bacon has to do with our divorce court. Eventually a Belgian judge, who was appointed Pro- cureur-General, exposed the true state of affairs. Then the situation had to be faced. Order had to be maintained somehow; but the regular native courts which saved the face of the British Occupation were useless for the purpose; and the Brigandage Commissions were so abominable and demoralizing that they made more mischief than they prevented. Besides, there was Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt on the warpath against tyranny and torture, threatening to get questions asked in par- liament. A new sort of tribunal in the nature of a court-martial had therefore to be invented to replace the Brigandage Commissions ; but simple British military courts-martial, though probably the best available form of official Lynch Law, were made impossible by the jealousy of the "loyal" (to England) Egyptians, who, it seems, rule the Occupation and bully England exactly as the " loyal " Irish rule the Garrison and bully the Unionists nearer home. That kind of loyalty, not being a natural product, has to be purchased; and the price is an official job of some sort with a position and a salary attached. Hence we got, in 1895, a tribunal con- stituted in which three English officials sat with two Egyptian officials, exercising practically unlimited powers of punishment without a jury and without ap- peal. They represent the best of our judicial and mili- liv John Bull's Other Island tary officialism. And what that best is may be judged by the sentences on the Denshawai villagers. Lord Cromer's justification of the tribunal is prac- tically that, bad as it is, the Brigandage Commissions were worse. Also (lest we should propose to carry our moral superiority any further), that the Egyptians are so accustomed to associate law and order with floggings, executions, torture and Lynch Law, that they will not respect any tribunal which does not continue these prac- tices. This is a far-reaching argument: for instance, it suggests that Church of England missionaries might do well to adopt the rite of human sacrifice when evangeliz- ing tribes in whose imagination that practice is insep- arably bound up with religion. It suggests that the sole reason why the Denshawai tribunal did not resort to torture for the purpose of extorting confessions and evidence was that parliament might not stand it — though really a parliament which stood the executions would, one would think, stand anything. The tribunal had cer- tainly no intention of allowing witnesses to testify against British officers; for, as it happened, the Ombashi who accompanied them on the two shooting expeditions, one Ahmed Hassan Zakzouk, aged 26, was rash enough to insist that after the shot that struck the woman, the officers fired on the mob twice. This appears in the parliamentary paper; but the French newspaper L'Egypte is quoted by Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt as reporting that Zakzouk, on being asked by one of the English judges whether' he was not afraid to say such a thing, replied " Nobody in the world is able to frighten me: the truth is the truth," and was promptly told to stand down. Mr. Blunt adds that Zakzouk was then tried for his conduct in connection with the affair before a Court of Discipline, which awarded him two years imprisonment and fifty lashes. Without rudely calling this a use of torture to intimidate anti-British witnesses, I may count on the assent of mpst reasonable people Preface for Politicians Iv when I say that Zakzouk probably regards himself as having received a rather strong hint to make his evidence agreeable to the Occupation in future. Not only was there of course no jury at the trial, but considerably less than no defence. Barristers of suffi- cient standing to make it very undesirable for them to offend the Occupation were instructed to " defend " the prisoners. Far from defending them, they paid high compliments to the Occupation as one of the choicest benefits rained by Heaven on their country, and appealed for mercy for their miserable clients, whose conduct had " caused the unanimous indignation of all Egyptians." " Clemency," they said, " was above equity." The tri- bunal in delivering judgment remarked that " the coun- sel for the defence had a full hearing: nevertheless the defence broke down completely, and all that their coun- sel could say on behalf of the prisoners practically amounted to an appeal to the mercy of the Court." Now the proper defence, if put forward, would prob- ably have convinced Lord Cromer that nothing but the burning of the village and the crucifixion of all its in- habitants could preserve the British Empire. That de- fence was obvious enough: the village was invaded by five armed foreigners who attempted for the second time to slaughter the villagers' farming stock and carry it off; in resisting an attempt to disarm them four villagers had been wounded; the villagers had lost their tempers and knocked the invaders about; and the older men and watchmen had finally rescued the aggressors and sent them back with no worse handling than they would have got anywhere for the like misconduct. One can imagine what would have happened to the man, prisoner or advocate, who should have dared to tell the truth in this fashion. The prisoners knew better than to attempt it. On the scaffold, Darweesh turned to his house as he stood on the trap, and exclaimed " May God compensate us well for this world of meanness, for Ivi John Bull's Other Island this world of injustice, for this world of cruelty." If he had dared in court thus to compare God with the tribunal to the disadvantage of the latter, he would no doubt have had fifty lashes before his hanging, to teach him the greatness of the Empire. As it was, he kept his views to himself until it was too late to do anything worse to him than hang him. In court, he did as all the rest did. They lied; they denied; they set up des- perate alibis; they protested they had been in the next village, or tending cattle a mile off, or threshing, or what not. One of them, when identified, said " All men are alike." He had only one eye. Darweesh, who had secured one of the officers' guns, declared that his ene- mies had come in the night and buried it in his house, where his mother sat on it, like Rachel on Laban's stolen teraphim, until she was dragged off. A pitiable business, yet not so pitiable as the virtuous indignation with which Judge Lynch, himself provable by his own reports to be a prevaricator, hypocrite, tyrant and coward of the first water, preened himself at its expense. When Lord Cromer says that " the prisoners had a perfectly fair trial " — not, observe, a trial as little unfair as human frailty could make it, which is the most that can be said for any trial on earth, but " a perfectly fair trial " — ^he no doubt believes what he says; but his opinion is inter- esting mainly as an example of the state of his mind, and of the extent to which, after thirty years of official life in Egypt, one loses the plain sense of English words. Lord Cromer recalls how, in the eighties, a man threat- ened with the courbash by a Moudir in the presence of Sir Claude MacDonald, said " You dare not flog me now that the British are here." " So bold an answer," says Lord Cromer, " was probably due to the presence of a British officer." What would that man say now? What does Lord Cromer say now? He deprecates " premature endeavors to thrust Western ideas on an Eastern people," by which he means that when you are Preface for Politicians Ivii in Egypt you must do as the Egyptians do: terrorize by the lash and the scafiFold. Thus does the East con- quer its conquerors. In 188S Lord DufFerin was abol- ishing the bastinado as " a horrible and infamous pun- ishment." In 1906 Lord Cromer guarantees ferocious sentences of flogging as "just and necessary," and can see " nothing reprehensible in the manner in which they were carried out." " I have," he adds, " passed nearly thirty years of my life in an earnest endeavour to raise the moral and material condition of the people of Egypt. I have been assisted by a number of very capable offi- cials, all of whom, I may say, have been animated by the same spirit as myself." Egypt may well shudder as she reads those words. If the first thirty years have been crowned by the Denshawai incident, what will Egypt be like at the end of another thirty years of moral elevation " animated by the same spirit " ? It is pleasanter to return to Lord Cromer's first letter on Denshawai, written to Sir Edward Grey the day after the shooting party. It says that " orders will shortly be issued by the General prohibiting officers in the army from shooting pigeons in the future under any circum- stances whatever." But pray why this prohibition, if, as the tribunal declared, the officers were " guests (actu- ally guests!) who had done nothing to deserve blame "? Mr. Findlay is another interesting official correspond- ent of Sir Edward. Even after the trial, at which it had been impossible to push the medical evidence further than to say that the officer who died of sunstroke had been predisposed to it by the knocking about he had suffered and by his flight under the Egyptian sun, whilst the officers who had remained defenceless in the hands of the villagers were in court, alive and well, Mr. Find- lay writes that the four hanged men were "convicted of a brutal and premeditated murder," and complains that "the native press disregards the fact" and "is being conducted with such an absolute disregard for Iviii John Bull's Other Island truth as to make it evident that large sums of money have been expended." Mr. Findlay is also a bit of a philosopher. " The Egyptian, being a fatalist," he says, " does not greatly fear death, and there is therefore much to be said for flogging as a judicial punishment in Egypt." Logically, then, the four hanged men ought to have been flogged instead. But Mr. Findlay does not draw that conclusion. Logic is not his strong point: he is a man of feeling, and a very nervous one at that. "I do not believe that this brutal attack on British oflicers had anything directly to do with political ani- mosity. It is, however, due to the insubordinate spirit which has been sedulously fostered during the last year by unscrupulous and interested agitators." Again, " it is my duty to warn you of the deplorable efi^ect which is being produced in Egypt by the fact that Members of Parliament have seriously called in question the unani- mous sentence passed by a legally constituted Court, of which the best English and the best native Judge were members. This fact will, moreover, supply the lever which has, up to the present, been lacking to the venal agitators who are at the head of the so-called patriotic party." I find Mr. Findlay irresistible, so exquisitely does he give us the measure and flavor of ofiicialism. " A few days after the Denshawai aflPray some natives stoned and severely injured an irrigation inspector. Two days ago three natives knocked a soldier off his donkey and kicked him in the stomach: his injuries are serious. In the latter case theft appears to have been the motive. My object in mentioning these instances is to shew the results to be expected if once respect for the law is shaken. Should the present state of things continue, and, still more, should the agitation in this country find support at home, the date is not far distant when the necessity will arise for bringing in a press law and for considerably increasing the army of occupation." Just think of it! In a population of nearly ten millions, one Preface for Politicians lix irrigation inspector is stoned. The Denshawai execu- tions are then carried out to make the law respected. The result is that three natives knock a soldier oiF his donkey and rob him. Thereupon Mr. Findlay, appalled at the bankruptcy of civilization, sees nothing for it now but suppression of the native newspapers and a considerable increase in the army of occupation! And Lord Cromer writes "All I need say is that I concur generally in Mr. Findlay's remarks, and that, had I re- mained in Egypt, I should in every respect have adopted the same course as that which he pursued." But I must resolutely shut this rich parliamentary paper. I have extracted enough to paint the picture, and enforce my warning to England that if her Empire means ruling the world as Denshawai has been ruled in 1906 — and that, I am afraid, is what the Empire does mean to the main body of our aristocratic-military caste and to our Jingo plutocrats — then there can be no more sacred and urgent political duty on earth than the dis- ruption, defeat, and suppression of the Empire, and, incidentally, the humanization of its supporters by the sternest lessons of that adversity which comes finally to institutions which make themselves abhorred by the as- piring will of humanity towards divinity. As for the Egyptians, any man cradled by the Nile who, after the Denshawai incident, will ever voluntarily submit to Brit- ish rule, or accept any bond with us except the bond of a Federation of free and equal states, will deserve the worst that Lord Cromer can consider " just and neces- sary " for him. That is what you get by attempting to prove your supremacy by the excesses of frightened soldiers and denaturalized officials instead of by courage- ous helpfulness and moral superiority. In any case let no Englishman who is content to leave Abd-el-Nebi and his twenty-year-old neighbor in penal servitude for life, and to plume himself on the power to do it, pretend to be fit to govern either my country Ix John Bull's Other Island or his own. The responsibility cannot be confined to the tribunal and to the demoralized officials of the Occu- pation. The House of Commons had twenty-four hours clear notice, with the telegraph under the hand of Sir Edward Grey, to enable it to declare that England was a civilized Power and would not stand these barbarous lashings and vindictive hangings. Yet Mr. Dillon, rep- resenting the Irish party, which well knows what British Occupations and Findlay " loyalism " mean, protested in vain. Sir Edward, on behalf of the new Liberal Gov- ernment (still simmering with virtuous indignation at the flogging of Chinamen and the military executions in South Africa in the forced presence of the victims' families under the late Imperialist Government) not only permitted and defended the Denshawai executions, but appealed to the House almost passionately not to criticize or repudiate them, on the ground — ^how incred- ible it now appears ! — that Abd-el-Nebi and Hassan Mahfouz and Darweesh and the rest were the fuglemen of a gigantic Moslem plot to rise against Christendom in the name of the Prophet and sweep Christendom out of Africa and Asia by a colossal second edition of the Indian Mutiny. That this idiotic romance, gross and ridiculous as the lies of Falstaff, should have imposed on any intelligent and politically experienced human be- ing, is strange enough — ^though the secret shame of re- volted humanity will make cabinet ministers snatch at fantastic excuses — but what humanity will not forgive our foreign secretary for is his failure to see that even if such a conspiracy really existed, England should have faced it and fought it bravely by honorable means, in- stead of wildly lashing and strangling a handful of poor peasants to scare Islam into terrified submission. Were I abject enough to grant to Sir Edward Grey as valid that main asset of " thinking Imperially," the conviction that we are all going to be murdered, I should still suggest to him that we can at least die like gentlemen? Preface for Politicians Ixi Might I even be so personal as to say that the reason for giving him a social position and political opportuni- ties that are denied to his tradesmen is that he is sup- posed to understand better than they that honor is worth its danger and its cost, and that life is worthless without honor? It is true that Sir John Falstaif did not think so; but Sir John is hardly a model for Sir Edward. Yet even Sir John would have had enough gumption to see that the Denshawai panic was more dangerous to the Empire than the loss of ten pitched battles. As cowardice is highly infectious, would it not be de- sirable to supersede officials who, after years of oriental service, have lost the familiar art of concealing their terrors? I am myself a sedentary literary civilian, con- stitutionally timid; but I find it possible to keep up appearances, and can even face the risk of being run over, or garotted, or burnt out in London without shriek- ing for martial law, suppression of the newspapers, ex- emplary flogging and hanging of motor-bus drivers, and compulsory police service. Why are soldiers and officials on foreign service so much more cowardly than citizens ? Is it not clearly because the whole Imperial military sys- tem of coercion and terrorism is unnatural, and that the truth formulated by William Morris, that " no man is good enough to be another man's master " is true also of nations, and very specially true of those plutocrat- ridden Powers which have of late stumbled into an enor- mous increase of material wealth without having made any intelligent provision for its proper distribution and administration ? However, the economic reform of the Empire is a long business, whereas the release of Abd-el-Nebi and his neighbors is a matter of the stroke of a pen, once public opinion is shamed into activity. I fear I have stated their case very unfairly and inadequately, because I am hampered, as an Irishman, by my implacable hos- tility to English domination. Mistrusting my own Ixii John Bull's Other Island prejudices, I have taken the story from the two parlia- mentary papers in which our officials have done their utmost to whitewash the tribunals and the pigeon-shoot- ing party, and to blackwash the villagers. Those who wish to have it told to them by an Englishman of un- questionable personal and social credentials, and an in- timate knowledge of Egypt and the Egyptians, can find it in Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt's pamphlet entitled " Atrocities of British Rule in Egypt." When they have read it they will appreciate my forbearance; and when I add that English rule in Ireland has been " animated by the same spirit " (I thank Lord Cromer for the phrase) as English rule in Egypt, and that this is the inevitable spirit of all coercive military rule, they will perhaps begin to understand why Home Rule is a neces- sity not only for Ireland, but for all constituents of those Federations of Commonwealths which are now the only permanently practicable form of Empire. John Bull's Other Island 1 How He Lied to Her Husband . . 127 Major Barbara 155 JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND ACT I Great George Street, Westminster, is the address of Doyle and Eroadbent, civil engineers. On the threshold one reads that the firm consists of Mr. Laurence Boyle and Mr. Thomas Broadbent, and that their rooms are on the first floor. Most of these rooms are private; for the partners, being bachelors and bosom friends, live there; and the door marked Private, next the clerks' office, is their domestic sitting room as well as their re- ception room for clients. Let me describe it briefly from the point of view of a sparrow on the window sill. The outer door is in the opposite wall, close to the right hand corner. Between this door and the left hand cor- ner IS a hatstand and a table consisting of large drawing boards on trestles, with plans, rolls of tracing paper, mathematical instruments and other draughtsman's ac- cessories on it. In the left hand wall is the fireplace, and the door of an inner room between the fireplace and our observant sparrow. Against the right hand wall is a filing cabinet, with a cupboard on it, and, nearer, a tall office desk and stool for one person. In the middle of the room a large double writing table is set across, with a chair at each end for the two partners. It is a room which no woman would tolerate, smelling of to- bacco, and much in need of repapering, repainting, and recarpeting; but this is the effect of bachelor untidiness and indifference, not want of means; for nothing that Doyle and Broadbent themselves have purchased is 4 John Bull's Other Island Act I cheap; nor is anything they want lacking. On the walls hang a large map of South America, a pictorial adver- tisement of a steamship company, an impressive portrait of Gladstone, and several caricatures of Mr. Balfour as a rabbit and Mr. Chamberlain as a fox by Francis Car- ruthers Gould. At twenty minutes to five o'clock on a summer after- noon in 1904, the room is empty. Presently the outer door is opened, and a valet comes in laden with a large Gladstone bag, and a strap of rugs. He carries them into the inner room. He is a respectable valet, old enough to have lost all alacrity, and acquired an air of putting up patiently with a great deal of trouble and indifferent health. The luggage belongs to Broadbent, who enters after the valet. He pulls off his overcoat and hangs it with his hat on the stand. Then he comes to the writing table and looks through the letters which are waiting for him. He is a robust, full-blooded, ener- getic man in the prime of life, sometim.es eager and credulous, sometimes shrewd and roguish, sometimes portentously solemn, som,etimes jolly and impetuous, al- ways buoyant and irresistible, m.ostly likeable, and enor- mously absurd in his most earnest moments. He bursts open his letters with his thumb, and glances through them, flinging the envelopes about the floor with reck- less untidiness whilst he talks to the valet. Broadbent {calling). Hodson. HoDSON {in the bedroom). Yes sir. Broadbent. Dont unpack. Just take out the things Ive worn ; and put in clean things. Hodson (appearing at the bedroom door). Yes sir. {He turns to go back into the bedroom.) Broadbent. And look here! {Hodson turns again.) Do you remember where I put my revolver? Hodson. Revolver, sir? Yes sir. Mr. Doyle uses it as a paper-weight, sir, when he's drawing. Act I John Bull's Other Island 5 Broadbent. Well, I want it packed. Theres a packet of cartridges somewhere, I think. Find it and pack it as well. HoDsoN. Yes sir. Broadbent. By the way, pack your own traps too. I shall take you with me this time. HoDSON (hesitant). Is it a dangerous part youre going to, sir ? Should I be expected to carry a revolver, sir? Broadbent. Perhaps it might be as well. I'm go- ing to Ireland. HoDSON {reassured). Yes sir. Broadbent. You dont feel nervous about it, I sup- pose ? HoDsoN. Not at all, sir. I'll risk it, sir. Broadbent. Have you ever been in Ireland? HoDSON. No sir. I understand it's a very wet cli- mate, sir. I'd better pack your india-rubber overalls. Broadbent. Do. Wheres Mr. Doyle? HoDSON. I'm expecting him at five, sir. He went out after lunch. Broadbent. Anybody been looking for me? HoDSON. A person giving the name of Haffigan has called twice to-day, sir. Broadbent. Oh, I'm sorry. Why didnt he wait? I told him to wait if I wasnt in. HoDsoN. Well sir, I didnt know you expected him; so I thought it best to — to — not to encourage him, sir. Broadbent. Oh, hes all right. Hes an Irishman, and not very particular about his appearance. Hodson. Yes sir, I noticed that he was rather Irish. Broadbent. If he calls again let him come up. Hodson. I think I saw him waiting about, sir, when you drove up. Shall I fetch him, sir? Broadbent. Do, Hodson. Hodson. Yes sir. (He makes for the outer door.) Broadbent. He'll want tea. Let us have some. 6 John Bull's Other Island Act I HoDSON (stopping). I shouldn't think he drank tea, sir. Bhoadbent. Well, bring whatever you think he'd like. HoDsox. Yes sir. {An electric bell rings.) Here he is, sir. Saw you arrive, sir. Bhoadbent. Right. Shew him in. {Hodson goes out. Broadbent gets through the rest of his letters be- fore Hodson returns rvith the visitor.) Hodson. Mr. Affigan. Haffigan is a stunted, shortneched, smallheaded, red- haired man of about 30, rvith reddened nose and furtive eyes. He is dressed in seedy black, almost clerically, and might be a tenth-rate schoolmaster ruined by drink. He hastens to shake Broadbent's hand rvith a shorv of reckless geniality and high spirits, helped out by a rol- licking stage brogue. This is perhaps a comfort to himself, as he is secretly pursued by the horrors of in- cipient delirium tremens. Haffigan. Tim Haffigan, sir, at your service. The top o the mornin to you, Misther Broadbent. Broadbent (delighted rvith his Irish visitor). Good afternoon, Mr. Haffigan. Tim. An is it the afthernoon it is already? Begorra, what I call the mornin is all the time a man fasts afther breakfast. Broadbent. Havnt you lunched? Tim. Divil a lunch! Bhoadbent. I'm sorry I couldnt get back from Brighton in time to offer you some; but — Tim. Not a word, sir, not a word. Sure itll do to- morrow. Besides, I'm Irish, sir: a poor ather, but a powerful dhrinker. Broadbent. I was just about to ring for tea when you came. Sit down, Mr. Haffigan. Tim. Tay is a good dhrink if your nerves can stand it. Mine cant. Act I John Bull's Other Island 7 Hafflgan sits down at the writing table, with his bach to the filing cabinet. Broadbent sits opposite him. Hod- son enters emptyhanded; takes two glasses, a siphon, and a tantalus from the cupboard; places them before Broadbent on the writing table; looks ruthlessly at Hafflgan. who cannot meet his eye; and retires. Broadbent. Try a whisky and soda. Tim {sobered). There you touch the national wake- ness, sir. {Piously.) Not that I share it meself. Ive seen too much of the mischief of it. Broadbent {pouring the whisky). Say when. Tim. Not too sthrong. {Broadbent stops and looks enquiringly at him.) Say half-an-half. {Broadbent, somewhat startled by this demand, pours a little more, and again stops and looks.) Just a dhrain more: the lower half o the tumbler doesnt hold a fair half. Thankya. Broadbent {laughing). You Irishmen certainly do know how to drink. {Pouring some whisky for him- self.) Now thats my poor English idea of a whisky and soda. Tim. An a very good idea it is too. Dhrink is the curse o me unhappy counthry. I take it meself because Ive a wake heart and a poor digestion; but in principle I'm a teetoatler. Broadbent {suddenly solemn and strenuous). So am I, of course. I'm a Local Optionist to the backbone. You have no idea, Mr. Haffigan, of the ruin that is wrought in this country by the unholy alliance of the publicans, the bishops, the Tories, and The Times. We must close the public-houses at all costs {he drinks). Tim. Sure I know. Its awful {he drinks). I see youre a good Liberal like meself, sir. Broadbent. I am a lover of liberty, like every true Englishman, Mr. HafEgan. My name is Broadbent. If my name were Breitstein, and I had a hooked nose and a house in Park Lane, I should carry a Union Jack 8 John Bull's Other Island Act I handkerchief and a penny trumpet, and tax the food of the people to support the Navy League, and clamor for the destruction of the last remnants of national liberty — Tim. Not another word. Shake hands. Broadbent. But I should like to explain — Tim. Sure I know every word youre goin to say be- fore yev said it. I know the sort o man yar. An so youre thinkin o comin to Ireland for a bit? Broadbent. Where else can I go? I am an Eng- lishman and a Liberal; and now that South Afr ica-has been enslaved axid destroyed, there is no coimtry left to me to take an interest in but Ireland. Mind: I dont say that an Englishman has not other duties. He has a duty to Finland and a duty to Macedonia. But what sane man can deny that an Englishman's first duty is his duty to Ireland? Unfortunately, we have politicians here more unscrupulous than Bobrikoff, more blood- thirsty than Abdul the Damned; and it is under their heel that Ireland is now writhing. Tim. Faith, theyve reckoned up with poor oul Bobri- koif anyhow. Broadbent. Not that I defend assassination: God forbid! However strongly we may feel that the un- fortunate and patriotic young man who avenged the wrongs of Finland on the Russian tyrant was perfectly right from his own point of view, yet every civilized man must regard murder with abhorrence. Not even in defence of Free Trade would I lift my hand against a political opponent, however richly he might deserve it. Tim. Im sure you wouldnt; and I honor you for it. Youre goin to Ireland, then, out o sympithy: is it? Broadbent. I'm going to develop an estate there for the Land Development Syndicate, in which I am interested. I am convinced that all it needs to make it pay is to handle it properly, as estates are handled in England. You know the English plan, Mr. Haffigan, dont you? Act I John Bull's Other Island 9 Tim. Bedad I do, sir. Take all you can out of Ire- land and spend it in England: thats it. Broadbent (not quite liking this). My plan, sir, will be to take a little money out of England and spend it in Ireland. Tim. More power to your elbow ! an may your shadda never be less! for youre the broth of a boy intirely. An how can I help you? Command me to the last dhrop o me blood. Broadbent. Have you ever heard of Garden City? Tim (doubtfully). D'ye mane Heavn? Broadbent. Heaven! No: it's near Hitchin. If you can spare half an hour I'll go into it with you. Tim. I tell you hwat. Gimme a prospectus. Lemme take it home and reflect on it. Broadbent. Youre quite right: I will. (He gives him a copy of Mr. Ebenezer Howard's book, and several pamphlets.) You understand that the map of the city — the circular construction — is only a suggestion. Tim. I'll make a careful note o that (looking dazedly at the map). Broadbent. What I say is, why not start a Garden City in Ireland? Tim (with enthusiasm). Thats just what was on the tip o me tongue to ask you. Why not? (Defiantly.) Tell me why not. Broadbent. There are difficulties. I shall overcome them; but there are difficulties. When I first arrive in Ireland I shall be hated as an Englishman. As a Protestant, I shall be denounced from every altar. My life may be in danger. Well, I am prepared to face that. Tim. Never fear, sir. We know how to respict a brave innimy. Broadbent. What I really dread is misimderstand- ing. I think you could help me to avoid that. When I heard you speak the other evening in Bermondsey at 10 John Bull's Other Island Act I the meeting of the National League, I saw at once that you were— You wont mind my speaking frankly? Tim. Tell me all me faults as man to man. I can stand anything but flatthery. Bhoadbent. May I put it in this way? — that I saw at once that you were a thorough Irishman, with all the faults and all the qualities of your race: rash and im- provident but brave and goodnatured; not likely to suc- ceed in business on your own account perhaps, but eloquent, humorous, a lover of freedom, and a true fol- lower of that great Englishman Gladstone. Tim. Spare me blushes. I mustnt sit here to be praised to me face. But I confess to the goodnature: its an Irish wakeness. I'd share me last shillin with a friend. Broadbent. I feel sure you would, Mr. HaflSgan. Tim (impulsively). Damn it! call me Tim. A man that talks about Ireland as you do may call me any- thing. Gimme a howlt o that whisky bottle (he replen- ishes'). Broadbent (smiling indulgently). Well, Tim, will you come with me and help to break the ice between me and your warmhearted, impulsive countrymen? Tim. Will I come to Madagascar or Cochin China wid you? Bedad I'll come to Sie North Pole wid you if yll pay me fare; for the divil a shillin I have to buy a third class ticket. Broadbent. Ive not forgotten that, Tim. We must put that little matter on a solid English footing, though the rest can be as Irish as you please. You must come as my — my — well, I hardly know what to call it. If we call you my agent, theyll shoot you. If we call you a bailiff, theyll duck you in the horsepond. I have a secretary already; and — Tim. Then we'll call him the Home Secretary and me the Irish Secretary. Eh? Broadbent (laughing industriously). Capital. Your Act I John Bull's Other Island 11 Irish wit has settled the first difficulty. Now about your salary — Tim. a salary, is it? Sure I'd do it for nothin, only me does ud disgrace you; and I'd be dhriven to borra money from your friends: a thing thats agin me nacher. But I wont take a penny more than a himdherd a year. {He looks with restless cunning at Broadbent, trying to guess how far he may go.) Broadbent. If that will satisfy you — Tim {more than reassured). Why shouldnt it satisfy me? A hundherd a year is twelve-pound a month, isnt it? Broadbent. No. Eight pound six and eightpence. Tim. Oh murdher ! An I'll have to sind five timme poor oul mother in Ireland. But no matther: I said a hundherd; and what I said I'll stick to, if I have to starve for it. Broadbent {with business caution). Well, let us say twelve pounds for the first month. Afterwards, we shall see how we get on. Tim. Youre a gentleman, sir. Whin me mother turns up her toes, you shall take the five pounds olf ; for your expinses must be kep down wid a sthrong hand; an — {He is interrupted by the arrival of Broadhent's part- ner.) Mr. Laurence Doyle is a man of 36, with cold grey eyes, strained nose, fine fastidious lips, critical brows, clever head, rather refined and goodlooking on the whole, but with a suggestion of thinshinnedness and dissatis- faction that contrasts strongly with Broadbent's eupeptic jollity. He comes in as a man at home there, but on seeing the stranger shrinks at once, and is about to withdraw when Broadbent reassures him. He then comes forward to the table, between the two others. Doyle {retreating). Youre engaged. Broadbent. Not at all, not at all. Come in. {To 12 John Bull's Other Island Act I Tim.) This gentleman is a friend who lives with me here: my partner, Mr. Doyle. (To Doyle.) This is a new Irish friend of mine, Mr. Tim Haifigan. Tim {rising with effusion). Sure its meself thats proud to meet any friend o Misther Broadbent's. The top o the mornin to you, sir ! Me heart goes out teeye both. Its not often I meet two such splendid speci- ments iv the Anglo-Saxon race. Beoadbent {chuckling). Wrong for once, Tim. My friend Mr. Doyle is a countryman of yours. Tim is noticeably dashed by this announcement. He drams in his horns at once, and scorvls suspiciously at Doyle under a vanishing mash of goodfellorvship : cringing a little, too, in mere nerveless fear of him. Doyle {with cool disgust). Good evening. {He re- tires to the fireplace, and says to Broadbent in a tone which conveys the strongest possible hint to Hafflgan that he is unwelcome) Will you soon be disengaged? Tim {his brogue decaying into a common would-be genteel accent with an unexpected strain of Glasgow in it). I must be going. Ivnmportnt engeegement in the west end. Broadbent {rising). It's settled, then, that you come with me. Tim. Ishll be verra pleased to accompany ye, sir. Broadbent. But how soon? Can you start tonight — from Paddington? We go by Milford Haven. Tim {hesitating). Well — I'm afreed — I {Doyle goes abruptly into the bedroom, slamming the door and shattering the last remnant of Tim's nerve. The poor wretch saves himself from bursting into tears by plung- ing again into his role of daredevil Irishman. He rushes to Broadbent j plucks at his sleeve with trembling fingers; and pours forth his entreaty with all the brogue he can muster, subduing his voice lest Doyle should hear and return.) Misther Broadbent: dont humiliate me before a fella counthryman. Look here: me does is up Act I John Bull's Other Island 13 the spout. Gimme a fypounnote — I'll pay ya nex Choosda whin me ship comes home — or you can stop it out o me month's sallery. I'll be on the platform at Paddnton punctial an ready. Gimme it quick, before he comes back. You wont mind me axin, will ye? Broadbent. Not at all. I was about to oiFer you an advance for travelling expenses. (He gives him a bank note.) Tim {pocketing it). Thank you. I'll be there half an hour before the thrain starts. {Larry is heard at the bedroom door, returning.) Whisht: hes comin back. Goodbye an God bless ye. {He hurries out almost cry- ing, the £5 note and all the drink it means to him being too much for his empty stomach and overstrained nerves.) Doyle {returning). Where the devil did you pick up that seedy swindler? What was he doing here? {He goes up to the table where the plans are, and makes a note on one of them, referring to his pocket book as he does so.) Broadbent. There you go! Why are you so down on every Irishman you meet, especially if hes a bit shabby? poor devil! Surely a fellow-countryman may pass you the top of the morning without offence, even if his coat is a bit shiny at the seams. Doyle {contemptuously). The top of the morning! Did he call you the broth of a boy? {He comes to the writing table.) Broadbent {triumphantly). Yes. Doyle. And wished you more power to your elbow? Broadbent. He did. Doyle. And that your shadow might never be less ? Broadbent. Certainly. Doyle {taking up the depleted whisky bottle and shaking his head at it). And he got about half a pint of whisky out of you. 14 John Bull's Other Island Act I Broadbent. It did him no harm. He never turned a hair. Doyle. How much money did he borrow? Broadbent. It was not borrowing exactly. He shewed a very honorable spirit about money. I believe he would share his last shilling with a friend. Doyle. No doubt he would share his friend's last shilling if his friend was fool enough to let him. How much did he touch you for? Broadbent. Oh, nothing. An advance on his salary — for travelling expenses. Doyle. Salary! In Heaven's name, what for? Broadbent. For being my Home Secretary, as he very wittily called it. Doyle. I dont see the joke. Broadbent. You can spoil any joke by being cold blooded about it. I saw it all right when he said it. It was something — something really very amusing — about the Home Secretary and the Irish Secretary. At all events, hes evidently the very man to take with me to Ireland to break the ice for me. He can gain the confidence of the people there, and make them friendly to me. Eh? (He seats himself on the office stool, and tilts it back so that the edge of the stand- ing desk supports his back and prevents his toppling over.) Doyle. A nice introduction, by George! Do you suppose the whole population of Ireland consists of drunken begging letter writers, or that even if it did, they would accept one another as references? Broadbent. Pooh ! nonsense ! hes only an Irishman. Besides, you dont seriously suppose that HafEgan can humbug me, do you? Doyle. No: hes too lazy to take the trouble. All he has to do is to sit there and drink your whisky while you humbug yourself. However, we neednt argue about Haffigan, for two reasons. First, with your money Act I John Bull's Other Island 15 in his pocket he will never reach Paddington: there are too many public houses on the way. Second, hes not an Irishman at all. Broadbent. Not an Irishman! {He is so amazed hy the statement that he straightens himself and brings the stool holt upright.) Doyle. Born in Glasgow. Never was in Ireland in his life. I know all about him. Broadbent. But he spoke — he behaved just like an Irishman. Doyle. Like an Irishman!! Is it possible that you dont know that all this top-o-the-morning and broth-of- a-boy and more-power-to-your-elbow business is as peculiar to England as the Albert Hall concerts of Irish music are? No Irishman ever talks like that in Ireland, or ever did, or ever will. But when a thor- oughly worthless Irishman comes to England, and finds the whole place full of romantic duffers like you, who will let him loaf and drink and sponge and brag as long as he flatters your sense of moral superiority by playing the fool and degrading himself and his coun- try, he soon learns the antics that take you in. He picks them up at the theatre or the music hall. Haffigan learnt the rudiments from his father, who came from my part of Ireland. I knew his uncles. Matt and Andy Haffigan of RosscuUen. Broadbent {still incredulous). But his brogue! Doyle. His brogue! A fat lot you know about brogues ! Ive heard you call a Dublin accent that you could hang your hat on, a brogue. Heaven help you! you dont know the difference between Connemara and Rathmines. {With violent irritation.) Oh, damn Tim Haffigan! lets drop the subject: hes not worth wrangling about. Broadbent. Whats wrong with you today, Larry.'' Why are you so bitter? Doyle looks at him perplexedly ; comes slowly to the 16 John Bull's Other Island Act I writing table; and sits down at the end next the fireplace before replying. Doyle. Well: your letter completely upset me, for one thing. Broadbent. Why? Larry. Your foreclosing this RosscuUen mortgage and turning poor Nick Lestrange out of house and home has rather taken me aback; for I liked the old rascal when I was a boy and had the run of his park to play in. I was brought up on the property. Broadbent. But he wouldnt pay the interest. I had to foreclose on behalf of the Syndicate. So now I'm off to RosscuUen to look after the property myself. {He sits down at the writing table opposite Larry, and adds, casually, but with an anxious glance at his part- ner.} Youre coming with me, of course? Doyle {rising nervously and recommencing his rest- less movements). Thats it. Thats what I dread. Thats what has upset me. Broadbent. But dont you want to see your country again after 18 years absence? to see your people? to be in the old home again? to — Doyle {interrupting him very impatiently). Yes, yes: I know all that as well as you do. Broadbent. Oh well, of course {with a shrug) if you take it in that way, I'm sorry. Doyle. Never you mind my temper: its not meant for you, as you ought to know by this time. {He sits down again, a little ashamed of his petulance; reflects a moment bitterly; then bursts out.) I have an instinct against going back to Ireland: an instinct so strong that I'd rather go with you to the South Pole than to RosscuUen. Broadbent. What! Here you are, belonging to a nation with the strongest patriotism! the most invet- erate homing instinct in the world! and you pretend youd rather go anywhere than back to Ireland. Act I John Bull's Other Island 17 You donl suppose I believe you, do you? In your DoYLE. Never mind my heart: an Irishman's heart IS nothing but his imagination. How many of all those millions that have left Ireland have ever come back or wanted to come back? But whats the use of talking to you? Three verses of twaddle about the Irish emigrant sitting on the stile, Mary," or three hours of Irish patriotism in Bermondsey or the Scotland Division of Liverpool, go further with you than all the facts that stare you in the face. Why, man alive, look at me! You know the way I nag, and worry, and carp, and cavil, and disparage, and am never satisfied and never quiet, and try the patience of my best friends. Broadbent. Oh, come, Larry! do yourself justice. Youre very amusing and agreeable to strangers. Doyle. Yes, to strangers. Perhaps if I was a bit stifFer to strangers, and a bit easier at home, like an Englishman, I'd be better company for you. Broadbent. We get on well enough. Of course you have the melancholy of the Keltic race — Doyle (bounding out of his chair). Good God!!! Broadbent (slyly) — and also its habit of using strong language when theres nothing the matter. Doyle. Nothing ,the matter! When people talk about the Celtic race, I feel as if I could burn down London. That sort of rot does more harm than ten Coercion Acts. Do you suppose a man need be a Celt to feel melancholy in RosscuUen? Why, man, Ireland was peopled just as England was; and its breed was crossed by just the same invaders. Broadbent. True. All^-the capable-people~in "Ire- land are of English extraction. It has often struck me as a most remarkable circumstance that the only party in parliament which shews the genuine old English char- acter and spirit is the Irish party. Look at its inde- pendence, its determination, its defiance of bad Govern- 18 John Bull's Other Island Act I ments, its sympathy with oppressed nationalities all the world over! How English! Doyle. Not to mention the solemnity with which it talks old-fashioned nonsense which it knows perfectly well to be a century behind the times. Thats English, if you like. Broadbent. No, Larry, no. You are thinking of the modern hybrids that now monopolize England. Hypocrites, humbugs, Germans, Jews, Yankees, for- eigners, Park Laners, cosmopolitan riifraiF. Dont call them English. They dont belong to the dear old island, but to their confounded new empire; and by George! theyre worthy of it; and I wish them joy of it. Doyle (unmoved by this outburst). There! You feel better now, dont you? Broadbent (defiantly). I do. Much better. Doyle. My dear Tom, you only need a touch of the Irish climate to be as big a fool as I am myself. If all my Irish blood were poured into your veins, you wouldnt turn a hair of your constitution and character. Go and marry the most English Englishwoman you can find, and then bring up your son in Eosscullen; and that son's character will be so like mine and so imlike yours that everybody will accuse me of being his father. (With sudden anguish.) RosscuUen! oh, good Lord, RosscuUen ! The dullness ! the hopelessness ! the igno- rance ! the bigotry ! Broadbent (matter-of-factly). The usual thing in the country, Larry. Just the same here. Doyle (hastily). No, no: the climate is different. Here, if the life is dull, you can be dull too, and no great harm done. (Going off into a passionate dream.) But your wits cant thicken in that soft moist air, on those white springy roads, in those misty rushes and brown bogs, on those hillsides of granite rocks and magenta heather. Youve no such colors in the sky, no such lure in the distances, no such sadness in the even- Act I John Bull's Other Island 19 ings. Oh, the dreaming! the dreaming! the torturing, heartscalding, never satisfying dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming! {Savagely.) No debauchery that ever coarsened and brutalized an Englishman can take the worth and usefulness out of him like that dreaming. An Irishman's imagination never lets him alone, never convinces him, never satisfies him; but it makes him that he cant face reality nor deal with it nor handle it nor conquer it: he can only sneer at them that do, and (bitterly, at Broadhent) be " agreeable to strangers," like a good-for-nothing woman on the streets. {Gah- bling at Broadhent across the table.) Its all dreaming, all imagination. He cant be religious. The inspired Churchman that teaches him the sanctity of life and the importance of conduct is sent away empty; while the poor village priest that gives him a miracle or a sentimental story of a saint, has cathedrals built for him out of the pennies of the poor. He cant be in- telligently political: he dreams of what the Shan Van Vocht said in ninetyeight. If you want to interest him in Ireland youve got to call the unfortunate island Kath- leen ni Hoolihan and pretend shes a little old woman. It saves thinking. It saves working. It saves every- thing except imagination, imagination, imagination; and imagination's such a torture that you cant bear it with- out whisky. (With fierce shivering self-contempt.) At last you get that you can bear nothing real at all: youd rather starve than cook a meal; youd rather go shabby and dirty than set your mind to take care of your clothes and wash yourself; you nag and squabble at home because your wife isnt an angel, and she despises you because youre not a hero; and you hate the whole lot round you because theyre only poor slovenly useless devils like yourself. (Dropping his voice like a man making some shameful confidence.) And all the while there goes on a horrible, senseless, mischievous laughter. When youre yoimg, you exchange drinks with other 20 John Bull's Other Island Act I young men; and you exchange vile stories with them; and as youre too futile to be able to help or cheer them, you chafF and sneer and taunt them for not doing the things you darent do yourself. And all the time you laugh, laugh, laugh ! eternal derision, eternal envy, eter- nal folly, eternal fouling and staining and degrading, until, when you come at last to a coimtry where men take a question seriously and give a serious answer to it, you deride them for having no sense of humor, and plume yourself on your own worthlessness as if it made you better than them. Bhoadbent (roused to intense earnestness hy Doyle's eloquence). Never despair, Larry. There are great possibilities for Ireland. Home Rule will work won- ders under English guidance. Doyle (pulled up short, his face twitching with a reluctant smile). Tom: why do you select my most tragic moments for your most irresistible strokes of humor .'' Broadbent. Humor ! I was perfectly serious. What do you mean? Do you doubt my seriousness about Home Rule? Doyle. I am sure you are serious, Tom, about the English guidance. Broadbent (quite reassured). Of course I am. Our guidance is the important thing. We English must plade our capacity for government without stint at the F 'ice of nations who are less fortunately endowed in 1^ . respect; so as to allow them to develop in perfect freedom to the English level of self-government, you know. You understand me? • Doyle. Perfectly. And Rosscullen will understand you too. Broadbent (cheerfully). Of course it will. So thats all right. (He pulls up his chair and settles him- self comfortably to lecture Doyle.) Now, Larry, Ive listened carefully to all youve said about Ireland; and Act I John Bull's Other Island 21 I can see nothing whatever to prevent your coming with me. What does it all come to? Simply that you were only a young fellow when you were in Ireland. YouU find all that chaffing and drinking and not knowing what to be at in Peckham just the same as in Donny- brook. You looked at Ireland with a boy's eyes and saw only boyish things. Come back with me and look at it with a man's, and get a better opinion of your country. Doyle. I daresay youre partly right in that: at all events I know very well that if I had been the son of a laborer instead of the son of a country landagent, I should have struck more grit than I did. Unfortunately I'm not going back to visit the Irish nation, but to visit my father and Aunt Judy and Nora EeUly and Father Dempsey and the rest of them. Broadbent. Well, why not? TheyU be delighted to see you, now that England has made a man of you. Doyle (^struck by this). Ah! you hit the mark there, Tom, with true British inspiration. Broadbent. Common sense, you mean. Doyle (quickly'). No I dont: youve no more com- mon sense than a gander. No Englishman has any common sense, or ever had, or ever will have. Youre going on a sentimental expedition for perfectly ridicu- lous reasons, with your head full of political nonsense that would not take in any ordinarily intelligent donkey; but you can hit me in the eye with the simple truth about myself and my father. Broadbent {amused). I never mentioned your father. Doyle (not heeding the interruption). There he is in HosscuUen, a landagent who's always been in a small way because hes a Catholic, and the landlords are mostly Protestants. What with land courts reducing rents and Land Acts turning big estates into little holdings, he'd be a beggar this day if he hadnt bought his own little 22 John Bull's Other Island Act I farm under the Land Purchase Act. I doubt if hes been further from home than AthenmuUet for the last twenty years. And here am I, made a man of, as you say, by England. Bhoadbent {apologetically). I assure you I never meant Doyle. Oh, dont apologize: it's quite true. I dare- say Ive learnt something in America and a few other remote and inferior spots; but in the main it is by living with you and working in double harness with you that I have learnt to live in a real world and not in an imaginary one. I owe more to you than to any Irishman. Bhoadbent (^shaking his head with a twinkle in his eye). Very friendly of you, Larry, old man, but all blarney. I like blarney ; but it's rot, aU the same. Doyle. No it's not. I should never have done any- thing without you; although I never stop wondering at that blessed old head of yours with all its ideas in watertight compartments, and all the compartments war- ranted impervious to anything that it doesnt suit you to understand. Bhoadbent {invincible'). Unmitigated rot, Larry, I assure you. Doyle. Well, at any rate you will admit that all my friends are either Englishmen or men of the big world that belongs to the big Powers. All the serious part of my life has been lived in that atmosphere: aU the serious part of my work had been done with men of that sort. Just think of me as I am now going back to Rosscullen! to that hell of littleness and monotony! How am I to get on with a little country landagent that ekes out his 5 per cent with a little farming and a scrap of house property in the nearest country town? What am I to say to him.'' What is he to say to me? Bhoadbent {scandalized). But youre father and son. Act I John Bull's Other Island 23 Doyle. What difFerence does that make? What would you say if I proposed a visit to y o u r father? Broadbent (with filial rectitude). I always made a point of going to see my father regularly until his mind gave way. Doyle (concerned). Has he gone mad? You never told me. Broadbent. He has joined the Tariff Reform League. He would never have done that if his mind had not been weakened. (Beginning to declaim.) He has fallen a victim to the arts of a political charlatan who Doyle (interrupting him). You mean that you keep clear of your father because he differs from you about Free Trade, and you dont want to quarrel with him. Well, think of me and my father! Hes a Nationalist and a Separatist. I'm a metallurgical chemist turned civil engineer. Now whatever else metallurgical chem- istry may be, it's not national. It's international. And my business and yours as civil engineers is to join coun- tries, not to separate them. The one real political con- viction that our business has rubbed into us is that fron- tiers are hindrances and flags confounded nuisances. Broadbent (still smarting under Mr. Chamberlain's economic heresy). Only when there is a protective tariff Doyle (firmly). Now look here, Tom: you want to get in a speech on Free Trade; and youre not going to do it: I wont stand it. My father wants to make St. George's Channel a frontier and hoist a green flag on College Green; and I want to bring Galway within 3 hours of Colchester and 24 of New York. I want Ire- land to be the brains and imagination of a big Com- monwealth, not a Robinson Crusoe island. Then theres the religious difiiculty. My Catholicism is the Catholi- cism of Charlemagne or Dante, qualified by a great deal of modern science and folklore which Father Dempsey 24 John Bull's Other Island Act I would call the ravings of an Atheist. Well, my father's Catholicism is the Catholicism of Father Dempsey. Bboadbent (^shrewdly). I dont want to interrupt you, Larry; but you know this is all gammon. These differences exist in all families; but the members rub on together all right. (^Suddenly relapsing into por- tentousnessj) Of course there are some questions which touch the very foundations of morals; and on these I grant you even the closest relationships cannot excuse any compromise or laxity. For instance Doyle {impatiently springing up and walking about). For instance. Home Rule, South Africa, Free Trade, and the Education Rate. Well, I should differ from my father on every one of them, probably, just as I differ from you about them. Broadbent. Yes; but you are an Irishman; and these things are not serious to you as they are to an Englishman. Doyle. What! not even Home Rule! Broadbent {steadfastly). Not even Home Rule. We owe Home Rule not to the Irish, but to our English Gladstone. No, Larry: I cant help thinking that theres something behind all this. Doyle (hotly). What is there behind it? Do you think I'm humbugging you? Broadbent. Dont fly out at me, old chap. I only thought — Doyle. What did you think? Broadbent. Well, a moment ago I caught a name which is new to me: a Miss Nora Reilly, I think. {Doyle stops dead and stares at him with something like awe.) I dont wish to be impertinent, as you know, Larry; but are you sure she has nothing to do with your reluctance to come to Ireland with me? Doyle {sitting down again, vanquished). Thomas Broadbent: I surrender. The poor silly-clever Irish- man takes off his hat to God's Englishman. The man Act I John Bull's Other Island 25 who could in all seriousness make that recent remark of yours about Home Rule and Gladstone must be simply the champion idiot of all the world. Yet the man who could in the very next sentence sweep away all my special pleading and go straight to the heart of my motives must be a man of genius. But that the idiot and the genius should be the same man! how is that possible? (Springing to his feet.) By Jove, I see it all now. I'll write an article about it, and send it to Nature. Broadbent {staring at him). What on earth — Doyle. It's quite simple. You know that a cater- pillar — Broadbent. A caterpillar ! ! ! Doyle. Yes, a caterpillar. Now give your mind to what I am going to say; for it's a new and important scientific theory of the English national character. A caterpillar — Broadbent. Look here, Larry: dont be an ass. Doyle {insisting). I say a caterpillar and I mean a caterpillar. YouU understand presently. A caterpillar {Broadbent mutters a slight protest, but does not press it) when it gets into a tree, instinctively makes itself look exactly like a leaf; so that both its enemies and its prey may mistake it for one and think it not worth bothering about. Broadbent. Whats that got to do with our English national character.'' |,_Doyle. I'll tell you. The world is as full of fools as a tree is full of leaves. Well, the Englishman does what the caterpillar does. He instinctively makes him- self look like a fool, and eats up all the real fools at his ease while his enemies let him alone and laugh at him for being a fool like the rest. Oh, nature is cun- ning, cunning! {He sits down, lost in contemplation of his word-picture.) Broadbent {with hearty admiration). Now you 26 John Bull's Other Island Act I know, Larry, that would never have occurred to me. You Irish people are amazingly clever. Of course it's all tommy rot; but it's so brilliant, you know! How the dickens do you think of such things! You really must write an article about it: theyll pay you something for it. If Nature wont have it, I can get it into En- gineering for you: I know the editor. Doyle. Lets get back to business. I'd better tell you about Nora Reilly. Broadbent. No: never mind. I shouldnt have al- luded to her. Doyle. I'd rather. Nora has a fortune. Broadbent (keenly interested). Eh.'' How much? Doyle. Forty per annum. Broadbent. Forty thousand? Doyle. No, forty. Forty pounds. Broadbent {much dashed). Thats what you call a fortune in Rosscullen, is it? Doyle. A girl with a dowry of five pounds calls it a fortune in Rosscullen. Whats more, ^40 a year i s a fortune there; and Nora Reilly enjoys a good deal of social consideration as an heiress on the strength of it. It has helped my father's household through many a tight place. My father was her father's agent. She came on a visit to us when he died, and has lived with us ever since. Broadbent (attentively, beginning to suspect Larry of misconduct with Nora, and resolving to get to the bottom of it). Since when? I mean how old were you when she came? DoYLE. I was seventeen. So was she: if she'd been older she'd have had more sense than to stay with us. We were together for 18 months before I went up to Dublin to study. When I went home for Christmas and Easter, she was there: I suppose it used to be something of an event for her, though of course I never thought of that then. Act I John Bull's Other Island 27 Broadbent. Were you at all hard hit? Doyle. Not really. I had only two ideas at that time: first, to learn to do something; and then to get out of Ireland and have a chance of doing it. She didnt count. I was romantic about her, just as I was romantic about Byron's heroines or the old Roimd Tower of RosscuUen; but she didnt count any more than they did. Ive never crossed St. George's Channel since for her sake — ^never even landed at Queenstown and come back to London through Ireland. Broadbent. But did you ever say anything that would justify her in waiting for you? Doyle. No, never. But she i s waiting for me. Broadbent. How do you know? Doyle. She writes to me — on her birthday. She used to write on mine, and send me little things as presents; but I stopped that by pretending that it was no use when I was travelling, as they got lost in the foreign post-oflSces. {He pronounces fost-ofjices with the stress on o-ffices, instead of on post.^ Broadbent. You answer the letters? Doyle. Not very punctually. But they get ac- knowledged at one time or another. Broadbent. How do you feel when you see her handwriting ? Doyle. Uneasy. I'd give £50 to escape a letter. Broadbent (looking grave, and throwing himself back in his chair to intimate that the cross-examination is over, and the result very damaging to the witness). Hm! Doyle. What d'ye mean by Hm!? Broadbent. Of course I know that the moral code is different in Ireland. But in England it's not consid- ered fair to trifle with a woman's affections. Doyle. You mean that an Englishman would get engaged to another woman and return Nora her letters 28 John Bull's Other Island Act I and presents with a letter to say he was unworthy of her and wished her every happiness? Broadbent. Wellj even that would set the poor girl's mind at rest. Doyle. Would it? I wonder! One thing I can tell you; and that is that Nora would wait until she died of old age sooner than ask my intentions or condescend to hint at the possibility of my having any. You dont know what Irish pride is. England may have knocked a good deal of it out of me; but shes never been in England; and if I had to choose between wounding that delicacy in her and hitting her in the face, I'd hit her in the face without a moment's hesitation. Broadbent (toAo has been nursing his knee and re- flecting, apparently rather agreeably^. You know, all this sounds rather interesting. Theres the Irish charm about it. Thats the worst of you: the Irish charm doesnt exist for you. Doyle. Oh yes it does. But it's the charm of a dream. Live in contact with dreams and you will get something of their charm: live in contact with facts and you will get something of their brutality. I wish I could find a country to live in where the facts were not brutal and the dreams not unreal. Broadbent (^changing his attitude and responding to Doyle's earnestness with deep conviction: his elbows on the table and his hands clenched^. Dont despair^ Larry, old boy: things may look black; but there will be a great change after the next election. Doyle {jumping up). Oh get out, you idiot! Broadbent (^rising also, not a bit snubbed). Ha! ha! you may laugh; but we shall see. However, dont let us argue about that. Come now! you ask my advice about Miss ReiUy? Doyle (^reddening). No I dont. Damn your advice! (Softening.) Lets have it, all the same. Broadbent. Well, everything you tell me about her Act I John Bull's Other Island 29 impresses me favorably. She seems to have the feelings of a lady; and though we must f^ce the fact that in England her income would hardly maintain her in the lower middle class — Doyle (interrupting). Now look here, Tom. That reminds me. When you go to Ireland, just drop talking about the middle class and bragging of belonging to it. In Ireland youre either a gentleman or youre not. If you want to be particularly oiFensive to Nora, you can call her a Papist; but if you call her a middle-class woman, Heaven help you! Broadbent (irrepressible). Never fear. Youre all descended from the ancient kings: I know that. (Com- placently.) I'm not so tactless as you think, my boy. (Earnest again.) I expect to find Miss Reilly a perfect lady; and I strongly advise you to come and have an- other look at her before you make up your mind about her. By the way, have you a photograph of her? Doyle. Her photographs stopped at twenty-five. Broadbent (saddened). Ah yes, I suppose so. (With feeling, severely.) Larry: youve treated that poor girl disgracefully. Doyle. By George, if she only knew that two men were talking about her like this — ! Broadbent. She wouldnt like it, would she.' Of course not. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, Larry. (More and more carried away hy his new fancy.) You know, I have a sort of presentiment that Miss Reilly is a very superior woman. Doyle (staring hard at him). Oh! you have, have you? Broadbent. Yes I have. There is something very touching about the history of this beautiful girl. Doyle. Beau — ! Oho! Heres a chance for Nora! and for me! (Calling.) Hodson. HoDSON (appearing at the bedroom door). Did you call, sir? 30 John Bull's Other Island Act I Doyle. Pack for me too. I'm going to Ireland with Mr. Broadbent. HoDsoN. Right, sir. (He retires into the bedroom.') Broadbent (clapping Doyle on the shoulder). Thank you, old chap. Thank you. END OF ACT I. ACT II Rosscullen. Westward a hillside of granite rock and heather slopes upward across the prospect from south to north. A huge stone stands on it in a naturally im- possible place, as if it had been tossed up there by a giant. Over the brow, in the desolate valley beyond, is a round tower. A lonely white high road trending away westward past the tower loses itself at the foot of the far mountains. It is evening; and there are great breadths of silken green in the Irish sky. The sun is setting. A man with the face of a young saint, yet with white hair and perhaps 50 years on his back, is standing near the stone in a trance of intense melancholy, looking over the hills as if by mere intensity of gaze he could pierce the glories of the sunset and see into the streets of heaven. He is dressed in black, and is rather more clerical in appearance than most English curates are nowadays; but he does not wear the collar and waistcoat of a parish priest. He is roused from his trance by the chirp of an insect from a tuft of grass in a crevice of the stone. His face relaxes: he turns quietly, and gravely takes off his hat to the tuft, addressing the insect in a brogue which is the jocular assumption of a gentleman and not the natural speech of a peasant. The Man. An is that yourself, Misther Grasshop- per? I hope I see you well this fine evenin. The Grasshopper (^prompt and shrill in answer). X.X. 31 32 John Bull's Other Island Act II The Man {encouragingly'). Thats right. I suppose now youve come out to make yourself miserable be ad- myerin the sunset? The Grasshopper (sadly). X.X. The Man. Aye^ youre a thrue Irish grasshopper. The Grasshopper (loudly). X.X.X. The Man. Three cheers for ould Ireland, is it? That helps you to face out the misery and the poverty and the torment, doesnt it? The Grasshopper (plaintively). X.X. The Man. Ah, its no use, me poor little friend. If you could jump as far as a kangaroo you couldnt jump away from your own heart an its punishment. You can only look at Heaven from here: you cant reach it. There ! (pointing with his stick to the sunset) thats the gate o glory, isnt it? The Grasshopper (assenting). X.X. The Man. Sure it's the wise grasshopper yar to know that! But tell me this, Misther Unworldly Wise- man: why does the sight of Heaven wring your heart an mine as the sight of holy wather wrings the heart o the divil? What wickedness have you done to bring that curse on you? Here! where are you jumpin to? Wheres your manners to go skyrocketin like that out o the box in the middle o your confession (he threatens it with his stick) ? The Grasshopper (penitently). X. The Man (lowering the stick). I accept your apol- ogy; but dont do it again. And now tell me one thing before I let you go home to bed. Which would you say this counthry was: hell or purgatory? The Grasshopper. X. The Man. Hell! Faith I'm afraid youre right. I wondher what you and me did when we were alive to get sent here. The Grasshopper (shrilly). X.X. The Man (nodding). Well, as you say, its a deli- Act II John Bull's Other Island 33 cate subject; and I wont press it on you. Now off widj a. The Grasshopper. X.X. {It springs away.) The Man {waving his stick). God speed you! {He walks away past the stone towards the brow of the hill. Immediately a young laborer, his face distorted with terror, slips round from behind the stone. The Laborer {crossing himself repeatedly). Oh glory be to God! glory be to God! Oh Holy Mother an all the saints! Oh murdher! murdher! {Beside himself, calling.) Fadher Keegan! Fadher Keegan! The Man {turning). Who's there? Whats that? {He comes back and finds the laborer, who clasps his knees.) Patsy Farrell! What are you doing here? Patsy. O for the love o God dont lave me here wi dhe grasshopper. I hard it spakin to you. Dont let it do me any harm. Father darlint. Keegan. Get up, you foolish man, get up. Are you afraid of a poor insect because I pretended it was talk- ing to me? Patsy. Oh, it was no pretending, Fadher dear. Didnt it give three cheers n say it was a divil out o hell? Oh say youll see me safe home, Fadher; n put a blessin on me or somethin {he moans with terror). Keegan. What were you doin there. Patsy, listnin? Were you spyin on me? Patsy. No, Fadher: on me oath an soul I wasnt: I was waitn to meet Masther Larry n carry his luggage from the car; n I fell asleep on the grass; n you woke me talkin to the grasshopper; n I hard its wicked little voice. Oh, d'ye think I'll die before the year's out, Fadher? Keegan. For shame. Patsy! Is that your religion, to be afraid of a little deeshy grasshopper? Suppose it was a divil, what call have you to fear it? If I could ketch it, I'd make you take it home widj a in your hat for a penance. 34 John Bull's Other Island Act II Patsy. Sure, if you wont let it harm me, I'm not afraid, your riverence. {He gets up, a little reassured. He is a callow, flaxen polled, smoothfaced, downy chinned lad, fully grown but not yet fully filled out, with blue eyes and an instinctively acquired air of help- lessness and silliness, indicating, not his real character, but a cunning developed by his constant dread of a hostile dominance, which he habitually tries to disarm and tempt into unmasking by pretending to be a much greater fool than he really is. Englishmen think him half-witted, which is exactly what he intends them to think. He is clad in corduroy trousers, unbuttoned waistcoat, and coarse blue striped shirt.) Keegan (admonitorily). Patsy: what did I tell you about callin me Father Keegan an your reverence? What did Father Dempsey tell you about it? Patsy. Yis, Fadher. Keegan. Father! Patsy (desperately). Arra, hwat am I to call you? Fadher Dempsey sez youre not a priest; n we all know youre not a man; n how do we know what ud happen to us if we shewed any disrespect to you? N sure they say wanse a priest always a priest. Keegan (sternly). Its not for the like of you. Patsy, to go behind the instruction of your parish priest and set yourself up to judge whether your Church is right or wrong. Patsy. Sure I know that, sir. Keegan. The Church let me be its priest as long as it thought me fit for its work. When it took away my papers it meant you to know that I was only a poor madman, unfit and unworthy to take charge of the souls of the people. Patsy. But wasnt it only because you knew more Latn than Father Dempsey that he was jealous of you? Keegan (scolding him to keep himself from smiling). How dar you. Patsy Farrell, put your own wicked little Act II John Bull's Other Island 35 spites and foolishnesses into the heart of your priest? For two pins I'd tell him what you just said. Patsy (coaxing). Sure you wouldnt — Keegan. Wouldnt I ? God forgive you ! youre little better than a heathen. Patsy. Deedn I am, Fadher: it's me bruddher the tinsmith in Dublin youre thinkin of. Sure he had to be a freethinker when he larnt a thrade and went to live in the town. Keegan. Well, he'll get to Heaven before you if youre not careful. Patsy. And now you listen to me, once and for all. YouU talk to me and pray for me by the name of Pether Keegan, so you will. And when youre angry and tempted to lift your hand agen the donkey or stamp your foot on the little grasshopper, remember that the donkey's Pether Keegan's brother, and the grasshopper Pether Keegan's friend. And when youre tempted to throw a stone at a sinner or a curse at a beggar, remember that Pether Keegan is a worse sinner and a worse beggar, and keep the stone and the curse for him the next time you meet him. Now say God bless you, Pether, to me before I go, just to practise you a bit. Patsy. Sure it wouldnt be right, Fadher. I.Qant — ' Keegan. Yes you can. Now out with it; or I'll put this stick into your hand an make you hit me with it. Patsy (throwing himself on his knees in an ecstasy of adoration). Sure its your blessin I want, Fadher Keegan. I'll have no luck widhout it. Keegan (shocked). Get up out o that, man. Dont kneel to me: I'm not a saint. Patsy (with intense conviction). Oh in throth yar, sir. (The grasshopper chirps. Patsy, terrified, clutches at Keegan's hands.) Dont set it on me, Fadher: I'll do anythin you bid me. Keegan (pulling him up). You bosthoon, you! Dont you see that it only whistled to tell me Miss 36 John Bull's Other Island Act II Reilly's comin? There! Look at her and pull yourself together for shame. Off widja to the road: youll be late for the car if you dont make haste (bustling him down the hill). I can see the dust of it in the gap already. Patsy. The Lord save us ! (He goes down the hill towards the road like a haunted man.) Nora Reilly comes down the hill. A slight weak woman in a pretty muslin print gown (her best), she is a figure commonplace enough to Irish eyesj but on the inhabitants of fatter-fed, crowded, hustling and bustling modern countries she makes a very different impression. The absence of any symptom,s of coarse- ness or hardness or appetite in her, her comparative delicacy of manner and sensibility of apprehension, her thin hands and slender figure, her novel accent, with the caressing plaintive Irish melody of her speech, give her a charm which is all the m.ore effective because, be- ing untravelled, she is unconscious of it, and never dreams of deliberately dramatizing and exploiting it, as the Irishwoman in England does. For Tom Broadbent ther"-^ 'e, an attractive woman, whom he would even c ■'I. To Larry Doyle, an everyday woman fit r ■ ttiii - Ae eighteenth century, helpless, useless, al- ii, cess, an invalid without the excuse of disease, a% '. ^<,arnation of everything in Ireland that drove him out of it. These judgments have little value and no finality; but they are the judgments on which her fate hangs just at present. Keegan touches his hat to her: he does not take it off. Nora. Mr. Keegan: I want to speak to you a minute if you dont mind. Keegan (dropping the broad Irish vernacular of his speech to Patsy). An hour if you like. Miss Reilly: youre always welcome. Shall we sit down? Nora. Thank you. (They sit on the heather. She is shy and anxious; but she comes to the point prom,ptly Act II John BuU's Other Island 37 hecause she can think of nothing else.) They say you did a gradle o travelling at one time ^ ^ ^ Keegan Well you see I'm not a Mnooth man (he T^ns that he was not a student at Maynooth College). ^^? .wl^.T^ ^ ^^"^'^^^ ^^^ °lder generation of priests that had been educated in Salamanca. So when 1 felt sure of my vocation I went to Salamanca. Then I wa^ed from Salamanca to Rome, an sted in a monas- tery there for a year. My pilgrimage to Rome taught me that walking is a better way of travelling than the tram; so I walked from Rome to the Sorbonne in Paris; and I wish I could have walked from Paris to Oxford; for I was very sick on the sea. After a year of Oxford I had to walk to Jerusalem to walk the Oxford feeling off me. From Jerusalem I came back to Patmos, and spent six months at the monastery of Mount Athos. From that I came to Ireland and settled down as a parish priest until I went mad. Nora {startled). Oh dont say that. Keeqan. Why not.? Dont you know the story? how I confessed a black man and gave him absolution; and how he put a spell on me and drove me mad. NoBA. How can you talk such nonsense about your- self .'' For shame ! Keegan. It's not nonsense at all: it's true — ^in a way. But never mind the black man. Now that you know what a travelled man I am, what can I do for you .'' {She hesitates and plucks nervously at the heather. He stays her hand gently.) Dear Miss Nora: dont pluck the little flower. If it was a pretty baby you wouldnt want to pull its head off and stick it in a vawse o water to look at. {The grasshopper chirps: Keegan turns his head and addresses it in the vernacular.) Be aisy, me son: she wont spoil the swing-swong in your little three. {To Nora, resuming his urbane style.) You see I'm quite cracked; but never mind: I'm harm- less. Now what is it? 38 John Bull's Other Island Act II Nora (embarrassed). Oh, only idle curiosity. I wanted to know whether you found Ireland — I mean the country part of Ireland, of course — very small and backwardlike when you came back to it from Rome and Oxford and all the great cities. Keegan. When I went to those great cities I saw wonders I had never seen in Ireland. But when I came back to Ireland I found all the wonders there waiting for me. You see they had been there all the time; but my eyes had never been opened to them. I did not know what my own house was like, because I had never been outside it. Nora. D'ye think thats the same with everybody? Keegan. With everybody who has eyes in his soul as well as in his head. Nora. But really and truly now, werent the people rather disappointing? I should think the girls must have seemed rather coarse and dowdy after the foreign princesses and people? But I suppose a priest wouldnt notice that. Keegan. It's a priest's business to notice everything. I wont tell you all I noticed about women; but I'll tell you this. The more a man knows, and the farther he travels, the more likely he is to marry a country girl afterwards. Nora (blushing with delight). Youre joking, Mr. Keegan: I'm sure yar. Keegan. My way of joking is to tell the truth. It's the funniest joke in the world. Nora (incredulous). Galong with you! Keegan (springing up actively). Shall we go down to the road and meet the car ? (She gives him her hand and he helps her up.) Patsy Farrell told me you were expecting young Doyle. Nora (tossing her chin up at once). Oh, I'm not expecting him particularly. It's a wonder hes come back at all. After staying away eighteen years he can Act II John Bull's Other Island 39 harly expect us to be very anxious to see him, can he now? Keegan. Well, not anxious perhaps; but you will be curious to see how much hes changed in all these years. Nora (with a sudden bitter flush). I suppose thats all that brings him back to look at us, just to see how much w e V e changed. Well, he can wait and see me be candlelight: I didnt come out to meet him: I'm going to walk to the Round Tower (going west across the hill). Keegan. You couldnt do better this fine evening. (Gravely.) Ill tell him where youve gone. (She turns as if to forbid him; but the deep understanding in his eyes makes that impossible; and she only looks at him earnestly and goes. He watches her disappear on the other side of the hill; then says) Aye, hes come to tor- ment you; and youre driven already to torment him. (He shakes his head, and goes slowly away across the hill in the opposite direction, lost in thought.) By this time the car has arrived, and dropped three of its passengers on the high road at the foot of the hill. It is a monster jaunting car, black and dilapidated, one of the last survivors of the public vehicles known to earlier generations as Beeyankiny cars, the Irish having laid violent tongues on the name of their projector, one Bianconi, an enterprising Italian. The three passen- gers are the parish priest. Father Dempsey; Cornelius Doyle, Larry's father; and Broadbent, all in overcoats and as stiff as only an Irish car could make them. The priest, stout and fatherly, falls far short of that finest type of countryside pastor which represents the genius of priesthood; but he is equally far above the base type in which a strong-minded and unscrupulous peasant uses the Church to extort money, power, and privilege. He is a priest neither by vocation nor ambi- tion, but because the life suits him. He has boundless 40 John Bull's Other Island Act II authority over Ms flock, and taxes them stiffly enough to he a rich man. The old Protestant ascendency is now too broken to gall him. On the whole, an easygoing, amiable, even modest man as long as his dues are paid and his authority and dignity fully admitted. Cornelius Doyle is an elder of the small wiry type, with a hardshinned, rather worried face, clean shaven except for sandy whiskers blanching into a lustreless pale yellow and quite white at the roots. Hi^ dress is that of a country-town man of business: that is, an old- ish shooting suit, and elastic sided boots quite uncon- nected with shooting. Feeling shy with Broadbent, he is hasty, which is his way of trying to appear genial. Broadbent, for reasons which will appear later, has no luggage except a field glass and a guide book. The other two have left theirs to the unfortunate Patsy Far- rell, who struggles up the hill after them, loaded with a sack of potatoes, a hamper, a fat goose, a colossal salmon, and several paper parcels. Cornelius leads the way up the hill, with Broadbent at his heels. The priest follows; and Patsy lags labori- ously behind. Cornelius. This is a bit of a climb, Mr. Broadbent; but its shorter than goin round be the road. Broadbent (stopping to examine the great stone). Just a moment, Mr. Doyle; I want to look at this stone. It must be Finian's die-cast. Cornelius (in blank bewilderment). Hwat? Broadbent. Murray describes it. One of your great national heroes — I cant pronounce the name — Finian Somebody, I think. Father Dempsey (also perplexed, and rather scan- dalized). Is it Fin McCool you mean? Broadbent. I daresay it is. (^Referring to the guide book.) Murray says that a huge stone, probably of Druidic origin, is still pointed out as the die cast by Fin in his celebrated match with the devil. Act n John Bull's Other Island 41 Cornelius (dubiously). Jeuce a word I ever heard of it! Father Dempsey {very seriously indeed, and even a htUe severely). Dent believe any such nonsense, sir. Ihere never was any such thing. When people talk to you about Fin McCool and the like, take no notice of them. It's all idle stories and superstition. Bhoadbent {somewhat indignantly; for to he re- buked by an Irish priest for superstition is more than he van stand). You dont suppose I believe it, do you? Father Dempsey. Oh, I thought you did. D'ye see the top o the Roun Tower there? thats an antiquity worth lookin at. Bhoadbent {deeply interested). Have you any the- ory as to what the Round Towers were for? Father Dempsey (a little offended). A theory? Me! (Theories are connected in his mind with the late Professor Tyndall, and with scientific scepticism gen- erally: also perhaps with the view that the Round Tow- ers are phallic symbols.) Cornelius (remonstrating). Father Dempsey is the priest of the parish, Mr. Broadbent. What would he be doing with a theory? Father Dempsey (with gentle emphasis). I have a knowledge of what the Roun Towers were, if thats what you mean. They are the forefingers of the early Church, pointing us all to God. Patsy, intolerably overburdened, loses his balance, and sits down involuntarily. His burdens are scattered over the hillside. Cornelius and Father Dempsey turn furiously on him, leaving Broadbent beaming at the stone and the tower with fatuous interest. Cornelius. Oh, be the hokey, the sammin's broke in two ! You schoopid ass, what d'ye mean ? Father Dempsey. Are you drunk. Patsy Farrell? Did I tell you to carry that hamper carefully or did I not? 42 John Bull's Other Island Act II Patsy (rubbing the back of his head, which has al- most dinted a slab of granite'). Sure me fut slipt. Howkn I carry three men's luggage at wanst? Father Dempsey. You were told to leave behind what you couldnt carry, an go back for it. Patsy. An whose things was I to lave behind? Hwat would your reverence think if I left your hamper behind in the wet grass; n hwat would the masther say if I left the sammin and the goose be the side o the road for annywan to pick up? Cornelius. Oh, youve a dale to say for yourself, you butther-fingered omadhaun. WaitU Ant Judy sees the state o that sammin : she'll talk to you. Here ! gimme that birdn that fish there; an take Father Demp- sey's hamper to his house for him; n then come back for the rest. Father Dempsey. Do, Patsy. And mind you dont fall down again. Patsy. Sure I — Cornelius (bustling him up the hill). Whisht! heres Ant Judy. (Patsy goes grumbling in disgrace, with Father Dempsey's hamper.) Aunt Judy comes down the hill, a woman of 50, in no way remarkable, lively and busy without energy or grip, placid without tranquillity, kindly without concern for others: indeed without much concern for herself: a contented product of a narrow, strainless life. She wears her hair parted in the middle and quite smooth, with a flattened bun at the back. Her dress is a plain brown frock, with a woollen pelerine of black and aniline mauve over her shoulders, all very trim in honor of the occasion. She looks round for Larry j is puzzled; then stares incredulously at Broadbent. Aunt Judy. Surely to goodness thats not you, Larry ! Cornelius. Arra how could he be Larry, woman alive? Larry's in no hurry home, it seems. I havnt Act II John Bull's Other Island 43 set eyes on him. This is his friend, Mr. Broadbent. Mr. Broadbent: me sister Judy. Aunt Judy {hospitably: going to Broadbent and shaking hands heartily). Mr. Broadbent! Fancy me takin you for Larry! Sure we havnt seen a sight of him for eighteen years, n he only a lad when he left us. Broadbent. Its not Larry's fault: he was to have been here before me. He started in our motor an hour before Mr. Doyle arrived, to meet us at AthenmuUet, intending to get here long before me. Aunt Judy. Lord save us ! do you think hes had n axidnt .'' Broadbent. No: hes wired to say hes had a break- down and will come on as soon as he can. He expects to be here at about ten. Aunt Judy. There now! Fancy him trustn himself in a motor and we all expectn him ! Just like him ! he'd never do anything like anybody else. Well, what cant be cured must be injoored. Come on in, all of you. You must be dyin for your tea, Mr. Broadbent. Broadbent (with a slight start). Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for tea {he looks at his watch). Aunt Judy. Not a bit: we never have it airlier than this. I hope they gave you a good dinner at Athen- muUet. Broadbent {trying to conceal his consternation as he realises that he is not going to get any dinner after his drive). Oh — er — excellent, excellent. By the way, hadnt I better see about a room at the hotel? {They stare at him.) Cornelius. The hotel! Father Dempsey. Hwat hotel? Aunt Judy. Indeedn youre not goin to a hotel. YouU stay with us. I'd have put you into Larry's room, only the boy's pallyass is too short for you; but we'll make a comfortable bed for you on the sofa in the parlor. 44 John Bull's Other Island Act II Bhoadbent. Youre very kind, Miss Doyle ; but really I'm ashamed to give you so much trouble unnecessarily. I shant mind the hotel in the least. Father Dempsey. Man alive! theres no hotel in Rosscullen. Bhoadbent. No hotel! Why, the driver told me there was the finest hotel in Ireland here. {They re- gard him joylessly.') Aunt Judy. Arra would you mind what the like of him wor.ld tell you? Sure he'd say hwatever was the least trouble to himself and the pleasantest to you, thinkin you might give him a thruppeny bit for him- self or the like. Bhoadbent. Perhaps theres a public house. Father Dempsey (^grimly'). Theres seventeen. Aunt Judy. Ah then, how could you stay at a public house? theyd have no place to put you even if it was a right place for you to go. Come ! is it the sofa youre afraid of? If it is, you can have me own bed. I can sleep with Nora. Bhoadbent. Not at all, not at all: I should be only too delighted. But to upset your arrangements in this way — Cornelius (^anxious to cut short the discussion, which makes him ashamed of his house; for he guesses Broad- bent's standard of comfort a little more accurately than his sister does). Thats all right: itll be no trouble at all. Hweres Nora? Aunt Judy. Oh, how do I know? She slipped out a little while ago: I thought she was goin to meet the car. Cornelius {dissatisfied). Its a queer thing of her to run out o the way at such a time. Aunt Judy. Sure shes a queer girl altogether. Come. Come in," come in. Father Dempset. I'll say good-night, Mr. Broad- bent. If theres anything I can do for you in this Act II John Bull's Other Island 45 parish, let me know. (He shakes hands with Broad- bent.') Broadbent (effusively cordial). Thank you. Father Dempsey. Delighted to have met you, sir. Father Dempsey (passing on to Aunt Judy). Good- night, Miss Doyle. Aunt Judy. Wont you stay to tea? Father Dempsey. Not to-night, thank you kindly: I have business to do at home. (He turns to go, and meets Patsy Farrell returning unloaded.) Have you left that hamper for me? Patsy. Yis, your reverence. Father Dempsey. Thats a good lad (going). Patsy (to Aunt Judy"). Fadher Keegan sez — Father Dempsey (turning sharply on him). Whats that you say? Patsy (frightened). Fadher Keegan — Father Dempsey. How often have you heard me bid you call Mister Keegan in his proper name, the same as I do ? Father Keegan indeed ! Cant you tell the difference between your priest and any ole madman in a black coat? Patsy. Sure I'm afraid he might put a spell on me. Father Dempsey (wrathfully) . You mind what I tell you or I'll put a spell on you thatU make you lep. D'ye mind that now? (He goes home.) Patsy goes down the hill to retrieve the ■fish, the bird, and the sack. Aunt Judy. Ah, hwy cant you hold your tongue. Patsy, before Father Dempsey? Patsy. Well, what was I to do? Father Keegan bid me tell you Miss Nora was gone to the Roun Tower. Aunt Judy. An hwy couldnt you wait to tell us until Father Dempsey was gone? Patsy. I was afeerd o forgetn it; and then may be he'd a sent the grasshopper or the little dark looker into me at night to remind me of it. (The dark looker 46 John Bull's Other Island Act II is the common grey lizard, which is supposed to walk down the throats of incautious sleepers and cause them to perish in a slow decline J) Cornelius. Yah, you great gaum, you! Widjer grasshoppers and dark lookers! Here: take up them things and let me hear no more o your foolish lip. {Patsy obeys.) You can take the sammin under your oxther. (He wedges the salmon into Patsy's axilla.) Patsy. I can take the goose too, sir. Put it on me back and gimme the neck of it in me mouth. (Cornelius is about to comply thoughtlessly.) Aunt Judy (feeling that Broadbent's presence de- mands special punctiliousness). For shame. Patsy! to oiFer to take the goose in your mouth that we have to eat after you ! The masterll bring it in for you. (Patsy, abashed, yet irritated by this ridiculous fastidiousness, takes his load up the hill.) Cornelius. What the jeuce does Nora want to go to the Roim Tower for? Aunt Judy. Oh, the Lord knows! Romancin, I suppose. Praps she thinks Larry would go there to look for her and see her safe home. Broadbent. I'm afraid it's all the fault of my motor. Miss Reilly must not be left to wait and walk home alone at night. Shall I go for her."" Aunt Judy (contemptuously). Arra hwat ud hap- pen to her? Hurry in now. Corny. Come, Mr. Broad- bent. I left the tea on the hob to draw; and itU be black if we dont go in an drink it. They go up the hill. It is dusk by this time. Broadbent does not fare so badly after all at Aunt Judy's board. He gets not only tea and bread-and- butter, but more mutton chops than he has ever con- ceived it possible to eat at one sitting. There is also a most filling substance called potato cake. Hardly have his fears of being starved been replaced by his first misgiving that he is eating too much and will be Act II John Bull's Other Island 47 sorry for it to-morrow, rvhen his appetite is revived by the production of a bottle of illicitly distilled whisky, called potcheen, which he has read and dreamed of (he calls it pottine) and is now at last to taste. His good- humor rises almost to excitement before Cornelius shews signs of sleepiness. The contrast between Aunt Judy's table service and that of the south and east coast hotels at which he spends his Fridays-to-Tuesdays when he IS m London, seems to him delightfully Irish. The almost total atrophy of any sense of enjoyment in Cor- nelius, or even any desire for it or toleration of the possibility of life being something better than a round of sordid worries, relieved by tobacco, punch, fine morn- ings, and petty successes in buying and selling, passes with his guest as the whimsical affectation of a shrewd Irish humorist and incorrigible spendthrift. Aunt Judy seems to him an incarnate joJce. The likelihood that the joke will pall after a month or so, and is probably not apparent at any time to born Rossculleners, or that he himself unconsciously entertains Aunt Judy by his fantastic English personality and English mispronun- ciations, does not occur to him for a moment. In the end he is so charmed, and so loth to go to bed and perhaps dream of prosaic England, that he insists on going out to smoke a cigar and look for Nora Reilly at the Round Tower. Not that any special insistence is needed; for the English inhibitive instinct does not seem to exist in Rosscullen. Just as Nora's liking to miss a meal and stay out at the Round Tomer is accepted as a sufficient reason for her doing it, and for the family going to bed and leaving the door open for her, so Broadbent's whim to go out for a late stroll provokes neither hospitable remonstrance nor surprise. Indeed Aunt Judy wants to get rid of him whilst she makes a bed for him on the sofa. So off he goes, full fed, happy and enthusiastic, to explore the valley by moon- light. 48 John Bull's Other Island Act II The Round Tomer stands about half an Irish mile from Rosscullen, some fifty yards south of the road on a knoll with a circle of wild greensward on it. Thei road once ran over this knoll; but modern engineering has tempered the level to the Beeyankiny car by carry- ing the road partly round the knoll and partly through a cutting; so that the way from, the road to the tower is a footpath up the embankment through furze and brambles. On the edge of this slope, at the top of the path, Nora is straining her eyes in the moonlight, watching for Larry. At last she gives it up with a sob of im- patience, and retreats to the hoary foot of the tower, where she sits down discouraged and cries a little. Then she settles herself resignedly to wait, and hums a song — not an Irish melody, but a hackneyed English draw- ing-room ballad of the season before last — until some slight noise suggests a footstep, when she springs up eagerly and runs to the edge of the slope again. Some moments of silence and suspense follow, broken by un- mistakable footsteps. She gives a little gasp as she sees a man approaching. Nora. Is that you, Larry? (Frightened a little.) Who's that? Broadbent's voice from below on the path. Dont be alarmed. Nora. Oh, what an English accent youve got! Broadbent {rising into view). I must introduce my- self— Nora (violently startled, retreating). Its not you! Who are you? What do you want? Broadbent (advancing). I'm really s o sorry to have alarmed you. Miss Reilly. My name is Broadbent. Larry's friend, you know. Nora (chilled). And has Mr. Doyle not come with you? Broadbent. No. Ive come instead. I hope I am not unwelcome. Act II John Bull's Other Island 49 Nora {deeply mortified). I'm sorry Mr. Doyle should have given you the trouble, I'm sure. Broadbent. You see, as a stranger and an English- man, I thought it would be interesting to see the Round Tower by moonlight. Nora. Oh, you came to see the tower. I thought — {confused, trying to recover her manners). Oh, of course. I was so startled — It's a beautiful night, isnt it? Broadbent. Lovely. I must explain why Larry has not come himself. Nora. Why should he come? Hes seen the tower often enough: it's no attraction to him. {Genteelly.) An what do you think of Ireland, Mr. Broadbent? Have you ever been here before? Broadbent. Never. Nora. Aji how do you like it? Broadbent {suddenly betraying a condition of ex- treme sentimentality). I can hardly trust myself to say how much I like it. The magic of this Irish scene, and — I really dont want to be personal. Miss Reilly; but the charm of your Irish voice — Nora {quite accustomed to gallantry, and attaching no seriousness whatever to it). Oh, get along with you, Mr. Broadbent ! Youre breaking your heart about me already, I daresay, after seeing me for two minutes in the dark. Broadbent. The voice is just as beautiful in the dark, you know. Besides, Ive heard a great deal about you from Larry. Nora {rvith bitter indifference). Have you now? Well, thats a great honor, I'm sure. Broadbent. I have looked forward to meeting you more than to anything else in Ireland. Nora {ironically). Dear me! did you now? Broadbent. I did really. I wish you had taken half as much interest in me. 50 John Bull's Other Island Act II Nora. Oh, I was dying to see you, of course. I dare- say you can imagine the sensation an Englishman like you would make among us poor Irish people. Broadbent. Ah, now youre chaffing me. Miss Reilly: you know you are. You mustnt chaff me. I'm very much in earnest about Ireland and everything Irish. I'm very much in earnest about you and about Larry. Nora. Larry has nothing to do with me, Mr. Broad- bent. Broadbent. If I really thought that. Miss Eeilly, I should — well, I should let myself feel that charm of which I spoke just now more deeply than I — than I — Nora. Is it making love to me you are? Broadbent (^scared and much upset). On my word I believe I am. Miss Eeilly. If you say that to me again I shant answer for myself: all the harps of Ire- land are in your voice. (She laughs at him. He sud- denly loses his head and seises her arms, to her great indignation.) Stop laughing: do you hear? I am in earnest — in English earnest. When I say a thing like that to a woman, I mean it. (Releasing her and trying to recover his ordinary manner in spite of his bewilder- ing emotion.) I beg your pardon. '^ Nora. How dare you touch me? Broadbent. There are not many things I would not dare for you. That does not sound right perhaps; but I really — (he stops and passes his hand over his fore- head, rather lost). Nora. I think you ought to be ashamed. I think if you were a gentleman, and me alone with you in this place at night, you would die rather than do such a thing. Broadbent. You mean that it's an act of treachery to Larry? Nora. Deed I dont. What has Larry to do with it? It's an act of disrespect and rudeness to me: it shews Act II John Bull's Other Island 51 what you take me for. You can go your way now; and I'll go mine. Goodnight, Mr. Broadbent. Broadbent. No, please. Miss Reilly. One moment. Listen to me. I'm serious: I'm desperately serious. Tell me that I'm interfering with Larry; and I'll go straight from this spot back to London and never see you again. Thats on my honor: I will. Am I inter- fering with him? NoHA (answering in spite of herself in a sudden spring of bitterness). I should think you ought to know better than me whether youre interfering with him. Youve seen him oftener than I have. You know him better than I do, by this time. Youve come to me quicker than he has, havnt you? Broadbent. I'm bound to tell you, Miss Reilly, that Larry has not arrived in RosscuUen yet. He meant to get here before me; but his car broke down; and he may not arrive until to-morrow. Nora (her face lighting up}. Is that the truth? Broadbent. Yes : thats the truth. (She gives a sigh of relief.} Youre glad of that? Nora (up in arms at once). Glad indeed! Why should I be glad? As weve waited eighteen years for him we can afford to wait a day longer, I should think. Broadbent. If you really feel like that about him, there may be a chance for another man yet. Eh? Nora (deeply offended). I suppose people are dif- ferent in England, Mr. Broadbent; so perhaps you dont mean any harm. In Ireland nobody'd mind what a man'd say in fun, nor take advantage of what a woman might say in answer to it. If a woman couldnt talk to a man for two minutes at their first meeting without being treated the way youre treating me, no decent woman would ever talk to a man at all. Broadbent. I dont understand that. I dont admit that. I am sincere; and my intentions are perfectly honorable. I think you will accept the fact that I'm 52 John Bull's Other Island Act II a Englishman as a guarantee that I am not a man to act hastily or romantically, though I confess that your voice had such an extraordinary effect on me just now when you asked me so quaintly whether I was making love to you — Nora {^flushing). I never thought — Broadbent {quickly). Of course you didnt. I'm not so stupid as that. But I couldnt bear your laughing at the feeling it gave me. You — (again struggling with a surge of emotion) you dont know what I — (he chokes for a moment and then blurts out with unnatural steadi- ness) Will you be my wife.' 'Nora (promptly). Deed I wont. The idea! (Look- ing at him more carefully.) ■ Axra., come home, Mr. Broadbent; and get your senses back again. I think youre not accustomed to potcheen punch in the evening after your tea. Broadbent (horrified). Do you mean to say that I — I — I — my God ! that I appear drunk to you. Miss ReiUy? Nora (compassionately). How many tumblers had you? Broadbent (helplessly). Two. Nora. The flavor of the turf prevented you noticing the strength of it. Youd better come home to bed. Broadbent (fearfully agitated). But this is such a horrible doubt to put into my mind — to — ^to — For Heaven's sake, Miss Reilly, am I really drunk.'' Nora (soothingly). YouU be able to judge better in the morning. Come on now back with me, an think no more about it. (She takes his arm with motherly solici- tude and urges him gently towards the path.) Broadbent (yielding in despair). I must be drunk — frightfully drunk; for your voice drove me out of my senses — (he stumbles over a stone). No: on my word, on my most sacred word of honor. Miss Reilly, I tripped over that stone. It was an accident; it was indeed. Act II John Bull's Other Island 53 Nora. Yes, of course it was. Just take my arm, Mr. Broadbent, while we're goin down the path to the road. YouU be all right then. Broadbent (submissively taking it). I cant suffi- ciently apologize. Miss Reilly, or express my sense of your kindness when I am in such a disgusting state. How could I be such a bea — (he trips again) damn the heather ! my foot caught in it. Nora. Steady now, steady. Come along: come. (He is led down to the road in the character of a convicted drunkard. To him there is something divine in the sympathetic indulgence she substitutes for the angry dis- gust with which one of his own countrywomen would resent his supposed condition. And he has no suspicion of the fact, or of her ignorance of it, that when am Englishman is sentimental he behaves very much as an Irishman does when he is drunk.) END OF ACT II. ACT III Next morning Broadhent and Larry are sitting at the ends of a breakfast table in the middle of a small grass plot before Cornelius Doyle's house. They have finished their meal, and are buried in nervspapers. Most of the crockery is crowded upon a large square black tray of japanned- metal. The teapot is of brown delft ware. There is no silver; and the butter, on a dinner plate, is en bloc. The background to this breakfast is the house, a small white slated building, accessible by a half-glazed door. A person coming out into the garden by this door would find the table straight in front of him, and a gate leading to the road half way down the garden on his right; or, if he turned sharp to his left, he could pass round the end of the house through an unkempt shrubbery. The mutilated remnant of a huge plaster statue, nearly dissolved by the rains of a century, and vaguely resembling a majestic female in Roman draperies, with a wreath in her hand, stands neglected amid the laurels. Such statues, though apparently works of art, grow naturally in Irish gardens. Their germina- tion is a m.ystery to the oldest inhabitants, to whose means and tastes they are totally foreign. There is a rustic bench, much soiled by the birds, and decorticated and split by the weather, near the little gate. At the opposite side, a basket lies unmolested be- cause it might as well be there as anywhere else. An empty chair at the table was lately occupied by Cor- nelius, who has finished his breakfast and gone in to the room in which he receives rents and keeps his books and cash, known in the household as " the office." This 54 Act III John Bull's Other Island 55 chair, like the two occupied by Larry and Broadbent, has a mahogany frame and is upholstered in black horsehair. Larry rises and goes off through the shrubbery with his newspaper. Hodson comes in through the garden gate, disconsolate. Broadbent, who sits facing the gate, augurs the worst from his expression. Broadbent. Have you been to the village? Hodson. No use, sir. We'll have to get everything from London by parcel post. Broadbent. I hope they made you comfortable last night. Hodson. I was no worse than you were on that sofa, sir. One expects to rough it here, sir. Broadbent. We shall have to look out for some other arrangement. (Cheering up irrepressibly.) Still, it's no end of a joke. How do you like the Irish, Hodson ^ Hodson. Well, sir, theyre all right anywhere but in their own country. Ive known lots of em in England, and generally liked em. But here, sir, I seem simply to hate em. The feeling come over me the moment we landed at Cork, sir. It's no use my pretendin, sir: I cant bear em. My mind rises up agin their ways, some- how: they rub me the wrong way all over. Broadbent. Oh, their faults are on the surface: at heart they are one of the finest races on earth. (Hodson turns away, without affecting to respond to his enthusi- asm.^ By the way, Hodson — Hodson (turning). Yes, sir. Broadbent. Did you notice anything about me last night when I came in with that lady.'' Hodson (surprised). No, sir. Broadbent. Not any — er — ? You may speak frankly. Hodson. I didnt notice nothing, sir. What sort of thing did you mean, sir.'' 56 John Bull's Other Island Act III Broadbent. Well — er — er — well, to put it plainly, was I drunk? HoDsoN (amased). No, sir. Broadbent. Quite sure? HoDSON. Well, I should a said rather the opposite, sir. Usually when youve been enjoying yourself, youre a bit hearty like. Last night you seemed rather low, if anything. Broadbent. I certainly have no headache. Did you try the pottine, Hodson? HoDsoN. I just took a mouthful, sir. It tasted of peat : oh ! something horrid, sir. The people here call peat turf. Potcheen and strong porter is what they like, sir. I'm sure I dont know how they can stand it. Give me beer, I say. Broadbent. By the way, you told me I couldnt have porridge for breakfast; but Mr. Doyle had some. HoDSON. Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir. They call it stirabout, sir: thats how it was. They know no better, sir. Broadbent. All right: I'll have some tomorrow. Hodson goes to the house. When he opens the door he finds Nora and Aunt Judy on the threshold. He stands aside to let them pass, with the air of a tvell trained servant oppressed hy heavy trials. Then he goes in. Broadbent rises. Aunt Judy goes to the table and collects the plates and cups on the tray. Nora goes to the back of the rustic seat and looks out at the gate with the air of a woman accustomed to have nothing to do. Larry returns from the shrubbery. Broadbent. Good morning, Miss Doyle. Aunt Judy {thinking it absurdly late in the day for such a salutation). Oh, good morning. (^Before moving his plate.) Have you done? Broadbent. Quite, thank you. You must excuse us for not waiting for you. The country air tempted us to get up early. Act III John Bull's Other Island 57 Aunt Judy. N d'ye call this airly, God help you? Larry. Aunt Judy probably breakfasted about half past six. Aunt Judy. Whisht, you ! — draggin the parlor chairs out into the gardn n givin Mr. Broadbent his death over his meals out here in the cold air. {To Broadbent.) Why d'ye put up with his foolishness, Mr. Broadbent ? Broadbent. I assure you I like the open air. Aunt Judy. Ah galong ! How can you like whats not natural.^ I hope you slept well. Nora. Did anything wake yup with a thump at three o'clock? I thought the house was falling. But then I'm a very light sleeper. Larry. I seem to recollect that one of the legs of the sofa in the parlor had a way of coming out unex- pectedly eighteen years ago. Was that it, Tom? Broadbent (hastily). Oh, it doesnt matter: I was not hurt — at least — er — Aunt Judy. Oh now what a shame! An I told Patsy Farrll to put a nail in it. Broadbent. He did. Miss Doyle. There was a nail, certainly. Aunt Judy. Dear oh dear ! An oldish peasant farmer, small, leathery, peat-faced, with a deep voice and a surliness that is meant to h& aggressive, and is in effect pathetic — the voice of a man of hard life and many sorrows — comes in at the gate. He is .old enough to have perhaps worn a long tailed frieze coat and knee breeches in his time; hut now he!, is dressed respectably in a black frock coat, tall hat, and pollard colored trousers; and his face is as clean as washing can make it, though that is not saying much, as the habit is recently acquired and not yet congenial. The New-comer (at the gate). God save all here! (He comes a little way into the garden.) Larry (patronizingly, speaking across the garden to 58 John Bull's Other Island Act III Mm). Is that yourself. Matt Haffigan? Do you re- member me? Matthew {intentionally rude and blunt). No. Who are you? Nora. Oh, I'm sure you remember him, Mr. Haffigan. Matthew {grudgingly admitting it). I suppose he'll be young Larry Doyle that was. Larry. Yes. Matthew (to Larry). I hear you done well in America. Larry. Fairly well. Matthew. I suppose you saw me brother Andy out dhere. Larry. No. It's such a big place that looking for a man there is like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. They tell me hes a great man out there. Matthew. So he is, God be praised. Wheres your father ? Aunt Judy. He's inside, in the office, Mr. Haffigan, with Barney Doarn n Father Dempsey. Matthew, without wasting further words on the com- pany, goes curtly into the house. Larry {staring after him). Is anything wrong with old Matt? Nora. No. Hes the same as ever. Why? Larry. Hes not the same to me. He used to be very civil to Master Larry: a deal too civil, I used to think. Now hes as surly and stand-off as a bear. Aunt Judy. Oh sure hes bought his farm in the Land Purchase. Hes independent now. Nora. It's made a great change, Larry. Youd harly know the old tenants now. Youd think it was a liberty to speak t'dhem — some o dhem. {She goes to the table, and helps to take off the cloth, which she and Aunt Judy fold up between them.) Aunt Judy. I wonder what he wants to see Corny for. He hasnt been here since he paid the last of his Act III _^ John Bull's Other Island 59 old rent; and then he as good as threw it in Corny's face, I thought. Larry. No wonder! Of course they all hated us like the devil. Ugh! (Moodily.) Ive seen them in that office, telling my father what a fine boy I was, and plastering him with compliments, with your honor here and your honor there, when all the time their fingers were itching to be at his throat. Aunt Judy. Deedn why should they want to hurt poor Corny.? It was he that got Matt the lease of his farm, and stood up for him as an industrious decent man. Bhoadbent. Was he industrious ? Thats remarkable, you know, in an Irishman. Larry. Industrious ! That man's industry used to make me sick, even as a boy. I tell you, an Irish peas- ant's industry is not human: it's worse than the industry of a coral insect. An Englishman has some sense about working: he never does more than he can help — and hard enough to get him to do that without scamping it; but an Irishman will work as if he'd die the moment he stopped. That man Matthew Haffigan and his brother Andy made a farm out of a patch of stones on the hill- side—cleared it and dug it with their own naked hands and bought their first spade out of their first crop of potatoes. Talk of making two blades of wheat grow where one grew before ! those two men made a whole field of wheat grow where not even a furze bush had ever got its head up between the stones. Broadbent. That was magnificent, you know. Only a great race is capable of producing such men. Larry. Such fools, you mean ! What good was it to them? The moment theyd done it, the landlord put a rent of .£5 a year on them, and turned them out because they couldnt pay it. Aunt Judy. Why couldnt they pay as well as BiUy Byrne that took it after them.'' 60 John Bull's Other Island Act III Larry (angrily). You know very well that Billy Byrne never paid it. He only offered it to get posses- sion. He never paid it. Aunt Judy. That was because Andy Haffigan hurt him with a brick so that he was never the same again. Andy had to run away to America for it. Broadbent (glowing with indignation). Who can blame him. Miss Doyle? Who can blame him.'' Larry (impatiently). Oh, rubbish! whats the good of the man thats starved out of a farm murdering the man thats starved into it.^ Would you have done such a thing ? Broadbent. Yes. I — I — I — I — (stammering with fury) I should have shot the confounded landlord, and wrung the neck of the damned agent, and blown the farm up with dynamite, and Dublin Castle along with it. Larry. Oh yes: youd have done great things; and a fat lot of good youd have got out of it, too ! Thats an Englishman all over ! make bad laws and give away all the land, and then, when your economic incompetence produces its natural and inevitable results, get virtu- ously indignant and kill the people that carry out your laws. Aunt Judy. Sure never mind him, Mr. Broadbent. It doesnt matter, anyhow, because theres harly any land- lords left! and therll soon be none at all. Larry. On the contrary, therll soon be nothing else; and the Lord help Ireland then! Aunt Judy. Ah, youre never satisfied, Larry. (To Nora.) Come on, alanna, an make the paste for the pie. We can leave them to their talk. They dont want us (she takes up the tray and goes into the house). Broadbent (rising and gallantly protesting). Oh, Miss Doyle! Really, really — Nora, following Aunt Judy with the rolled-up cloth in her hands, looks at him and strikes him dumb. He Act III John Bull's Other Island 61 watches her until she disappears ; then comes to Larry and addresses him with sudden intensity. Broadbent. Larry. Larry. What is it? Broadbent. I got drunk last night, and proposed to Miss Reilly. Larry. You h w a t ? ? ? (i7e screams with laughter in the falsetto Irish register unused for that purpose in England.') Broadbent. What are you laughing at? Larry (stopping dead). I dont know. Thats the sort of thing an Irishman laughs at. Has she accepted you? Broadbent. I shall never forget that with the chiv- alry of her nation, though I was utterly at her mercy, she refused me. Larry. That was extremely improvident of her. {Beginning to reflect.) But look here: when were you drunk? You were sober enough when you came back from the Round Tower with her. Broadbent. No, Larry, I was drunk, I am sorry to say. I had two tumblers of punch. She had to lead me home. You must have noticed it. Larry. I did not. Broadbent. She did. Larry. May I ask how long it took you to come to business? You can hardly have known her for more than a couple of hours. Broadbent. I am afraid it was hardly a couple of minutes. She was not here when I arrived; and I saw her for the first time at the tower. Larry. Well, you area nice infant to be let loose in this country ! Fancy the potcheen going to your head like that! Broadbent. Not to my head, I think. I have no headache; and I could speak distinctly. No: potcheen goes to the heart, not to the head. What ought I to do? 62 John Bull's Other Island Act III Larry. Nothing. What need you do? Bhoadbent. There is rather a delicate moral ques- tion involved. The point is, was I drunk enough not to be morally responsible for my proposal.? Or was I sober enough to be bound to repeat it now that I am undoubtedly sober? Larry. I should see a little more of her before de- ciding. Broadbent. No, no. That would not be right. That would not be fair. I am either under a moral obligation or I am not. I wish I knew how drunk I was. Larry. Well, you were evidently in a state of blither- ing sentimentality, anyhow. Bhoadbent. That is true, Larry: I admit it. Her voice has a most extraordinary effect on me. That Irish voice ! Larry (^sympathetically'). Yes, I know. When I first went to London I very nearly proposed to walk out with a waitress in an Aerated Bread shop because her White- chapel accent was so distinguished, so quaintly touching, so pretty — Broadbent (angrily). Miss Eeilly is not a waitress, is she? Larry. Oh, come! The waitress was a very nice girl. Broadbent. You think every Englishwoman an angel. You really have coarse tastes in that way, Larry. Miss Reilly is one of the finer types: a type rare in England, except perhaps in the best of the aristocracy. Larry. Aristocracy be blowed ! Do you know what Nora eats? Broadbent. Eats ! what do you mean ? Larry. Breakfast: tea and bread-and-butter, with an occasional rasher, and an egg on special occasions: say on her birthday. Dinner in the middle of the day, one course and nothing else. In the evening, tea and bread- and-butter again. You compare her with your English- Act III John Bull's Other Island 63 women who wolf down from three to five meat meals a day; and naturally you find her a sylph. The difference is not a difference of type: its the difference between the woman who eats not wisely but too well, and the woman who eats not wisely but too little. Broadbent {furious). Larry: you — you — you dis- gust me. You are a damned fool. {He sits down angrily on the rustic seat, which sustains the shock with difficulty.) Larry. Stea'dy! stead-eee! {He laughs and seats himself on the table.) Cornelius Doyle, Father Dempsey, Barney Doran, and Matthew Haffigan come from the house. Doran is a stout bodied, short armed, roundheaded, red haired man on the verge of middle age, of sanguine tempera- ment, Tvith an enormous capacity for derisive, obscene, blasphemous, or merely cruel and senseless fun, and a violent and impetuous intolerance of other temperaments and other opinions, all this representing energy and capacity wasted and demoralized by want of sufficient training and social pressure to force it into beneficent activity and build a character with it; for Barney is by no means either stupid or weak. He is recklessly untidy as to his person; but the worst effects of his neglect are mitigated by a powdering of flour and mill dust; and his unbrushed clothes, made of a fashionable tailor's sackcloth, rvere evidently chosen regardless of expense for the sake of their appearance. Matthew Haffigan, ill at ease, coasts the garden shyly on the shrubbery side until he anchors near the basket, rvhere he feels least in the rvay. The priest comes to the table and slaps Larry on the shoulder. Larry, turn- ing quickly, and recognizing Father Dempsey, alights from the table and shakes the priest's hand warmly. Doran comes down the garden between Father Dempsey and Matt; and Cornelius, on the other side of the table, turns to Broadbent, who rises genially. 64 John Bull's Other Island Act HI Cornelius. I think we all met las night. DoRAN. I hadnt that pleasure. Cornelius. To be sure, Barney: I forgot. {To Broadhent, introducing Barney.) Mr. Doran. He owns that fine mill you noticed from the car. Broadbent {delighted with them all). Most happy, Mr. Doran. Very pleased indeed. Doran, not quite sure whether he is being courted or patronised, nods independently. Doran. Hows yourself, Larry.'' Larry. Finely, thank you. No need to ask you. {Doran grins; and they shake hands.) Cornelius. Give Father Dempsey a chair, Larry. Matthew Ha^gan runs to the nearest end of the table and takes the chair from it, placing it near the basket; but Larry has already taken the chair from the other end and placed it in front of the table. Father Dempsey accepts that more central position. Cornelius. Sit down, Barney, wiU you; and you. Mat. Doran takes the chair Mat is still offering to the priest; and poor Matthew, outfaced by the miller, humbly turns the basket upside down and sits on it. Cornelius brings his own breakfast chair from the table and sits down on Father Dempsey's right. Broadbent resumes his seat on the rustic bench. Larry crosses to the bench and is about to sit down beside him when Broadbent holds him off nervously. Broadbent. Do you think it will bear two, Larry? Larry. Perhaps not. Dont move. I'll stand. {He posts himself behind the bench.) They are all now seated, except Larry; and the session assumes a portentous air, as if something important were coming. Cornelius. Praps youll explain. Father Dempsey. Father Dempsey. No, no: go on, you: the Church has no politics. Act III John Bull's Other Island 65 Cornelius. Were yever thinkin o goin into parlia- ment at all, Larry? Larry. Me ! Father Dempsey (^encouragingly). Yes, you. Hwy not? Larry. I'm afraid my ideas would not be popular enough. Cornelius. I dont know that. Do you, Barney? DoRAN. Theres too much blatherumskite in Irish politics: a dale too much. Larry. But what about your present member? Is he going to retire? Cornelius. No : I dont know that he is. Larry (interrogatively). Well? then? Matthew (breaking out tvith surly bitterness). Weve had enough of his foolish talk agen lanlords. Hwat call has he to talk about the Ian, that never was outside of a city office in his life? Cornelius. We're tired of him. He doesnt know hwere to stop. Every man cant own land; and some men must ovm it to employ them. It was all very well when solid men like Doran and me and Mat were kep from ownin land. But hwat man in his senses ever wanted to give land to Patsy Farrll an dhe like o him? Bhoadbent. But surely Irish landlordism was ac- countable for what Mr. Haffigan suffered. Matthew. Never mind hwat I suffered. I know what I suffered adhout you tellin me. But did I ever ask for more dhan the farm I made wid me own bans: teU me that. Corny Doyle, and you that knows. Was I fit for the responsibiHty or was I not? (Snarling angrily at Cornelius.) Am I to be compared to Patsy FarrU, that doesnt harly know his right hand from his lelt? What did he ever suffer, I'd like to know? Cornelius. Thats just what I say. I wasnt com- parin you to your disadvantage. 66 John Bull's Other Island Act III Matthew (implacable). Then hwat did you mane be talkin about givin him Ian? DoHAN. Aisy, Mat, aisy. Youre like a bear with a sore back. Matthew (trembling with rage). An who are you, to offer to taitch me manners ? Father Dempsey (admonitorily) . Now, now, now. Mat! none o dhat. How often have I told you youre too ready to take offence where none is meant? You dont understand: Corny Doyle is saying just what yju want to have said. {To Cornelius.) Go on, Mr. Doyle; and never mind him. Matthew (rising). Well, if me Ian is to be given to Patsy and his like, I'm goin oura dhis. I — DoRAN (with violent impatience). Arra who's goin to give your Ian to Patsy, yowl fool ye? Father Dempsey. Aisy, Barney, aisy. (Sternly, to Mat.) I told you, Matthew HafRgan, that Corny Doyle was sayin nothin against you. I'm sorry your priest's word is not good enough jfor you. I'll go, sooner than stay to make you commit a sin against the Church. Good morning, gentlemen. (He rises. They all rise, except Broadbent.) D OR Ai^ (to Mat). There! Sarve you dam well right, you cantankerous oul noodle. Matthew (appalled). Dont say dhat, Fadher Demp- sey. I never had a thought agen you or the Holy Church. I know I'm a bit hasty when I think about the Ian. I ax your pardon for it. Father Dempsey (resuming his seat with dignified reserve). Very well: I'll overlook it this time. (He sits down. The others sit down, except Matthew. Father Dempsey, about to ask Corny to proceed, remembers Matthew and turns to him, giving him just a crumb of graciousness.) Sit down, Mat. (Matthew, crushed, sits down in disgrace, and is silent, his eyes shifting pite- ously from one speaker to another in an intensely mis- Act III John Bull's Other Island 37 trustful effort to understand them.) Go on, Mr. Doyle. We can make allowances. Go on. Cornelius. Well, you see how it is, Larry. Round about here, weve got the land at last; and we want no more Government meddlin. We want a new class o man in parliament: one dhat knows dhat the farmer's the real backbone o the country, n doesnt care a snap of his fingers for the shoutn o the riiF-raff in the towns, or for the foolishness of the laborers. DoRAN. Aye; an dhat can afford to live in London and pay his own way until Home Rule comes, instead o wantin subscriptions and the like. Father Dempsey. Yes: thats a good point, Barney. When too much money goes to politics, it's the Church that has to starve for it. A member of parliament ought to be a help to the Church instead of a burden on it. Larry. Heres a chance for you, Tom. What do you say? Bhoadbent (^deprecatory, but important and smiling). Oh, I have no claim whatever to the seat. Besides, I'm a Saxon. Dor AN. A hwat? Broadbent. a Saxon. An Englishman. DoRAN. An Englishman. Bedad I never heard it called dhat before. Matthew (cunningly). If I might make so bould, Fadher, I wouldnt say but an English Prodestn mightnt have a more indepindent mind about the Ian, an be less afeerd to spake out about it, dhan an Irish Catholic. Cornelius. But sure Larry's as good as Enghsh: arnt you, Larry? . 3 t ^x. Larry. You may put me out of your head, tather, once for all. Cornelius. Arra why? Larry. I have strong opinions which wouldnt smt you. ^ John Bull's Other Island Act III DoRAN (rallying him blatantly) . Is it still Larry the bould Fenian? Larry. No: the bold Fenian is now an older and possibly foolisher man. Cornelius. Hwat does it matter to us hwat your opinions are? You know that your father's bought his farm, just the same as Mat here n Barney's mill. All we ask now is to be let alone. Youve nothin against that, have you? Larry. Certainly I have. I dont believe in letting anybody or anything alone. Cornelius {losing his temper). Arra what d'ye mean, you young fool? Here Ive got you the o£Fer of a good seat in parliament; n you think yourself mighty smart to stand there and talk foolishness to me. Will you take it or leave it? Larry. Very well: I'll take it with pleasure if youll give it to me. Cornelius (subsiding sulkily). Well, why couldnt you say so at once? It's a good job youve made up your mind at last. DoRAN (suspiciously). Stop a bit, stop a bit. Matthew (writhing between his dissatisfaction and his fear of the priest). Its not because hes your son that hes to get the sate. Fadher Dempsey: wouldnt you think well to ask him what he manes about the Ian ? Larry (coming down on Mat promptly). I'll tell you. Mat. I always thought it was a stupid, lazy, good- for-nothing sort of thing to leave the land in the hands of the old landlords without calling them to a strict account for the use they made of it, and the condition of the people on it. I could see for myself that they thought of nothing but what they could get out of it to spend in England; and that they mortgaged and mort- gaged until hardly one of them owned his own property or could have afforded to keep it up decently if he'd wanted to. But I tell you plump and plain. Mat, that Act III John Bull's Other Island 69 if anybody thinks things will be any better now that the land is handed over to a lot of little men like you, without calling you to account either, theyre mistaken. Matthew {sullenly). What call have you to look down on me? I suppose you think youre everybody be- cause your father was a land agent. Larry. What call have you to look down on Patsy Farrell? I suppose you think youre everybody because you own a few fields. Matthew. Was Patsy Farrll ever ill used as I was ill used.'' tell me dhat. Larry. He will be, if ever he gets into your power as you were in the power of your old landlord. Do you think, because youre poor and ignorant and half -crazy with toiling and moiling morning noon and night, that youU be any less greedy and oppressive to them that have no land at all than old Nick Lestrange, who was an educated travelled gentleman that would not have been tempted as hard by a hundred poimds as youd be by five shillings? Nick was too high above Patsy Far- rell to be jealous of him; but you, that are only one little step above him, would die sooner than let him come up that step; and well you know it. Matthew (black nith rage, in a lorn growl). Lemme oura this. (He tries to rise; hut Doran catches his coat and drags him down again.) I'm goin, I say. (Raising his voice.) Leggo me coat, Barney Doran. Doran. Sit down, yowl omadhaun, you. (Whisper- ing.) Dont you want to stay an vote against him? Father Dempsey (holding up his finger). Mat! (Mat subsides.) Now, now, now! come, come! Hwats all dhis about Patsy Farrll? Hwy need you fall out about him? Larry. Because it was by using Patsy's poverty to undersell England in the markets of the world that we drove England to ruin Ireland. And she'll ruin us again the moment we lift our heads from the dust if 70 John Bull's Other Island Act III we trade in cheap labor; and serve us right too! If I get into parliament, I'll try to get an Act to prevent any of you from giving Patsy less than a pound a week (^they all start, hardly able to believe their ears) or working him harder than youd work a horse that cost you fifty guineas. DoRAN. Hwat ! ! ! Cornelius (^aghast). A pound a — God save us! the boy's mad. Matthew, feeling that here is something quite beyond his powers, turns openmouthed to the priest, as if look- ing for nothing less than the summary excommunication of Larry. Larry. How is the man to marry and live a decent life on less? Father Dempsey. Man alive, hwere have you been living all these years ? and hwat have you been dreaming of? Why, some o dhese honest men here cant make that much out o the land for themselves, much less give it to a laborer. Larry (nore thoroughly roused). Then let them make room for those who can. Is Ireland never to have a chance? First she was given to the rich; and now that they have gorged on her flesTi, her bones are to be flung to the poor, that can do nothing but suck the mar- row out of her. If we cant have men of honor own the land, lets have men of ability. If we cant have men with ability, let us at least have men with capital. Any- body's better than Mat, who has neither honor, nor ability, nor capital, nor anything but mere brute labor and greed in him. Heaven help him! DoRAN. Well, we're not all foostherin' oul doddher- ers like Mat. (Pleasantly, to the subject of this descrip- tion.) Are we. Mat? Larry. For modern industrial purposes you might just as well be, Barney. Youre all children: the big world that I belong to has gone past you and left you. Act III John Bull's Other Island 71 Anyhow, we Irishmen were never made to be farmers; and we'll never do any good at it. We're like the Jews : the Almighty gave us brains, and bid us farm them, and leave the clay and the worms alone. Father Dempsey {with gentle irony}. Oh! is it Jews you want to make of us.'' I must catechize you a bit meself, I think. The next thing youU be proposing is to repeal the disestablishment of the so-called Irish Church. Larry. Yes: why not? (.Sensation.) Matthew {rancorously) . He's a turncoat. Larry. St. Peter, the rock on which our Church was built, was crucified head downwards for being a turn- coat. Father Dempsey (with a quiet authoritative dignity which checks Doran, who is on the point of breaking out). Thats true. You hold your tongue as befits your ignorance, Matthew Haffigan; and trust your priest to deal with this young man. Now, Larry Doyle, whatever the blessed St Peter was crucified for, it was not for being a Prodestan. Are you one.^ Larry. No. I am a Catholic intelligent enough to see that the Protestants are never more dangerous to us than when they are free from all alliances with the State. The so-called Irish Church is stronger today than ever it was. Matthew. Fadher Dempsey: will you tell him dhat me mother's ant was shot and kilt dead in the sthreet o RosscuUen be a soljer in the tithe war.? (Frantically.) He wants to put the tithes on us again. He — Larry (interrupting him with overbearing contempt). Put the tithes on you again! Did the tithes ever come ofi" you.? Was your land any dearer when you paid the tithe to the parson than it was when you paid the same money to Nick Lestrange as rent, and he handed it over to the Church Sustentation Fund? Will you always be duped by Acts of Parliament that change 72 John Bull's Other Island Act III nothing but the necktie of the man that picks your pocket? I'll tell you what I'd do with you. Mat HaflB- gan: I'd make you pay tithes to your own Church. I want the Catholic Church established in Ireland: thats what I want. Do you think that I, brought up to regard myself as the son of a great and holy Church, can bear to see her begging her bread from the ignorance and superstition of men like you? I would have her as high above worldly want as I would have her above worldly pride or ambition. Aye; and I would have Ire- land compete with Rome itself for the chair of St. Peter and the citadel of the Church; for Rome, in spite of all the blood of the martyrs, is pagan at heart to this day, while in Ireland the people is the Church and the Church the people. Father Dempsey {startled, but not at all displeased") . Whisht, man ! youre worse than mad Pether Keegan himself. Broadbent {who has listened in the gilsatest aston- ishment). You amaze me, Larry. Who would have thought of your coming out like this ! {Solemnly.) But much as I appreciate your really brilliant eloquence, I implore you not to desert the great Liberal principle of Disestablishment. Larry. I am not a Liberal: Heaven forbid! A dis- established Church is the worst tyranny a nation can groan under. Broadbent {making a rory face). Dont be para- doxical, Larry. It really gives me a pain in my stomach. Larry. Youll soon find out the truth of it here. Look at Father Dempsey! he is disestablished: he has nothing to hope or fear from the State; and the result is that hes the most powerful man in RosscuUen. The member for RosscuUen would shake in his shoes if Father Dempsey looked crooked at him. {Father Demp- sey smiles, by no means averse to this acknowledgment of his authority.) Look at yourself! you would defy Act III John Bull's Other Island 73 the established Archbishop of Canterbury ten times a day; but catch you daring to say a word that would shock a Nonconformist! not you. The Conservative party today is the only one thats not priestrid- den— excuse the expression. Father {Father Dempsey nods tolerantly)— hecnuse its the only one that has established its Church and can prevent a clergyman becoming a bishop if he's not a Statesman as well as a Churchman. He stops. They stare at him dumbfounded, and leave it to the priest to answer him. Father Dempsey (judicially). Young man: youll not be the member for Rosscullen; but theres more in your head than the comb will take out. Larry. I'm sorry to disappoint you, father; but I told you it would be no use. And now I think the candidate had better retire and leave you to discuss his successor. (He takes a newspaper from the table and goes away Ihrough the shrubbery amid dead silence, all turning to watch him until he passes out of sight round the corner of the house.) DoRAN (^dased). Hwat sort of a fella is he at all at all.? Father Dempsey. He's a clever lad: theres the making of a man in him yet. Matthew (in consternation). D'ye mane to say dhat yll put him into parliament to bring back Nick Le- sthrange on me, and to put tithes on me, and to rob me for the like o Patsy Farrll, because hes Corny Doyle's only son.? DoRAN (brutally). Arra hould your whisht: who's goin to send him into parliament.'' Maybe youd like us to send you dhere to thrate them to a little o your anxiety about dhat dirty little podato patch o yours. Matthew (plaintively). Am I to be towld dhis afther all me sufferins.? DoRAN. Och, I'm tired o your sufferins. Weve been 74 John Bull's Other Island Act III hearin nothin else ever since we was childher but suf- ferins. Hwen it wasnt yours it was somebody else's; and hwen it was nobody else's it was ould Irelan's. How the divil are we to live on wan anodher's sufferins? Father Dempsey. Thats a thrue word, Barney Doarn; only your tongue's a little too familiar wi dhe divil. {To Mat.) If youd think a little more o the sufferins of the blessed saints. Mat, an a little less o your own, youd find the way shorter from your farm to heaven. {Mat is about to reply.') Dhere now! dhats enough! we know you mean well; an I'm not angry with you. Broadbent. Surely, Mr. Haffigan, you can see the simple explanation of all this. My friend Larry Doyle is a most brilliant speaker; but he's a Tory: an ingrained old-fashioned Tory. Cornelius. N how d'ye make dhat out, if I might ask you, Mr. Broadbent? Broadbent {collecting himself for a political deliver- ance). Well, you know, Mr. Doyle, theres a strong dash of Toryism in the Irish character. Larry himself says that the great Duke of Wellington was the most typical Irishman that ever lived. Of course thats an absurd paradox; but still theres a great deal of truth in it. Now I am a Liberal. You know the great prin- ciples of the Liberal party. Peace — Father Dempsey {piously). Hear! hear! Broadbent {encouraged). Thank you. Retrench- ment — {he fvaits for further applause). Matthew {timidly). What might rethrenchment mane now? Broadbent. It means an immense reduction in the burden of the rates and taxes. Matthew {respectfully approving). Dhats right. Dhats right, sir. Broadbent {perfunctorily). And, of course. Re- form. Act m John Bull's Other Island 75 Cornelius \ Father Dempsey |- {conventionally^. Of course. DORAX J Matthew (^still suspicious). Hwat does Reform mane, sir? Does it mane altheria annythin dhats as it is now? Broadbext {impressively"). It means, Mr. Haffigan, maintaining those reforms which have already been con- ferred on humanity by the Liberal Party, and trusting for future developments to the free activity of a free people on the basis of those reforms. DoRAN. Dhats right. No more meddlin. We're all right now: all we want is to be let alone. Cornelius. Hwat about Home Rule? Broadbext {rising so as to address them more imposingly). I really cannot tell you what I feel about Home Rule without using the language of hyper- bole. DoRAX. Savin Fadher Dempsey 's presence, eh? Broadbent {not understanding him). Quite so — er — oh ves. All I can say is that as an Englishman I blush "for the Union. It is the blackest stain on our national history. I look forward to the time — and it cannot be far distant, gentlemen, because Humanity is looking forward to it too, and insisting on it with no uncertain voice — I look forward to the time when an Irish legislature shall arise once more on the emerald pasture of College Green, and the Union Jack— that detestable symbol of a decadent ImperiaUsm— be re- placed by a flag as green as the island over which it waves— a flag on which we shaU ask for England only a modest quartering in memory of our great party and of the immortal name of our grand old leader. Doran {enthusiastically). Dhats the style, begob! {He smites his knee, and ninks at Mat.) Matthew. ]SIore power to you, sir! Broadbext. I shall leave you now, gentlemen, to 76 John Bull's Other Island Act ill your deliberations. I should like to have enlarged on the services rendered by the Liberal Party to the re- ligious faith of the great majority of the people of Ireland; but I shall content myself with saying that in my opinion you should choose no representative who — no matter what his personal creed may be — is not an ardent supporter of freedom of conscience, and is not prepared to prove it by contributions, as lavish as his means will allow, to the great and beneficent work which you. Father Dempsey (^Father Dempsey hows'), are do- ing for the people of RosscuUen. Nor should the lighter, but still most important question of the sports of the people be forgotten. The local cricket club — Cornelius. The hwat! DoHAN. Nobody plays batn ball here, if dhats what you mean. Broadbent. Well, let us say quoits. I saw two men, I think, last night — ^but after all, these are questions of detail. The main thing is that your candidate, who- ever he may be, shall be a man of some means, able to help the locality instead of burdening it. And if he were a countryman of my own, the moral eiFect on the House of Commons would be immense ! tremendous ! Pardon my saying these few words: nobody feels their impertinence more than I do. Good morning, gentlemen. He turns impressively to the gate, and trots away, congratulating himself, with a little twist of his head and cock of his eye, on having done a good stroke of political business. Haffigan (awestruck). Good morning, sir. The Rest. Good morning. (They watch him vacantly until he is out of earshot.) Cornelius. Hwat d'ye think. Father Dempsey? Father Dempsey {indulgently). Well, he hasnt much sense, God help him; but for the matter o that, neither has our present member. Act III John Bull's Other Island 77 DoRAN. Arra musha hes good enough for parlia- ment: what is there to do there but gas a bit, an chivy the Government, an vote wi dh Irish party? Cornelius {ruminatively) . He's the queerest Eng- lishman I ever met. When he opened the paper dhis mornin the first thing he saw was that an English ex- pedition had been bet in a battle in Inja somewhere; an he was as pleased as Punch! Larry told him that if he'd been alive when the news o Waterloo came, he'd a died o grief over it. Bedad I dont think hes quite right in his head. DoRAN. Divil a matther if he has plenty o money. He'll do for us right enough. Matthew {deeply impressed by Broadbent, and un- able to understand their levity concerning him). Did you mind what he said about rethrenchment ? That was very good, I thought. Father Dempsey. You might find out from Larry, Corny, what his means are. God forgive us all! it's poor work spoiling the Egyptians, though we have good warrant for it; so I'd like to know how much spoil there is before I commit meself. (He rises. They all rise respectfully.) Cornelius (ruefully). I'd set me mind on Larry himself for the seat; but I suppose it cant be helped. Father Dempsey (consoling him). Well, the boy's young yet; an he has a head on him. Goodbye, all. (He goes out through the gate.) DoRAN. I must be goin, too. (He directs Cornelius's attention to what is passing in the road.) Look at me bould Englishman shakin bans wid Fadher Dempsey for all the world like a candidate on election day. And look at Fadher Dempsey givin him a squeeze an a wink as much as to say Its all right, me boy. You watch him shakin bans with me too: hes waitn for me 1 11 tell him hes as good as elected. (He goes, chuckling mis- chievously.) 78 John Bull's Other Island Act III Cornelius. Come in with me, Mat. I think I'll sell you the pig after all. Come in an wet the bargain. Matthew {instantly dropping into the old whine of the tenant). I'm afeerd I cant afford the price, sir. {He follows Cornelius into the house.) Larry, newspaper still in hand, comes hack through the shrubbery. Broadbent returns through the gate. Larry. Well? What has happened. Broadbent {hugely self-satisfied). I think Ive done the trick this time. I just gave them a bit of straight talk; and it went home. They were greatly impressed: everyone of those men believes in me and will vote for me when the question of selecting a candidate comes up. After all, whatever you say, Larry, they like an Eng- lishman. They feel they can trust him, I suppose. Larry. Oh! theyve transferred the honor to you, have they? Broadbent {complacently). Well, it was a pretty obvious move, I should think. You know, these fellows have plenty of shrewdness in spite of their Irish oddity. {Hodson comes from the house. Larry sits in Doran's chair and reads.) Oh, by the way, Hodson — HoDsoN {coming between Broadbent and Larry). Yes, sir? Broadbent. I want you to be rather particular as to how you treat the people here. Hodson. I havnt treated any of em yet, sir. If I was to accept all the treats they offer me I shouldnt be able to stand at this present moment, sir. Broadbent. Oh well, dont be too stand-offish, you know, Hodson. I should like you to be popular. If it costs anything I'll make it up to you. It doesnt matter if you get a bit upset at first: theyll like you all the better for it. Hodson. I'm sure youre very kind, sir; but it dont seem to matter to me whether they like me or not. I'm not going to stand for parliament here, sir. Act III John Bull's Other Island 79 Broadbent. Well, I am. Now do you understand? HoDsoN (waking up at once). Oh, I beg your par- don, sir, I'm sure. I understand, sir. Cornelius (appearing at the house door with Mat). Patsy '11 drive the pig over this evenin, Mat. Goodbye. (He goes back into the house. Mat makes for the gate. Broadbent stops him. Hodson, pained by the derelict basket, picks it up and carries it away behind the house.) Broadbent (beaming candidatorially) . I must thank you very particularly, Mr. HaflSgan, for your support this morning. I value it because I know that the real heart of a nation is the class you represent, the yeo- manry. Matthew (agfeasi)- The yeomanry !! ! Larry (looking up from his paper). Take care, Tom! In Rosscullen a yeoman means a sort of Orange Bashi- Bazouk. In England, Mat, they call a freehold farmer a yeoman. Matthew (huffily). I dont need to be insthructed be you, Larry Doyle. Some people think no one knows anythin but dhemselves. (To Broadbent, deferentially.) Of course I know a gentleman like you would not com- pare me to the yeomanry. Me own granfather was flogged in the sthreets of AthenmuUet be them when they put a gun in the thatch of his house an then went and found it there, bad cess to them ! Broadbent (rvith sympathetic interest). Then you are not the first martyr of your family, Mr. Haffigan? Matthew. They turned me out o the farm I made out of the stones o Little Rosscullen hill wid me own bans. Broadbent. I have heard about it; and my blood still boils at the thought. (Calling.) Hodson— HoDsoN (behind the corner of the house). Yes, sir. (He hurries forward.) . Broadbent. Hodson: this gentleman s suffermgs 80 John Bull's Other Island Act III should make every Englishman think. It is want of thought rather than want of heart that allows such iniquities to disgrace society. HoDSON (prosaically). Yes sir. Matthew. Well^ I'll be goin. Good morning to you kindly, sir. Broadbent. You have some distance to go, Mr. Haffigan : will you allow me to drive you home ? Matthew. Oh sure it'd be throublin your honor. Broadbent. I insist: it will give me the greatest pleasure, I assure you. My car is in the stable: I can get it round in five minutes. Matthew. Well, sir, if you wouldnt mind, we could bring the pig Ive just bought from Corny — Broadbent (with enthusiasm). Certainly, Mr. Haffi- gan: it will be quite delightful to drive with a pig in the car: I shall feel quite like an Irishman. Hodson: stay with Mr. Haffigan; and give him a hand with the pig if necessary. Come, Larry; and help me. (He rushes atvay through the shrubbery.) Larry (throwing the paper ill-humoredly on the chair). Look here, Tom! here, I say! confound it! (he runs after him,). Matthew (glowering disdainfully at Hodson, and sit- ting down on Cornelius's chair as an act of social self- assertion). N are you the valley? HoDsoN. The valley? Oh, I follow you: yes: I'm Mr. Broadbent's valet. Matthew. Ye have an aisy time of it: you look purty sleek. (TVith suppressed ferocity.) Look at me! Do 7 look sleek? HoDsoN (sadly). I wish I ad your ealth: you look as hard as nails. I suffer from an excess of uric acid. Matthew. Musha what sort o disease is zhouragas- sid? Didjever suffer from injustice and starvation? Dhats the Irish disease. Its aisy for you to talk o suf- Act III John Bull's Other Island 81 ferin, an you livin on the fat o the land wid money wrung from us. HoDsoN {coolly). Wots wrong with you, old chap? Has ennybody been doin ennything to you? Matthew. Anythin timme! Didnt your English masther say that the blood biled in him to hear the way they put a rint on me for the farm I made wid me own bans, and turned me out of it to give it to Billy Byrne ? HoDSON. Owj Tom Broadbent's blood boils pretty easy over ennything that appens out of his own country. Dont you be taken in by my ole man, Paddy. Maith^w {indignantly) . Paddy yourself ! How dar you call me Paddy? HoDSON {unmoved). You just keep your hair on and listen to me. You Irish people are too well off: thats whats the matter with you. {With sudden passion.) You talk of your rotten little farm because you made it by chuckin a few stownes dahn a hill! Well, wot price my grenfawther, I should like to know, that fitted up a fuss clawss shop and built up a fuss clawss drapery business in London by sixty years work, and then was chucked aht of it on is ed at the end of is lease withaht a penny for his goodwill. You talk of evictions ! you that cawnt be moved until youve run up eighteen months rent. I once ran up four weeks in Lambeth when I was aht of a job in winter. They took the door off its inges and the winder aht of its sashes on me, and gave my wife pnoomownia. I'm a widower now. {Be- tween his teeth.) Gawd! when I think of the things we Englishmen av to put up with, and hear you Irish hahlin abaht your silly little grievances, and see the way you make it worse for us by the xotten wages youU come over and take and the rotten places youll sleep in, I jast feel that I could take the oul bloomin British awland and make you a present of it, jast to let you find out wot real ardship's like. 82 John Bull's Other Island Act III Matthew {starting up, more in scandalized incre- dulity than in anger). D'ye have the face to set up Eng- land agen Ireland for injustices an wrongs an disthress an sufferin? HoDSON {with intense disgust and contempt, but with Cockney coolness). Ow, chuck it, Paddy. Cheese it. You danno wot ardship is over ere: all you know is ah to ahl abaht it. You take the biscuit at that, you do. I'm a Owm Ruler, I am. Do you know why? Matthew {^equally contemptuous). D'ye know, your- self.? HoDsoN. Yes I do. It's because I want a little at- tention paid to my own country; and thetU never be as long as your chaps are oUerin at Wesminister as if now- body mettered but your own bloomin selves. Send em back to hell or C'naught, as good oul English Cromwell said. I'm jast sick of Ireland. Let it gow. Cut the cable. Make it a present to Germany to keep the oul Kyzer busy for a while; and give poor owld England a chawnce: thets wot I say. Matthew {^full of scorn for a man so ignorant as to be unable to pronounce the word Connaught, which prac- tically rhymes with bonnet in Ireland, though in Hod- son's dialect it rhymes with untaught). Take care we dont cut the cable ourselves some day, bad scran to you ! An tell me dhis: have yanny Coercion Acs in England? Have yanny removables? Have you Dublin Castle to suppress every newspaper dhat takes the part o your own coimthry? HoDSON. We can beyave ahrselves withaht sich things. Matthew. Bedad youre right. It'd only be waste o time to muzzle a sheep. Here! where's me pig? God forgimme for talkin to a poor ignorant craycher like you. HoDsoN {grinning with good-humored malice, too convinced of his own superiority to feel his withers Act III John Bull's Other Island 83 wrung). Your pigll ave a rare doin in that car, Paddy. Forty miles an ahr dahn that rocky lane will strike it pretty pink, you bet. Matthew {scornfully'). Hwy cant you tell a raison- able lie when youre about it} What horse can go forty mile an hour.'' HoDsoN. Orse! Wy, you silly oul rotter, it's not a orse: it's a mowtor. Do you suppose Tom Broadbent would gow off himself to arness a orse? Matthew (in consternation). Holy Moses! dont tell me its the ingine he wants to take me on. HoDsoN. Wot else? Matthew. Your sowl to Morris Kelly! why didnt you tell me that before? The divil an ingine he'll get me on this day. {His ear catches an approaching teuf- teuf.) Oh murdher! its comin afther me: I hear the puff-puff of it. {He runs arvay through the gate, much to Hodson's amusement. The noise of the motor ceases; and Hodson, anticipating Broadbent's return, throws off the politician and recomposes himself as a valet. Broad- bent and Larry come through the shrubbery. Hodson Tnoves aside to the gate.) Broadbent. Where is Mr. HafEgan? Has he gone for the pig? Hodson. Bolted, sir? Afraid of the motor, sir. Broadbent {much disappointed). Oh, thats very tiresome. Did he leave any message? Hodson. He was in too great a hurry, sir. Started to rim home, sir, and left his pig behind him. Broadbent {eagerly). Left the pig! Then it's all right. The pig's the thing: the pig will win over every Irish heart to me. We'll take the pig home to HafEgan's farm in the motor: it will have a tremendous effect. Hodson ! Hodson. Yes sir? Broadbent. Do you think you could collect a crowd to see the motor? 84 John Bull's Other Island Act III HoDsoN. Well, I'll try, sir. Bhoadbent. Thank yon, Hodson: do. Hodson goes out through the gate. Larky (desperately). Once more, Tom, ■will you listen to me? Broadbent. Rubbish! I tell you it will be all right. Larry. Only this morning you confessed how sur- prised you were to find that the people here shewed no sense of humor. Broadbent (suddenly very solemn). Yes: their sense of humor is in abeyance: I noticed it the moment we landed. Think of that in a country where every man is a born humorist ! Think of what it means ! (Im- pressively.) Larry: we are in the presence of a great national grief. Larry. Whats to grieve them? Broadbent. I divined it, Larry: I saw it in their faces. Ireland has never smiled since her hopes were buried in the grave of Gladstone. Larry. Oh, whats the use of talking to such a man? Now look here, Tom. Be serious for a moment if you can. Broadbent (stupent). Serious! I!!! Larry. Yes, you. You say the Irish sense of humor is in abeyance. Well, if you drive through Rosscullen in a motor car with Haifigan's pig, it wont stay in abey- ance. Now I warn you. Broadbent (breezily). Why, so much the better! I shall enjoy the joke myself more than any of them. (Shouting.) Hallo, Patsy Farrell, where are you? Patsy (appearing in the shrubbery). Here I am, your honor. Broadbent. Go and catch the pig and put it into the car : we're going to take it to Mr. Haffigan's. (He gives Larry a slap on the shoulders that sends him staggering off through the gate, and follows him buoyantly, ex- Act III John Bull's Other Island 85 claiming) Come on, you old croaker ! I'll shew you how to win an Irish seat. Patsy (^meditatively). Bedad, if dhat pig gets a howlt o the handle o the machine — - (He shakes his head ominously and drifts away to the pigsty.) END OP ACT III. ACT IV The parlor in Cornelius Doyle's house. It communi- cates with the garden by a half glazed door. The fire- place is at the other side of the room, opposite the door and rvindorvs, the architect not having been sensitive to draughts. The table, rescued from the garden, is in the middle; and at it sits Keegan, the central figure in a rather crowded apartment. Nora, sitting with her back to the fire at the end of the table, is playing backgam- mon across its corner with him, on his left hand. Aunt Judy, a little further back, sits facing the fire knitting, with her feet on the fender. A little to Keegan's right, in front of the table, and almost sitting on it, is Barney Doran. Half a dozen friends of his, all men, are be- tween him and the open door, supported by others out- side. In the corner behind them is the sofa, of ma- hogany and horsehair, made up as a bed for Broadbent. Against the wall behind Keegan stands a mahogany side- board. A door leading to the interior of the house is near the fireplace, behind Aunt Judy. There are chairs against the wall, one at each end of the sideboard. Keegan's hat is on the one nearest the inner door; and his stick is leaning against it. A third chair, also against the wall, is near the garden door. There is a strong contrast of emotional atmosphere between the two sides of the room. Keegan is extraor- dinarily stern: no game of backgammon could possibly make a man's face so grim. Aunt Judy is quietly busy. Nora is trying to ignore Doran and attend to her game. On the other hand Doran is reeling in an ecstasy of 86 Act IV John Bull's Other Island 87 mischievous mirth which has infected all his friends. They are screaming with laughter, doubled up, leaning on the furniture and against the walls, shouting, screech- ing, crying. Aunt Judy (as the noise lulls for a moment). Arra hold your noise, Barney. What is there to laugh at? DoRAN. It got its fut into the little hweel — {he is overcome afresh; and the rest collapse again). Aunt Judy. Ah, have some sense : youre like a parcel o childher. Nora, hit him a thump on the back: he'll have a fit. DoRAN (with squeezed eyes, exsufflicaie with cachin- nation). Frens, he sez to dhem outside Doolan's: I'm takin the gintleman that pays the rint for a dhrive. Aunt Judy. Who did he mean be that? DoRAN. They call a pig that in England. Thats their notion of a joke. Aunt Judy. Musha God help them if they can joke no better than that! DoRAN (with renewed symptoms). Thin — Aunt Judy. Ah now dont be tellin it all over and settin yourself off again, Barney. Nora. Youve told iis three times, Mr. Doran. DoRAN. Well but whin I think of it — ! Aunt Judy. Then dont think of it, alanna. Doran. There was Patsy Farrll in the back sate wi dhe pig between his knees, n me bould English boyoh in front at the machinery, n Larry Doyle in the road startin the injine wid a bed winch. At the first pufF of it the pig lep out of its skin and bled Patsy's nose wi dhe ring in its snout. (Roars of laughter: Keegan glares at them.) Before Broadbint knew hwere he was, the pig was up his back and over into his lap; and bedad the poor baste did credit to Corny's thrainin of it; for it put in the fourth speed wid its right crubeen as if it was enthered for the Gordn Bennett. 88 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Nora {reproachfully). And Larry in front of it and all ! It's nothin to laugh at, Mr. Doran. DoHAN. Bedad, Miss Reilly, Larry cleared six yards backwards at wan jump if he cleared an inch; and he'd a cleared seven if Doolan's granmother hadnt cotch him in her apern widhout intindin to. {Immense merriment.) Aunt Judy. Ah, for shame, Barney! the poor old woman ! An she was hurt before, too, when she slipped on the stairs. DoHAN. Bedad, maam, shes hurt behind now; for Larry bouled her over like a skittle. {General delight at this typical stroke of Irish Rabelaisianism.) Nora. It's well the lad wasnt killed. Doran. Faith it wasnt o Larry we were thinkin jus dhen, wi dhe pig takin the main sthreet o RosscuUen on market day at a mile a minnit. Dh ony thing Broadbint could get at wi dhe pig in front of him was a f ut brake ; n the pig's tail was undher dhat ; so that whin he thought he was putn non the brake he was ony squeezin the life out o the pig's tail. The more he put the brake on the more the pig squealed n the fasther he dhruv. Aunt Judy. Why couldnt he throw the pig out into the road.'' Doran. Sure he couldnt stand up to it, because he was spanchelled-like between his seat and dhat thing like a wheel on top of a stick between his knees. Aunt Judy. Lord have mercy on us ! Nora. I dont know how you can laugh. Do you, Mr. Keegan? Keegan {grimly). Why not? There is danger, destruction, torment! What more do we want to make us merry? Go on, Barney: the last drops of joy are not squeezed from the story yet. Tell us again how our brother was torn asunder. Doran {puzzled). Whose bruddher? Keegan. Mine. Act IV John Bull's Other Island 89 Nora. He means the pig, Mr. Doran. You know his way. DoHAN (rising gallantly to the occasion). Bedad I'm sorry for your poor bruddher, Misther Keegan; but I recommend you to thry him wid a couple o fried eggs for your breakfast tomorrow. It was a case of Excel- sior wi dhat ambitious baste; for not content wid jumpin from the back seat into the front wan, he jumped from the front wan into the road in front of the car. And — Keegan. And everybody laughed! Nora. Dont go over that again, please, Mr. Doran. Doran. Faith be the time the car went over the poor pig dhere was little left for me or anywan else to go over except wid a knife an fork. Aunt Judy. Why didnt Mr. Broadbent stop the car when the pig was gone.^ Doran. Stop the car! He might as well ha thried to stop a mad bull. First it went wan way an made fireworks o Molly Ryan's crockery stall; an dhen it slewed round an ripped ten fut o wall out o the corner o the pound. {With enormous enjoyment.) Begob, it just tore the town in two and sent the whole dam market to blazes. (Nora offended, rises.) Keegan (indignantly). Sir! Doran (quickly). Savin your presence. Miss ReiUy, and Misther Keegan's. Dhere ! I wont say anuddher word. Nora. I'm surprised at you, Mr. Doran. (She sits down again.) Doran (reflectively). He has the divil's own luck, that Englishman, annyway; for when they picked him up he hadnt a scratch on him, barm hwat the pig did to his does. Patsy had two fingers out o jynt; but the smith pulled them sthraight for him. Oh, you never heard such a hullaballoo as there was. There was Molly cryin Me chaney, me beautyf ul chancy ! n oul Mat shout- 90 John Bull's Other Island Act IV in Me pig, me pig! n the polus takin the number o the car, n not a man in the town able to speak for laughin — Keegan (with intense emphasis'). It is hell: it is hell. Nowhere else could such a scene be a burst of happiness for the people. Cornelius comes in hastily from the garden, pushing his way through the little crowd. Cornelius. Whisht your laughin, boys ! Here he is. (He puts his hat on the sideboard, and goes to the fire- place, where he posts himself with his back to the chim- ney piece. ) Aunt Judy. Remember your behavior, now. Everybody becomes silent, solemn, concerned, sym- pathetic. Broadbent enters, soiled and disordered as to his motoring coat: immensely important and serious as to himself. He makes his way to the end of the table nearest the garden door, whilst Larry, who accompanies him, throws his motoring coat on the sofa bed, and sits down, watching the proceedings. Broadbent {taking off his leather cap with dignity and placing it on the table). I hope you have not been anxious about me. Aunt Judy. Deedn we have, Mr. Broadbent. Its a mercy you werent killed. DoRAN. Kilt! Its a mercy dheres two bones of you left houldin together. How dijj escape at all at all.'' Well, I never thought I'd be so glad to see you safe and sound again. Not a man in the town would say less (murmurs of kindly assent). Wont you come down to Doolan's and have a dhrop o brandy to take the shock off.? Broadbent. Youre all reaUy too kind; but the shock has quite passed off. DoRAN (jovially). Never mind. Come along all the same and tell us about it over a frenly glass. Broadbent. May I say how deeply I feel the kind- ness with which I have been overwhelmed since my acci- Act IV John Bull's Other Island 91 dent? I can truthfully declare that I am glad it hap- pened, because it has brought out the kindness and sym- pathy of the Irish character to an extent I had no con- ception of. Several f^^' ^"""^ youre welcome! Present. | ^^^^ ^*^ ""^^ natural. |_Sure you might have been kilt. A young man, on the point of bursting, hurries out. Barney puts an iron constraint on his features. Broadbent. All I can say is that I wish I could drink the health of everyone of you. DoRAN. Dhen come an do it. Broadbent (very solemnly). No: I am a teetotaller. Aunt Judy {incredulously'). Arra since when? Broadbent. Since this morning. Miss Doyle. I have had a lesson {he looks at Nora significantly} that I shall not forget. It may be that total abstinence has already saved my life ; for I was astonished at the steadi- ness of my nerves when death stared me in the face to- day. So I will ask you to excuse me. {He collects him- self for a speech.) Gentlemen: I hope the gravity of the peril through which we have all passed — for I know that the danger to the bystanders was as great as to the occupants of the car — ^will prove an earnest of closer and more serious relations between us in the future. We have had a somewhat agitating day: a valuable and imiocent animal has lost its life: a public building has been wrecked: an aged and infirm lady has suffered an impact for which I feel personally responsible, though my old friend Mr. Laurence Doyle imfortunately in- curred the first efi"ects of her very natural resentment. I greatly regret the damage to Mr. Patrick Farrell's fingers; and I have of course taken care that he shall not suffer pecuniarily by his mishap. {Murmurs of ad- miration at his magnanimity, and A Voice " Youre a gentleman, sir.") I am glad to say that Patsy took it like an Irishman, and, far from expressing any vin- 92 John Bull's Other Island Act IV dictive feeling, declared his willingness to break all his fingers and toes for me on the same terms (^subdued applause, and " More power to Patsy! ")• Gentlemen: I felt at home in Ireland from the first (rising excite- ment among his hearers). In every Irish breast I have found that spirit of liberty (A cheery voice " Hear Hear"), that instinctive mistrust of the Government {A small pious voice, tvith intense expression, " God bless you, sir!"), that love of independence (4 defiant voice, " Thats it! Independence! "), that indignant sym- pathy with the cause of oppressed nationalities abroad (i4 threatening growl from all: the ground-swell of patriotic passion), and with the resolute assertion of personal rights at home, which is all but extinct in my own country. If it were legally possible I should be- come a naturalized Irishman; and if ever it be my good fortune to represent an Irish constituency in parliament, it shall be my first care to introduce a Bill legalizing such an operation. I believe a large section of the Lib- eral party would avail themselves of it. (Momentary scepticism.) I do. (Convulsive cheering.) Gentle- men: I have said enough. (Cries of "Go on.") No: I have as yet no right to address you at all on political subjects; and we must not abuse the warmhearted Irish hospitality of Miss Doyle by turning her sittingroom into a public meeting. DoRAN (energetically). Three cheers for Tom Broadbent, the future member for RosscuUen! Aunt Judy (waving a half knitted sock). Hip hip hurray ! The cheers are given with great heartiness, as it is by this time, for the more humorous spirits present, a question of vociferation or internal rupture. Broadbent. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, friends. Nora (whispering to Doran). Take them away, Mr. Doran (Doran nods). Act IV John Bull's Other Island 93 DoHAN. Well, good evenin, Mr. Broadbent; an may you never regret the day you wint dhrivin wid Haffigan's pig! {They shake hands.) Good evenin, Miss Doyle. General handshaking, Broadbent shaking hands with everybody effusively. He accompanies them to the gar- den and can be heard outside saying Goodnight in every inflexion known to parliamentary candidates. Nora, Aunt Judy, Keegan, Larry, and Cornelius are left in the parlor. Larry goes to the threshold and watches the scene in the garden. Nora. It's a shame to make game of him like that. Hes a gradle more good in him than Barney Doran. Cornelius. It's all up with his candidature. He'll be laughed out o the town. Larry (turning quickly from the doorway). Oh no he wont: hes not an Irishman. He'll never Ibiow theyre laughing at him; and while theyre laughing he'll win the seat. Cornelius. But he cant prevent the story getting about. Larry. He wont want to. He'll tell it himself as one of the most providential episodes in the history of England and Ireland. Aunt Judy. Sure he wouldnt make a fool of himself like that. Larry. Are you sure hes such a fool after aU, Aunt Judy ? Suppose you had a vote ! which would you rather give it to ? the man that told the story of Haffigan's pig Barney Doran's way or Broadbent's way? Aunt Judy. Faith I wouldnt give it to a man at all. It's a few women they want in parliament to stop their foolish bjather. Broadbent (bustling into the room, and taking off his damaged motoring overcoat, which he puts down on the; sofa). Well, that's over. I must apologize for mj]{king that speech. Miss Doyle; but they like it, you kn^ow. Everything helps in electioneering. 94 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Larry takes the chair near the door; dratvs it near the table; and sits astride it, with his elbows folded on the back. Aunt Judy. I'd no notion you were such an orator, Mr. Broadbent. Broadbent. Oh, it's only a knack. One picks it up on the platform. It stokes up their enthusiasm. Aunt Judy. Oh, I forgot. Youve not met Mr. Keegan. Let me introjooce you. Broadbent (shaking hands effusively'). Most happy to meet you, Mr. Keegan. I have heard of you, though I have not had the pleasure of shaking your hand before. And now may I ask you — for I value no man's opinion more — what you think of my chances here. Keegan (coldly). Your chances, sir, are excellent. You will get into parliament. Broadbent (delighted). I hope so. I think so. (Fluctuating.) You really think so? You are sure you are not allowing your enthusiasm for our principles to get the better of your judgment? Keegan. I have no enthusiasm for your principles, sir. You will get into parliament because you want to get into it badly enough to be prepared to take the necessary steps to induce the people to vote for you. That is how people usually get into that fantastic as- sembly. Broadbent (pussled). Of course. (Pause.) Quite so. (Pause.) Er — ^yes. (Buoyant again.) I think they will vote for me. Eh? Yes? Aunt Judy. Arra why shouldnt they? Look at the people they do vote for! Broadbent (encouraged). Thats true: thats very true. When I see the windbags, the carpet-baggers, the charlatans, the — the — the fools and ignoramuses who corrupt the multitude by their wealth, or seduce them by spouting balderdash to them, I cannot help thinking that an honest man with no humbug about him, who Tnll Act IV John Bull's Other Island 95 talk straight common sense and take his stand on the solid ground of principle and public duty, must win his way with men of all classes. Keegan (quietly). Sir: there was a time, in my ignorant youth, when I should have called you a hypo- crite. Bhoadbent {reddening). A hypocrite! Nora {hastily). Oh I'm sure you dont think any- thing of the sort, Mr. Keegan. Broadbent (emphatically). Thank you. Miss Reilly: thank you. Cornelius (gloomily). We all have to stretch it a bit in politics: hwats the use o pretendin we dont? Broadbent (stiffly). I hope I have said or done nothing that calls for any such observation, Mr. Doyle. If there is a vice I detest — or against which my whole public life has been a protest — it is the vice of hypocrisy. I would almost rather be inconsistent than insincere. Keegan. Do not be offended, sir: I know that you are quite sincere. There is a saying in the Scripture which runs — so far as the memory of an oldish man can carry the words — Let not the right side of your brain know what the left side doeth. I learnt at Oxford that this is the secret of the Englishman's strange power of making the best of both worlds. Broadbent. Surely the text refers to our right and left hands. I am somewhat surprised to hear a member of your Church quote so essentially Protestant a docu- ment as the Bible; but at least you might quote it ac- curately. Larry. Tom: with the best intentions youre making an ass of yourself. You dont understand Mr. Keegan's peculiar vein of humor. Broadbent (instantly recovering his confidence). Ah! it was only your delightful Irish humor, Mr. Keegan. Of course, of course. How stupid of me! I'm so sorry. (He pats Keegan consolingly on the 96 John Bull's Other Island Act IV back.) John Bull's wits are still slow, you see. Be- sides, calling me a hypocrite was too big a joke to swallow all at once, you know. Keegan. You must also allow for the fact that I am mad. Nora. Ah, dont talk like that, Mr. Keegan. Broadbent (^encouragingly'). Not at all, not at all. Only a whimsical Irishman, eh.'' Larry. Are you really mad, Mr. Keegan? Aunt Judy {shocked). Oh, Larry, how could you ask him such a thing? Larry. I dont think Mr. Keegan minds. {To Keegan.) Whats the true version of the story of that black man you confessed on his deathbed? Keegan. What story have you heard about that? Larry. I am informed that when the devil came for the black heathen, he took off your head and turned it three times round before putting it on again; and that your head's been turned ever since. Nora {reproachfully). Larry! Keegan {blandly). That is not quite what occurred. {He collects himself for a serious utterance: they attend involuntarily.) I heard that a black man was dying, and that the people were afraid to go near him. When I went to the place I found an elderly Hindoo, who told me one of those tales of unmerited misfortune, of cruel ill luck, of relentless persecution by destiny, which sometimes wither the commonplaces of consolation on the lips of a priest. But this man did not complain of his misfortunes. They were brought upon him, he said, by sins committed in a former existence. Then, without a word of comfort from me, he died with a clear-eyed resignation that my most earnest exhortations have rarely produced in a Christian, and left me sitting there by his bedside with the mystery of this world suddenly revealed to me. Broadbent. That is a remarkable tribute to the Act IV John Bull's Other Island 97 liberty of conscience enjoyed by the subjects of our Indian Empire. Larry. No doubt; but may we venture to ask what i s the mystery of this world ? Keegan. This world, sir, is very clearly a place of torment and penance, a place where the fool flourishes and the good and wise are hated and persecuted, a place where men and women torture one another in the name of love; where children are scourged and enslaved in the name of parental duty and education; where the weak in body are poisoned and mutilated in the name of healing, and the weak in character are put to the horrible torture of imprisonment, not for hours but for years, in the name of justice. It is a place where the hardest toil is a welcome refuge from the horror and tedium of pleasure, and where charity and good works are done only for hire to ransom the souls of the spoiler and the sybarite. Now, sir, there is only one place of horror and torment known to my religion; and that place is hell. Therefore it is plain to me that this earth of ours must be hell, and that we are all here, as the Indian revealed to me — perhaps he was sent to reveal it to me — to expiate crimes committed by us in a former existence. Aunt Judy (awestruck). Heaven save us, what a thing to say! Cornelius {sighing). It's a queer world: thats cer- tain. Broadbent. Your idea is a very clever one, Mr. Keegan: really most brilliant: I should never have thought of it. But it seems to me — if I may say so — that you are overlooking the fact that, of the evils you describe, some are absolutely necessary for the preserva- tion of society, and others are encouraged only when the Tories are in oflice. Larry. I expect you were a Tory in a former exist- ence; and that is vhy you are here. 98 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Bhoadbent (with conviction). Never, Larry, never. But leaving politics out of the question, I find the world quite good enough for me: rather a jolly place, in fact. Keegan (looking at him with quiet wonder). You are satisfied.' Broadbent. As a reasonable man, yes. I see no evils in the world — except, of course, natural evils — that cannot be remedied by freedom, self-government, and English institutions. I think so, not because I am an Englishman, but as a matter of common sense. Keegan. You feel at home in the world, then? Bhoadbent. Of course. Dont you? Keegan (from the very depths of his nature). No. Broadbent {breezily). Try phosphorus pills. I al- ways take them when my brain is overworked. I'll give you the address in Oxford Street. Keegan {enigmatically: rising). Miss Doyle: my wandering fit has come on me: will you excuse me? Aunt Judy. To be sure: you know you can come in n nout as you like. Keegan. We can finish the game some other time. Miss Reilly. {He goes for his hat and stick.) Nora. No: I'm out with you {she disarranges the pieces and rises.) I was too wicked in a former exist- ence to play backgammon with a good man like you. Aunt Judy {whispering to her). Whisht, whisht, child ! Dont set him back on that again, Keegan {to Nora). When I look at you, I think that perhaps Ireland is only purgatory, after all. {He passes on to the garden door.) Nora. Galong with you ! Broadbent {whispering to Cornelius). Has he a vote? Cornelius {nodding). Yes. An theres lotsle vote the way he tells them. Keegan {at the garden door, with gentle gravity). Act IV John Bull's Other Island 99 Good evening, Mr. Broadbent. You have set me think- ing. Thank you. Broadbent (delighted, hurrying across to him to shake hands). No, really? You find that contact with English ideas is stimulating, eh.-" Keegan. I am never tired of hearing you talk, Mr. Broadbent. Broadbent (modestly remonstrating). Oh come! come ! Keegan. Yes, I assure you. You are an extremely interesting man. (He goes out.) Broadbent (enthusiastically). What a nice chap! What an intelligent, interesting fellow! By the way, I'd better have a wash. (He takes up his coat and cap, and leaves the room through the inner door.) Nora returns to her chair and shuts up the backgam- mon board. Aunt Judy. Keegan's very queer to-day. He has his mad fit on him. Cornelius (worried and bitter). I wouldnt say but hes right after all. It's a contrairy world. (To Larry.) Why would you be such a fool as to let him take the seat in parliament from you? Larry (glancing at Nora). He will take more than that from me before hes done here. Cornelius. I wish he'd never set foot in my house, bad luck to his fat face! D'ye think he'd lend me £300 on the farm, Larry? When I'm so hard up, it seems a waste o money not to mortgage it now its me own. Larry. I can lend you £300 on it. Cornelius. No, no: I wasnt putn in for that. When I die and leave you the farm I should like to be able to feel that it was all me own, and not half yours to start with. Now I'll take me oath Barney Doarn's goin to ask Broadbent to lend him £500 on the mill to put in a new hweel; for the old one'U harly hoi together. An 100 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Haffigan cant sleep with covetn that corner o land at the foot of his medda that belongs to Doolan. He'll have to mortgage to buy it. I may as well be first as last. D'ye think Broadbent'd len me a little? Larry. I'm quite sure he will. Cornelius. Is he as ready as that? Would he len me five hunderd, d'ye think? Larry. He'll lend you more than the landll ever be worth to you; so for Heaven's sake be prudent. Cornelius (judicially). All right, all right, me son: I'll be careful. I'm goin into the office for a bit. (He withdraws through the inner door, obviously to prepare his application to Broadbent.) Aunt Judy (indignantly). As if he hadnt seen enough o borryin when he was an agent without begin- nin borryin himself! (She rises.) I'll borry him, so I will. (She puts her knitting on the table and follows him out, with a resolute air that bodes trouble for Cor- nelius.) Larry and Nora are left together for the first time since his arrival. She looks at him, with a smile that perished as she sees him aimlessly rocking his chair, and reflecting, evidently not about her, with his lips pursed as if he were whistling. With a catch in her throat she takes up Aunt Judy's knitting, and makes a pretence of going on with it. Nora. I suppose it didnt seem very long to you. Larry (starting). Eh? What didnt? Nora. The eighteen years youve been away. Larry. Oh, that! No: it seems hardly more than a week. I've been so busy — ^had so little time to think. Nora. Ive had nothin else to do but think. Larry. That was very bad for you. Why didnt you give it up? Why did you stay here? Nora. Because nobody sent for me to go anywhere else, I suppose. Thats why. Larry. Yes: one does stick frightfully in the same Act IV John Bull's Other Island 101 place, unless some external force comes and routs one out. {He yawns slightly; hut as she looks up quickly at him, he pulls himself together and rises with an air of waking up and setting to work cheerfully to make himself agreeable.) And how have you been all this time ? Nora. Quite well, thank you. Larry. Thats right. (Suddenly finding that he has nothing else to say, and being ill at ease in consequence, he strolls about the room humming a certain tune from Offenbach's Whittington.) Nora (struggling with her tears). Is that all you have to say to me, Larry? Larry. Well, what is there to say.? You see, we know each other so weU. Nora (a little consoled). Yes: of course we do. (He does not reply.) I wonder you came back at all. Larry. I couldnt help it. (She looks up affection- ately.) Tom made me. (She looks down again quickly to conceal the effect of this blow. He whistles another stave; then resumes.) I had a sort of dread of return- ing to Ireland. I felt somehow that my luck would turn if I came back. And now here I am, none the worse. Nora. Praps it's a little dull for you. Larry. No: I havnt exhausted the interest of stroll- ing about the old places and remembering and romancing about them. Nora (hopefully). Oh! You do remember the places, then? Larry. Of course. They have associations. Nora (not doubting that the associations are with her). I suppose so. Larry. M'yes. I can remember particular spots where I had long fits of thinking about the countries I meant to get to when I escaped from Ireland. America and London, and sometimes Rome and the east. 102 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Nora {deeply mortified'). Was that all you used to be thinking about? Larry. Well, there was precious little else to think about here, my dear Nora, except sometimes at sunset, when one got maudlin and called Ireland Erin, and imagined one was remembering the days of old, and so forth. {He whistles Let Erin remember.') Nora. Did jever get a letter I wrote you last Feb- ruary ? Larry. Oh yes; and I really intended to answer it. But I havnt had a moment; and I knew you ^ouldnt mind. You see, I am so afraid of boring you by writing about affairs you dont understand and people you dent know! And yet what else have I to write about.'' I begin a letter; and then I tear it up again. The fact is, fond as we are of one another, Nora, we have so little in common — I mean of course the things one can put in a letter — ^that correspondence is apt to become the hardest of hard work. Nora. Yes: it's hard for me to know anything about you if you never tell me anything. Larry (pettishly). Nora: a man cant sit down and write his life day by day when hes tired enough with having lived it. Nora. I'm not blaming you. Larry (looking at her with some concern). You seem rather out of spirits. (Going closer to her, anx- iously and tenderly.) You havnt got neuralgia, have you? Nora. No. Larry (reassured). I get a touch of it sometimes when I am below par. (Absently, again strolling about.) Yes, yes. (He begins to hum again, and soon breaks into articulate m.elody.) Though summer smiles on here for ever. Though not a leaf falls from the tree. Tell England I'll forget her never. Act IV John Bull's Other Island 103 {Nora puts down the knitting and stares at him.) O wind that blows across the sea. (With much expression.) Tell England I'll forget her ne-e-e-e-ver O wind that blows acro-oss — (Here the melody soars out of his range. He con- tinues falsetto, but changes the tune to Let Erin re- member.) I'm afraid I'm boring you, Nora, though youre too kind to say so. Nora. Are you wanting to get back to England al- ready ? Larry. Not at all. Not at all. Nora. Thats a queer song to sing to me if youre not. Larry. The song! Oh, it doesnt mean anything: its by a German Jew, like most English patriotic senti- ment. Never mind me, my dear: go on with your work; and dont let me bore you. Nora (bitterly). RosscuUen isnt such a lively place that I am likely to be bored by you at our first talk together after eighteen years, though you dont seem to have much to say to me after all. Larry. Eighteen years is a devilish long time, Nora. Now if it had been eighteen minutes, or even eighteen months, we should be able to pick up the interrupted thread, and chatter like two magpies. But as it is, I have simply nothing to say; and you seem to have less. Nora. I — (her tears choke her; but she keeps up appearances desperately). Larry (quite unconscious of his cruelty). In a week or so we shall be quite old friends again. Meanwhile, as I feel that I am not making myself particularly en- tertaining, I'll take myself off. Tell Tom Ive gone for a stroll over the hill. 104 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Nora. You seem very fond of Tom, as you call him. Larry (the triviality going suddenly out of his voice). Yes: I'm fond of Tom. Nora. Oh, well, dont let me keep you from him. Larry. I know quite well that my departure will be a relief. Rather a failure, this first meeting after eighteen years, eh? Well, never mind: these great sen- timental events always are failures ; and now the worst of it's over anyhow. (He goes out through the garden door.) Nora, left alone, struggles wildly to save herself from breaking down, and then drops her face on the table and gives way to a convulsion of crying. Her sobs shake her so that she can hear nothing; and she has no suspicion that she is no longer alone until her head and breast are raised by Broadbent, mho, returning newly washed and combed through the inner door, has seen her condition, first with surprise and concern, and then with an emotional disturbance that quite upsets him. Broadbent. Miss Eeilly. Miss Reilly. Whats the matter.? Dont cry: I cant stand it: you mustnt cry. (She makes a choked effort to speak, so painful that he continues with impulsive sympathy.) No: dont try to speak: it's all right now. Have your cry out: never mind me: trust me. (Gathering her to him, and bab- bling consolatorily.) Cry on my chest: the only really comfortable place for a woman to cry is a man's chest: a real man, a real friend. A good broad chest, eh? not less than forty-two inches — ^no: dont fuss: never mind the conventions: we're two friends, arnt we? Come now, come, come! Its all right and comfortable and happy now, isnt it? Nora (through her tears). Let me go. I want me hankerchief. Broadbent (holding her with one arm and producing a large silk handkerchief from his breast pocket). Heres a handkerchief. Let me (he dabs her tears dry with it). Act IV John Bull's Other Island 105 Never mind your own: it's too small: it's one of those wretched little cambric handkerchiefs— Nora (sobbing). Indeed it's a common cotton one Bhoadbent. Of course it's a common cotton one— silly little cotton one— not good enough for the dear eves ot Nora Cryna — NoBA (spluttering into a hysterical laugh and clutch- ing him convulsively with her fingers while she tries to stifle her laughter against his collar bone). Oh dont make me laugh: please dont make me laugh. Bhoadbent (terrified). I didnt mean to, on mv soul What is it? What is it? NoHA. Nora Creena, Nora Creena. Bhoadbent (patting her). Yes, yes, of course, Nora Creena, Nora acushla (he makes cush rhyme to plush) — Nora. Acushla (she makes cush rhyme to bush). Bhoadbent. Oh, confound the language! Nora darling — my Nora — ^the Nora I love — Nora (shocked into propriety). You mustnt talk like that to me. Bhoadbent (suddenly becoming prodigiously solemn and letting her go). No, of course not. I dont mean it — at least I d o mean it ; but I know it's premature. I had no right to take advantage of your being a little upset; but I lost my self-control for a moment. Nora (wondering at him). I think youre a very kindhearted man, Mr. Broadbent; but you seem to me to have no self-control at all (she turns her face away with a keen pang of shame and adds) no more than myself. Bhoadbent (resolutely). Oh yes, I have: you should see me when I am really roused : then I have tre- mendous self-control. Remember : we have been alone together only once before; and then, I regret to say, I was in a disgusting state. Noha. Ah no, Mr. Broadbent: you wernt disgusting. Bhoadbent (mercilessly). Yes I was: nothing can 106 John Bull's Other Island Act IV excuse it: perfectly beastly. It must have made a most unfavorable impression on you. Nora. Oh, sure it's all right. Say no more about that. Broadbent. I must. Miss Reilly: it is my duty. I shall not detain you long. May I ask you to sit down. {He indicates her chair with oppressive solemnity. She sits down wondering. He then, with the same por- tentous gravity, places a chair for himself near her; sits down; and proceeds to explain.) First, Miss Reilly, may I say that I have tasted nothing of an alcoholic nature today. Nora. It doesnt seem to make as much difference in you as it would in an Irishman, somehow. Broadbent. Perhaps not. Perhaps not. I never quite lose myself. Nora {consolingly'). Well, anyhow, youre all right now. Broadbent {fervently). Thank you. Miss Reilly: I am. Now we shall get along. {Tenderly, lowering his voice.) Nora: I was in earnest last night. {Nora moves as if to rise.) No: one moment. You must not think I am going to press you for an answer before you have known me for 24 hours. I am a reasonable man, I hope; and I am prepared to wait as long as you like, provided you will give me some small assurance that the answer will not be unfavorable. Nora. How could I go back from it if I did? I sometimes think youre not quite right in your head, Mr. Broadbent, you say such funny things. Broadbent. Yes: I know I have a strong sense of humor which sometimes makes people doubt whether I am quite serious. That is why I have always thought I should like to marry an Irishwoman. She would al- ways understand my jokes. For instance, you would understand them, eh? Nora {uneasily). Mr. Broadbent, I couldnt. Act IV John Bull's Other Island 107 Broadbent (^soothingly). Wait: let me break this to you gently. Miss Reilly: hear me out. I daresay you have noticed that in speaking to you I have been putting a very strong constraint on myself, so as to avoid wound- ing your delicacy by too abrupt an avowal of my feel- ings. Well, I feel now that the time has come to be open, to be frank, to be explicit. Miss Eeilly: you have inspired in me a very strong attachment. Perhaps, with a woman's intuition, you have already guessed that. Nora {rising distractedly). Why do you talk to me in that unfeeling nonsensical way? Broadbent (rising also, much astonished). Unfeel- ing ! Nonsensical ! Nora. Dont you know that you have said things to me that no man ought to say unless — unless — (she sud- denly breaks down again and hides her face on the, table as before.) Oh, go away from me: I wont get married at all: what is it but heartbreak and disap- pointment ? Broadbent (developing the most formidable symp- toms of rage and grief). Do you mean to say that you are going to refuse me? that you dont care for me? Nora (looking at him. in consternation). Oh, dont take it to heart, Mr. Br — Broadbent (flushed and almost choking). I dont want to be petted and blarneyed. (With childish rage.) I love you. I want you for my wife. (In despair.) I cant help your refusing. I'm helpless: I can do noth- ing. You have no right to ruin my whole life. You— (a hysterical convulsion stops him,). Nora (almost arvestruck). Youre not going to cry, are you ? I never thought a man could cry. Dont. Broadbent. I'm not crying. I — I — I leave that sort of thing to your damned sentimental Irishmen. You think I have no feeling because I am a plain unemotional Englishman, with no powers of expression. Nora. I dont think you know the sort of man you 108 John Bull's Other Island Act IV are at all. Whatever may be the matter with you, it's not want of feeling. BaoADBENT {hurt and petulant). It's you who have no feeling. Youre as heartless as Larry. Nora. What do you expect me to do ? Is it to throw meself at your head the minute the word is out o your mouth ? Broadbent {striking Ms silly head with his fists'). Oh, what a fool! what a brute I am! It's only your Irish delicacy: of course, of course. You mean Yes. Eh? What? Yes, yes, yes? Nora. I think you might understand that though I might choose to be an old maid, I could never marry anybody but you now. Broadbent {clasping her violently to his breast, with a crow of immense relief and triumph). Ah, thats right, thats right: thats magnificent. I knew you would see what a first-rate thing this will be for both of us. Nora {incommoded and not at all enraptured by his ardor). Youre dreadfully strong, an a gradle too free with your strength. An I never thought o whether it'd be a good thing for us or not. But when you found me here that time, I let you be kind to me, and cried in your arms, because I was too wretched to think of anything but the comfort of it. An how could I let any other man touch me after that? Broadbent {touched). Now thats very nice of you, Nora: thats really most delicately womanly {he kisses her hand chivalrously). Nora {looking earnestly and a little doubtfully at him). Surely if you let one woman cry on you like that youd never let another touch you. Broadbent {conscientiously). One should not. One ought not, my dear girl. But the honest truth is, if a chap is at all a pleasant sort of chap, his chest becomes a fortification that^Jias to stand many assaults: at least it is so in England. Act IV John Bull's Other Island 109 Nora {curtly, much disgusted). Then youd better marry an Englishwoman. Broadbent {making a wry face). No, no: the Eng- lishwoman is too prosaic for my taste, too material, too much of the animated beefsteak about her. The ideal is what I like. Now Larry's taste is just the opposite: he likes em solid and bouncing and rather keen about him. It's a very convenient diiference; for weve never been in love with the same woman. Nora. An d'ye mean to tell me to me face that youve ever been in love before ? Broadbent. Lord ! yes. Nora. I'm not your first love? Broadbent. First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity: no really self-respecting woman would take advantage of it. No, my dear Nora: Ive done with all that long ago. Love affairs always end in rows. We're not going to have any rows : we're going to have a solid four-square home: man and wife: com- fort and common sense — and plenty of affection, eh {he puts his arm round her with confident proprietorship) ? Nora {coldly, trying to get away). I dont want any other woman's leavings. Broadbent {holding her). Nobody asked you to, maam. I never asked any woman to marry me before. Nora {severely). Then why didnt you if youre an honorable man? Broadbent. Well, to tell you the truth, they were mostly married already. But never mind! there was nothing wrong. Come! dont take a mean advantage of me. After all, you must have had a fancy or two your- self eh ? Nora {conscience-strichen) . Yes. I suppose Ive no right to be particular. Broadbent {humbly). I know I'm not good enough for you, Nora. But no man is, you know, when the woman is a really nice woman. 110 John Bull's Other Island Act IV Nora. Oh, I'm no better than yourself. I may as well tell you about it. Broadbent. No, no: lets have no telling: much bet- ter not. / shant tell you anything; dont you tell m e anything. Perfect confidence in one another and no tellings: thats the way to avoid rows. Nora. Dont think it was anything I need be ashamed of. Broadbent. I dont. Nora. It was only that I'd never known anybody else that I could care for; and I was foolish enough once to think that Larry — Broadbent (^disposing of the idea at once'). Larry! Oh, that wouldnt have done at all, not at all. You dont know Larry as I do, my dear. He has absolutely no capacity for enjoyment: he couldnt make any woman happy. He's as clever as be-blowed; but life's too earthly for him: he doesnt really care for anything or anybody. Nora. Ive found that out. Broadbent. Of course you have. No, my dear : take my word for it, youre jolly well out of that. There! {swinging her round against his breast) thats much more comfortable for you. Nora (mith Irish peevishness). Ah, you mustnt go on like that. I dont like it. Broadbent {unabashed^. Youll acquire the taste by degrees. You mustnt mind me: it's an absolute neces- sity of my nature that I should have somebody to hug occasionally. Besides, it's good for you: itU plump out your muscles and make em elastic and set up your figure. Nora. Well, I'm sure! if this is English manners! Arnt you ashamed to talk about such things? Broadbent (in the highest feather). Not a bit. By George, Nora, its a tremendous thing to be able to enjoy oneself. Lets go off for a walk out of this stuffy little Act IV John Bull's Other Island 111 room. I want the open air to expand in. Come along. Co-o-o-me along. (He puts her arm into his and sweeps her out into the garden as an equinoctial gale might sweep a dry leaf.) Later in the evening, the grasshopper is again enjoy- ing the sunset hy the great stone on the hill; hut this time he enjoys neither the stimulus of Keegan's con- versation nor the pleasure of terrifying Patsy Farrell. He is alone until Nora and Broadbent come up the hill arm in arm. Broadbent is still breezy and confident; but she has her head averted from him and is almost in tears. Broadbent (stopping to snuff up the hillside air). Ah! I like this spot. I like this view. This would be ^ jolly good place for a hotel and a golf links. Friday to Tuesday, railway ticket and hotel all inclusive. I tell you, Nora, I'm going to develop this place. (Look- ing at her.) Hallo! Whats the matter .> Tired.?' Nora (unable to restrain her tears). I'm ashamed out o me life. Broadbent (astonished). Ashamed! What of? Nora. Oh, how could you drag me all round the place like that, telling everybody that we're going to be married, and introjoocing me to the lowest of the low, and letting them shake hans with me, and encouraging them to make free with us.'' I little thought I should live to be shaken hans with be Doolan in broad daylight in the public street of EosscuUen. Broadbent. But, my dear, Doolan's a publican: a most influential man. By the way, I asked him if his wife would be at home tomorrow. He said she would; so you must take the motor car round and call on her. Nora (aghast). Is it me call on Doolan's wife! Broadbent. Yes, of course: call on all their wives. We must get a copy of the register and a supply of canvassing cards. No use calling on people who havnt votes. YouU be a great success as a canvasser, Nora: 112 John Bull's Other Island Act IV they call you the heiress; and theyll be flattered no end by your calling, especially as youve never cheapened yourself by speaking to them before — ^have you? Nora (^indignantly'). Not likely, indeed. Broadbent. Well, we mustnt be stiff and stand-off, you know. We must be thoroughly democratic, and patronize everybody without distinction of class. I tell you I'm a jolly lucky man, Nora Cryna. I get engaged to the most delightful woman in Ireland; and it turns out that I couldnt have done a smarter stroke of elec- tioneering. Nora. An would you let me demean meself like that, just to get yourself into parliament.^ Broadbent (buot/antly). Aha! Wait till you find out what an exciting game electioneering is: youU be mad to get me in. Besides, youd like people to say that Tom Broadbent's wife had been the making of him — that she got him into parliament — ^into the Cabinet, per- haps, eh? Nora. God knows I dont grudge you me money! But to lower meself to the level of common people — Broadbent. To a member's wife, Nora, nobody is common provided hes on the register. Come, my dear! its all right: do you think I'd let you do it if it wasnt? The best people do it. Everybody does it. Nora {who has been biting her lip and looking over the hill, disconsolate and unconvinced} . Well, praps you know best what they do in England. They must have very little respect for themselves. I think I'll go in now. I see Larry and Mr. Keegan coming up the hUl; and I'm not fit to talk to them. Broadbent. Just wait and say something nice to Keegan. They tell me he controls nearly as many votes as Father Dempsey himself. Nora. You little know Peter Keegan. He'd see through me as if I was a pane o glass. Broadbent. Oh, he wont like it any the less for Act IV John Bull's Other Island 113 that. What really flatters a man is that you think him worth flattering. Not that I would flatter any man: dent think that. I'll just go and meet him. {He goes down the hill with the eager forward look of a man about to greet a valued acquaintance. Nora dries hert eyes, and turns to go as Larry strolls up the hill to her.) Larry. Nora. (She turns and looks at him hardly, without a word. He continues anxiously, in his most conciliatory tone.) When I left you that time, I was just as wretched as you. I didnt rightly know what I wanted to say; and my tongue kept clacking to cover the loss I was at. Well, Ive been thinking ever since; and now I know what I ought to have said. Ive come back to say it. Nora. Youve come too late, then. You thought eighteen years was not long enough, and that you might keep me waiting a day longer. Well, you were mistaken. I'm engaged to your friend Mr. Broadbent; and I'm done with you. Larry (naively). But that was the very thing I was going to advise you to do. Nora (involuntarily). Oh you brute! to tell me that- to me face. Larry (nervously relapsing into his most Irish man- ner). Nora, dear, dont you understand that I'm an Irishman, and hes an Englishman. He wants you; and he grabs you. I want you; and I quarrel with you and have to go on wanting you. Nora. So you may. Youd better go back to England to the animated beefsteaks youre so fond of. Larry (amazed). Nora! (Guessing where she got the metaphor.) Hes been talking about me, I see. Well, never mind: we must be friends, you and I. I dont want his marriage to you to be his divorce from me. Nora. You care more for him than you ever did for me. Larry (with curt sincerity). Yes of course I do: 114 John Bull's Other Island Act IV why should I tell you lies about it? Nora Reilly was a person of very little consequence to me or anyone else outside this miserable little hole. But Mrs. Tom Broad- bent will be a person of very considerable consequence indeed. Play your new part well, and there will be no more neglect, no more loneliness, no more idle re- grettings and vain-hopings in the evenings by the round tower, but real life and real work and real cares and real joys among real people: solid English life in Lon- don, the very centre of the world. You will find your work cut out for you keeping Tom's house and enter- taining Tom's friends and getting Tom into parliament; but it will be worth the effort. Nora. You talk as if I were under an obligation to him for marrying me. Larry. I talk as I think. Youve made a very good match, let me tell you. Nora. Indeed! Well, some people might say hes not done so badly himself. Larry. If you mean that you will be a treasure to him, he thinks so now; and you can keep him thinking so if you like. Nora. I wasnt thinking o meself at all. Larry. Were you thinking of your money, Nora? Nora. I didnt say so. Larry. Your money will not pay your cook's wages in London. Nora {flaming up). If thats true — and the more shame for you to throw it in my face if it i s true — at all events ItU make us independent; for if the worst comes to the worst, we can always come back here an live on it. An if I have to keep his house for him, at all events I can keep you out of it ; for Ive done with you; and I wish I'd never seen you. So goodbye to you, Mister Larry Doyle. {She turns her hack on him and goes home.) Larry {watching her as she goes'). Goodbye. Good- Act IV John Bull's Other Island 115 bye. Oh, thats so Irish ! Irish both of us to the back- bone: Irish, Irish, Irish — Broadhent arrives, conversing energetically with Keegan. Broadbent. Nothing pays like a golfing hotel, if you hold the land instead of the shares, and if the fur- niture people stand in with you, and if you are a good man of business. Larry. Nora's gone home. Broadbent (with conviction). You were right this morning, Larry. I must feed up Nora. She's weak; and it makes her fanciful. Oh, by the way, did I tell you that we're engaged? Larry. She told me herself. Broadbent (complacently). She's rather full of it, as you may imagine. Poor Nora! Well, Mr. Keegan, as I said, I begin to see my way here. I begin to see my way. Keegan (with a courteous inclination). The con- quering Englishman, sir. Within 24 hours of your ar- rival you have carried olF our only heiress, and prac- tically secured the parliamentary seat. And you have promised me that when I come here in the evenings to meditate on my madness; to watch the shadow of the round tower lengthening in the sunset; to break my heart uselessly in the curtained gloaming over the dead heart and blinded soul of the island of the saints, you will comfort me with the bustle of a great hotel, and the sight of the little children carrying the golf clubs of your tourists as a preparation for the life to come. Broadbent (quite touched, mutely offering him a cigar to console him, at which he smiles and shakes his head). Yes, Mr. Keegan: youre quite right. Theres poetry in everything, even (looking absently into the cigar case) in the most modern prosaic things, if you know how to extract it (he extracts a cigar for himself and offers one to Larry, who takes it). If I was to be 116 John Bull's Other Island Act IV shot for it I couldnt extract it myself; but thats where you come in, you see {roguishly, waking up from his reverie and hustling Keegan goodhumoredly') . And then I shall wake you up a bit. Thats where I come in : eh? d'ye see? Eh? eh? {He pats him very pleasantly on the shoulder, half admiringly, half pityingly.') Just so, just so. {Coming hack to business.) By the way, I believe I can do better than a light railway here. There seems to be no question now that the motor boat has come to stay. Well, look at your magnificent river there, going to waste. Keegan {closing his eyes). " Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy waters." Broadbent. You know, the roar of a motor boat is quite pretty. Keegan. Provided it does not drown the Angelus. Bhoadbent {reassuringly). Oh no: it wont do that: not the least danger. You know, a church bell can make a devil of a noise when it likes. Keegan. You have an answer for everything, sir. But your plans leave one question still unanswered: how to get butter out of a dog's throat. Broadbent. Eh ? Keegan. You cannot build your golf links and hotels in the air. For that you must own our land. And how will you drag our acres from the ferret's grip of Mat- thew Haffigan? How will you persuade Cornelius Doyle to forego the pride of being a small landowner? How will Barney Doran's millrace agree with your motor boats? Will Doolan help you to get a license for your hotel? Broadbent. My dear sir: to all intents and pur- poses the syndicate I represent already owns half Eoss- cuUen. Doolan's is a tied house; and the brewers are in the syndicate. As to Hafiigan's farm and Doran's mill and Mr. Doyle's place and half a dozen others, they will be mortgaged to me before a month is out Act IV John Bull's Other Island 117 Keegan. But pardon me, you will not lend them more on their land than the land is worth; so they will be able to pay you the interest. Broadbent. Ah, you are a poet, Mr. Keegan, not a man of business. Larry. We will lend everyone of these men half as much again on their land as it is worth, or ever can be worth, to them. Broadbent. You forget, sir, that we, with our cap- ital, our knowledge, our organization, and may I say our English business habits, can make or lose ten pounds out of land that HafHgan, with all his industry, could not make or lose ten shillings out of. Doran's mill is a superannuated folly: I shall want it for electric lighting. Larry. What is the use of giving land to such men? they are too small, too poor, too ignorant, too simple- minded to hold it against us : you might as well give a dukedom to a crossing sweeper. Broadbent. Yes, Mr. Keegan: this place may have an industrial future, or it may have a residential future: I cant tell yet; but it's not going to be a future in the hands of your Dorans and HaiBgans, poor devils ! Keegan. It may have no future at all. Have you thought of that? Broadbent. Oh, I'm not afraid of that. I have faith in Ireland, great faith, Mr. Keegan. Keegan. And we have none: only empty enthusiasms and patriotisms, and emptier memories and regrets. Ah yes: you have some excuse for believing that if there be any future, it will be yours; for our faith seems dead, and our hearts cold and cowed. An island of dreamers who wake up in your jails, of critics and cowards whom you buy and tame for your own service, of bold rogues who help you to plunder us that they may plunder you afterwards. Eh ? Broadbent (a little impatient of this unbusinesslike 118 John Bull's Other Island Act IV view). Yes, yes; but you know you might say that of any country. The fact is, there are only two qualities in the world: efficiency and inefficiency, and only two sorts of people: the efficient and the inefficient. It dont mat- ter whether theyre English or Irish. I shall collar this place, not because I'm an Englishman and Haffigan and Co. are Irishmen, but because theyre duffers and I know my way about. Keegan. Have you considered what is to become of Haffigan ? Larry. Oh, we'll employ him in some capacity or other, and probably pay him more than he makes for himself now. Broadbent (dubiously). Do you think so? No no: Haffigan's too old. It really doesnt pay now to take on men over forty even for unskilled labor, which I sup- pose is all Haffigan would be good for. No: Haffigan had better go to America, or into the Union, poor old chap ! Hes worked out, you know : you can see it. Keeoan. Poor lost soul, so cunningly fenced in with invisible bars ! Larry. Haffigan doesnt matter much. He'll die presently. Broadbent {shocked). Oh come, Larry! Dont be unfeeling. Its hard on Haffigan. It's always hard on the inefficient. Larry. Pah! what does it matter where an old and broken man spends his last days, or whether he has a million at the bank or only the workhouse dole? It's the young men, the able men, that matter. The real tragedy of Haffigan is the tragedy of his wasted youth, his stunted mind, his drudging over his clods and pigs until he has become a clod and a pig himself — until the soul within him has smouldered into nothing but a dull temper that hurts himself and all around him. I say let him die, and let us have no more of his like. And let young Ireland take care that it doesnt share his fate. Act IV John BuU's Other Island 119 instead of making another empty grievance of it. Let your syndicate come — Broadbent. Your syndicate, too, old chap. You have your bit of the stock. Larry. Yes, mine if you like. Well, our syndicate has no conscience: it has no more regard for your Haffi- gans and Doolans and Dorans than it has for a gang of Chines(^oolies. It vi^ill use your patriotic blatherskite and balderdash to get parliamentary powers over you as cynically as it would bait a mousetrap with toasted cheese. It will plan, and organize, and find capital while you slave like bees for it and revenge yourselves by paying politicians and penny newspapers out of your small wages to write articles and report speeches against its wickedness and tyranny, and to crack up your own Irish heroism, just as Haffigan once paid a witch a penny to put a spell on Billy Byrne's cow. In the end it will grind the nonsense out of you, and grind strength and sense into you. Broadbent (out of patience). Why cant you say a simple thing simply, Larry, without all that Irish ex- aggeration and talky-talky .^ The syndicate is a per- fectly respectable body of responsible men of good position. We'll take Ireland in hand, and by straightfor- ward business habits teach it efficiency and self-help on sound Liberal principles. You agree with me, Mr. Keegan, dont you? Keegan. Sir: I may even vote for you. Broadbent (sincerely moved, shaking his hand warmly). You shall never regret it, Mr. Keegan: I give you my word for that. I shall bring money here: I shall raise wages: I shall found public institutions, a library, a Polytechnic (undenominational, of course), a gymnasium, a cricket club, perhaps an art school. I shall make a Garden city of EosscuUen: the round tower shall be thoroughly repaired and restored. Keegan. And our place of torment shall be as clean 120 John Bull's Other Island Act IV and orderly as the cleanest and most orderly place I know in Ireland, which is our poetically named Mount- joy prison. Well, perhaps I had better vote for an efficient devil that knows his own mind and his own business than for a foolish patriot who has no mind and no business. Bhoadbent {stiffly). Devil is rather a strong ex- pression in that connexion, Mr. Keegan. Keegan. Not from a man who knows that this world is hell. But since the word offends you, let me soften it, and compare you simply to an ass. {Larry whitens ■with anger.) Bhoadbent {reddening). An ass! Keegan {gently). You may take it without offence from a madman who calls the ass his brother — and a very honest, useful and faithful brother too. The ass, sir, is the most eflScient of beasts, matter-of-fact, hardy, friendly when you treat him as a fellow-creature, stub- born when you abuse him, ridiculous only in love, which sets him braying, and in politics, which move him to roll about in the public road and raise a dust about nothing. Can you deny these qualities and habits in yourself, sir.' Bhoadbent {goodhumoredly) . Well, yes, I'm afraid I do, you know. Keegan. Then perhaps you will confess to the ass's one fault. Bhoadbent. Perhaps so: what is it? Keegan. That he wastes aU his virtues — his effi- ciency, as you call it — in doing the will of his greedy masters instead of doing the will of Heaven that is in himself. He is efficient in the service of Mammon, mighty in mischief, skilful in ruin, heroic in destruc- tion. But he comes to browse here without knowing that the soil his hoof touches is holy ground. Ireland, sir, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven ; and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without Act IV John Bull's Other Island 121 becoming better or worse. It produces two kinds of men in strange perfection: saints and traitors. It is called the island of the saints ; but indeed in these later years it might be more fitly called the island of the traitors; for our harvest of these is the fine flower of the world's crop of infamy. But the day may come when these islands shall live by the quality of their men rather than by the abundance of their minerals; and then we shall see. Larry. Mr. Keegan: if you are going to be senti- mental about Ireland, I shall bid you good evening. We have had enough of that, and more than enough of cleverly proving that everybody who is not an Irishman is an ass. It is neither good sense nor good manners. It will not stop the syndicate; and it will not interest yoimg Ireland so much as my friend's gospel of effi- ciency. Broadbektt. Ah, yes, yes: efficiency is the thing. I dont in the least mind your chaff, Mr. Keegan; but Larry's right 6n the main point. The world belongs to the efficient. Keegan (with polished irony'). I stand rebuked, gen- tlemen. But believe me, I do every justice to the effi- ciency of you and your sjmdicate. You are both, I am told, thoroughly efficient civil engineers; and I have no doubt the golf links will be a triumph of your art. Mr. Broadbent will get into parliament most efficiently, which is more than St. Patrick could do if he were alive now. You may even build the hotel efficiently if you can find enough efficient masons, carpenters, and plumbers, which I rather doubt. (Dropping his irony, and beginning to fall into the attitude of the priest rebuking sin.) When the hotel becomes insolvent (Broadbent takes his cigar out of his mouth, a little taken aback), your English business habits will secure the thorough efficiency of the liquidation. You will reorganize the scheme efficiently; you wiU liquidate its second bankruptcy efficiently 122 John Bull's Other Island Act IV {Broadbent and Larry look quickly at one another; for this, unless the priest is an old financial hand, must be inspiration) ; you will get rid of its original shareholders efiiciently after efficiently ruining them; and you will finally profit very efficiently by getting that hotel for a few shillings in the pound. (More and more sternly.) Besides these efficient operations, you will foreclose your mortgages most efiiciently (his rebuking forefinger goes up in spite of himself) ; you will drive Haffigan to America very efficiently; you will find a use for Barney Doran's foul mouth and bullying temper by employing him to slave-drive your laborers very efficiently; and (low and bitter) when at last this poor desolate country- side becomes a busy mint in which we shall all slave to make money for you, with our Polytechnic to teach us how to do it efficiently, and our library to fuddle the few imaginations your distilleries will spare, and our repaired round tower with admission sixpence, and re- freshments and penny-in-the-slot mutoscopes to make it interesting, then no doubt your English and American shareholders will spend all the money we make for them very efficiently in shooting and hunting, in operations for cancer and appendicitis, in gluttony and gambling; and you will devote what they save to fresh land de- velopment schemes. For four wicked centuries the world has dreamed this foolish dream of efficiency; and the end is not yet. But the end will come. Broadbent (seriously). Too true, Mr. Keegan, only too true. And most eloquently put. It reminds me of poor Ruskin — a great man, you know. I sympathize. Believe me, I'm on your side. Dont sneer, Larry: I used to read a lot of Shelley years ago. Let us be faith- ful to the dreams of our youth (he wafts a wreath of cigar smoke at large across the hill). Keeoan. Come, Mr. Doyle! is this English senti- ment so much more efficient than our Irish sentiment, after all? Mr. Broadbent spends his life inefficiently Act IV John Bull's Other Island 123 admiring the thoughts of great men^ and efficiently serving the cupidity of base money hunters. We spend our lives efficiently sneering at him and doing nothing. Which of us has any right to reproach the other? Bhoadbent {coming down the hill again to Keegan's right hand). But you know, something must be done. Keegan. Yes : when we cease to do, we cease to live. Well, what shall we do? Broadbent. Why, what lies to our hand. Keegan. Which is the making of golf links and hotels to bring idlers to a country which workers have left in millions because it is a hungry land, a naked land, an ignorant and oppressed land. Broadbent. But, hang it all, the idlers will bring money from England to Ireland! Keegan. Just as o u r idlers have for so many gen- erations taken money from Ireland to England. Has that saved England from poverty and degradation more horrible than we have ever dreamed of? When I went to England, sir, I hated England. Now I pity it. (^Broadbent can hardly conceive an Irishman pitying England; but as Larry intervenes angrily, he gives it up and takes to the hill and his cigar again.) Larry. Much good your pity will do it! Keeoan. In the accounts kept in heaven, Mr. Doyle, a heart purified of hatred may be worth more even than a Land Development Syndicate of Anglicized Irishmen and Gladstonized Englishman. Larry. Oh, in heaven, no doubt ! I have never been there. Can you tell me where it is? Keegan. Could you have told me this morning where hell is? Yet you know now that it is here. Do not despair of finding heaven: it may be no farther off. Larry (ironically). On this holy ground, as you call it, eh? Keegan (rvith fierce intensity). Yes, perhaps, even 124 John Bull's Other Island Act IV on this holy ground which such Irishmen as you have turned into a Land of Derision. Bhoadbent (coming between them). Take care! you will be quarrelling presently. Oh, you Irishmen, you Irishmen! Toujours Ballyhooly, eh? (Larry, with a shrug, half comic, half impatient, turns away up the hill, but presently strolls back on Keegan's right. Broad- bent adds, confidentially to Keegan) Stick to the Eng- lishman, Mr. Keegan: he has a bad name here; but at least he can forgive you for being an Irishman. Keegan. Sir: when you speak to me of English and Irish you forget that I am a Catholic. My country is not Ireland nor England, but the whole mighty realm of my Church. For me there are but two countries: heaven and hell; but two conditions of men: salvation and damnation. Standing here between you the English- man, so clever in your foolishness, and this Irishman, so foolish in his cleverness, I cannot in my ignorance be sure which of you is the more deeply damned; but I should be unfaithful to my calling if I opened the gates of my heart less widely to one than to the other. Larry. In either case it would be an impertinence, Mr. Keegan, as your approval is not of the slightest consequence to us. What use do you suppose all this drivel is to men with serious practical business in hand? Bhoadbent. I dont agree with that, Larry. I think these things cannot be said too often: they keep up the moral tone of the community. As you know, I claim the right to think for myself in religious matters: in fact, I am ready to avow myself a bit of a — of a — ^well, I dont care who knows it- — a bit of a Unitarian; but if the Church of England contained a few men like Mr. Keegan, I should certainly join it. Keegan. You do me too much honor, sir. (With priestly humility to Larry.) Mr. Doyle: I am to blame for having unintentionally set your mind somewhat on edge against me. I beg your pardon. Act IV John Bull's Other Island 125 Larry (^unimpressed and hostile). I didnt stand on ceremony with you: you neednt stand on it with me. Fine manners and fine words are cheap in Ireland: you can keep both for my friend here, who is still imposed on by them. / know their value. Keegan. You mean you dont know their value. Larry {angrily). I mean what I say. Keegan (turning quietly to the Englishman'). You see, Mr. Broadbent, I only make the hearts of my coim- trymen harder when I preach to them: the gates of hell still prevail against me. I shall wish you good evening. I am better alone, at the round tower, dreaming of heaven. (He goes up the hill.) Larry. Aye, thats it! there you are! dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming! Keegan (halting and turning to them for the last time). Every dream is a prophecy: every jest is an earnest in the womb of Time, Broadbent (reflectively). Once, when I was a small kid, I dreamt I was in heaven. (They both stare at him.) It was a sort of pale blue satin place, with all the pious old ladies in our congregation sitting as if they were at a service; and there was some awful person in the study at the other side of the hall. I didnt enjoy it, you know. What is it like in y o u r dreams ? Keegan. In my dreams it is a country where the State is the Church and the Church' the people: three in one and one in three. It is a commonwealth in which work is play and play is life: three in one and one in three. It is a temple in which the priest is the wor- shipper and the worshipper the worshipped: three in one and one in three. It is a godhead in which all life is human and all humanity divine: three in one and one in three. It is, in short, the dream of a madman. (He goes atvay across the hill.) Broadbent (looking after him affectionately). What a regular old Church and State Tory he is! Hes a 126 John Bull's Other Island Act IV character: he'll be an attraction here. Really almost equal to Ruskin and Carlyle. Larry. Yes ; and much good they did with all their talk! Broadbent. Oh tut, tut, Larry ! They improved my mind: they raised my tone enormously. I feel sincerely obliged to Keegan: he has made me feel a better man: distinctly better. (With sincere elevation.") I feel now as I never did before that I am right in devoting my life to the cause of Ireland. Come along and help me to choose the site for the hotel. CURTAIN. HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND 1904 PREFACE Like many other works of mine, this playlet is a piece d'occasion. In 1905 it happened that Mr. Arnold Daly, who was then playing the part of Napoleon in The Man of Destiny in New York, found that whilst the play was too long to take a secondary place in the evening's performance, it was too short to suffice by itself. I therefore took advantage of four days continuous rain during a holiday in the north of Scotland to write How He Lied To Her Husband for Mr. Daly. In his hands, it served its turn very effectively. U print it here as a sample of what can be done with even the most hackneyed stage framework by filling it in with an observed touch of actual humanity instead of with doctrinaire romanticism. Nothing in the theatre is staler than the situation of husband, wife and lover, or the fun of knockabout farce. I have taken both, and got an original play out of them, as anybody else can if only he will look about him for his material instead of plagiarizing Othello and the thousand plays that have proceeded on Othello's romantic assumptions and false point of honory A further experiment made by Mr. Arnold Daly with this play is worth recording. In 1905 Mr. Daly pro- duced Mrs. Warren's Profession in New York. The press of that city instantly raised a cry that such per- sons as Mrs. Warren are " ordure," and should not be mentioned in the presence of decent people. This hide- ous repudiation of humanity and social conscience so took possession of the New York journalists that the 129 130 How He Lied to Her Husband few among them who kept their feet morally and in- tellectually could do nothing to check the epidemic of foul language, gross suggestion, and raving obscenity of word and thought that broke out. The writers aban- doned all self-restraint under the impression that they were upholding virtue instead of outraging it. They infected each other, with their hysteria until they were for all practical purposes indecently mad. They finally forced the police to arrest Mr. Daly and his company, and led the magistrate to express his loathing of the duty thus forced upon him of reading an unmentionable and abominable play. Of course the convulsion soon exhausted itself. The magistrate, naturally somewhat impatient when he found that what he had to read was a strenuously ethical play forming part of a book which had been in circulation unchallenged for eight years, and had been received without protest by the whole London and New York press, gave the journalists a piece of his mind as to their moral taste in plays. By consent, he passed the case on to a higher court, which declared that the play was not immoral; acquitted Mr. Daly; and made an end of the attempt to use the law to declare living women to be " ordure," and thus en- force silence as to the far-reaching fact that you cannot cheapen women in the market for industrial purposes without cheapening them for other purposes as well. I hope Mrs. Warren's Profession will be played every- where, in season and out of season, until Mrs. Warren has bitten that fact into the public conscience, and shamed the newspapers which support a tariff to keep up the price of every American commodity except Ameri- can manhood and womanhood. Unfortunately, Mr. Daly had already suffered the usual fate of those who direct public attefltion to the profits of the sweater or the pleasures of the voluptuary. He was morally lynched side by side with me. Months elapsed before the decision of the courts vindicated him; Preface 131 and even then, since his vindication implied the con- demnation of the press, which was by that time sober again, and ashamed of its orgie, his triumph received a rather sulky and grudging publicity. In the meantime he had hardly been able to approach an American city, including even those cities which had heaped applause on him as the defender of hearth and home when he produced Candida, without having to face articles dis- cussing whether mothers could allow their daughters to attend such plays as You Never Can Tell, written by the infamous author of Mrs. Warren's Profession, and acted by the monster who produced it. What made this harder to bear was that though no fact is better estab- lished in theatrical business than the financial disastrous- ness of moral discredit, the journalists who had done all the mischief kept paying vice the homage of assum- ing that it is enormously popular and lucrative, and that I and Mr. Daly, being exploiters of vice, must therefore be making colossal fortunes out of the abuse heaped on us, and had in fact provoked it and welcomed it with that express object. Ignorance of real life could hardly go further. One consequence was that Mr. Daly could not have kept his financial engagements or maintained his hold on the public had he not accepted engagements to appear for a season in the vaudeville theatres (the American equivalent of our music halls), where he played How He Lied to Her Husband comparatively imhampered by the press censorship of the theatre, or by that sophistica- tion of the audience through press suggestion from which I suffer more, perhaps, than any other author. Vaudeville authors are fortunately unknown: the audi- ences see what the play contains and what the actor can do, not what the papers have told them to expect. Suc- cess under such circumstances had a value both for Mr. Daly and myself which did something to console us for the very unsavory mobbing which the New York 132 How He Lied to Her Husband press organized for us, and which was not the less dis- gusting because we suffered in a good cause and in the very best company. Mr. Daly, having weathered the storm, can perhaps shake his soul free of it as he heads for fresh successes with younger authors. But I have certain sensitive places in my soul: I do not like that word "ordure." Apply it to my work, and I can afford to smile, since the world, on the whole, will smile with me. But to apply it to the woman in the street, whose spirit is of one substance with our own and her body no less holy: to look your womenfolk in the face afterwards and not go out and hang yourself: that is not on the list of pardonable sins. HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND It is eight o'clock in the evening. The curtains are drawn and the lamps lighted in the drawing room of Her flat in Cromwell Road. Her lover, a beautiful youth of eighteen, in evening dress and cape, with a bunch of flowers and an opera hat in his hands, comes in alone. The door is near the corner; and as he appears in the doorway, he has the fireplace on the nearest wall to his right, and the grand piano along the opposite rvall to his left. Near the fireplace a small ornamental table has on it a hand mirror, a fan, a pair of long white gloves, and a little white woollen cloud to wrap a woman's head in. On the other side of the room, near the piano, is a broad, square, softly upholstered stool. The room is furnished in the most approved South Kensington fashion: that is, it is as like a show room as possible, and is intended to demonstrate the social position and spending powers of its owners, and not in the least to make them comfortable. He is, be it repeated, a very beautiful youth, moving as in a dream, walking as on air. He puts his flowers down carefully on the table beside the fan; takes off his cape, and, as there is. no room on the table for it, takes it to the piano; puts his hat on the cape; crosses to the hearth; looks at his watch; puts it up again; notices^ the things on the table; lights up as if he saw heaven opening before him; goes to the table and takes the: cloud in both hands, nestling his nose into its softness and kissing it; kisses the gloves one after another; kisses 133 134 How He Lied to Her Husband the fan; gasps a long shuddering sigh of ecstasy j sits down on the stool and presses his hands to his eyes to shut out reality and dream a little; takes his hands down and shakes his head with a little smile of rebuke for his folly; catches sight of a speck of dust on his shoes and hastily and carefully brushes it off with his handker- chief; rises and takes the hand mirror from the table to make sure of his tie with the gravest anxiety; and is looking at his rvatch again when She comes in, much flustered. As she is dressed for the theatre; has spoilt, petted ways; and wears many diamonds, she has an air of being a young and beautiful woman; but as a matter of hard fact, she is, dress and pretensions apart, a very ordinary South Kensington female of about 37, hope- lessly inferior in physical and spiritual distinction to the beautiful youth, who hastily puts down the mirror as she enters. He {kissing her hand). At last! She. Henry: something dreadful has happened. He. Whats the matter? She. I have lost your poems. He. They were unworthy of you. I will write you some more. She. No, thank you. Never any more poems for me. Oh, how could I have been so mad! so rash! so imprudent ! He. Thank Heaven for your madness, your rashness, your imprudence ! She {impatiently). Oh, be sensible, Henry. Cant you see what a terrible thing this is for me? Suppose anybody finds these poems ! what will they think ? He. They will think that a man once loved a woman more devotedly than ever man loved woman before. But they will not know what man it was. She. What good is that to me if everybody will know what woman it was? How He Lied to Her Husband 135 He. But how will they know? She. How will they know! Why, my name is all over them: my silly, unhappy name. Oh, if I had only been christened Mary Jane, or Gladys Muriel, or Beatrice, or Francesca, or Guinevere, or something quite common! But Aurora! Aurora! I'm the only Aurora in London; and everybody knows it. I believe I'm the only Aurora in the world. And it's so horribly easy to rhyme to it! Oh, Henry, why didn't you try to restrain your feelings a little in common consideration for me? Why didnt you write with some little reserve? He. Write poems to you with reserve! You ask me that! She {with perfunctory tenderness'). Yes, dear, of course it was very nice of you; and I know it was my own fault as much as yours. I ought to have noticed that your verses ought never to have been addressed to a married woman. He. Ah, how I wish they had been addressed to an u n-married woman ! h o w I wish they had ! She. Indeed you have no right to wish anything of the sort. They are quite unfit for anybody but a mar- ried woman. Thats just the difficulty. What will my sisters-in-law think of them? He (painfully jarred). Have you got sisters-in- law? She. Yes, of course I have. Do you suppose I am an angel? He (biting his lips). 1 do. Heaven help me, I do — or I did — or (he almost chokes a sob). She (softening and putting her hand caressingly on his shoulder). Listen to me, dear. Its very nice of you to live with me in a dream, and to love me, and so on; but I cant help my husband having disagreeable relatives, can I? He (brightening up). Ah, of course they are your husband's relatives: I forgot that. Forgive me, Aurora. 136 How He Lied to Her Husband (jffe tahes her hand from Ms shoulder and kisses it. She sits down on the stool. He remains near the table, with his back to it, smiling fatuously down at her.) She. The fact is, Teddy's got nothing but relatives. He has eight sisters and six half-sisters, and ever so many brothers — ^but I dont mind his brothers. Now if you only knew the least little thing about the world, Henry, youd know that in a large family, though the sisters quarrel with one another like mad all the time, yet let one of the brothers marry, and they all turn on their unfortunate sister-in-law and devote the rest of their lives with perfect unanimity to persuading him that his wife is unworthy of him. They can do it to her very face without her knowing it, because there are always a lot of stupid low family jokes that nobody understands but themselves. Half the time you cant tell what they re talking about: it just drives you wild. There ought to be a law against a man's sister ever entering his house after hes married. I'm as certain as that I'm sitting here that Georgina stole those poems out of my workbox. He. She will not understand them, I think. She. Oh, wont she! She'll imderstand them only too well. She'll understand more harm than ever was in them: nasty vulgar-minded cat! He {going to her). Oh dont, dont think of people in that way. Dont think of her at all. {He takes her hand and sits down on the carpet at her feet.) Aurora: do you remember the evening when I sat here at your feet and read you those poems for the first time? She. I shouldnt have let you : I see that now. When I think of Georgina sitting there at Teddy's feet and reading them to h i m for the first time, I feel I shall just go distracted. He. Yes, you are right. It will be a profanation. She. Oh, I dont care about the profanation; but How He Lied to Her Husband 137 what will Teddy think? what will he do? (Suddenly throwing his head away from her knee.^ You dont seem to think a bit about Teddy. (^She jumps up, more and more agitated.^ He (supine on the floor; for she has thrown him off his balance). To me Teddy is nothing, and Georgina less than nothing. She. Youll soon find out how much less than nothing she is. If you think a woman cant do any harm because shes only a scandfilmongering dowdy ragbag, youre greatly mistaken. (She flounces about the room. He gets up slowly and dusts his hands. Suddenly she runs to him and throws herself into his arms.) Henry: help me. Find a way out of this for me; and I'll bless you as long as you live. Oh, how wretched I am ! {She sobs on his breast.) He. And oh ! how happy I am ! She (^whisking herself abruptly away). Dont be selfish. He (humbly). Yes: I deserve that. I think if I were going to the stake with you, I should still be so happy with you that I could hardly feel your danger more than my own. She (relenting and patting his hand fondly). Oh, you are a dear darling boy, Henry; but (throning his hand away fretfully) youre no u s e. I want somebody to tell me what to do. He (with quiet conviction). Your heart will tell you at the right time. I have thought deeply over this ; and I know what we two m u s t do, sooner or later. She. No, Henry. I will do nothing improper, noth- ing dishonorable. (She sits down plump on the stool and looks inflexible.) He. If you did, you would no longer be Aurora. Our course is perfectly simple, perfectly straightforward, perfectly stainless and true. We love one another. I am not ashamed of that: I am ready to go out and pro- 138 How He Lied to Her Husband claim it to all London as simply as I will declare it to your husband when you see — as you soon will see — that this is the only way honorable enough for your feet to tread. Let us go out together to our own house, this evening, without concealment and without shame. Re- member! we owe something to your husband. We are his guests here: he is an honorable man: he has been kind to us: he has perhaps loved you as well as his prosaic nature and his sordid commercial environment permitted. We owe it to him in all honor not to let him learn the truth from the lips of a scandalmonger. Let us go to him now quietly, hand in hand; bid him fare- well; and walk out of the house without concealment and subterfuge, freely and honestly, in full honor and self-respect. She (staring at him). And where shall we go to? He. We shall not depart by a hair's breadth from the ordinary natural current of our lives. We were going to the theatre when the loss of the poems compelled us to take action at once. We shall go to the theatre still; but we shall leave your diamonds here; for we cannot afford diamonds, and do not need them. She (fretfully). I have told you already that I hate diamonds; only Teddy insists on hanging me all over with them. You need not preach simplicity to me. He. I never thought of doing so, dearest: I know that these trivialities are nothing to you. What was I saying? — oh yes. Instead of coming back here from the theatre, you wiU come with me to my home — now and henceforth our home — and in due course of time, when you are divorced, we shall go through whatever idle legal ceremony you may desire. I attach no im- portance to the law: my love was not created in me by the law, nor can it be bound or loosed by it. That is simple enough, and sweet enough, is it not? {He takes the florvers from the table.) Here are flowers for you: How He Lied to Her Husband 139 I have the tickets: we will ask your husband to lend us the carriage to shew that there is no malice, no grudge, between us. Come! She (spiritlessly, taking the flowers rvithout looking at them, and temporising). Teddy isnt in yet. He. Well, let us take that calmly. Let us go to the theatre as if nothing had happened, and tell him when we come back. Now or three hours hence: to-day or to-morrow: what does it matter, provided all is done in honor, without shame or fear.'' She. What did you get tickets for? Lohengrin? He. I tried; but Lohengrin was sold out for to- night. (He takes out two Court Theatre tickets.) She. Then what did you get? He. Can you ask me? What is there besides Lohen- grin that we two could endure, except Candida? She (springing up). Candida! No, I wont go to it again, Henry (tossing the flowers on the piano). It is that play that has done all the mischief. I'm very sorry I ever saw it: it ought to be stopped. He (amazed). Aurora! She. Yes: I mean it. He. That divinest love poem! the poem that gave us courage to speak to one another! that revealed to us what we really felt for one another! that— She. Just so. It put a lot of stuff into my head that I should never have dreamt of for myself. I imagined myself just like Candida. He (catching her hands and looking earnestly at her). You were right. You are like Candida. She (snatching her hands away). Oh, stuff! And I thought you were just like Eugene. (Looking critically at him.) Now that I come to look at you, you are rather like him, too. (She throws herself discontentedly into the nearest seat, which happens to be the bench at the piano. He goes to her.) He (very earnestly). Aurora: if Candida had loved 140 How He Lied to Her Husband Eugene she would have gone out into the night with him without a moment's hesitation. She (with equal earnestness). Henry: do you know whats wanting in that play? He. There is nothing wanting in it. She. Yes there is. Theres a Georgina wanting in it. If Georgina had been there to make trouble, that play would have been a true-to-life tragedy. Now I'll tell you something about it that I have never told you before. He. What is that? She. I took Teddy to it. I thought it would do him good; and so it would if I could only have kept him awake. Georgina came too; and you should have heard the way she went on about it. She said it was down- right immoral, and that she knew the sort of woman that encourages boys to sit on the hearthrug and make love to her. She was just preparing Teddy's mind to poison it about me. He. Let us be just to Georgina, dearest — She. Let her deserve it first. Just to Georgina, in- deed! He. She really sees the world in that way. That is her punishment. She. How can it be her punishment when she likes it? ItU be my punishment when she brings that budget of poems to Teddy. I wish youd have some sense, and sympa thize with my position a little. He {going away from the piano and beginning to rvalk about rather testily). My dear: I really dont care about Georgina or about Teddy. AU these squabbles belong to a plane on which I am, as you say, no use. I have counted the cost; and I do not fear the consequences. After aU, what is there to fear? Where is the difficulty? What can Georgina do? What can your husband do? What can anybody do? She. Do you mean to say that you propose that we How He Lied to Her Husband 141 should walk right bang up to Teddy and tell him we're going away together? He. Yes. What can be simpler? She. And do you think for a moment he'd stand it, like that half-baked clergyman in the play? He'd just kill you. He {coming to a sudden stop and speaking with considerable confidence'). You dont understand these things, my darling: how could you? In one respect I am unlike the poet in the play. I have followed the Greek ideal and not neglected the culture of my body. Your husband would make a tolerable second-rate heavy weight if he were in training and ten years younger. As it is, he could, if strung up to a great effort by a burst of passion, give a good account of himself for perhaps fifteen seconds. But I am active enough to keep out of his reach for fifteen seconds; and after that I should be simply all over him. She (^rising and coming to him in consternation). What do you mean by all over him? He (^gently). Dont ask me, dearest. At all events, I swear to you that you need not be anxious about m e. She. And what about Teddy? Do you mean to tell me that you are going to beat Teddy before my face like a brutal prizefighter? He. All this alarm is needless, dearest. Believe me, nothing will happen. Your husband knows that I am capable of defending myself. Under such circumstances nothing ever does happen. And of course I shall do nothing. The man who once loved you is sacred to me. She {suspiciously). Doesnt he love me still? Has he told you anything? He. No, no. {He takes her tenderly in his arms.) Dearest, dearest: how agitated you are! how unlike your- self! All these worries belong to the lower plane. Come up with me to the higher one. The heights, the soli- tudes, the soul world ! 142 How He Lied to Her Husband She {avoiding his gaze). No: stop: it's no use, Mr. Apjohn. He {recoiling'). Mr. Apjohn!!! „_ She. Excuse me: I meant Henry, of course. He. How could you even think of m e as Mr. Ap- john? I never think of you as Mrs. Bompas: it is always Cand — I mean Aurora, Aurora, Auro — She. Yes, yes: thats all very well, Mr. Apjohn (he is about to interrupt again: hut she wont have it) no: it's no use: Ive suddenly begun to think of you as Mr. Apjohn; and it's ridiculous to go on calling you Henry. I thought you were only a boy, a child, a dreamer. I thought you would be too much afraid to do anything. And now you want to beat Teddy and to break up my home and disgrace me and make a horrible scandal in the papers. It's cruel, unmanly, cowardly. He (with grave wonder). Are you afraid? She. Oh, of course I'm afraid. So would you be if you had any common sense. (She goes to the hearth, turning her hack to him, and puts one tapping foot on the fender.) He (watching her with great gravity). Perfect love casteth out fear. That is why I am not afraid. Mrs. Bompas: you do not love me. She (turning to him with a gasp of relief). Oh, thank you, thank you! You really can be very nice, Henry. He. Why do you thank me? She (coming prettily to him from the fireplace). For calling me Mrs. Bompas again. I feel now that you are going to be reasonable and behave like a gentleman. (He drops on the stool; covers his face with his hands; and groans.) Whats the matter? He. Once or twice in my life I have dreamed that I was exquisitely happy and blessed. But oh! the mis- giving at the first stir of consciousness! the stab of reality! the prison walls of the bedroom! the bitter. How He Lied to Her Husband 143 bitter disappointment of waking ! And this time ! oh, this time I thought I was awake. She. Listen to me, Henry: we really havnt time for all that sort of flapdoodle now. {He starts to his feet as if she had pulled a trigger and straightened him by the release of a porverful spring, and goes past her with set teeth to the little table.) Oh, take care: you nearly hit me in the chin with the top of your head. He {rvith fierce politeness). I beg your pardon. What is it you want me to do? I am at your service. I am ready to behave like a gentleman if you will be kind enough to explain exactly how. She (a little frightened). Thank you, Henry: I was sure you would. Youre not angry with me, are you? He. Go on. Go on quickly. Give me something to think about, or I will — I will — (he suddenly snatches up her fan and is about to break it in his clenched fists). She (running forward and catching at the fan, with loud lamentation). Dont break my fan — ^no, dont. (He slowly relaxes his grip of it as she draws it anxiously out of his hands.) No, really, thats a stupid trick. I dont like that. Youve no right to do that. (She opens the fan, and finds that the sticks are disconnected.) Oh, how could you be so inconsiderate? He. I beg your pardon. I will buy you a new one. She (querulously). You will never be able to match it. And it was a particular favorite of mine. He (shortly). Then you will have to do without it: thats all. She. Thats not a very nice thing to say after break- ing my pet fan, I think. He. If you knew how near I was to breaking Teddy's pet wife and presenting him with the pieces, you would be thankful that you are alive instead of — of— of howl- ing about fiveshillingsworth of ivory. Damn your fan ! She. Oh! Dont you dare swear in my presence. One would think you were my husbapd. 144 How He Lied to Her Husband He (again collapsing on the stool). This is some horrible dream. What has become of you? You are not my Aurora. She. Oh, well, if you come to that, what has become of you? Do you think I would ever have encouraged you if I had known you were such a little devil? He. Dont drag me down — dont — dont. Help me to find the way back to the heights. She (kneeling beside him and pleading"). If you would only be reasonable, Henry. If you would only remember that I am on the brink of ruin, and not go on calmly saying it's all quite simple. He. It seems so to me. She (jumping up distractedly). If you say that again I shall do something I'll be sorry for. Here we are, standing on the edge of a frightful precipice. No doubt it's quite simple to go over and have done with it. But cant you suggest anything more agreeable? He. I can suggest nothing now. A chill black dark- ness has fallen: I can see nothing but the ruins of our dream. (He rises tvith a deep sigh.) She. Cant you? Well, I can. I can see Georgina rubbing those poems into Teddy. (Facing him deter- minedly.) And I tell you, Henry Apjohn, that you got me into this mess : and you must get me out of it again. He (polite and hopeless). All I can say is that I am entirely at your service. What do you wish me to do? She. Do you know anybody else named Aurora? He. No. She. Theres no use in saying No in that frozen pig- headed way. You must know some Aurora or other somewhere. He. You said you were the only Aurora in the world. And (lifting his clasped fists with a sudden return of his emotion) oh God! you were the only Aurora in the How He Lied to Her Husband 145 world to me. (He turns away from her, hiding his face.) She (petting him). Yes, yes, dear: of course. It's very nice of you; and I appreciate it: indeed I do; but it's not seasonable just at present. Now just listen to me. I suppose you know all those poems by heart. He. Yes, by heart. (Raising his head and look- ing at her with a sudden suspicion.) Dont you? She. Well, I never can remember verses; and be- sides, Ive been so busy that Ive not had time to read them all; though I intend to the very first moment I can get: I promise you that most faithfully, Henry. But now try and remember very particularly. Does the name of Bompas occur in any of the poems? He (indignantly). No. She. Youre quite sure? He. Of course I am quite sure. How could I use such a name in a poem? She. Well, I dont see why not. It rhymes to rumpus, which seems appropriate enough at present, goodness knows ! However, youre a poet, and you ought to know. He. What does it matter — ^now? She, It matters a lot, I can tell you. If theres nothing about Bompas in the poems, we can say that they were written to some other Aurora, and that you shewed them to me because my name was Aurora too. So youve got to invent another Aurora for the occasion. He (very coldly). Oh, if you wish me to tell a lie — She. Surely, as a man of honor — as a gentleman, you wouldnt tell the truth, would you? He. Very well. You have broken my spirit and desecrated my dreams. I will lie and protest and stand on my honor : oh, I will play the gentleman, never fear. She. Yes, put it all on me, of course. Dont be mean, Henry. He (rousing himself with an effort). You are 146 How He Lied to Her Husband quite right, Mrs. Bompas: I beg your pardon. You must excuse my temper. I have got growing pains, I think. She. Growing pains ! He. The process of growing from romantic boyhood into cynical maturity usually takes fifteen years. When it is compressed into fifteen minutes, the pace is too fast; and growing pains are the result. She. Oh, is this a time for cleverness.^ It's settled, isnt it, that youre going to be nice and good, and that youU brazen it out to Teddy that you have some other Aurora ? He. Yes: I'm capable of anything now. I should not have told him the truth by halves; and now I will not lie by halves. I'll wallow in the honor of a gentle- man. She. Dearest boy, I knew you woTild. I — Sh ! {she rushes to the door, and holds it ajar, listening breath- lessly"). He. What is it? She {white with apprehension'). It's Teddy: I hear him tapping the new barometer. He cant have any- thing serious on his mind or he wouldnt do that. Per- haps Georgina hasnt said anything. {She steals back to the hearth.) Try and look as if there was nothing the matter. Give me my gloves, quick. {He hands them to her. She pulls on one hastily and begins but- toning it with ostentatious unconcern.) Go further away from me, quick. {He walks doggedly away from her until the piano prevents his going farther.) If I button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, dont you think that — He. The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. For Heaven's sake, Mrs. Bompas, let that glove alone: you look like a pickpocket. Her husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well groomed city man, with a strong chin but a blithering How He Lied to Her Husband 147 eye and credulous mouth. He has a momentous air, but shews no sign of displeasure: rather the contrary. Her Husband. Hallo! I thought you two were at the theatre. She. I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didnt you come home to dinner? Her Husband. I got a message from Georgina. She wanted me to go to her. She. Poor dear Georgina! I'm sorry I havnt been able to call on her this last week. I hope theres nothing the matter with her. Her Husband. Nothing, except anxiety for my wel- fare — and yours. (^She steals a terrified look at Henry.^ By the way, Apjohn, I should like a word with you this evening, if Aurora can spare you for a moment. He (^formally). I am at your service. Her Husband. No hurry. After the theatre will do. He. We have decided not to go. Her Husband. Indeed! Well, then, shall we ad- journ to my snuggery? She. You neednt move. I shall go and lock up my diamonds since I'm not going to the theatre. Give me my things. Her Husband (as he hands her the cloud and the mirror). Well, we shall have more room here. He (looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose). I think I should prefer plenty of room. Her Husband. So, if its not disturbing you, Eory — ? She. Not at all. {She goes out.) When the two men are alone together, Bompas de- liberately takes the poems from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; then looks at Henry, mutely in- viting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing his best to look unconcerned. Her Husband. Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, may I ask? He. Manuscripts ? 148 How He Lied to Her Husband Her Husband. Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer.'' {He proffers them under Henry's nose.) He (as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise). Why, these are my poems! Her Husband. So I gather. He. What a shame! Mrs. Bompas has shewn them to you ! You must think me an utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before Sun- rise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set of Songs to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know : the rosy fin- gered Aurora. Theyre all about Aurora. When Mrs. Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldnt resist the temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didnt bargain for your unsympathetic eyes. Her Husband (grinning). Apjohn: thats really very ready of you. You are cut out for literature; and the day will come when Rory and I will be proud to have you about the house. I have heard far thinner stories from much older men. He (with an air of great surprise). Do you mean to imply that you dont believe me? Her Husband. Do you expect me to believe you? He. Why not? I dont understand. Her Husband. Come! Dont underrate your own cleverness, Apjohn. I think you understand pretty well. He. I assure you I am quite at a loss. Can you not be a little more explicit? Her Husband. Dont overdo it, old chap. However, I will just be so far explicit as to say that if you think these poems read as if they were addressed, not to a live woman, but to a shivering cold time of day at which you were never out of bed in your life, you hardly do justice to your own literary powers — which I admire and appreciate, mind you, as much as any man. Come ! own up. You wrote those poems to my wife. (^An in- ternal struggle prevents Henry from answering.) Of course you did. {He throws the poems on the table; How He Lied to Her Husband 149 and goes to the hearthrug, where he plants himself solidly, chuckling a little and waiting for the next move.') He {formally and carefully). Mr. Bompas: I pledge you my word you are mistaken. I need not tell you that Mrs. Bompas is a lady of stainless honor, who has never cast an unworthy thought on me. The fact that she has shewn you my poems — Her Husband. Thats not a fact. I came by them without her knowledge. She didnt show them to me. He. Does not that prove their perfect innocence? She would have shewn them to you at once if she had taken your quite unfounded view of them. Her Husband (shaken). Apjohn: play fair. Dont abuse your intellectual gifts. Do you really mean that I am making a fool of myself? He (earnestly). Believe me, you are. I assure you, on my honor as a gentleman, that I have never had the slightest feeling for Mrs. Bompas beyond the ordinary esteem and regard of a pleasant acquaintance. Her Husband (shortly, showing ill humor for the first time). Oh, indeed. (He leaves his hearth and be- gins to approach Henry slorvlifj looking him up and down with growing resentment.) He (hastening to improve the impression made by his mendacity). I should never have dreamt of writing poems to her. The thing is absurd. Her Husband (reddening ominously). Why is it ab- surd? He (shrugging his shoulders). Well, it happens that I do not admire Mrs. Bompas — in that way. Her Husband (breaking out in Henry's face). Let me teU you that Mrs. Bompas has been admired by bet- ter men than you, you soapy headed little puppy, you. He (much taken aback). There is no need to insult me like this. I assure you, on my honor as a — Her Husband (too angry to tolerate a reply, and 150 How He Lied to Her Husband boring Henry more and more towards the piano). You dont admire Mrs. Bompas ! You would never dream of writing poems to Mrs. Bompas ! My wife's not good enough for you, isnt she. (Fiercely.) Who are you, pray, that you should be so jolly superior? He. Mr. Bompas: I can make allowances for your jealousy — Her Husband. Jealousy! do you suppose I'm jeal- ous of you? No, nor of ten like you. But if you think I'll stand here and let you insult my wife in her own house, youre mistaken. He {very uncomfortable with his back against the piano and Teddy standing over him threateningly). How can I convince you? Be reasonable. I tell you my re- lations with Mrs. Bompas are relations of perfect cold- ness — of indifference — Her Husband {scornfully). Say it again: say it again. Youre proud of it, arnt you? Yah! youre not worth kicking. Henry suddenly executes the feat known to pugilists as slipping, and changes sides with Teddy, who is now between Henry and the piano. He. Look here: I'm not going to stand this. Her Husband. Oh, you have some blood in your body after all! Good job! * He. This is ridiculous. I assure you Mrs. Bompas is quite — Her Husband. What is Mrs. Bompas to you, I'd like to know. I'll tell you what Mrs. Bompas is. Shes the smartest woman in the smartest set in South Ken- sington, and the handsomest, and the cleverest, and the most fetching to experienced men who know a good thing when they see it, whatever she may be to con- ceited penny-a-lining puppies who think nothing good enough for them. It's admitted by the best people; and not to know it argues yourself unknown. Three of our first actor-managers have offered her a hundred How He Lied to Her Husband l5l a week if she'll go on the stage when they start a repertory theatre; and I think they know what theyre about as well as you. The only member of the present Cabinet that you might call a handsome man has neglected the business of the country to dance with her, though he dont belong to our set as a regular thing. One of the first professional poets in Bedford Park wrote a sonnet to her, worth all your amateur trash. At Ascot last season the eldest son of a duke excused him- self from calling on me on the ground that his feelings for Mrs. Bompas were not consistent with his duty to me as host; and it did him honor and me too. But {with gathering fury) she isnt good enough for y o u, it seems. You regard her with coldness, with indiffer- ence; and you have the cool cheek to tell me so to my face. For two pins I'd flatten your nose in to teach you manners. Introducing a fine woman to you is casting pearls before swine {yelling at him') before swine! d'ye hear? He {with a deplorable lack of polish). You call me a swine again and I'U land you one on the chin thatU make your head sing for a week. Her Husband {exploding). What — ! He charges at Henry with hull-like fury. Henry places himself on guard in the manner of a well taught boxer, and gets away smartly, but unfortunately forgets the stool which is just behind him. He falls backwards over it, unintentionally pushing it against the shins of Bompas, who falls forward over it. Mrs. Bompas, with a scream, rushes into the room between the sprawling champions, and sits down on the floor in order to get her right arm round her husband's neck. She. You shant, Teddy: you shant. You will be killed: he is a prizefighter. Her Husband {vengefully). I'U prizefight him. {He struggles vainly to free himself from her em- brace.) 152 How He Lied to Her Husband She. Henry: dont let him fight you. Promise me that you wont. He {ruefully'). I have got a most frightful bump on the back of my head. {He tries to rise.) She {reaching out her left hand to seize his coat tail, and pulling Mm down again, whilst keeping fast hold of Teddy with the other hand). Not until you have promised: not until you both have promised. {Teddy rises to rise: she pulls him back again.) Teddy: you promise, dont you? Yes, yes. Be good: you promise. Her Husband. I wont, imless he takes it back. She. He will: he does. You take it back, Henry? — ^yes. He {savagely). Yes. I take it back. {She lets go his coat. He gets up. So does Teddy.) I take it all back, all, without reserve. She {on the carpet). Is nobody going to help me up? {They each take a hand and pull her up.) Now wont you shake hands and be good? He {recklessly). I shall do nothing of the sort. I have steeped myself in lies for your sake; and the only reward I get is a lump on the back of my head the size of an apple. Now I wiU go back to the straight path. She. Henry: for Heaven's sake — He. It's no use. Your husband is a fool and a brute — Her Husband. Whats that yon say? He. I say you are a fool and a brute; and if youU step outside with me I'll say it again. {Teddy begins to take off his coat for combat.) Those poems were written to your wife, every word of them, and to no- body else. {The scowl clears away from Bompas's countenance. Radiant, he replaces his coat.) I wrote them because I loved her. I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world; and I told her so over How He Lied to Her Husband 153 and over again. I adored her: do you hear? I told her that you were a sordid commercial chump, utterly un- worthy of her; and so you are. Her Husband («o gratified, lie can hardly believe his ears). You dont mean it! He. Yes, I do mean it, and a lot more too. I asked Mrs. Bompas to walk out of the house with me — to leave you — to get divorced from you and marry me. I begged and implored her to do it this very night. It was her refusal that ended everything between us. {Looking very disparagingly at him.) What she can see in you, goodness only knows ! Her Husband (^beaming with remorse). My dear chap, why didnt you say so before ? I apologize. Come ! dont bear malice: shake hands. Make him shake hands, Eory. She. For my sake, Henry. After all, hes my hus- band. Forgive him. Take his hand. (Henry, dazed, lets her take his hand and place it in Teddy's.) Her Husband (shaking it heartily). Youve got to own that none of your literary heroines can touch my Rory. (He turns to her and claps her with fond pride on the shoulder.) Eh, Rory? They cant resist you: none of em. Never knew a man yet that could hold out three days. She. Dont be foolish, Teddy. I hope you were not really hurt, Henry. (She feels the hack of his head. He flinches.) Oh, poor boy, what a bump! I must get some vinegar and brown paper. (She goes to the bell and rings.) Her Husband. Will you do me a great favor, Ap- . I hardly like to ask; but it would be a real kind- ness to us both. He. What can I do? Her Husband (taking up the poems). Well, may I get these printed? It shall be done in the best style. The finest paper, sumptuous binding, everything first 154 How He Lied to Her Husband class. Theyre beautiful poems. I should like to shew them about a bit. She {running hack from the hell, delighted rvith the idea, and coming between them). Oh Henry, if you wouldnt mind! He. Oh, I dont mind. I am past minding anything. I have grown too fast this evening. She. How old are you, Henry? He. This morning I was eighteen. Now I am — confound it ! I'm quoting that beast of a play (Ae takes the Candida tickets out of his pocket and tears them up viciously). Her Husband. What shall we call the volume. To Aurora, or something like that, eh? He. I should call it How He Lied to Her Husband. CURTAIN. MAJOR BARBARA 1905 PREFACE TO MAJOR BARBARA FIRST AID TO CRITICS Before dealing with the deeper aspects of Major Bar- bara, let me, for the credit of English literature, make a protest against an unpatriotic habit into which many of my critics have fallen. Whenever my view strikes them as being at all outside the range of, say, an ordi- nary suburban churchwarden, they conclude that I am echoing Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Ibsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy, or some other heresiarch in northern or eastern Europe. I confess there is something flattering in this simple faith in my accomplishment as a linguist and my erudi- tion as a philosopher. But I cannot tolerate the as- sumption that life and literature is so poor in these islands that we must go abroad for all dramatic material that is not common and all ideas that are not super- ficial. I therefore venture to put my critics in posses- sion of certain facts concerning my contact with modern ideas. About half a century ago, an Irish novelist, Charles Lever, wrote a story entitled A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance. It was published by Charles Dickens in Household Words, and proved so strange to the public taste that Dickens pressed Lever to make short work of it. I read scraps of this novel when I was a child; and it made an enduring impression on me. The hero was a very romantic hero, trying to live bravely, chival- rously, and powerfully by dint of mere romance-fed 157 158 Major Barbara imagination^ without courage, without means, without knowledge, without skill, without anything real except his bodily appetites. Even in my childhood I found in this poor devil's unsuccessful encounters with the facts of life, a poignant quality that romantic fiction lacked. The book, in spite of its first failure, is not dead: I saw its title the other day in the catalogue of Tauchnitz. Now why is it that when I also deal in the tragi- comic irony of the conflict between real life and the romantic imagination, no critic ever afliliates me to my countryman and immediate forerunner, Charles Lever, whilst they confidently derive me from a Norwegian author of whose language I do not know three words, and of whom I knew nothing until years after the Shavian Anschauung was already unequivocally declared in books full of what came, ten years later, to be per- functorily labelled Ibsenism. I was not Ibsenist even at second hand; for Lever, though he may have read Henri Beyle, alias Stendhal, certainly never read Ibsen. Of the books that made Lever popular, such as Charles O'Malley and Harry Lorrequer, I know nothing but the names and some of the illustrations. But the story of the day's ride and life's romance of Potts (claiming alliance with Pozzo di Borgo) caught me and fascinated me as something strange and significant, though I al- ready knew all about Alnaschar and Don Quixote and Simon Tappertit and many another romantic hero mocked by reality. From the plays of Aristophanes to the tales of Stevenson that mockery has been made familiar to all who are properly saturated with letters. Where, then, was the novelty in Lever's tale? Partly, I think, in a new seriousness in dealing with Potts's disease. Formerly, the contrast between madness and sanity was deemed comic: Hogarth shews us how fash- ionable people went in parties to Bedlam to laugh at the lunatics. I myself have had a village idiot exhibited to First Aid to Critics 159 me as something irresistibly fmmy. On the stage the madman was once a regular comic figure: that was how Hamlet got his opportunity before Shakespear touched him. The originality of Shakespear's version lay in his taking the lunatic sympathetically and seriously^ and thereby making an advance towards the eastern con- sciousness of the fact that lunacy may be inspiration in disguise^ since a man who has more brains than his fel- lows necessarily appears as mad to them as one who has less. But Shakespear did not do for Pistol and ParoUes what he did for Hamlet. The particular sort of madman they represented, the romantic make-be- liever, lay outside the pale of sympathy in literature: he was pitilessly despised and ridiculed here as he was in the east imder the name of Alnaschar, and was doomed to be, centuries later, under the name of Simon Tapper- tit. When Cervantes relented over Don Quixote, and Dickens relented over Pickwick, they did not become impartial: they simply changed sides, and became friends and apologists where they had formerly been mockers. In Lever's story there is a real change of attitude. There is no relenting towards Potts: he never gains our affections like Don Quixote and Pickwick: he has not even the infatuate courage of Tappertit. But we dare not laugh at him, because, somehow, we recognize our- selves in Potts. We may, some of us, have enough nerve, enough muscle, enough luck, enough tact or skill or address or knowledge to carry things oiF better than he did; to impose on the people who saw through him; to fascinate Katinka (who cut Potts so ruthlessly at the end of the story) ; but for all that, we know that Potts plays an enormous part in ourselves and in the world, and that the social problem is not a problem of story- book heroes of the older pattern, but a problem of Pottses, and of how to make men of them. To fall back on my old phrase, we have the feeling — one that r 160 /Major Barbara Alnaschar, Pistol, ParoUes, and Tappertit never gave us — ^that Pptts is a piece of really scientific natural his- tory as distinguished from comic story telling. His author is not throwing a stone at a creature of another and inferior order, but making a confession, with the effect that the stone hits everybody full in the conscience and causes their self-esteem to smart very sorely. Hence the failure of Lever's book to please the readers of Household Words. That pain in the self-esteem nowa- days causes critics to raise a cry of Ibsenism. I there- fore assure them that the sensation first came to me from Lever and may have come to him from Beyle, or at least out of the Stendhalian atmosphere. I exclude the hypothesis of complete originality on Lever's part, because a man can no more be completely original in that sense than a tree can grow out of air. Another mistake as to my literary ancestry is made whenever I violate the romantic convention that all women are angels when they are not devils; that they are better looking than men; that their part in courtship is entirely passive; and that the human female form is the most beautiful object in nature. Schopenhauer wrote a splenetic essay which, as it is neither polite nor profound, was probably intended to knock this nonsense violently on the head. A sentence denouncing the idol- ized form as ugly has been largely quoted. The Engliirh critics have read that sentence; and I must here affirm, with as much gentleness as the implication will bear, that it has yet to be proved that they have dipped any deeper. At all events, whenever an English playwright represents a young and marriageable woman as being anything but a romantic heroine, he is disposed of with- out further thought as an echo of Schopenhauer. My own case is a specially hard one, because, when I implore the critics who are obsessed with the Schopenhaurian formula to remember that playwrights, like sculptors, study their figures from life, and not from philosophic First Aid to Critics 161 essays, they reply passionately that I am not a play- wright and that my stage figures do not live. But even so, I may and do ask them why, if they must give the credit of my plays to a philosopher, they do not give it to an English philosopher? Long before I ever read a word by Schopenhauer, or even knew whether he was a philosopher or a chemist, the Socialist revival of the eighteen-eighties brought me into contact, both lit- erary and personal, with Mr. Ernest Belfort Bax, an English Socialist and philosophic essayist, whose handling of modern feminism would provoke romantic protests from Schopenhauer himself, or even Strind- berg. At a matter of fact I hardly noticed Schopen- hauer's disparagements of women when they came under my notice later on, so thoroughly had Mr. Bax familiar- ized me with the homoist attitude, and forced me to recognize the extent to which public opinion, and conse- quently legislation and jurisprudence, is corrupted by feminist sentiment. But Mr. Bax's essays were not confined to the Fem- inist question. He was a ruthless critic of current morality. Other writers have gained sympathy for dramatic criminals by eliciting the alleged " soul of goodness in things evil " ; but Mr. Bax would propound some quite undramatic and apparently shabby violation of our commercial law and morality, and not merely defend it with the most disconcerting ingenuity, but actually prove it to be a positive duty that nothing but the certainty of police persecution should prevent every right-minded man from at once doing on principle. The Socialists were naturally shocked, being for the most part morbidly moral people; but at all events they were saved later on from the delusion that nobody but Nietzsche had ever challenged our mercanto-Christian morality. I first heard the name of Nietzsche from a German mathematician. Miss Borchardt, who had read my Quintessence of Ibsenism, and told me that she saw 162 Major Barbara what I had been reading: namely, Nietzsche's Jenseits von Gut und Bose. Which I protest I had never seen, and could not have read with any comfort, for want of the necessary German, if I had seen it. Nietzsche, like Schopenhauer, is the victim in Eng- land of a single much quoted sentence containing the phrase " big blonde beast." On the strength of this alliteration it is assumed that Nietzsche gained his Euro- pean reputation by a senseless glorification of selfish bullying as the rule of life, just as it is assumed, on the strength of the single word Superman (Ubermensch) borrowed by me from Nietzsche, that I look for the salvation of society to the despotism of a single Napo- leonic Superman, in spite of my careful demonstration of the folly of that outworn infatuation. But even the less recklessly superficial critics seem to believe that the modern objection to Christianity as a pernicious slave-morality was first put forward by Nietzsche. It was familiar to me before I ever heard of Nietzsche. The late Captain Wilson, author of several queer pamphlets, propagandist of a metaphysical system called Comprehensionism, and inventor of the term " Cross- tianity " to distinguish the retrograde element in Chris- tendom, was wont thirty years ago, in the discussions of the Dialectical Society, to protest earnestly against the beatitudes of the Sermon on the Mount as excuses for cowardice and servility, as destructive of our will, and consequently of our honor and manhood. Now it is true that Captain Wilson's moral criticism of Chris- tianity was not a historical theory of it, like Nietzsche's ; but this objection cannot be made to Mr. Stuart-Glen- nie, the successor of Buckle as a philosophic historian, who has devoted his life to the elaboration and propaga- tion of his theory that Christianity is part of an epoch (or rather an aberration, since it began as recently as 6000 B.C. and is already collapsing) produced by the necessity in which the numerically inferior white races First Aid to Critics 163 found themselves to impose their domination on the colored races by priestcraft, making a virtue and a popu- lar religion of drudgery and submissiveness in this vcorld not only as a means of achieving saintliness of character but of securing a reward in heaven. Here you have the slave-morality view formulated by a Scotch philosopher long before English writers began chattering about Nietzsche. As Mr. Stuart-Glennie traced the evolution of society to the conflict of races, his theory made some sensation among Socialists— that is, among the only people who were seriously thinking about historical evolution at all — by its collision with the class-conflict theory of Karl Marx. Nietzsche, as I gather, regarded the slave- morality as having been invented and imposed on the world by slaves making a virtue of necessity and a re- ligion of their servitude. Mr. Stuart-Glennie regards the slave-morality as an invention of the superior white race to subjugate the minds of the inferior races whom they wished to exploit, and who would have destroyed them by force of numbers if their minds had not been subjugated. As this process is in operation still, and can be studied at first hand not only in our Church schools and in the struggle between our modern pro- prietary classes and the proletariat, but in the part played by Christian missionaries in reconciling the black races of Africa to their subjugation by European Cap- italism, we can judge for ourselves whether the in- itiative came from above or below. My object here is not to argue the historical point, but simply to make our theatre critics ashamed of their habit of treating Britain as an intellectual void, and assuming that every phil- osophical idea, every historic theory, every criticism of our moral, religious and juridical institutions, must necessarily be either imported from abroad, or else a fantastic sally (in rather questionable taste) totally un- related to the existing body of thought. I urge them 164 Major Barbara to remember that this body of thought is the slowest of growths and the rarest of blossomings, and that if there is such a thing on the philosophic plane as a matter of course, it is that no individual can make more than a minute contribution to it. In fact, their conception of clever persons parthenogenetically bringing forth com- plete original cosmogonies by dint of sheer " brilliancy " is part of that ignorant credulity which is the despair of the honest philosopher, and the opportunity of the religious impostor. The Gospel of St. Andrew Undershaft. It is this credulity that drives me to help my critics out with Major Barbara by telling them what to say about it. In the millionaire Undershaft I have repre- sented a man who has become intellectually and spirit- ually as well as practically conscious of the irresistible natural truth which we all abhor and repudiate: to wit, that__ ttie greate st o f evils and th f. worst .iif-crirnes Js^, poverty, an d tEaFpur. fir_st jiuty— Ta_du)gz: Jto Jffihifili . every , ptJiEx^ caMJderatian--.shaald.- be ^sacjdficed^siis. .JM3t_io_is pooj, " Poor but honest," " the respectable poor," and such phrases are as intolerable and as immoral as " drunken but amiable," " fraudulent but a good after- dinner speaker," " splendidly criminal," or the like. Se- curity, the chief pretence of civilization, cannot exist where the worst of dangers, the danger of poverty, hangs over everyone's head, and where the alleged pro- tection of our persons from violence is only an accidental result of the existence of a police force whose real busi- ness is to force the poor man to see his children starve whilst idle people overfeed pet dogs with the money that might feed and clothe them. It is exceedingly difficult to make people realize that an evil is an evil. For instance, we seize a man and deliberately do him a malicious injury: say, imprison First Aid to Critics 165 him for years. One would not suppose that it needed any exceptional clearness of wit to recognize in this an act of diabolical cruelty. But in England such a recoo- nition provokes a stare of surprise, followed by an ex- planation that the outrage is punishment or justice or something else that is all right, or perhaps by a heated attempt to argue that we should all be robbed and mur- dered in our beds if such senseless villainies as sen- tences of imprisonment were not committed daily. It is useless to argue that even if this were true, which it is not, the alternative to adding crimes of our own to the crimes from which we suffer is not helpless sub- mission. Chickenpox is an evil; but if I were to declare that we must either submit to it or else repress it sternly by seizing everyone who suffers from it and punishing them by inoculation with smallpox, I should be laughed at; for though nobody could deny that the result would be to prevent chickenpox to some extent by making people avoid it much more carefully, and to effect a further apparent prevention by making them conceal it very anxiously, yet people would have sense enough to see that the deliberate propagation of smallpox was a creation of evil, and must therefore be ruled out in favor of purely humane and hygienic measures. Yet in the precisely parallel case of a man breaking into my house and stealing my wife's diamonds I am expected as a matter of course to steal ten years of his life, tor- turing him all the time. If he tries to defeat that monstrous retaliation by shooting me, my survivors hang him. The net result suggested by the police statistics is that we inflict atrocious injuries on the burglars we catch in order to make the rest take effectual precautions against detection; so that instead of saving our wives' diamonds from burglary we only greatly decrease our chances of ever getting them back, and increase our chances of being shot by the robber if we are unlucky enough to disturb him at his work. 166 Major Barbara But the thoughtless wickedness with which we scatter sentences of imprisonment, torture in the solitary cell and on the plank bed, and flogging, on moral invalids and energetic rebels, is as nothing compared to the stupid levity with which we tolerate poverty as if it were either a wholesome tonic for lazy people or else a virtue to be embraced as St. Francis embraced it. If a man is indolent, let him be poor. If he is drunken, let him be poor. If he is not a gentleman, let him be poor. If he is addicted to the fine arts or to pure science in- stead of to trade and finance, let him be poor. If he chooses to spend his urban eighteen shillings a week or his agricultural thirteen shillings a week on his beer and his family instead of saving it up for his old age, let him be poor. Let nothing be done for " the undeserving " : let him be poor. Serve him right ! Also — somewhat in- consistently — blessed are the poor ! Now what does this Let Him Be Poor mean? It means let him be weak. Let him be ignorant. Let him become a nucleus of disease. Let him be a standing exhibition and example of ugliness and dirt. Let him have rickety children. Let him be cheap and let him drag his fellows down to his price by selling himself to do their work. Let his habitations turn our cities into poisonous congeries of slums. Let his daughters infect our young men with the diseases of the streets and his sons revenge him by turning the nation's manhood into scrofula, cowardice, cruelty, hypocrisy, political imbe- cility, and all the other fruits of oppression and mal- nutrition. Let the undeserving become still less de- serving; and let the deserving lay up for himself, not treasures in heaven, but horrors in hell upon earth. This being so, is it really wise to let him be poor.? Would he not do ten times less harm as a prosperous burglar, incendiary, ravisher or murderer, to the utmost limits of humanity's comparatively negligible impulses in these directions? Suppose we were to abolish all penalties First Aid to Critics 167 for such activities, and decide that poverty is the one thing -we will not tolerate — that every adult with less than, say, ^365 a year, shall be painlessly but inexorably killed, and every hungry half naked child forcibly fat- tened and clothed, would not that be an enormous im- provement on our existing system, which has already destroyed so many civilizations, and is visibly destroying ours in the same way? Is there any radicle of such legislation in our parlia- mentary system? Well, there are two measures just sprouting in the political soil, which may conceivably grow to something valuable. One is the institution of a Legal Minimum Wage. The other. Old Age Pensions. But there is a better plan than either of these. Some time ago I mentioned the subject of Universal Old Age Pensions to my fellow Socialist Mr. Cobden-Sanderson, famous as an artist-craftsman in bookbinding and print- ing. "Why not Universal Pensions for Life?" said Cobden-Sanderson. In saying this, he solved the in- dustrial problem at a stroke. At present we say cal- lously to each citizen: "If you want money, earn it," as if his having or not having it were a matter that concerned himself alone. We do not even secure for him the opportunity of earning it: on the contrary, we allow our industry to be organized in open dependence on the maintenance of " a reserve army of unemployed " for the sake of " elasticity." The sensible course would be Cobden-Sanderson's : that is, to give every man enough to live well on, so as to guarantee the community against the possibility of a case of the malignant disease of poverty, and then (necessarily) to see that he earned it. Undershaft,.the hero of Major Barbara, is simply a man who, having grasped the fact that poverty is a crime, knows that when society offered him the alter- native of poverty or a lucrative trade in death and destruction, it offered him, not a choice between opulent villainy and humble virtue, but between energetic enter- 168 Major Barbara prise and cowardly infamy. His conduct stands the Kantian test, which Peter Shirley's does not. Peter Shirley is what we call the honest poor man. Under- shaft is what we call the wicked rich one: Shirley is Lazarus, Undershaft Dives. Well, the misery of the world is due to the fact that the great mass of men act and believe as Peter Shirley acts and believes. If they acted and believed as Undershaft acts and believes, the immediate result would be a revolution of incalculable beneficence. To be wealthy, says Undershaft, is with me a point of honor for which I am prepared to kill at the risk of my own life. This preparedness is, as he says, the final test of sincerity. Like Froissart's medi- eval hero, who saw that " to rob and pill was' a good life," he is not the dupe of that public sentiment against killing which is propagated and endowed by people who would otherwise be killed themselves, or of the mouth- honor paid to poverty and obedience by rich and in- subordinate do-nothings who want to rob the poor with- out courage and command them without superiority. Froissart's knight, in placing the achievement of a good life before all the other duties — ^which indeed are not duties at all when they conflict with it, but plain wicked- nesses — behaved bravely, admirably, and, in the final analysis, public-spiritedly. Medieval society, on the other hand, behaved very badly indeed in organizing itself so stupidly that a good life could be achieved by robbing and pilling. If the knight's contemporaries had been all as resolute as he, robbing and pilling would have been the shortest way to the gallows, just as, if we were all as resolute and clearsighted as Undershaft, an attempt to live by means of what is called " an inde- pendent income" would be the shortest way to the lethal chamber. But as, thanks to our political imbe- cility and personal cowardice (fruits of poverty, both), the best imitation of a good life now procurable is life on an independent income, all sensible people aim at First Aid to Critics 169 securing such an income, and are, of course, careful to legalize and moralize both it and all the actions and sentiments which lead to it and support it as an institu- tion. What else can they do? They know, of course, that they are rich because others are poor. But they cannot help that: it is for the poor to repudiate poverty when they have had enough of it. The thing can be done easily enough: the demonstrations to the contrary made by the economists, jurists, moralists and senti- mentalists hired by the rich to defend them, or even doing the work gratuitously out of sheer folly and ab- jectness, impose only on the hirers. The reason why the independent income-tax payers are not' solid in defence of their position is that since we are not medieval rovers through a sparsely populated country, the poverty of those we rob prevents our hav- ing the good life for which we sacrifice them. Rich men or aristocrats with a developed sense of life — men like Buskin and William Morris and Kropotkin — have enormous social appetites and very fastidious personal ones. They are not content with handsome houses : they want handsome cities. They are not content with be- diamonded wives and blooming daughters: they complain because the charwoman is badly dressed, because the laundress smells of gin, because the sempstress is anemic, because every man they meet is not a friend and every woman not a romance. They turn up their noses at their neighbors' drains, and are made ill by the archi- tecture of their neighbors' houses. Trade patterns made to suit vulgar people do not please them (and they can get nothing else) : they cannot sleep nor sit at ease upon " slaughtered " cabinet makers' furniture. The very air is not good enough for them: there is too much factory smoke in it. They even demand abstract conditions: justice, honor, a noble moral atmosphere, a mystic nexus to replace the cash nexus. Finally they declare that though to rob and pill with your own hand on horseback 170 Major Barbara and in steel coat may have been a good life, to rob and pill by the hands of the policeman, the bailiff, and the soldier, and to underpay them meanly for doing it, is not a good life, but rather fatal to all possibility of even a tolerable one. They call on the poor to revolt, and, finding the poor shocked at their ungentlemanliness, despairingly revile the proletariat for its " damned want- lessness " {verdammte Eediirfnislosigkeit). So far, however, their attack on society has lacked simplicity. The poor do not share their tastes nor un- derstand their art-criticisms. They do not want the simple life, nor the esthetic life; on the contrary, they want very much to wallow in all the costly vulgarities from which the elect souls among the rich turn away with loathing. It is by surfeit and not by abstinence that they will be cured of their hankering after un- wholesome sweets. What they do dislike and despise and are ashamed of is poverty. To ask them to fight for the difference between the Christmas number of the Illustrated London News and the Kelmscott Chaucer is silly: they prefer the News. The difference between a stockbroker's cheap and dirty starched white shirt and collar and the comparatively costly and carefully dyed blue shirt of William Morris is a difference so disgrace- ful to Morris in their eyes that if they fought on the subject at all, they would fight in defence of the starch. " Cease to be slaves, in order that you may become cranks " is not a very inspiring call to arms ; nor is it really improved by substituting saints for cranks. Both terms denote men of genius; and the common man does not want to live the life of a man of genius: he would much rather live the life of a pet collie if that were the only alternative. But he does want more money. What- ever else he may be vague about, he is clear about that. He may or may not prefer Major Barbara to the Drury Lane pantomime; but he always prefers five hundred pounds to five hundred shillings. First Aid to Critics 171 Now to deplore this preference as sordid, and teach children that it is sinful to desire money, is to strain towards the extreme possible limit of impudence in lying and corruption in hypocrisy. The universal regard for money is the one hopeful fact in our civilization, the one sound spot in our social conscience. Mo ney is the mo st important thing in the world. It r^t^ents hedlEp ( ^strength, honor, generosit;^and beauty as conspicuously ^ana unirenia1rt7-Tars--iJiewSnt of it represents illnessi «s..weaknMs^sgrace, meannessand^^ Not the leasrontr"virtues is that iTaSSoys base people as certainly as it fortifies and dignifies noble people. It is only when it is cheapened to worthlessness for some, and made impossibly dear to others, that it becomes a curse. In short, it is a curse only in such foolish social conditions that life itself is a curse. For the two things are inseparable: money is the counter that enables life to be distributed socially: it is life as truly as sovereigns and bank notes are money. The first duty of every citizen is to insist on having money on reasonable terms; and this demand is not complied with by giving four men three shillings each for ten or twelve hours' drudg- ery and one man a thousand pounds for nothing. The crying need of the nation is not for better morals, cheaper bread, temperance, liberty, culture, redemption of fallen sisters and erring brothers, nor the grace, love and fel- lowship of the Trinity, but simply for enough money. And the evil to be attacked is not sin, sulfering, greed, priestcraft, kingcraft, demagogy, monopoly, ignorance, drink, war, pestilence, nor any other of the scapegoats which reformers sacrifice, but simply poverty. Once take your eyes from the ends of the earth and fix them on this truth just under your nose; and Andrew Undershaft's views will not perplex you in the least. Unless indeed his constant sense that he is only the instrument of a Will or Life Force which uses him for purposes wider than his own, may puzzle you. If so. 172 Major Barbara that is because you are walking either in artificial Dar- winian darkness, or in mere stupidity. All genuinely religious people have that consciousness. To them Un- dershaft the Mystic will be quite intelligible, and his perfect comprehension of his daughter the Salvationist and her lover the Euripidean republican natural and in- evitable. That, however, is not new, even on the stage. 1 What is new, as far as I know, is that article in Under- shaft's religion which recognizes in Money the first need and in poverty the vilest sin of man and society. This dramatic conception has not, of course, been attained per saltum. Nor has it been borrowed from Nietzsche or from any man born beyond the Channel. The late Samuel Butler, in his own department the greatest English writer of the latter half of the XIX century, steadily inculcated the necessity and morality of a conscientious Laodiceanism in religion and of an earnest and constant sense of the importance of money. It drives one almost to despair of English literature when one sees so extraordinary a study of English life as Butler's posthumous Way of All Flesh making so little impression that when, some years later, I produce plays in which Butler's extraordinarily fresh, free and future-piercing suggestions have an obvious share, I am met with nothing but vague cacklings about Ibsen and Nietzsche, and am only too thankful that they are not about Alfred de Musset and Georges Sand. Really, the English do not deserve to have great men. They allowed Butler to die practically unknown, whilst I, a comparatively insignificant Irish journalist, was leading them by the nose into an advertisement of me which has made my own life a burden. In Sicily there is a Via Samuele Butler. When an English tourist sees it, he either asks " Who the devil was Samuele Butler ? " or wonders why the Sicilians should perpetuate the memory of the author of Hudibras. Well, it cannot be denied that the English are only First Aid to Critics 173 too anxious to recognize a. man of genius if somebody- will kindly point him out to them. Having pointed my- self out in this manner with some success, I now point out Samuel Butler, and trust that in consequence I shall hear a little less in future of the novelty and foreign origin of the ideas which are now making their way into the English theatre through plays written by Socialists. There are living men whose originality and power are as obvious as Butler's; and when they die that fact will be discovered. Meanwhile I recommend them to insist on their own merits as an important part of their own business. The Salvation Army. When Major Barbara was produced in London, the second act was reported in an important northern news- paper as a withering attack on the Salvation Army, and the despairing ejaculation of Barbara deplored by a London daily as a tasteless blasphemy. And they were set right, not by the professed critics of the theatre, but by religious and philosophical publicists like Sir Oliver Lodge and Dr. Stanton Coit, and strenuous Non- conformist journalists like Mr. William Stead, who not only understand the act as well as the Salvationists themselves, but also saw it in its relation to the religious life of the nation, a life which seems to lie not only outside the sympathy of many of our theatre critics, but actually outside their knowledge of society. Indeed nothing could be more ironically curious than the con- frontation Major Barbara elFected of the theatre en- thusiasts with the religious enthusiasts. On the one hand was the playgoer, always seeking pleasure, paying exorbitantly for it, suffering unbearable discomforts for it, and hardly ever getting it. On the other hand was the Salvationist, repudiating gaiety and courting effort and sacrifice, yet always in the wildest spirits, laughing. 174 Major Barbara joking, singing, rejoicing, drumming, and tambourin- ing: his^l^jfe flying by in a flash of excitement, and his death arriving as a climax of triumph. And, if you please, the playgoer despising the Salvationist as a joy- less person, shut out from the heaven of the theatre, self -condemned to a life of hideous gloom; and the Sal- vationist mourning over the playgoer as over a prodigal with vine leaves in his hair, careering outrageously to hell amid the popping of champagne corks and the ribald laughter of sirens! Could misunderstanding be more complete, or sympathy worse misplaced? Fortunately, the Salvationists are more accessible to the religious character of the drama than the playgoers to the gay energy and artistic fertility of religion. They can see, when it is pointed out to them, that a theatre, as a place where two or three are gathered together, takes from that divine presence an inalienable sanctity of which the grossest and profanest farce can no more deprive it than a hypocritical sermon by a snobbish bishop can desecrate Westminster Abbey. But in our professional playgoers this indispensable preliminary conception of sanctity seems wanting. They talk of actors as mimes and mummers, and, I fear, think of dramatic authors as liars and pandars, whose main busi- ness is the voluptuous soothing of the tired city specu- lator when what he calls the serious business of the day is over. Passion, the life of drama, means nothing to them but primitive sexual excitement: such phrases as " impassioned poetry " or " passionate love of truth " have fallen quite out of their vocabulary and been re- placed by " passional crime " and the like. They as- sume, as far as I can gather, that people in whom pas- sion has a larger scope are passionless and therefore uninteresting. Consequently they come to think of re- ligious people as people who are not interesting and not amusing. And so, when Barbara cuts the regular Salva- tion Army jokes, and snatches a kiss from her lover First Aid to Critics 175 across His drum, the devotees of the theatre think they ought to appear shocked, and conclude that the whole play is an elaborate mockery of the Army. And then either hypocritically rebuke me for mocking, or fool- ishly take part in the supposed mockery! Even the handful of mentally competent critics got into difficulties over my demonstration of the economic deadlock in which the Salvation Army finds itself. Some of them thought that the Army would not have taken money from a distiller and a cannon founder: others thought it should not have taken it: all assumed more or less definitely that it reduced itself to absurdity or hypocrisy by taking it. On the first point the reply of the Army itself was prompt and conclusive. As one of its officers said, they would take money from the devil himself and be only too glad to get it out of his hands and into God's. They gratefully acknowledged that publicans not only give them money but allow them to collect it in the bar — sometimes even when there is a Salvation meeting outside preaching teetotalism. In fact, they questioned the verisimilitude of the play, not because Mrs. Baines took the money, but because Bar- bara refused it. On the point that the Army ought not to take such money, its justification is obvious. It must take the money because it cannot exist without money, and there is no other money to be had. Practically all the spare money in the country consists of a mass of rent, interest, and profit, every penny of which is bound up with crime, drink, prostitution, disease, and all the evil fruits of poverty, as inextricably as with enterprise, wealth, com- mercial probity, and national prosperity. The notion that you can earmark certain coins as tainted is an un- practical individualist superstition. None the less the fact that all our money is tainted gives a very severe shock to earnest young souls when some dramatic in- stance of the taint first makes them cgnscious of it. 176 Major Barbara When an enthusiastic young clergyman of the Estab- lished Church first realizes that the Ecclesiastical Com- missioners receive the rents of sporting public houses, brothels, and sweating dens; or that the most generous contributor at his last charity sermon was an employer trading in female labor cheapened by prostitution as unscrupulously as a hotel keeper trades in waiters' labor cheapened by tips, or commissionaire's labor cheapened by pensions; or that the only patron who can afford to rebuild his church or his schools or give his boys' brigade a gymnasium or a library is the son-in-law of a Chicago meat King, that young clergyman has, like Barbara, a very bad quarter hour. But he cannot help himself by refusing to accept money from anybody except sweet old ladies with independent incomes and gentle and lovely ways of life. He has only to follow up the in- come of the sweet ladies to its industrial source, and there he will find Mrs. Warren's profession and the poisonous canned meat and all the rest of it. His own stipend has the same root. He must either share the world's guilt or go to another planet. He must save the world's honor if he is to save his own. This is what all the Churches find just as the Salvation Army and Barbara find it in the play. Her discovery that she is her father's accomplice; that the Salvation Army is the accomplice of the distiller and the dynamite maker; that they can no more escape one another than they can escape the air they breathe; that there is no salvation for them through personal righteousness, but only through the redemption of the whole nation from its vicious, lazy, competitive anarchy: this discovery has been made by everyone except the Pharisees and (ap- parently) the professional playgoers, who still wear their Tom Hood shirts and underpay their washerwomen without the slightest misgiving as to the elevation of bheir private characters, the purity of their private at- mospheres, and their right to repudiate as foreign to First Aid to Critics 177 themselves the coarse depravity of the garret and the slum. Not that they mean any harm: they only desire to be, m their little private way, what they call gentle- men They do not understand Barbara's lesson because they have not, like her, learnt it by taking their part in the larger life of the nation. Barbaha's Return to the Colors. Barbara's return to the colors may yet provide a sub- ject for the dramatic historian of the future. To go back to the Salvation Army with the knowledge that even the Salvationists themselves are not saved yet; that poverty is not blessed, but a most damnable sin; and that when General Booth chose Blood and Fire for the emblem of Salvation instead of the Cross, he was per- haps better inspired than he knew: such knowledge, for the daughter of Andrew Undershaft, will clearly lead to something hopefuUer than distributing bread and treacle at the expense of Bodger. It is a very significant thing, this instinctive choice of the military form of organization, this substitution of the drum for the organ, by the Salvation Army. Does it not suggest that the Salvationists divine that they must actually fight the devil instead of merely praying at him.-" At present, it is true, they have not quite ascertained his correct address. When they do, they may give a very rude shock to that sense of security which he has gained from his experience of the fact that hard words, even when uttered by eloquent essay- ists and lecturers, or carried unanimously at enthusiastic public meetings on the motion of eminent reformers, break no bones. It has been said that the French Revo- lution was the work of Voltaire, Rousseau and the En- cyclopedists. It seems to me to have been the work of men who had observed that virtuous indignation, caustic 178 Major Barbara criticism, conclusive argument and instructive pamphlet- eering, even when done by the most earnest and witty literary geniuses, were as useless as praying, things go- ing steadily from bad to worse whilst the Social Con- tract and the pamphlets of Voltaire were at the height of their vogue. Eventually, as we know, perfectly respectable citizens and earnest philanthropists con- nived at the September massacres because hard experi- ence had convinced them that if they contented them- selves with appeals to humanity and patriotism, the aristocracy, though it would read their appeals with the greatest enjoyment and appreciation, flattering and ad- miring the writers, would none the less continue to conspire with foreign monarchists to mido the revolution and restore the old system with every circumstance of savage vengeance and ruthless repression of popular liberties. The nineteenth century saw the same lesson repeated in England. It had its Utilitarians, its Christian Social- ists, its Fabians (still extant) : it had Bentham, Mill, Dickens, Ruskin, Carlyle, Butler, Henry George, and Morris. And the end of all their efforts is the Chicago described by Mr. Upton Sinclair, and the London in which the people who pay to be amused by my dramatic representation of Peter Shirley turned out to starve at forty because there are younger slaves to be had for his wages, do not take, and have not the slightest intention of taking, any effective step to organize society in such a way as to make that everyday infamy impossible. I, who have preached and pamphleteered like any Ency- clopedist, have to confess that my methods are no use, and would be no use if I were Voltaire, Rousseau, Bentham, Mill, Dickens, Carlyle, Ruskin, George, But- ler, and Morris all rolled into one, with Euripides, More, Moliere, Shakespear, Beaumarchais, Swift, Goethe, Ib- sen, Tolstoy, Moses and the prophets all thrown in (as indeed in some sort I actually am, standing as I do on First Aid to Critics 179 all their shoulders). The problem being to make heroes out of cowards, we paper apostles and artist-magicians have succeeded only in giving cowards all the sensations of heroes whilst they tolerate every abomination, accept every plunder, and submit to every oppression. Chris- tianity, in making a merit of such submission, has marked only that depth in the abyss at which the very sense of shame is lost. The Christian has been like Dickens' doctor in the debtor's prison, who tells the newcomer of its ineJFable peace and security: no duns; no tyrannical collectors of rates, taxes, and rent; no importunate hopes nor exacting duties; nothing but the rest and safety of having no further to fall. Yet in the poorest corner of this soul-destroying Christendom vitality suddenly begins to germinate again. Joyousness, a sacred gift long dethroned by the hellish laughter of derision and obscenity, rises like a flood miraculously out of the fetid dust and mud of the slums; rousing marches and impetuous dithyrambs rise to the heavens from people among whom the depressing noise called "sacred music" is a standing joke; a flag with Blood and Fire on it is unfurled, not in murderous rancor, but because fire is beautiful and blood a vital and splendid red ; Fear, which we flatter by calling Self, vanishes; and transfigured men and women carry their gospel through a transfigured world, calling their leader General, themselves captains and brigadiers, and their whole body an Army: praying, but praying only for refreshment, for strength to fight, and for needful Money (a notable sign, that); p-reaching, but not preaching submission; daring ill-usage and abuse, but not putting up with more of it than is inevitable; and practising what the world will let them practise, includ- ing soap and water, color and music. There is danger in such activity; and where there is danger there is hope. Our present security is nothing, and can be nothing, but evil made irresistible. 180 Major Barbara Weaknesses of the Salvation Army. For the present, however, it is not my business to flattei the Salvation Army. Rather must I point out to it that it has almost as many weaknesses as the Church of England itself. It is building up a business organization which will compel it eventually to see that its present staff of enthusiast-commanders shall be suc- ceeded by a bureaucracy of men of business who will be no better than bishops, and perhaps a good deal more unscrupulous. That has always happened sooner or later to great orders founded by saints; and the order founded by St. William Booth is not exempt from the same danger. It is even more dependent than the Church on rich people who would cut off supplies at once if it began to preach that indispensable revolt against pov- erty which must also be a revolt against riches. It is hampered by a heavy contingent of pious elders who are not really Salvationists at all, but Evangelicals of the old school. It still, as Commissioner Howard affirms, " sticks to Moses," which is flat nonsense at this time of day if the Commissioner means, as I am afraid he does, that the Book of Genesis contains a trustworthy scientific account of the origin of species, and that the god to whom Jephthah sacrificed his daughter is any less ob- viously a tribal idol than. Dagon or Chemosh. Further, there is still too much other-worldliness about the Army. Like Frederick's grenadier, the Sal- vationist wants to live for ever (the most monstrous way of crying for the moon) ; and though it is evident to anyone who has ever heard General Booth and his best officers that they would work as hard for human salva- tion as they do at present if they believed that death would be the end of them individually, they and their followers have a bad habit of talking as if the Salva- tionists were heroically enduring a very bad time on earth as an investment which will bring them in divi- First Aid to Critics 181 dends later on in the form, not of a better life to come for the whole world, but of an eternity spent by them- selves personally in a sort of bliss which would bore any active person to a second death. Surely the truth is that the Salvationists are unusually happy people.\ And is it not the very diagnostic of true salvation that ) it shall overcome the fear of death? Now the man who' has come to believe that there is no such thing as death, the change so called being merely the transition to an exquisitely happy and utterly careless life, has not over- come the fear of death at all: on the contrary, it has overcome him so completely that he refuses to die on any terms whatever. I do not call a Salvationist really saved until he is ready to lie down cheerfully on the sciap__lieap7 having paid scot and lot and something over, and. let his eternal life pass on to renew its youth in the battalions of the future. Then there is the nasty lying habit called confession, which the Army encourages because it lends itself to dramatic oratory, with plenty of thrilling incident. For my part, when I hear a convert relating the violences and oaths and blasphemies he was guilty of before he was saved, making out that he was a very terrible fellow then and is the most contrite and chastened of Christians now, I believe him no more than I believe the millionaire who says he came up to London or Chicago as a boy with only three halfpence in his pocket. Salvationists have said to me that Barbara in my play would never have been taken in by so transparent a humbug as Snobby I Price; and certainly I do not think Snobby could havej taken in any experienced Salvationist on a point on ; which the Salvationist did not wish to be taken in. But : on the point of conversion all Salvationists wish to be taken in; for the more obvious the sinner the more ob- vious the miracle of his conversion. When you advertize a converted burglar or reclaimed drunkard as one of the attractions at an experience meeting, your burglar can 182 Major Barbara hardly have been too burglarious or your drunkard too drunken. As long as such attractions are relied on^ you will have your Snobbies claiming to have beaten their mothers when they were as a matter of prosaic fact habitually beaten by them, and your Rummies of the tamest respectability pretending to a past of reckless and dazzling vice. Even when confessions are sincerely autobiographic there is no reason to assume at once that the impulse to make them is pious or the interest of the hearers wholesome. It might as well be assumed that the poor people who insist on shewing appalling ulcers to district visitors are convinced hygienists, or that the curiosity which sometimes welcomes such exhibitions is a pleasant and creditable one. One is often tempted to suggest that those who pester our police superintendents with confessions of murder might very wisely be taken at their word and executed, except in the few cases in which a real murderer is seeking to be relieved of his guilt by confession and expiation. For though I am not, I hope, an unmerciful person, I do not think that the inexorability of the deed once done should be dis- guised by any ritual, whether in the confessional or on the scaffold. And here my disagreement with the Salvation Army, and with all propagandists of the Cross (to which I ^(ject as I object to all gibbets) becomes deep indeed. . Forgiveness, absolution, atonement, are figments : punish- nent is only a pretence of cancelling one crime by an- )ther; and you can no more have forgiveness without iindictiveness than you can have a cure without a disease. You will never get a high morality from people who conceive that their misdeeds are revocable and pardon- able, or in a society where absolution and expiation are officially provided for us all. The demand may be very real; but the supply is spurious. Thus Bill Walker, in my play, having assaulted the Salvation Lass, presently finds himself overwhelmed with an intolerable conviction First Aid to Critics 183 of sin under the skilled treatment of Barbara. Straight- way he begins to try to unassault the lass and deruffian- ize his deedj first by getting punished for it in kind, and, when that relief is denied him, by fining himself a pound to compensate the girl. He is foiled both ways. He finds the Salvation Army as inexorable as fact itself. , It will not punish him: it will not take his money. It i will not tolerate a redeemed ruffian: it leaves him no means of salvation except ceasing to be a ruffian. In ' doing this, the Salvation Army instinctively grasps the central truth- of Christianity and discards its central superstition :\ that central truth being the vanity of re- venge and punishment, and that central superstition the salvation of the world by the gibbet^ For, be it noted. Bill has assaulted an old and starving woman also; and for this worse offence he feels no re- morse whatever, because she makes it clear that her j malice is as great as his own. " Let her have the law of me, as she said she would," says Bill : " what I done to her is no more on what you might call my conscience than sticking a pig." This shews a perfectly natural and wholesome state of mind on his part. The old i woman, like the law she threatens him with, is perfectly I ready to play the game of retaliation with him: to rob him if he steals, to flog him if he strikes, to murder him if he kiUs. By example and precept the law and public j opinion teach him to impose his will on others by anger, j violence, and cruelty, and to wipe ofi" the moral score by punishment. That is sound Crosstianity. But this Crosstianity has got entangled with something which Barbara calls Christianity, and which unexpectedly causes her to refuse to play the hangman's game of Satan casting out Satan. She refuses to prosecute a drunken ruffian; she converses on equal terms with a blackguard whom no lady could be seen speaking to in the public street: in short, she behaves as illegally and unbecomingly as possible under the circumstances. Bill's 184 Major Barbara conscience reacts to this just as naturally as it does to the old woman's threats. He is placed in a position of unbearable moral inferiority, and strives by every means in his power to escape from it, whilst he is still quite ready to meet the abuse of the old woman by attempting to smash a mug on her face. And that is the triumphant justification of Barbara's Christianity as against our system of judicial punishment and the vindictive villain- thrashings and " poetic justice " of the romantic stage. For the credit of literature it must be pointed out that the situation is only partly novel. Victor Hugo long ago gave us the epic of the convict and the bishop's candlesticks, of the Crosstian policeman annihilated by his encounter with the Christian Valjean. But Bill Walker is not, like Valjean, romantically changed from a demon into an angel. There are millions of Bill Walkers in all classes of society to-day; and the point which I, as a professor of natural psychology, desire to demonstrate, is that Bill, without any change in his character whatsoever, will react one way to one sort of treatment and another way to another. In proof I might point to the sensational object lesson provided by our commercial millionaires to-day. They begin as brigands: merciless, unscrupulous, dealing out ruin and death and slavery to their competitors and em- ployees, and facing desperately the worst that their competitors can do to them. The history of the English factories, the American trusts, the exploitation of Afri- can gold, diamonds, ivory and rubber, outdoes in vil- lainy the worst that has ever been imagined of the buc- caneers of the Spanish Main. Captain Kidd would have marooned a modern Trust magnate for conduct unworthy of a gentleman of fortune. The law every day seizes on unsuccessful scoundrels of this type and punishes them with a cruelty worse than their own, with the result that they come out of the torture house more dangerous than they went in, and renew their evil doing (nobody First Aid to Critics 185 I will employ them at anything else) until they are again seized, again tormented, and again let loose, with the same result. But the successful scoundrel is dealt with very differ- ently, and very Christianly. He is not only forgiven: he is idolized, respected, made much of, all but wor- 1 shipped. Society returns him good for evil in the most j extravagant overmeasure. And with what result ? He ' begins to idolize himself, to respect himself, to live up to the treatment he receives. He preaches sermons; he writes books of the most edifying advice to young men, and actually persuades himself that he got on by taking his own advice; he endows educational institutions; he supports charities ; he dies finally in the odor of sanctity, leaving a will which is a monument of public spirit and bounty. And all this without any change in his charac- ter. The spots of the leopard and the stripes of the tiger are as brilliant as ever; but the conduct of the world towards him has changed; and his conduct has changed accordingly. You have only to reverse your attitude towards him — ^to lay hands on his property, revile him, assault him, and he will be a brigand again in a moment, as ready to crush you as you are to crush him, and quite as full of pretentious moral reasons for doing it. In short, when Major Barbara says that there are no scoundrels, she is right: there are no absolute scoun- drels, though there are impracticable people of whom I shall treat presently. Every practicable man (and woman) is a potential scoundrel and a potential good citizen. What a man is depends on his character ; but 1 what he does, and what we think of what he does, de- ] pends on his circumstances. The characteristics that i ruin a man in one class make him eminent in another. The characters that behave differently in different cir- cumstances behave alike in similar circumstances. Take a common English character like that of Bill Walker. 186 Major Barbara We meet Bill everywhere: on the judicial bench, on the episcopal bench, in the Privy Council, at the War Office and Admiralty, as well as in the Old Bailey dock or in the ranks of casual unskilled labor. And the morality of Bill's characteristics varies with these various circum- stances. The faults of the burglar are the qualities of the financier: the manners and habits of a duke would cost a city clerk his situation. In short, though charac- ter is independent of circumstances, conduct is not; and our moral judgments of character are not: both are cir- cumstantial. Take any condition of life iff'wEicinhe circumstances are for a mass of men practically alike: felony, the House of Lords, the factory, the stables, the gipsy encampment or where you please! In spite of diversity of character and temperament, the conduct and morals of the individuals in each group are as predicable and as alike in the main as if they were a flock of sheep, morals being mostly only social habits and circumstantial necessities. Strong people know this and count upon it. In nothing have the master-minds of the world been distinguished from the ordinary suburban season-ticket holder more than in their straight- forward perception of the fact that mankind is practi- cally a single species, and not a menagerie of gentlemen and bounders, villains and heroes, cowards and dare- devils, peers and peasants, grocers and aristocrats, arti- sans and laborers, washerwomen and duchesses, in which all the grades of income and caste represent distinct ani- mals who must not be introduced to one another or inter- marry. Napoleon constructmg a galaxy of generals and courtiers, and even of monarchs, out of his collection of social nobodies ; Julius Caesar appointing as governor of Egypt the son of a freedman — one who but a short time before would have been legally disqualified for the post even of a private soldier in the Roman army; Louis XI. making his barber his privy councillor: all these had in their different ways a firm hold of the scientific fact First Aid to Critics 187 of human equality, expressed by Barbara in the Chris- ! tian formula that all men are children of one father. | A man who believes that men are naturally divided into upper and lower and middle classes morally is making! exactly the same mistake as the man who believes that i they are naturally divided in the same way socially. And just as our persistent attempts to found political institutions on a basis of social inequality have always produced long periods of destructive friction relieved from time to time by violent explosions of revolution; so the attempt — ^will Americans please note — to found moral institutions on a basis of moral inequality can lead to nothing but unnatural Reigns of the Saints relieved by licentious Restorations; to Americans who have made divorce a public institution turning the face of Europe into one huge sardonic smile by refusing to stay in the same hotel with a Russian man of genius who has changed wives without the sanction of South Dakota; to grotesque hypocrisy, cruel persecution, and final utter confusion of conventions and compliances with benevo- lence and respectability. It is quite useless to declare that all men are born free if you deny that they are born good. Guarantee a man's goodness and his liberty will take care of itself. To guarantee his freedom on ': condition that you approve of his moral character is \ formally to abolish all freedom whatsoever, as every f man's liberty is at the mercy of a moral indictment, j which any fool can trump up against everyone who vio- lates custom, whether as a prophet or as a rascal. This is the lesson Democracy has to learn before it can be- come anything but the most oppressive of all the priest- hoods. Let us now return to Bill Walker and his case of conscience against the Salvation Army. Major Barbara, not being a modern Tetzel, or the treasurer of a hos- pital, refuses to sell Bill absolution for a sovereign. Unfortunately, what the Army can afford to refuse in 188 Major Barbara the case of Bill Walker, it cannot refuse in the case of Bodger. Bodger is master of the situation because he holds the purse strings. " Strive as you will/' says Bodger, in effect: "me you cannot do without. You cannot save Bill Walker without my money." And the Army answers, quite rightly under the circumstances, " We will take money from the devil himself sooner than abandon the work of Salvation." So Bodger pays his conscience-money and gets the absolution that is refused to Bill. In real life Bill would perhaps never know this. But I, the dramatist, whose business it is to shew the connexion between things that seem apart and unrelated in the haphazard order of events in real life, have contrived to make it known to Bill, with the result that the Salvation Army loses its hold of him at once. But Bill may not be lost, for all that. He is still in the grip of the facts and of his own conscience, and may find his taste for blackguardism permanently spoiled. Still, I cannot guarantee that happy ending. Let anyone walk through the poorer quarters of our cities when the men are not working, but resting and chewing the cud of their reflections; and he will find that there is one expression on every mature face: the expression of cynicism. The discovery made by Bill Walker about the Salvation Army has been made by everyone of them. They have found that every man has his price ; and they have been foolishly or corruptly taught to mistrust and despise him for that necessary and salutary condition of social existence. When they learn that General Booth, too, has his price, they do not admire him because it is a high one, and admit the need of organizing society so that he shall get it in an honorable way: they conclude that his character is un- sound and that all religious men are hypocrites and allies of their sweaters and oppressors. They know that the large subscriptions which help to support the Army First Aid to Critics 189 are endowments, not of religion, but of the wicked doc- trine of docility in poverty and humility under oppres- sion; and they are rent by the most agonizing of all the doBbts^of the soul, the doubt whether their true salvation must not come from their most abhorrent passions, from murder, envy, "greed, stubboi:nness, rage, and terrorism, rather than from public spirit, reasonableness, humanity, generosity, tenderness, delicacy, pity and kindness. The confirmation of that doubt, at which our newspapers have been working so hard for years past, is the moral- ity of militarism; and the justification of militarism is that circumstances may at any time make it the true morality of the moment. It is by producing such mo- ments that we produce violent and sanguinary revolu- ti on s, such as the one now in progress in Russia and* tne'one which Capitalism in England and America is daily and diligently provoking. At such moments it becomes the duty of the Churches to evoke all the powers of destruction against the exist- ing order. But if they do this, the existing order must forcibly suppress them. Churches are suffered to exist! only on condition that they preach submission to the i State as at present capitalistically organized. The Church of England itself is compelled to add to the thirty-six articles in which it formulates its religious tenets, three more in which it apologetically protests that the moment any of these articles comes in conflict with the State it is to be entirely renounced, abjured, violated, abrogated and abhorred, the policeman being a much more important person than any of the Persons of the Trinity. And this is why no tolerated Church nor Sal- vation Army can ever win the entire confidence of the poor. It must be on the side of the police and the military, no matter what it believes or disbelieves; and as the police and the military are the instruments by which the rich rob and oppress the poor (on legal and moral principles made for the purpose), it is not pos- 190 Major Barbara sible to be on the side of the poor and of the police at the same time. Indeed the religious bodies, as the almon- ers of the rich, become a sort of auxiliary police, taking oiF the insurrectionary edge of poverty with coals and blankets, bread and treacle, and soothing and cheering the victims with hopes of immense and inexpensive hap- piness in another world when the process of working them to premature death in the service of the rich is complete in this. Christianity and Anarchism. Such is the false position from which neither the Sal- vation Army nor the Church of England nor any other religious organization whatever can escape except through a reconstitution of society. Nor can they merely endure the State passively, washing their hands of its sins. The State is constantly forcing the con- sciences of men by violence and cruelty. Not content with exacting money from us for the maintenance of its soldiers and policemen, its gaolers and executioners, it forces us to take an active personal part in its proceed- ings on pain of becoming ourselves the victims of its violence. As I write these lines, a sensational example is given to the world. A royal marriage has been cele- brated, first by sacrament in a cathedral, and then by a bullfight having for its main amusement the spectacle of horses gored and disembowelled by the bull, after which, when the bull is so exhausted as to be no longer dan- gerous, he is killed by a cautious matador. But the ironic contrast between the bull fight and the sacrament of marriage does not move anyone. Another contrast — that between the splendor, the happiness, the atmosphere of kindly admiration surrounding the young couple, and the price paid for it under our abominable social ar- rangements in the misery, squalor and degradation of millions of other young couples — ^is drawn at the same First Aid to Critics 191 moment by a novelist, Mr. Upton Sinclair, who chips a corner of the veneering from the huge meat packing industries of Chicago, and shews it to us as a sample of what is going on all over the world underneath the top layer of prosperous plutocracy. One man is suffi- ciently moved by that contrast to pay his own life as the price of one terrible blow at the responsible parties. Unhappily his poverty leaves him also ignorant enough to be duped by the pretence that the innocent young bride and bridegroom, put forth and crowned by plutocracy as the heads of a State in which they have less personal power than any policeman, and less influ- ence than any chairman of a trust, are responsible. At them accordingly he launches his sixpennorth of ful- minate, missing his mark, but scattering the bowels of as many horses as any bull in the arena, and slaying twenty-three persons, besides wounding ninetynine. And of all these, the horses alone are innocent of the guilt he is avenging: had he blown all Madrid to atoms with every adult person in it, not one could have escaped the charge of being an accessory, before, at, and after the fact, to poverty and prostitution, to such wholesale massacre of infants as Herod never dreamt of, to plague, pestilence and famine, battle, murder and lingering death — perhaps not one who had not helped, through example, precept, connivance, and even clamor, to teach the dynamiter his well-learnt gospel of hatred and ven- geance, by approving every day of sentences of years of imprisonment so infernal in its unnatural stupidity and panic-stricken cruelty, that their advocates can disavow neither the dagger nor the bomb without stripping the mask of justice and humanity from themselves also. Be it noted that at this very moment there appears the biography of one of our dukes, who, being Scotch, could argue about politics, and therefore stood out as a great brain among our aristocrats. And what, if you please, was his grace's favorite historical episode, which he de- 192 Major Barbara clared he never read without intense satisfaction? Why, the young General Bonapart's pounding of the Paris mob to pieces in 1795, called in playful approval by our respectable classes "the whiff of grapeshot," though Napoleon, to do him justice, took a deeper view of it, and would fain have had it forgotten. And since the Duke of Argyll was not a demon, but a man of like passions with ourselves, by no means rancorous or cruel as men go, who can doubt that all over the world pro- letarians of the ducal kidney are now revelling in " the whiff of dynamite " (the flavor of the joke seems to evaporate a little, does it not?) because it was aimed at the class they hate even as our argute duke hated what he called the mob. In such an atmosphere there can be only one sequel to the Madrid explosion. All Europe burns to emulate it. Vengeance ! More blood ! Tear " the Anarchist beast " to shreds. Drag him to the scaffold. Imprison him for life. Let all civilized States band together to drive his like off the face of the earth ; and if any State refuses to join, make war on it. This time the leading London newspaper, anti-Liberal and therefore anti-Rus- sian in politics, does not say " Serve you right " to the victims, as it did, in effect, when Bobrikoff, and De Plehve, and Grand Duke Sergius, were in the same manner unoflicially fulminated into fragments. No: ful- minate our rivals in Asia by all means, ye brave Russian revolutionaries; but to aim at an English princess — monstrous ! hideous ! hound down the wretch to his doom ; and observe, please, that we are a civilized and merciful people, and, however much we may regret it, must not treat him as Ravaillac and Damiens were treated. And meanwhile, since we have not yet caught him, let us soothe our quivering nerves with the bullfight, and com- ment in a courtly way on the unfailing tact and good taste of the ladies of our royal houses, ' who, though presumably of full normal natural tenderness, have been First Aid to Critics 193 so effectually broken in to fashionable routine that they can be taken to see the horses slaughtered as helplessly as they could no doubt be taken to a gladiator show, if that happened to be the mode just now. Strangely enough, in the midst of this raging fire of malice, the one man who still has faith in the kindness and intelligence of human nature is the fulminator, now a hunted wretch, with nothing, apparently, to secure his triumph over aU the prisons and scaffolds of infuriate Europe except the revolver in his pocket and his readi- ness to discharge it at a moment's notice into his own or any other head. Think of him setting out to find a gentleman and a Christian in the multitude of human wolves howling for his blood. Think also of this: that at the very first essay he finds what he seeks, a veritable grandee of Spain, a noble, high-thinking, unterrified, malice-void soul, in the guise — of all masquerades in the world! — of a modern editor. The Anarchist wolf, fly- ing from the wolves of plutocracy, throws himself on the honor of the man. The man, not being a wolf (nor a London editor), and therefore not having enough sym- pathy with his exploit to be made bloodthirsty by it, does not throw him back to the pursuing wolves — gives him, instead, what help he can to escape, and sends him off acquainted at last with a force that goes deeper than dynamite, though you cannot make so much of it for sixpence. That righteous and honorable high human deed is not wasted on Europe, let us hope, though it benefits the fugitive wolf only for a moment. The plutocratic wolves presently smell him out. The fugitive shoots the unlucky wolf whose nose is nearest; shoots himself; and then convinces the world, by his photo- graph, that he was no monstrous freak of reversion to the tiger, but a good looking young man with nothing abnormal about him except his appalling courage and resolution (that is why the terrified shriek Coward at him): one to whom murdering a happy young couple 194 Major Barbara on their wedding morning would have been an unthink- ably unnatural abomination under rational and kindly human circumstances. Then comes the climax of irony and blind stupidity. The wolves, balked of their meal of fellow-wolf, turn on the man, and proceed to torture him, after their man- ner, by imprisonment, for refusing to fasten his teeth in the throat of the dynamiter and hold him down until they came to finish him. Thus, you see, a man may not be a gentleman nowa- days even if he wishes to. As to being a Christian, he is allowed some latitude in that matter, because, I repeat, Christianity has two faces. Popular Christianity has for its emblem a gibbet, for its chief sensation a san- guinary execution after torture, for its central mystery an insane vengeance bought off by a trumpery expiation. But there is a nobler and profounder Christianity which affirms the sacred mystery of Equality, and forbids the glaring futility and folly of vengeance, often politely called punishment or justice. The gibbet part of Chris- tianity is tolerated. The other is criminal felony. Con- noisseurs in irony are well aware of the fact that the only editor in England who denounces punishment as radically wrong, also repudiates Christianity; calls his paper The Freethinker; and has been imprisoned for two years for blasphemy. Sane Conclusions. And now I must ask the excited reader not to lose his head on one side or the other, but to draw a sane moral from these grim absurdities. It is not good sense to propose that laws against crime should apply to prin- cipals only and not to accessories whose consent, coimsel, or silence may secure impimity to the principal. If you institute punishment as part of the law, you must punish people for refusing to punish. If you have a police, First Aid to Critics 195 part of its duty must be to compel everybody to assist the police. No doubt if your laws are unjust, and your policemen agents of oppression, the result will be an unbearable violation of the private consciences of citi- zens. But that cannot be helped: the remedy is, not to license everybody to thwart the law if they please, but to make laws that will command the public assent, and [ not to deal cruelly and stupidly with lawbreakers. ' Everybody disapproves of burglars ; but the modern bur- glar, when caught and overpowered by a householder, usually appeals, and often, let us hope, with success, to his captor not to deliver him over to the useless hor- rors of penal servitude. In other cases the lawbreaker escapes because those who could give him up do not consider his breach of the law a guilty action. Some- times, even, private tribunals are formed in opposition to the official tribunals; and these private tribunals em- ploy assassins as executioners, as was done, for example, by Mahomet before he had established his power offi- cially, and by the Ribbon lodges of Ireland in their long struggle with the landlords. Under such circum- stances, the assassin goes free although everybody in the district knows who he is and what he has done. They do not betray him, partly because they justify him exactly as the regular Government justifies its official executioner, and partly because they would them- selves be assassinated if they betrayed him: another method learnt from the official government. Given a tribunal, employing a slayer who has no personal quar- rel with the slain; and there is clearly no moral diiFer- ence between official and unofficial killing. In short, all men are anarchists with regard to laws ; which are against their consciences, either in the pre- amble or in the penalty. In London our worst anarch- ists are the magistrates, because many of them are so old and ignorant that when they are called upon to administer any law that is based on ideas or knowledge 196 Major Barbara less than half a century old, they disagree with it, and being mere ordinary homebred private Englishmen with- out any respect for law in the abstract, naively set the example of violating it. In this instance the man lags behind the law; but when the law lags behind the man, he becomes equally an anarchist. When some huge change in social conditions, such as the industrial revolu- tion of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, throws our legal and industrial institutions out of date. Anarch- ism becomes almost a religion. The whole force of the most energetic geniuses of the time in philosophy, economics, and art, concentrates itself on demonstrations and reminders that morality and law are only conven- tions, fallible and continually obsolescing. Tragedies in which the heroes are bandits, and comedies in which law-abiding and conventionally moral folk are compelled to satirize themselves by outraging the conscience of the spectators every time they do their duty, appear simul- taneously with economic treatises entitled " What is Property? Theft!" and with histories of "The Con- flict between Religion and Science." Now this is not a healthy state of things. The ad- vantages of living in society are proportionate, not to the freedom of the individual from a code, but to the complexity and subtlety of the code he is prepared not only to accept but to uphold as a matter of such vital importance that a lawbreaker at large is hardly to be tolerated on any plea. Such an attitude becomes im- possible when the only men who can make themselves heard and remembered throughout the world spend all their energy in raising our gorge against current law, current morality, current respectability, and legal property. The ordinary man, uneducated in social the- ory even when he is schooled in Latin verse, cannot be set against all the laws of his country and yet persuaded to regard law in the abstract as vitally necessary to society. Once he is brought to repudiate the laws and First Aid to Critics 197 institutions he knows, he will repudiate the very con- ception of law and the very groundwork of institutions, ridiculing human rights, extolling brainless methods as " historical," and tolerating nothing except pure em- piricism in conduct, with dynamite as the basis of politics and vivisection as the basis of science. That is hideous ; but what is to be done? Here am I, for instance, by class a respectable man, by common sense a hater of waste and disorder, by intellectual constitution legally minded to the verge of pedantry, and by temperament apprehensive and economicallysdjsposed to the limit of old-maidishness ; yet I am, and have always been, and , shall now always be, a revolutionary writer, because our laws make law impossible; our liberties destroy all ! freedom; our property is organized robbery; our mo- rality is an impudent hypocrisy; our wisdom is adminis- tered by inexperienced or malexperienced dupes, our power wielded by cowards and weaklings, and our honor false in all its points. I am an enemy of the existing order for good reasons; but that does not make my attacks any less encouraging or helpful to people who are its enemies for bad reasons. The existing order may shriek that if I tell the truth about it, some foolish person may drive it to become still worse by trying to assassinate it. I cannot help that, even if I could see what worse it could do than it is already doing. And the disadvantage of that worst even from its own point of view is that society, with all its prisons and bayonets and whips and ostracisms and starvations, is powerless in the face of the Anarchist who is prepared to sacrifice his own life in the battle with it. Our natural safety from the cheap and devastating explosives which every Russian student can make, and every Russian grenadier has learnt to handle in Manchuria, lies in the fact that brave and resolute men, when they are rascals, will not risk their skins for the good of humanity, and, when they are sympathetic enough to care for humanity, abhor 198 Major Barbara murder^ and never commit it until their consciences are outraged beyond endurance. The remedy is, then, simply not to outrage their consciences. Do not be afraid that they will not make allowances. All men make very large allowances indeed before they stake their own lives in a war to the death with society. Nobody demands or expects the millennium. But there are two things that must be set right, or we shall perish, like Rome, of soul atrophy disguised as empire. The first is, that the daily ceremony of dividing the wealth of the country among its inhabitants shall be so , conducted that no crumb shall go to any able-bodied adults who are not producing by their personal exertions not only a full equivalent for what they take, but a surplus sufficient to provide for their superannuation and pay back the debt due for their nurture. The second is that the deliberate infliction of malicious injuries which now goes on under the name of punish- ment be abandoned; so that the thief, the ruffian, the gambler, and the beggar, may without inhumanity be handed over to the law, and made to understand that a State which is too humane to punish will also be too , thrifty to waste the life of honest men in watching or j restraining dishonest ones. That is why we do not imprison dogs. We even take our chance of their first bite. But if a dog delights to bark and bite, it goes to the lethal chamber. That seems to me sensible. To allow the dog to expiate his bite by a period of torment, and then let him loose in a much more savage condition (for the chain makes a dog savage) to bite again and expiate again, having meanwhile spent a great deal of human life and happiness in the task of chaining and feeding and tormenting him, seems to me idiotic and superstitious. Yet that is what we do to men who bark and bite and steal. It would be far more sensible to put up with their vices, as we put up with' their illnesses, until they give more trouble than they are worth, at First Aid to Critics 199 which point we should, with many apologies and expres- sions of sympathy, and some generosity in complying with their last wishes, place them in the lethal chamber and get rid of them. Under no circumstances should they be allowed to expiate their misdeeds by a manu- factured penalty, to subscribe to a charity, or to com- pensate the victims. If there is to be no punishment there can be no forgiveness. We shall never have real \ moral responsibility until everyone knows that his deeds \ are irrevocable, and that his life depends on his useful- \ ness. Hitherto, alas ! humanity has never dared face these hard facts. We frantically scatter conscience money and invent systems of conscience banking, with expiatory penalties, atonements, redemptions, salvations, hospital subscription lists and what not, to enable us to contract-out of the moral code. Not content with the old scapegoat and sacrificial lamb, we deify human saviors, and pray to miraculous virgin intercessors. We attribute mercy to the inexorable; soothe our consciences after committing murder by throwing ourselves on the bosom of divine love; and shrink even from our own gallows because we are forced to admit that it, at least, is irrevocable — as if one hour of imprisonment were not as irrevocable as any execution! , _If^a_man cannot look eyjlin the face without illusion, I he will never know what it really is, or combat it effectu- ally ~ The few men who have been able (relatively) to "aSTthls have been called cynics, and have sometimes had an abnormal share of evil in themselves, correspondmg to the abnormal strength of their minds; but they have never done mischief unless they intended to do it. ihat is why great scoundrels have been beneficent rulers whilst amiable and privately harmless monarchs have ruined their countries by trusting to the hocus-pocus ot innocence and guilt, reward and punishment, virtuous indignation and pardon, instead of standing up to the facts without either malice or mercy. Major Barbara 200 Major Barbara stands up to Bill Walker in that way, with the result that the ruffian who cannot get hated, has to hate him- self. To relieve this agony he tries to get punished; but the Salvationist whom he tries to provoke is as mer- ciless as Barbara, and only prays for him. Then he tries to pay, but can get nobody to take his money. His doom is the doom of Cain, who, failing to find either a savior, a policeman, or an almoner to help him to pre- tend that his brother's blood no longer cried from the ground, had to live and die a murderer. Cain took care not to commit another murder, unlike our railway share- holders (I am one) who kill and maim shunters by hun- dreds to save the cost of automatic couplings, and make atonement by annual subscriptions to deserving charities. Had Cain been allowed to pay olF his score, he might possibly have killed Adam and Eve for the mere sake of a second luxurious reconciliation with God after- wards. Bodger, you may depend on it, will go on to the end of his life poisoning people with bad whisky, be- cause he can always depend on the Salvation Army or the Church of England to negotiate a redemption for him in consideration of a trifling percentage of his profits. There is a third condition too, which must be fulfilled before the great teachers of the world will cease to scoff at its religions. Creeds must become intellectually hon- est. At present there is not a single credible established religion in the world. That is perhaps the most stu- pendous fact in the whole world-situation. This play of mine. Major Barbara, is, I hope, both true and in- spired; but whoever says that it aU happened, and that faith in it and understanding of it consist in believing that it is a record of an actual occurrence, is, to speak according to Scripture, a fool arid a liar, and is hereby solemnly denounced and cursed as such by me, the author, to all posterity. London, Jwne 1906. ACT I It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on it {it is vacant at present) mould have, on his right. Lady Britomart's writing-table, with the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing-table behind him on his left J the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a window with a window-seat directly on his left. Near the window is an armchair. Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutors, amiable and yet peremptory, ar- bitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, con- ceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being quite en- lightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the articles in the papers. Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but 201 202 Major Barbara Act I still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of char- acter. Stephen. Whats the matter? Lady Britomaht. Presently, Stephen. {Stephen submissively walks to the settee and tits down. He takes up The Speaker.) Lady Britomaht. Dont begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all your attention. Stephen. It was only while I was waiting — Lady Britomaht. Dont make excuses, Stephen. (He puts down The Speaker.) Now! {She finishes her writing; rises j and comes to the settee.) I have not kept you waiting, very long, I think. Stephen. Not at all, mother. Lady Britomaht. Bring me my cushion. {He takes the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on the settee.) Sit down. {He sits down and fingers his tie nervously.) Dont fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter with it. Stephen. I beg your pardon. {He fiddles with his watch chain instead.) Lady Britomaht. Now are you attending to me, Stephen ? Stephen. Of course, mother. Lady Britomaht. No : it's n o t of course. I want something much more than your everyday matter-of- course attention. I am going to speak to you very seri- ously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. Stephen {hastily relinquishing the chain). Have I done anything to annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional. Lady Britomaht {astonished). Nonsense! {With some remorse.) My poor boy, did you think I was angry with you? Act I Major Barbara 203 Stephen. What is it, then, mother ? You are making me very imeasy. ° Lady Britomart (squaring herself at him rather ag- gressively). Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am only a woman? Stephen {amazed). Only a — Lady Britomart. Dont repeat my words, please: it IS a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the responsibility. Stephen. I ! Lady Britomart. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June. Youve been at Harrow and Cambridge. Youve been to India and Japan. You must know a lot of things, now; unless you have wasted your time most scandalously. Well, advise me. Stephen {much perplexed). You know I have never interfered in the household — Lady Britomart. No: I should think not. I dont want you to order the dinner. Stephen. I mean in our family affairs. Lady Britomart. Well, you must interfere now; for they are getting quite beyond me. Stephen {troubled). I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do know is so painful — it is so impossible to mention some things to you — {he stops, ashamed). Lady Britomart. I suppose you mean your father. Stephen {almost inaudibly). Yes. Lady Britomart. My dear: we cant go on all our lives not mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about the girls. 204 Major Barbara Act I Stephen. But the girls are all right. They are en- gaged. Lady Britomaht (^complacently'). Yes: I have made a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under the terms of his father's will allow him more than £800 a year. Stephen. But the will says also that if he increases his income by his own exertions, they may double the increase. Lady Britomart. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah wiU have to find at least another .£800 a year for the next ten years; and even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head over ears in love with her. Stephen. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fel- low, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but — Lady Britomart. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like. Stephen. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. Act I Major Barbara 205 Lady Britomart. Dont be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus — quite content with the best of everything! They cost more than your extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara will need at least £2000 a year. You see it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must marry soon. I dont approve of the present fashion of philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something for you. Stephen. It's very good of you, mother; but per- haps I had better arrange that for myself. Lady Britomart. Nonsense ! you are much too young to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody. Of course I dont mean that you are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. (Stephen closes his lips and is silent.^ Now dont sulk, Stephen. Stephen. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do with — with — ^with my father? Lady Britomart. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from? It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my income as long as we are in the same house; but I cant keep four families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He can do nothing for us. He says, naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabu- lously wealthy, because there is always a war going on somewhere. Stephen. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life with- out seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers ! The Undershaft ten inch ! 206 Major Barbara Act I the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the Under- shaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battle- ship! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get up revivals, spoilt my Bible — your first birthday present to me — by writing under my name, " Son and heir to Undershaft and Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my father was making millions by selling cannons. Lady Britomart. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's per- fectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Glad- stone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply wouldnt have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They wouldnt. They said they couldnt touch him. I be- lieve they were afraid. Stephen. What could they do? He does not actu- ally break the law. Lady Britomart. Not break the law ! He is always breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born : his parents were not married. Stephen. Mother! Is that true? Lady Britomart. Of course it's true: that was why we separated. Stephen. He married without letting you know this ! Lady Britomart {rather taken aback by this infer- ence). Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the Act I Major Barbara 207 sort of thing he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. Stephen. But you said that was why you separated. Lady Britomart. Yes, because he was not content with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another foundling. That was what I couldnt stand. Stephen (^ashamed). Do you mean for — for — for Lady Britomart. Dent stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly. Stephen. But this so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak to you about such things ! Lady Britomart. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the 5- middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and noth- ing should disturb our self-possession. Now ask your question properly. Stephen. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me every- thing and let me take it as best I can. Lady Britomart. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my com- panions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom / to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked A what I could approve of. Stephen {desperately') . I daresay we have been the very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my father wanting to set me aside for another son. 208 Major Barbara Act I Lady Britomart (amazed). Another son! I never said anything of the kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of interrupting me. Stephen. But you said — Lady Britomart {cutting him short). Now be a good boy, Stephen, and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city. That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Un- dershaft. Stephen. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons? Lady Britomart. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that. There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing over m y son. Stephen (dubiously). I am afraid I should make a poor hand of managing a cannon foundry. Lady Britomart. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay him a salary. Act I Major Barbara 209 Stephen. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity. Lady Britomart. Stuff, child ! you were only a baby : it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle, just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the Under- shaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted their successors. Such rubbish! The Steven- ages are as good as the' Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: al- ways awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently! Stephex. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken up, mother. I am sorry. Lady Britomart. Well, dear, there were other dif- ferences. I really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope; and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things : we are none of us perfect. But your father didnt exactly d o wrong ^ things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of ^ wrongness. Just as one doesnt mind men practising u immorality so long as they own that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldnt forgive An- drew for preaching immorality while he practised mo- rality. You would all have grown up without prin- ciples, without any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some ways. Chil- dren did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: 210 Major Barbara Act I very far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral disagreement. Stephen. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can they differ about right and wrong.'' Right is Tight; and wrong is wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a fool or a rascal: thats all. Lady Britomart {touched). Thats my own boy {she pats his cheek) ! Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you understand the situation, what do you advise me to do? Stephen. Well, what can you do ? Lady Britomart. I must get the money somehow. Stephen. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his money. Lady Britomart. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes from Andrew. Stephen (shocked). I never knew that. Lady Britomart. Well, you surely didnt suppose your grandfather had anything to give me. The Steven- ages could not do everything for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute some- thing. He had a very good bargain, I think. Stephen (bitterly). We are utterly dependent on him and his cannons, then? Lady Britomart. Certainly not: the money is set- tled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from him or not : it is simply a question of how much. I dont want any more for myself. Stephen. Nor do I. Lady Britomart. But Sarah does ; and Barbara does. That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and Act I Major Barbara 211 ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is it not? Stephen. No. Lady Britomart (^sharply). Stephen! Stephen. Of course if you are determined — Lady Britomart. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders. Stephen {ohstinately'). I would die sooner than ask him for another penny. Lady Britomart (resignedly'). You mean that I must ask him. Very well, Stephen: it shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have some natural affection for them. Stephen. Ask him here ! ! ! Lady Britomart. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I ask him.'' Stephen. I never expected you to ask him at all. Lady Britomart. Now dont tease, Stephen. Come ! you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, dont you? Stephen {reluctantly'). I suppose so, if the girls cannot do without his money. Lady Britomart. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked your father to come this evening. {Stephen hounds from his seat.) Dont jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. Stephen {in utter consternation). Do you mean to say that my father is coming here to-night — ^that he may be here at any moment? Lady Britomart {looking at her match). I said nine. {He gasps. She rises.) Ring the bell, please. {Stephen goes to the smaller rvriting table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his 212 Major Barbara Act I head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed.') It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on pur- pose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in ease he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of supporting their wives. (_The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak to him.) Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once. (Morrison with- draws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen.) Now re- member, Stephen: I shall need all your countenance and authority. (^He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these attributes.) Give me a chair, dear. {He pushes a chair forward from the mall to where she stands, near the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes to the arm-chair, into which he throws himself.) I dont know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I dont know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Bar- bara shant bully me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Dont look nervous, Stephen ; it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows ; but I dont shew it. Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jol- lier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about town. He is afflicted with a frivolous sense of humor which plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's Act I Major Barbara 213 complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The life- long struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself as — and indeed actu- ally is — considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cru- elty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Bar- bara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leav- ing the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Bar- bara comes in after her and stops at the door. Barbara. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in ? Lady Bhitomart {forcibly). Barbara: I will not have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill. Barbara. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite cor- rect nowadays. Are they to come in? Lady Britomart. Yes, if they will behave them- selves* Barbara (through the door). Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself. . Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusms enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. Sarah {calling). Come in, Cholly. {Lomax enters, controlling his features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara.) Lady Britomart {peremptorily). Sit down, all ot you {They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats 214 Major Barbara Act I himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the settee.) I dont in the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better from Charles Lomax. CusiNs (i« a remarkably gentle voice). Barbara has been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. Lady Britomaht. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you if you are really converted. CusiNs (sweetly). You were not present. It was really fimny, I believe. Lomax. Ripping. Lady Britomart. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. (^General stupefaction.) Lomax (remonstrating). Oh I say! Lady Britomart. You are not called on to say any- thing, Charles. Sarah. Are you serious, mother? Lady Britomart. Of course I am serious. It is on your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. (Silence. Charles looks painfully unworthy.) I hope you are not going to object, Barbara. Barbara. I ! why should I ? My father has a soul to be saved like anybody else. Hes quite welcome as far as I am concerned. Lomax (still remonstrant). But really, dont you know! Oh I say! Lady Britomart (frigidly). What do you wish to convey, Charles.'' Lomax. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. Lady Britomart (turning with ominous suavity to Cusins). Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable English for us? CusiNs (cautiously). If I may say so. Lady Brit, I think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all Act I Major Barbara 215 feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same phrase, ttukcvov Sofwv iXOeiv means a bit thick. LoMAX (handsomely). Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah dont. Lady Britomaht {crushingly). Thank you. Have I your permission, Adolphus, to invite my own hus- band to my own house? CusiNs {gallantly). You have my unhesitating sup- port in everything you do. Lady Britomart. Sarah: have you nothing to say? Sarah. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here? Lady Britomart. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you; but there are limits. Sarah. Well, he cant eat us, I suppose. I dont mind. LoMAX {chuckling). I wonder how the old man will take it. Lady Britomart. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles. Lomax {abashed). I didnt mean — at least — Lady Britomart. You didnt think, Charles. You never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me, children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us. Lomax. I suppose he hasnt seen Sarah since she was a little kid. Lady Britomart. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly — er — {impatiently) Now I have forgot- ten what I was going to say. That comes of your pro- voking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly tell me where I was. CusiNs {sweetly). You were saying that as Mr. Undershaft has not seen his children since they were babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have 216 Major Barbara Act I brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. LoMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didnt say that. Lady Britomaht {vehemently). I did, Charles. Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair oif into opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to your father. Barbara. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. Lady Britomart. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of you. Lomax. Oh I say ! theres nothing to be exactly proud of, dont you know. Lady Britomart. Well, try and look as if there was. Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed disorder. Morrison. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? Lady Britomart. Nonsense ! Shew him up. Morrison. Yes, my lady. (He goes.) Lomax. Does Morrison know who it is? Lady Britomart. Of course. Morrison has always been with us. Lomax. It must be a regular corker for him, dont you know. Lady Britomart. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? Lomax. But this is something out of the ordinary, really — Morrison (at the door). The — er — Mr. Undershaft. (He retreats in confusion.) Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Brito- mart meets him in the middle of the room behind the settee. Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man, with kindly patient manners, and an engaging sim- Act I Major Barbara 217 plicity of character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He IS also a little shy in his present very delicate sit- uation. Lady Bhitomaht. Good evening, Andrew. Undershaft. How d'ye do, my dear. Lady Bhitomaht. You look a good deal older. Undehshapt (apologetically). lam somewhat older. (With a touch of courtship.) Time has stood still with you. Lady Bhitomaht (promptly). Rubbish! This is your family. Undershaft (sarpmed). Is it so large? I am sorry to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. (He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax.) LoMAx (jerkily shaking his hand). Ahdedoo. Undershaft. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet you again, my boy. Lomax (remonstrating). No but look here dont you know — (Overcome.) Oh I say! Lady Bhitomaht (recovering from momentary speech- lessness). Andrew: do you mean to say that you dont remember how many children you have.'' Undershaft. Well, I am afraid I—. They have grown so much — er. Am I making any ridiculous mis- take? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since, of course — er — Lady Bhitomaht (decisively). Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. Undershaft. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my dear. 218 Major Barbara Act I Lady Britomart. That is Charles Lomax, who is en- gaged to Sarah. Undehshaft. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. Lomax. Notatall. Delighted, I assure you. Lady Britomart. This is Stephen. Undehshaft {bowing). Happy to make your ac- quaintance, Mr. Stephen. Then (going to Cusins) you must be my son. (Taking Cusins' hands in his.) How are you, my young friend? (To Lady Britomart.) He is very like you, my love. CusiNs. You flatter me, Mr. Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. (Very explicitly.) That is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen Undershaft, your son. Undershaft. My dear Stephen, I b e g your pardon. Stephen. Not at all. Undershaft. Mr. Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining so precisely. (Turning to Sarah.) Barbara, my dear — Sarah (prompting him). Sarah. Undershaft. Sarah, of course. (They shake hands. He goes over to Barbara.) Barbara — I am right this time, I hope. Barbara. Quite right. (They shake hands.) Lady Britomart (resuming command). Sit down, all of you. Sit down, Andrew. (She comes forward and sits on the settee. Cusins also brings his chair for- ward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for another.) Undershaft. Thank you, my love. Lomax (conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft). Takes you some time to find out exactly where you are, dont it? Undershaft (accepting the chair). That is not what Act I Major Barbara 219 embarrasses me, Mr. Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of an mtrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a dis- creet stranger, I may appear a callous father. Lady Britomart. There is no need for you to play any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sin- cere and natural. Undershaft {submissively). Yes, my dear: I dare- say that will be best. (Making himself comfortable.) Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all.? Lady Britomart. You need not do anything, An- drew. You are one of the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself. Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in ago- nised neighings. Lady Britomart (outraged). Charles Lomax: if you can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room. Lomax. I'm awfully sorry. Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon my soul! (He sits on the settee be- tween Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome.) Barbara. Why dont you laugh if you want to, Cholly.? It's good for your inside. Lady Britomart. Barbara: you have had the educa- tion of a lady. Please let your father see that; and dont talk like a street girl. Undershaft. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a gentleman ; and I was never educated. Lomax (encouragingly). Nobody 'd know it, I assure you. You look all right, you know. CusiNs. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr. Un- dershaft. Greek scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other lan- guages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hall- mark is to silver. 220 Major Barbara Act I Barbara. Dolly: dont be insincere. ChoUy: fetch your concertina and play something for us. LoMAX {doubtfully to Under shaft). Perhaps that sort of thing isnt in your line, eh.'' Undershaft. I am particularly fond of music. LoMAx {delighted). Are you? Then I'll get it. {He goes upstairs for the instrument.) Undershaft. Do you play, Barbara? Barbara. Only the tambourine. But ChoUy's teach- ing me the concertina. Undershaft. Is ChoUy also a member of the Salva- tion Army? Barbara. No: he says it's bad form to be a dis- senter. But I dont despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and took the collection in his hat. Lady Britomart. It is not my doing, Andrew. Bar- bara is old enough to take her own way. She has no father to advise her. Barbara. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation Army. Undershaft. Your father there has a great many children and plenty of experience, eh? Barbara {looking at him tvith quick interest and nod- ding). Just so. How did you come to understand that? {Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina.) Lady Britomart. Come in, Charles. Play us some- thing at once. Lomax. Bighto ! {He sits down in his former place, and preludes.) Undershaft. One moment, Mr. Lomax. I am rather interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire. Lomax {shocked). But not your sort of blood and fire, you know. Undershaft. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies. Act I Major Barbara 221 Barbara. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter — ^the West Ham shelter — and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can you play anything? Undershaft. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orches- tral society, and performed passably on the tenor trom- bone. Lomax (^scandalized'). Oh I say! Barbara. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. Lomax (fo Barbara, still rather shocked). Yes; but what about the cannon business, dont you know? (To Undershaft.) Getting into heaven is not exactly in your line, is.it? Lady Britomart. Charles ! ! ! Lomax. Well; but it stands to reason, dont it? The~~N cannon business may be necessary and all that: we cant \ get on without cannons ; but it isnt right, you know. On --^ the other hand, there may be a certain amount of tosh/ about the Salvation Army — I belong to the Established; Church myself — but still you cant deny that it's re- ligion; and you cant go against religion, can you? At least imless youre downright immoral, dont you know. Undershaft. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr. Lomax — Lomax {hastily). I'm not saying anything against you personally, you know. Undershaft. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at the foundry, 222 Major Barbara Act I we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. LoMAX (leniently'). Well, the more destructive war becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? Undershaft. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr. Lo- max: I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their busi- ness in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experi- ments and researches in improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. M y morality — m y religion — must have a place for cannons and torpedoes in it. Stephen (^coldly — almost sullenly). You speak as if there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. Undershaft. For me there is only one true mo- rality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manu- facture aerial battleships. There is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not the same true morality. LoMAX (^overtaxed). Would you mind saying that again ? I didnt quite follow it. CusiNS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as physically. Undershaft. Precisely. LoMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. Stephen. In other words, some men are honest and some are scoundrels. Act I Major Barbara 223 Barbara. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. Undershaft. Indeed? Are there any good men? Barbara. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop calling one another names the better. You neednt talk to me: I know them. Ive had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels, criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county councillors, all sorts. Theyre all just the same sort of sinner; and theres the same salvation ready for them all. Undershaft. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons? Barbara. No. Will you let me try? Undershaft. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day after to see me in my cannon works? Barbara. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. Undershaft. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons ? Barbara. I will take my chance of that. Undershaft. And I will take my chance of the other. {They shake hands on it.) Where is your shelter ? Barbara. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your works ? Undershaft. In Perivale St. Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. LoMAx. Hadnt I better play something? Barbara. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. LoMAX. Well, thats rather a strong order to begin with, dont you know. Suppose I sing Thourt passing hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. Barbara. It's too melancholy. You get saved. 224 Major Barbara Act I Cholly; and youU pass hence, my brother, without mak- ing such a fuss about it. Lady Britomart. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety. Undershaft. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It is the only one that capable people really care for. Lady Britomart (looking at her watch). Well, if you are determined to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for prayers. (General amazement. Stephen rises in dis- may.) LoMAx (rising). Oh I say! Undershaft (rising). I am afraid I must be going. Lady Britomart. You cannot go now, Andrew: it would be most improper. Sit down. What will the servants think.? Undershaft. My dear: I have conscientious scru- ples. May I suggest a compromise.'' If Barbara will conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr. Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will even take part, if a trombone can be procured. Lady Britomart. Dont'mock, Andrew. Undershaft (shocked — to Barbara). You dont think I am mocking, my love, I hope. Barbara. No, of course not; and it wouldnt matter if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting for a lark. (Rising.) Come along. Come, Dolly, Come, ChoUy. (She goes out with Undershaft, who opens the door for her. Cusins rises.) Lady Britomart. I wiU not be disobeyed by every- body. Adolphus: sit down. Charles: you may go. You are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your coun- tenance. LoMAx. Oh I say! (He goes out.) Lady Britomart (continuing). But you, Adolphus, Act I Major Barbara 225 can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your staying. CusiNs. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the family prayer book that I couldnt bear to hear you say. Lady Britomart. What things, pray .J" CusiNS. Well, you would have to say before all the servants that we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you doing yourself such an injustice, and Barbara such an injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done my best. I shouldnt dare to marry Barbara — I couldnt look you in the face — ^if it were true. So I must go to the drawingroom. Lady Britomart {offended). Well, go. {He starts for the door.) And remember this, Adolphus {he turns to listen) : I have a very strong suspicion that you went to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in which you systematically humbug me. I have found you out. Take care Barbara doesnt. Thats all. CusiNs {with unruffled sweetness). Dont tell on me. {He goes out.) Lady Britomart. Sarah: if you want to go, go. Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you were a thousand miles away. Sarah {languidlt/). Very well, mamma. {She goes.) Lady Britomart, with a sudden flounce, gives way to a little gust of tears. Stephen {going to her). Mother: whats the matter.'' Lady Britomart {swishing away her tears with her handkerchief). Nothing. Foolishness. You can go with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the serv- ants. Stephen. Oh, you mustnt think that, mother. I — I dont like him. Lady Britomart. The others do. That is the in- 226 Major Barbara Act I justice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them things they want, to set them tasks, to punish them when they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And ^-then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and j spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals I their affection from her. '--^- Stephen. He has not stolen our affection from you. It is only curiosity. Lady Britomart (violentli/') . I wont be consoled, Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. (^She rises and goes towards the door.) Stephen. Where are you going, mother? Lady Britomart. To the drawingroom, of course. (She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the con- 1 certina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when the door opens.") Are you coming, Stephen? Stephen. No. Certainly not. (She goes. He sits down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expres- sion of strong dislike.) END OF ACT I. ACT II The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army is a cold place on a January morning. The build- ing itself, an old warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its gabled end projects into the yard in the middle, with a door on the ground floor, and another in the loft above it without any balcony or ladder, but with a pulley rigged over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from this central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading to the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just beyond it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a table from the weather. There are forms at the table; and on them, are seated a man and a woman, both much down on their luck, finishing a meal of bread (one thick slice each, with margarine and golden syrup) and diluted milk. The man, a workman out of employment, is young, agile, a talker, a poser, sharp enough to be capable of anything in reason except honesty or altruistic considera- tions of any kind. The woman is a commonplace old bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She looks sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich people, gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs and overcoats, they mould be numbed and miserable; for it is a grindingly cold, raw, January day; and a glance at the background of grimy warehouses and leaden sky visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard would drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean. Bui these two, being no more troubled with visions of the Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled to keep more of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less on their persons, in winter than in summer, are not de- 227 228 Major Barbara Act II pressed by the cold: rather are they stung into vivacity, to which their meal has just now given an almost jolly turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then gets up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance. The Woman. Feel better arter your meal, sir ? The Man. No. Call that a meal ! Good enough for you, praps; but wot is it to me, an intelligent workin man. The Woman. Workin man! Wot aife you? The Man. Painter. The Woman {sceptically). Yus, I dessay. The Man. Yus, you dessay! I know. E^ry loafer that cant do nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a real painter: grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week when I can get it. The Woman. Then why dont you go and get it? The Man. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent — fffff ! it's rotten cold here {he dances a step or two) — yes: intelligent beyond the station o life into which it has pleased the capitalists to call me; and they dont like a man that sees through em. Second, an intelligent bein needs a doo share of appiness; so I drink somethink cruel when I get the chawnce. Third, I stand by my class and do as little as I can so's to leave arf the job for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough to know wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it I do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands on. In a proper state of society I am sober, industrious and honest: in Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans do. Wots the consequence? When trade is bad — and it's rotten bad just now — and the employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me. The Woman. Whats your name? The Man. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usu- ally called Snobby Price, for short. Act II Major Barbara 229 The Woman. Snobby's a carpenter, aint it? You said you was a painter. Price. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist and a reading, thinking man: a sta- tioner, too. I'm none of your common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and dont you forget it. {He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug.) Wots your name ? The Woman. Rummy Mitchens, sir. Price {quaffing the remains of his milk to her). Your elth. Miss Mitchens. Rummy {correcting him). Missis Mitchens. Price. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman. Rummy, gittin rescued by the Sal- vation Army by pretendin to be a bad un. Same old game! Rummy. What am I to do? I cant starve. Them Salvation lasses is dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldnt they av a bit o credit, poor loves? theyre worn to rags by their work. And where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and gentlemen are. Price. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job. Rummy, all the same. Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name praps ? Rummy. Short for Romola. Price. For wot!? Rummy. Romola. It was out of a new book. Some- body me mother wanted me to grow up like. Price. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got names that, nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and youre Rummy because Bill and Sally wasnt good enough for our parents. Such is life! 230 Major Barbara Act II Rummy. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara ? Price. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll tell em how I blasphemed and gam- bled and wopped my poor old mother— Rummy (shocked). Used you to beat your mother? Price. Not likely. She used to beat me. No mat- ter: you come and listen to the converted painter, and youU hear how she was a pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs, an lam into er with the poker. Rummy. Thats whats so unfair to us women. Your confessions is just as big lies as ours: you dont tell what you really done no more than us; but you men can tell your lies right out at the meetins and be made much of for it; while the sort o confessions we az to make az to be whispered to one lady at a time. It aint right, spite of all their piety. Price. Right ! Do you spose the Army 'd be allowed if it went and did right? Not much. It combs our air and makes us good little blokes to be robbed and put upon. But I'll play the game as good as any of em. I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a voice sayin " Snobby Price : where will you spend eternity ? " I'll ave a time of it, I tell you. . Rummy. You wont be let drink, though. Price. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I dont want to drink if I can get fun enough any other way. Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass of 18, comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter Shirley, a half hardened, half tvorn-out elderly man, weak with hunger. Jenny {.supporting Mm). Come! pluck up. I'll get you something to eat. YouU be all right then. Price (rising and hurrying officiously to take the old Act II Major Barbara 231 man off Jenny's hands). Poor old man! Cheer up, brother: youll find rest and peace and appiness ere. Hurry up with the food, miss: e's fair done. (Jenny hurries into the shelter.) Ere, buck up, daddy! shes f etchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o sky- blue. (He seats him at the corner of the table.) Rummy (gaily). Keep up your old art! Never say die! Shirley. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as good as ever I was. The grey patch come in my hair before I was thirty. All it wants is three pennorth o hair dye: am I to be turned on the streets to starve for it? Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve hours a day since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through; and now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given to a young man that can do it no better than me because Ive black hair that goes white at the first change? Price (cheerfully). No good jawrin about it. Youre ony a jumped-up, jerked-off, orspittle-turned-out incur- able of an ole workin man: who cares about you? Eh? Make the thievin swine give you a meal: theyve stole many a one from you. Get a bit o your own back. (Jenny returns with the usual meal.) There you are, brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you. Shirley (looking at it ravenously but not touching it, and crying like a child). I never took anything before. Jenny (petting him). Come, come! the Lord sends it to you: he wasnt above taking bread from his friends; and why should you be? Besides, when we find you a job you can pay us for it if you like. Shirley (eagerly). Yes, yes: thats true. I can pay you back: its only a loan. (Shivering.) Oh Lord! oh Lord! (He turns to the table and attacks the meal ravenously.) Jenny. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable now? 232 Major liarbara Act II Rummy. God bless you, lovey! youve fed my body and saved my soul, havent you? {Jenny, touched, hisses her.) Sit down and rest a bit: you must be ready to drop. Jenny. Ive been going hard since morning. But theres more work than we can do. I mustnt stop. Rummy. Try a prayer for just two minutes. YouU work aU the better after. Jenny (her eyes lighting up). Oh isnt it wonder- ful how a few minutes prayer revives you ! I was quite lightheaded at twelve o'clock, I was so tired; but Major Barbara just sent me to pray for five minutes; and I was able to go on as if I had only just begun. (To Price.) Did you have a piece of bread? Price (rvith unction). Yes, miss; but Ive got the piece that I value more; and thats the peace that passeth hall hannerstennin. Rummy (fervently). Glory Hallelujah! Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears at the yard gate and looks malevolently at Jenny. Jenny. That makes me so happy. When you say that, I feel wicked for loitering here. I must get to work again. She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer ■moves quickly up to the door and intercepts her. His Tnanner is so threatening that she retreats as he comes at her truculently, driving her down the yard. Bill. I know you. Youre the one that took away my girl. Youre the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm goin to av er out. Not that I care a curse for her or you: see? But I'll let er know; and I'll let you know. I'm goin to give er a doin thatll teach er to cut away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come out afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker wants er. She'll know what that means; and if she keeps me waitin itU be worse. You stop to jaw back at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye hear? Theres your way. In you go. (He takes her by the arm and slings Act II Major Barbara 233 her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her hand and knee. Rummy helps her up again.) Price {rising, and venturing irresolutely torvards Bill). Easy there^ mate. She aint doin you no arm. Bill. Who are you callin mate ? (Standing over him threateningly.) Youre goin to stand up for her, are you.'' Put up your ands. Rummy {running indignantly to him to scold him). Oh, you great brute — (He instantly swings his left hand back against her face. She screams and reels back to the trough, where she sits down, covering her bruised face with her hands and rocking herself and moaning with pain.) Jenny (going to her). Oh God forgive you! How could you strike an old woman like that? Bill (seising her by the hair so violently that she also screams, and tearing her away from the old woman). You Gawd forgive me again and I'll Gawd forgive you one on the jaw thatll stop you prayin for a week. (Holding her and turning fiercely on Price.) Av you anything to say agen it? Eh? Price (intimidated). No, matey: she aint anything to do with me. Bill. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you and fight you with one finger after, you starved cur. (To Jenny.) Now are you goin to fetch out Mog Hab- bijam; or am I to knock your face off you and fetch her myself ? Jenny (writhing in his grasp). Oh please someone go in and tell Major Barbara — (she screams again as he wrenches her head down; and Price and Rummy flee into the shelter). Bill. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, do you? Jenny. Oh please dont drag my hair. Let me go. Bill. Do you or dont you? (She stifles a scream.) Yes or no. 234 Major Barbara Act II Jenny. God give me strength — Bill (^striking her with Ms fist in the face). Go and shew her that, and tell her if she wants one like it to come and interfere with me. (Jenny, crying with pain, goes into the shed. He goes to the form and addresses the old man.') Here: finish your mess; and get out o my way. Shirley {springing up and facing him fiercely, with the mug in his hand). You take a liberty with me, and I'll smash you over the face with the mug and cut your eye out. Aint you satisfied — young whelps like you — with takin the bread out o the mouths of your elders that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you must come shovin and cheekin and buUyin in here, where the bread o charity is sickenin in our stummicks? Bill {contemptuously, but backing a little). Wot good are you, you old palsy mug? Wot good are you? Shirley. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's work agen you or any fat young soaker of your age. Go and take my job at Horrockses, where I worked for ten year. They want young men there : they cant afford to keep men over forty-five. Theyre very sorry — give you a character and happy to help you to get anything suited to your years — sure a steady man wont be long out of a job. Well, let em try you. Theyll find the differ. What do y o u know ? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself — ^layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! Bill. Dont provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? Shirley {with blighting contempt). Yes: you like an old man to hit, dont you, when youve finished with the women. I aint seen you hit a young one yet. Bill {stung). You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? Shirley. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he Act n Major Barbara 235 a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? Bill. Who's he? Shirley. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won £20 off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. Bill {sullenly). I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? Shirley. Yes: an you cant. Bill. Wot! I cant, cant I? Wots that you say {threatening him) ? Shirley {not budging an inch). Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you ? Say the word. Bill {subsiding with a slouch). I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I dont set up to be a perfessional. Shirley {looking down on him with unfathomable disdain). You box ! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand ! You hadnt even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldnt see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldnt a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. {He returns to the table to finish his meal.) Bill {following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in). You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. Shirley {bursting into tears). Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. {Furiously.) But youU come to it yourself; and then youU know. Youll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fiUin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin ! Bill. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a 236 Major Barbara Act ii bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. {Work- ing himself into a rage.) I'm goin in there to fetch her out. {He makes venge fully for the shelter door.) Shirley. Youre goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and theyll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what youre about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. Bill (checked). Garn! Shirley. YouU see. Bill {his resolution oozing). Well, I aint done noth- in to er. Shirley. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? Bill {very uneasy, skulking hack to the corner of the penthouse). Gawd! theres no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. Shirley. Tell her so. Its just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shel- ter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. Barbara. Good morning. Shirley {standing up and taking off his hat). Good morning, miss. Barbara. Sit down: make yourself at home. {He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey.) Now then ! since youve made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. Shirley. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. Barbara {not at all surprised). Youd pass still. Why didnt you dye your hair? Shirley. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's in- quest on me daughter. Act II Major Barbara 237 Barbara. Steady ? Shirley. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knackers like an old horse ! Barbara. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. Shirley (suddenly stubborn). My religion's no con- cern of anybody but myself. Barbara {guessing). I know. Secularist? Shirley (hotly). Did I offer to deny it? Barbara. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father — ^yours and mine — ful- fils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. (Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill.) Whats your name? Bill (insolently). Wots that to you? Barbara (calmly making a note). Afraid to give his name. Any trade? Bill. Who's afraid to give his name? (Doggedly, Tvith a sense of heroically defying the House of Lord.s in the person of Lord Stevenage.) If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. (She waits, unruffled.) My name's Bill Walker. Barbara (as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how). Bill Walker? (JRecollecting.) Oh, I know: youre the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. (She enters his name in her note book.) Bill. Who's Jenny HiU? And what call has she to pray for me? Barbara. I dont know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. Bill (defiantly). Yes, it w a s me that cut her lip. I aint afraid o y o u. Barbara. How could you be, since youre not afraid of God? Youre a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes 238 Major Barbara Act II some pluck to do our work here ; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. Bill (sullenly). I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I dont want your bread and scrape and catlap. I dont believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. Barbara {sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him). Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didnt under- stand. I'll strike it out. Bill (taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it). Eah! you let my name alone. Aint it good enough to be in your book? Barbara (considering). Well, you see, theres no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? Whats your trade? Bill (still smarting). Thats no concern o yours. Barbara. Just so. (Very businesslike.) I'll put you down as (writing) the man who — struck — ^poor little Jenny Hill — in the mouth. Bill (rising threateningly). See here. Ive ad enough o this. Barbara (quite sunny and fearless). What did you come to us for? Bill. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jawr for her. Barbara (complacently). You see I was right about your trade. (Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly.) Whats her name? Bill (dogged). Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. Barbara. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. Act II Major Barbara 239 Bill {fortified by his resentment of Mag's perfidy'). Is she? {Vindictively.) Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. {He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes hack at Barbara.) Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? Barbara. I dont want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. Youd better stay: youre going to have a bad time today, Bill. Bill. Who's goin to give it to me ? You, praps. Barbara. Someone you dont believe in. But youll be glad afterwards. Bill {slinking off). I'll go to Kennintahn to be out the reach o your tongue. {Suddenly turning on her with intense malice.) And if I dont find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! Barbara {a shade kindlier, if possible). It's no use. Bill. Shes got another bloke. Bill. Wot! Barbara. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. Bill {surprised). Wottud she wash it for, the car- roty slut? It's red. Barbara. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity youre too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint. Bill. Bill. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that 1 care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy, ^ots izjjleedin name? him, miss. 1 want to see iiicm twu uiti-i,. * ^^ -o^-v- him to the infirmary when it's over. Bill {to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving). Is that im you was speakin on? 240 Major Barbara Act II Shirley. Thats him. BiLi,. Im that wrastled in the music all? Shirley. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. Hes gev em up now for religion; so hes a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. Hell be glad to see you. Come along. Bill. Wots is weight? Shirley. Thirteen four. (Bill's last hope expires.) Barbara. Go and talk to him. Bill. He'll convert you. Shirley. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. Bill {^sullenly). I aint afraid of him. I aint afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. Shes done me. (^He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough.) Shirley. You aint goin. I thought not. {He re- sumes his seat.) Barbara {calling). Jenny! Jenny {appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth). Yes, Major. Barbara. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. Jenny. I think shes afraid. Barbara {her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment). Nonsense! she must do as shes told. Jenny {calling into the shelter). Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. Barbara. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? {Look- ing at the rvounded cheek.) Does it hurt? Jenny. No : it's all right now. It was nothing. Barbara {critically). It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You dpnt feel angry with him, do you? Act II Major Barbara 241 Jenny. Oh no, no, no: indeed I dont. Major, bless his poor heart ! (Barbara kisses her; and she runs arvay merrily into the shelter. Bill rvrithes with an agonising return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says noth- ing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter.) Barbara (going to meet Rummy). Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there is still some milk left in it. Rummy. There aint any crumbs. This aint a time to waste good bread on birds. Price (appearing at the shelter door). Gentleman come to see the shelter. Major. Says hes your father. Barbara. All right. Coming. (Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara.) Rummy (stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction). I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. Youre no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. (Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice.) Shirley (following her). Here! in with you and dont get yourself into more trouble by talking. Rummy (with hauteur). I aint ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. (She goes into the shelter with the plates.) Shirley. Thats the — Bill (savagely). Dont you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. Shirley (caZmZ^). Dont you be af eerd. You aint such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. (He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft ori her right.) Barbara. Oh there you are, Mr. Shirley ! (Between 242 Major Barbara Act II them.) This is my father: I told you he was a Secular- ist, didnt I? Perhaps youU be able to comfort one another. Undershaft (startled). A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. Barbara. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what i s your religion — ^in case I have to introduce you again ? Undershaft. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. Barbara. Then I'm afraid you and Mr. Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. Youre not a Millionaire, are you, Peter.' ^ Shirley. No; and proud of it. Undershaft (gravely). Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. ~~ Shirley (angrily). Who made your millions for you.' Me and my like. Whats kep us poor.' Keepin you rich. I wouldnt have your conscience, not for all your income. Undershaft. I wouldnt have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr. Shirley. (He goes to the pent- house and sits down on a form.) Barbara (stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort). You wouldnt think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. Shirley (bitterly). Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, aint I? Barbara. Oh, not because youre in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. (He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized.) There! dont stare at me. In with you ; and. give that conscience of yours a holiday (bustling him into the shelter). Shirley (as he goes in). Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. Youd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. Act II Major Barbara 243 Undershaft. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. Barbara. All right. Undershaft. For instance, whats the matter with that out-patient over there? Barbara (looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened). Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. {She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever.) It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbi jam's face, wouldnt it, Bill? Bill {starting up from, the trough in consternation). It's a lie: I never said so. (She shakes her head.) Who told you wot was in my mind? Barbara. Only your new friend. Bill. Wot new friend? Barbara. The devil. Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. Bill (with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness). I aint miserable. (He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent.) Barbara. Well, if youre happy, why dont you look happy, as we do? Bill (his legs curling back in spite of him). I'm appy enough, I teU you. Why dont you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I aint smashed your face, av I? Barbara (softly: wooing his soul). It's not me thats getting at you, BUI. Bill. Who else is it? Barbara. Somebody that doesnt intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. Bill (blustering). Make a man o me! Amt la man? eh? aint I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? Barbara. Theres a man in you somewhere, I sup- 244 Major Barbara Act II pose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill ? That wasnt very manly of him, was it? Bill (tormented). Av done with it, I tell you. Chack it. I'm sick of your Jenny 111 and er silly little face. Barbara. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? Youre not getting converted, are you? Bill (with conviction'). Not me. Not likely. Not arf. Barbara. Thats right, BiU. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Dont lets get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvatibn harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was, going to break. But he didnt give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps youll escape that. You havnt any heart, have you? Bill. Wot d'ye mean ? Wy aint I got a art the same as ennybody else? Barbara. A man with a heart wouldnt have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? Bill (almost crying). Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come naggin and provowkin me lawk this? (He writhes con- vulsively from his eyes to his toes.) Barbara (with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go). It's your soul thats hurting you, Bill, and not me. Weve been through it all ourselves. Come with us. Bill. (He looks mildly round). To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. (He is on the point of breaking damn.) Come. (A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum.) Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr. Bill Walker. This is my bloke. Bill: Mr. Cusins. (Cusins salutes with his drumstick.) Act II Major Barbara 245 Bill. Goin to marry im? Barbara. Yes. Bill {fervently). Gord elp im! Gawd elp im! Barbara. Why? Do you think he wont be happy with me? Bill. Ive only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'U av to stand it. for a lifetime. CusiNs. That is a frightful reflection, Mr. Walker. But I cant tear myself away from her. Bill. Well, I can. (To Barbara.) Eah! do you know where I'm going to, and wot I'm goin to do? Barbara. Yes: youre going to heaven; and youre coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. Bill. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny lU's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and shew it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. ThatU make us square. (To Adolphus.) Is that fair or is it not? Youre a genlmn: you oughter know. Barbara. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. Bill. I didnt ast you. Cawnt you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CusiNs (reflectively). Yes: I think youre right, Mr. Walker. Yes: I should do it. Its curious: its exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. Barbara. But what good will it do? CusiNS. Well, it will give Mr. Fairmile some exer- cise; and it will satisfy Mr. Walker's soul. Bill. Rot ! there aint no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether Ive a soul or not? You never seen it. Barbara. Ive seen it hurting you when you went against it. Bill (with compressed aggravation). If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, 1 d give you suthink youd feel urtin, so I would, (la Adolphus.) You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or 246 Major Barbara Act II youU die afore your time. (With intense expression.) Wore aht : thets wot youU be : wore aht. {He goes away through the gate.) CusiNs {looking after him). I wonder! Barbara. DoUy! {indignant, in her mother's man- ner.) CusiNs. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. Barbara. Should you mind? CusiNs. Not at all. {He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum, without practice. Undershaft coughs.) Barbara. It's all right, papa, weve not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I havnt time. {She goes busily into the shelter.) Undershaft and Adolphus now have the yard to them- selves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. Undershaft. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr. Cusins. {Cusins flourishes his drum- sticks as if in the act of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound.) Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out ! Cusins. You know, I do not admit that I am im- posing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions ; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? Undershaft. Yes. Cusins. Anything out of the common? Undershaft. Only that there are two things neces- sary to Salvation. Cusins {disappointed, but polite). Ah, the Church Act II Major Barbara 247 Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Estab- lished Church. Undershapt. The two things are — CusiNs. Baptism and — Undershaft. No. Money and gunpowder. CusiNs (surprised, but interested). That is the gen- eral opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. Undershaft. Just so. CusiNs. Excuse me: is there any place in your re- ligion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? Undershaft. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CusiNs. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder.'' Undershaft. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CusiNs. That is your religion.? Undershaft. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and con- templates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CusiNs. Barbara wont stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. Undershaft. So will you, my friend. She will iind out that that drum of yours is hollow. CusiNs. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Sal- vation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of cour- age: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hell-ridden evangelical sects : it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo ! a woman ! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the 248 Major Barbara Act II Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs {he plays a thundering flourish on the drum'). UnD'Ehshaft. You will alarm the shelter. CusiNS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you — (he pockets the drumsticksj unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway ). Undershaft. Thank you. CusiNS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? Undershaft. No. CusiNS (declaiming). One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother ; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven ; And they win their will ; or they miss their will ; And their hopes are dead or are pined for stiU ; But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? Undershaft. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CusiNs. You are damnably discouraging. (He re- sumes his declamation.) Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God — whate'er it be — The Law that abides and changes not, ages long. The Eternal and Nature-born : these things be strong? Act II Major Barbara 249 What else is Wisdom ? What of Man's endeavor. Or God's high grace so lovely and so great ? To stand from fear set free ? to breathe and wait ? To hold a hand upUfted over Fate ? And shaJl not Barbara be loved for ever ? Undershapt. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CusiNs. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. Undehshaft. May I ask — ^as Barbara's father — how- much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CusiNs. As Barbara's father, that is more your ajffair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. Undehshaft. Do you consider it a good match for her? CusiNs {with polite obstinacy). Mr. Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I dont like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I dont know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled. — Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discuss- ing what is inevitable? Undehshaft. You mean that you will stick at noth- ing: not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. , CusiNS. The business of the Salvation Army is to j save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. ; Dionysos or another: what does it matter? Undehshaft {rising and approaching him). Pro- fessor Cusins: you are a young man after my own heart. Cusins. Mr. Undershaft: you are, as far as I am 250 Major Barbara Act II able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. Undershaft {suddenly concentrating himself). And now to business. CusiNs. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? Undershapt. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CusiNS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? Undershaft. Yes, with a father's love. CusiNS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. Undershaft. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CusiNS. That doesnt matter. The power Barbara wields here — the power that wields Barbara herself — is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism — Undershaft. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CusiNS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. Undershaft (tnM7repAo«