63^3 
 
'niversity Library 
 
 PR 5363.A25 1914 
 Misalliance, The dark lady of the Sonnet 
 
 3 1924 012 967 034 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A. 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< 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/cu31924012967034 
 
MISALLIANCE 
 
 THE DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS 
 
 FANNY'S FIRST PLAY 
 
Works of Bernard Shaw 
 
 Dramatic Opinions and Essays. 2 vols Net, $2.50 
 
 Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant. 2 vols Net, $2.50 
 
 John Bull's Other Island and Major Barbara . . Net, $1.50 
 
 Man and Superman Net, $1.25 
 
 Three Plays for Puritans Na, $1.25 
 
 The Doctor 's Dilemma, Getting Married, and The 
 
 Shewing-TJp of Blanco Posnet Net, $1.50 
 
 The Quintessence of Ibsenism Net, $1.00 
 
 Cashel Byron's Profession $1.25 
 
 An Unsocial Socialist $1.25 
 
 The Irrational Knot $1.60 
 
 The Author's Apology Nei, .60 
 
 The Perfect Wagnerite $1.26 
 
 Love Among the Artists $1.50 
 
 The Admirable Bashville : A Play Net, .60 
 
 Postage or Express, Extra. 
 
 BRENTANO'S 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE AND 27th STREET. NEW YORK 
 
MISALLIANCE, THE DARK 
 LADY OF THE SONNETS, AND 
 FANNY'S FIRST PLAY • WITH 
 A TREATISE ON PARENTS AND 
 CHILDREN • BY BERNARD 
 SHAW 
 
 BRENTANO'S • NEW YORK 
 MCMXIV 
 
has 
 
 €,■'■ ■ 
 
 Copyright, 19U, by G. Bernard Shaw 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Misalliance 
 
 PAQE 
 
 Parents and Children ix 
 
 Trailing Clouds of Glory ... . ix 
 
 The Child is Father to the Man . . xi 
 
 What is a Child? xiv 
 
 The Sin of Nadab and Abihu . . . xvi 
 
 The Manufacture of Monsters . . . xviii 
 
 Small and Large Families xix 
 
 Children as Nuisances xx 
 
 Child Fanciers xxiv 
 
 Childhood as a State of Sin .... xxvi 
 
 School xxvii 
 
 My Scholastic Acquirements .... xxxi 
 
 Schoolmasters of Genius xxxii 
 
 What We Do Not Teach, and Why . xxxv 
 
 Taboo in Schools xxxvii 
 
 Alleged Novelties in Modern Schools xxxix 
 
 What is to be Done? . .... xli 
 
 Children's Rights and Duties . . . xlii 
 
 Should Children Earn their Living? xliii 
 
 Children's Happiness xliv 
 
 The Horror of the Perpetual Holiday xlv 
 
 University Schoolboyishness . . . xlvil 
 
 The New Laziness xlviii 
 
 The Infinite School Task xlix 
 
 The Rewards and Risks of Knowledge li 
 English Physical Hardihood and 
 
 Spiritual Cowardice liii 
 
 The Risks of Ignorance and Weakness liv 
 v 
 
vi Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Common Sense of Toleration . Iv 
 
 The Sin of Athanasius Ivii 
 
 The Experiment Experimenting . . Ix 
 
 Why We Loathe Learning and Love 
 
 Sport Ixii 
 
 Antichrist Ixiv 
 
 Under the Whip Ixv 
 
 Technical Instruction Ixix 
 
 Docility and Dependence Ixx 
 
 The Abuse of Docility Ixxii 
 
 The Schoolboy and the Homeboy . Ixxiv 
 The Comings of Age of Children . . Ixxvi 
 
 The Conflict of Wills Ixxvii 
 
 The Demagogue's Opportimity . . Ixxix 
 
 Our Quarrelsomeness Ixxx 
 
 We Must Reform Society before we 
 
 can Reform Ourselves Ixxxi 
 
 The Pursuit of Manners Ixxxiii 
 
 Not too much Wind on the Heath, 
 
 Brother Ixxxiv 
 
 Wanted: a Child's Magna Charta . Ixxxvi 
 
 The Pursuit of Learning Ixxxvi 
 
 Children and Game: a Proposal . Ixxxviii 
 The Parents' Intolerable Burden . Ixxxix 
 
 Mobilization xci 
 
 Children's Rights and Parents' 
 
 Wrongs xciii 
 
 How Little We Ejiow About Our 
 
 Parents xcv 
 
 Our Abandoned Mothers xcvi 
 
 Family Affection xcvii 
 
 The Fate of the Family ci 
 
 Family Mourning ciii 
 
 Art Teaching civ 
 
 The Impossibility of Secular Educa- 
 tion cix 
 
Contents vii 
 
 PAQB PAGB 
 
 Natural Selection as a Religion . . cxi 
 
 Moral Instruction Leagues .... cxii 
 
 The Bible cxv 
 
 Artist Idolatry exvii 
 
 "The Machine" cxix 
 
 The Provocation to Anarchism . . exx 
 
 Imagination cxxii 
 
 Government by BuUies cxxiv 
 
 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets .... 109 
 
 Preface .... 109 
 
 How the Play came to be Written . 109 
 
 Thomas Tyler 110 
 
 Frank Harris 113 
 
 Harris "durch Mitleid wissend" . . 115 
 "Sidney's Sister: Pembroke's 
 
 Mother" 117 
 
 Shakespear's Social Standing . . . 118 
 
 This Side Idolatry 120 
 
 Shakespear's Pessimism 122 
 
 Gaiety of Genius 123 
 
 Jupiter and Semele 126 
 
 The Idol of the Bardolaters .... 129 
 Shakespear's alleged Sycophancy and 
 
 Perversion 132 
 
 Shakespear and Democracy .... 134 
 
 Shakespear and the British Public . 137 
 
 Fanny's First Play 159 
 
 Preface 159 
 
X* 
 
 PARENTS AND CHILDREN 
 
 Trailing Clouds of Glory 
 
 Childhood is a stage in the process of that continual re- 
 manufacture of the Life Stuff by which the human race is 
 perpetuated. The Life Force either will not or cannot 
 achieve immortality except in very low organisms: in- 
 deed it is by no means ascertained that even the amoeba 
 is immortal. Human beings visibly wear out, though 
 they last longer than their friends the dogs. Turtles, 
 parrots, and elephants are believed to be capable of out- 
 living the memory of the oldest human inhabitant. But 
 the fact that new ones are born conclusively proves that 
 they are not immortal. Do away with death and you do 
 away with the need for birth: in fact if you went on 
 breeding, you would finally have to kill old people to make 
 room for young ones. 
 
 Now death is not necessarily a failure of energy on the 
 part of the Life Force. People with no imagination try to 
 make things which will last for ever, and even want to 
 live for ever themselves. But the intelligently imagina- 
 tive man knows very well that it is waste of labor to make 
 a machine that will last ten years, because it will probably 
 be superseded in half that time by an improved machine 
 answering the same purpose. He also knows that if some 
 devil were to convince us that our dream of personal im- 
 mortality is no dream but a hard fact, such a shriek of 
 despair would go up from the human race as no other 
 conceivable horror could provoke. With all our perverse 
 nonsense as to John Smith living for a thousand million 
 eons and for ever after, we die voluntarily, knowing that 
 
X Parents and Children 
 
 it is time for us to be scrapped, to be remanufactured, to 
 come back, as Wordsworth divined, trailing ever bright- 
 ening clouds of glory. We must all be born again, and 
 yet again and again. We should like to live a little longer 
 just as we should like £50: that is, we should take it if 
 we could get it for nothing; but that sort of idle liking is 
 not will. It is amazing — considering the way we talk 
 how little a man will do to get £50: all the £50 notes I 
 have ever known of have been more easily earned than a 
 laborious sixpence; but the diflSculty of inducing a man 
 to make any serious effort to obtain £50 is nothing to the 
 difficulty of inducing him to make a serious effort to 
 keep alive. The moment he sees death approach, he gets 
 into bed and sends for a doctor. He knows very well at 
 the back of his conscience that he is rather a poor job 
 and had better be remanufactured. He knows that his 
 death will make room for a birth; and he hopes that it 
 will be a birth of something that he aspired to be and fell 
 short of. He knows that it is through death and rebirth 
 that this corruptible shall become incorruptible, and this 
 mortal put on immortality. Practise as you will on his 
 ignorance, his fears, and his imagination, with bribes of 
 paradises and threats of hells, there is only one belief 
 that can rob death of its sting and the grave of its victory; 
 and that is the belief that we can lay down the burden 
 of our wretched Uttle makeshift individualities for ever 
 at each lift towards the goal of evolution, which can only 
 be a being that cannot be improved upon. After all, 
 what man is capable of the insane self-conceit of believing 
 that an eternity of himself would be tolerable even to him- 
 self? Those who try to believe it postulate that they shall 
 be made perfect first. But if you make me perfect I 
 shall no longer be myself, nor will it be possible for me to 
 conceive my present imperfections (and what I cannot 
 conceive I cannot remember); so that you may just as 
 well give me a new name and face the fact that I am a 
 
Parents and Children xi 
 
 new person and that the old Bernard Shaw is as dead as 
 mutton. Thus, oddly enough, the conventional belief in 
 the matter comes to this : that if you wish to live for ever 
 you must be wicked enough to be irretrievably damned, 
 since the saved are no longer what they were, and in heU 
 alone do people retain their sinful nature: that is to say, 
 their individuality. And this sort of hell, however con- 
 venient as a means of intimidating persons who have prac- 
 tically no honor and no conscience, is not a fact. Death 
 is for many of us the gate of hell; but we are inside on 
 the way out, not outside on the way in. Therefore let 
 us give up telling one another idle stories, and rejoice in 
 death as we rejoice in birth; for without death we cannot 
 be born again; and the man who does not wish to be born 
 again and born better is fit only to represent the City of 
 London in Parliament, or perhaps the university of Oxford. 
 
 The Child is Father to the Man 
 
 Is he? Then in the name of common sense why do we 
 always treat children on the assumption that the man is 
 father to the child? Oh, these fathers! And we are not 
 content with fathers: we must have godfathers, forgetting 
 that the child is godfather to the man. Has it ever 
 struck you as curious that in a country where the first 
 article of belief is that every child is born with a godfather 
 whom we all call "our father which art in heaven," two 
 very limited individual mortals should be allowed to ap- 
 pear at its baptism and explain that they are its godpar- 
 ents, and that they will look after its salvation until it 
 is no longer a child. I had a godmother who made herself 
 responsible in this way for me. She presented me with a 
 Bible with a gilt clasp and edges, larger than the Bibles 
 similarly presented to my sisters, because my sex entitled 
 me to a heavier article. I must have seen that lady at 
 least four times in the twenty years following. She never 
 
xii Parents and Children 
 
 alluded to my salvation in any way. People occasionally 
 ask me to act as godfather to their children with a levity 
 which convinces me that they have not the faintest notion 
 . that it involves anything more than calling the helpless 
 : child George Bernard without regard to the possibility that 
 ; it may grow up in the liveliest abhorrence of my notions. 
 A person with a turn for logic might argue that if God 
 is the Father of all men, and if the child is father to the 
 man, it follows that the true representative of God at the 
 christening is the child itself. But such posers are un- 
 popular, because they imply that our little customs, or, 
 as we often call them, our religion, mean something, or 
 must originally have meant something, and that we under- 
 stand and believe that something. 
 
 However, my business is not to make confusion worse 
 confounded, but to clear it up. Only, it is as well to begin 
 by a sample of current thought and practice which shews 
 that on the subject of children we are very deeply con- 
 fused. SOa the whole, whatever our theory or no theory 
 may be, our practice is to treat the child as the property 
 of its immediate physical parents, and to allow them to 
 do what they like with it as far as it wiU let them. It 
 has no rights and no liberties: in short, its condition is 
 that which adults recognize as the most miserable and 
 dangerous politically possible for themselves: namely, the 
 condition of slavery. For its alleviation we trust to the 
 natural affection of the parties, and to public opinio^ 
 A father cannot for his own credit let his son go in rags. 
 Also, in a very large section of the population, parents . 
 finally become dependent on their children. Thus there 
 are checks on child slavery which do not exist, or are less 
 powerful, in the case of manual and industrial slavery. 
 Sensationally bad cases fall into two classes, which are 
 really the same class: namely, the children whose parents 
 are excessively addicted to the sensual luxury of petting 
 children, and the children whose parents are excessively 
 
Parents and Children xiii 
 
 addicted to the sensual luxury of physically torturing 
 them. There is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty 
 to Children which has eflfectually made an end of our be- 
 lief that mothers are any more to be trusted than step- 
 mothers, or fathers than slave-drivers. And there is a 
 growing body of law designed to prevent parents from 
 using their children ruthlessly to make money for the 
 household. Such legislation has always been furiously 
 resisted by the parents, even when the horrors of factory 
 slavery were at their worst; and the extension of such 
 legislation at present would be impossible if it were not 
 that the parents affected by it cannot control a majority 
 of votes in Parliament. In domestic life a great deal of 
 service is done by children, the girls acting as nursemaids 
 and general servants, and the lads as errand boys. In 
 the country both boys and girls do a substantial share of 
 farm labor. This is why it is necessary to coerce poor 
 parents to send their children to school, though in the 
 relatively small class which keeps plenty of servants it is 
 impossible to induce parents to keep their children at 
 home instead of paying schoolmasters to take them off 
 their hands. 
 
 It appears then that the bond of affection between 
 parents and children does not save children from the slav- 
 ery that denial of rights involves in adult political rela- 
 tions. It sometimes intensifies it, sometimes mitigates 
 it; but on the whole children and parents confront one 
 another as two classes in which all the political power is 
 on one side; and the results are not at all unlike what 
 they would be if there were no immediate consanguinity 
 between them, and one were white and the other black, 
 or one enfranchised and the other disenfranchised, or one 
 ranked as gentle and the other simple. Not that Nature 
 counts for nothing in the case and political rights for every- 
 thing. But a denial of political rights, and the resultant 
 delivery of one class into the mastery of another, affects 
 
xiv Parents and Children 
 
 their relations so extensively and profoundly that it is 
 impossible to ascertain what the real natural relations of 
 the two classes are until this political relation is abolished. 
 
 What is a Child? 
 
 An experiment. A fresh attempt to produce the just 
 man made perfect: that is, to make humanity divine. 
 And you will vitiate the experiment if you make the slight- 
 est attempt to abort it into some fancy figure of your own: 
 for example, your notion of a good man or a womanly 
 woman. If yop treat it as a little wild beast to be tamed, 
 or as a pet to be played with, or even as a means to save 
 you trouble and to make money for you (and these are 
 our commonest ways), it may fight its way through in 
 spite of you and save its soul alive; for all its instincts will 
 resist you, and possibly be strengthened in the resistance; 
 but if you begin with its own holiest aspirations, and suborn 
 them for your own purposes, then there is hardly any limit 
 to the mischief you may do. Swear at a child, throw your 
 boots at it, send it flying from the room with a cuff or a 
 kick; and the experience will be as instructive to the child 
 as a diflSculty with a short-tempered dog or a buU. Francis 
 Place tells us that his father always struck his children 
 when he found one within his reach. . The effect on the 
 young Places seems to have been simply to make them 
 keep out of their father's way, which was no doubt what 
 he desired, as far as he desired anything at all. Francis 
 records the habit without bitterness, having reason to 
 thank his stars that his father respected the inside of his 
 head whilst cuffing the outside of it; and this made it 
 easy for Francis to do yeoman's service to his country as 
 that rare and admirable thing, a Freethinker: the only 
 sort of thinker, I may remark, whose thoughts, and con- 
 sequently whose religious convictions, command any 
 respect. 
 
Parents and Children xv 
 
 Now Mr Place, senior, would be described by many as 
 a bad father; and I do not contend that he was a con- 
 spicuously good one. But as compared with the conven- 
 tional good father who deliberately imposes himself on 
 his son as a god; who takes advantage of childish credulity 
 and parent worship to persuade his son that what he ap- 
 proves of is right and what he disapproves of is wrong; 
 who imposes a corresponding conduct on the child by a 
 system of prohibitions and penalties, rewards and eulogies, 
 for which he claims divine sanction : compared to this sort 
 of abortionist and monster maker, I say. Place appears 
 almost as a Providence. Not that it is possible to live 
 with children any more than with grown-up people with- 
 out imjJosing rules of conduct on them. There is a point 
 at which every person with human nerves has to say to a 
 child "Stop that noise." But suppose the child asks why! 
 There are various answers in use. The simplest: "Because 
 it irritates me," may fail; for it may strike the child as 
 being rather amusing to irritate you; also the child, hav- 
 ing comparatively no nerves, may be unable to conceive 
 your meaning vividly enough. In any case it may want 
 to make a noise more than to spare your feelings. You 
 may therefore have to explain that the effect of the irri- 
 tation will be that you will do something unpleasant if 
 the noise continues. The something unpleasant may be 
 only a look of suffering to rouse the child's affectionate 
 sympathy (if it has any), or it may run to forcible expul- 
 sion from the room with plenty of unnecessary violence; 
 but the principle is the same: there are no false pretences 
 involved: the child learns in a straightforward way that 
 it does not pay to be inconsiderate. Also, perhaps, that 
 Mamma, who made the child learn the Sermon on the 
 Mount, is not really a Christian. 
 
xvi Parents and Children 
 
 The Sin of Nadab and Abihu 
 
 But there is another sort of answer in wide use which 
 is neither straightforward, instructive, nor harmless. In 
 its simplest form it substitutes for "Stop that noise," 
 "Dont be naughty," which means that the child, instead 
 of annoying you by a perfectly healthy and natural in- 
 fantile procedure, is offending God. This is a blasphemous 
 lie; and the fact that it is on the lips of every nurserymaid 
 does not excuse it in the least. Dickens tells us of a nurs- 
 erymaid who elaborated it into "If you do that, angels 
 wont never love you." I remember a servant who used 
 to tell me that if I were not good, by which she meant if 
 I did not behave with a single eye to her personal conven- 
 ience, the cock would come down the chimney. Less 
 imaginative but equally dishonest people told me I should 
 go to hell if I did not make myself agreeable to them. 
 Bodily violence, provided it be the hasty expression of 
 normal provoked resentment and not vicious cruelty, 
 cannot harm a child as this sort of pious fraud harms it. 
 There is a legal limit to/ physical cruelty; and there are 
 also human limits to it. There is an active Society which 
 brings to book a good many parents who starve and tor- 
 ture and overwork their children, and intimidates a good 
 many more. When parents of this type are caught, they 
 are treated as criminals; and not infrequently the police 
 have some trouble to save them from being lynched. 
 The people against whom children are wholly unprotected 
 are those who devote themselves to the very mischievous 
 and cruel sort of abortion which is called bringing up a 
 child in the way it should go. Now nobody knows the 
 way a child should go. All the ways discovered so far 
 lead to the horrors of our existing civilizations, described 
 quite justifiably by Ruskin as heaps of agonizing human 
 maggots, struggling with one another for scraps of food. 
 Pious fraud is an attempt to pervert that precious and 
 
Parents and Children xvii 
 
 sacred thing the child's conscience into an instrument of 
 our own convenience, and to use that wonderful and ter- 
 rible power called Shame to grind our own axe. It is the 
 sin of stealing fire from the altar: a sin so impudently 
 practised by popes, parents, and pedagogues, that one can 
 hardly expect the nurserymaids to see any harm in steal- 
 ing a few cinders when they are worrited. 
 
 Into the blackest depths of this violation of children's 
 souls one can hardly bear to look; for here we find pious 
 fraud masking the violation of the body by obscene cruelty. 
 Any parent or school teacher who takes a secret and abom- 
 inable delight in torture is allowed to lay traps into which 
 every child must fall, and then beat it to his or her heart's 
 content. \^ gentleman once wrote to me and said, with 
 an obvious conviction that he was being most reasonable 
 and high minded, that the only thing he beat his children 
 for was failure in perfect obedience and perfect truthful- 
 ness. On these attributes, he said, he must insist. As 
 one of them is not a virtue at all, and the other is the attri- 
 bute of a god, one can imagine what the lives of this gen- 
 tleman's children would have been if it had been possible 
 for him to live down to his monstrous and foolish preten- 
 sions?] And yet he might have written his letter to The 
 Times (he very nearly did, by the way) without incurring 
 any danger of being removed to an asylum, or even losing 
 his reputation for taking a very proper view of his parental 
 duties. And at least it was not a trivial view, nor an ill 
 meant one. It was much more respectable than the gen- 
 eral consensus of opinion that if a school teacher can de- 
 vise a question a child cannot answer, or overhear it 
 calling omega omeega, he or she may beat the child vi- 
 ciously. Only, the cruelty must be whitewashed by a 
 moral excuse, and a pretence of reluctance. It must be 
 for the child's good. The assailant must say "This hurts 
 me more than it hurts you." There must be hypocrisy 
 as well as cruelty. The injury to the child would be far 
 
xviii Parents and Children 
 
 less if the voluptuary said frankly "I beat you because I 
 like beating you; and I shall do it whenever I can contrive 
 an excuse for it." But to represent this detestable lust 
 to the child as Divine wrath, and the cruelty as the benef- 
 icent act of God, which is exactly what all our floggers 
 do, is to add to the torture of the body, out of which the 
 flogger at least gets some pleasure, the maiming and 
 blinding of the child's soul, which can bring nothing but 
 horror to anyone. 
 
 The Manufacture of Monsters 
 
 This industry is by no means peculiar to China. The 
 Chinese (they say) make physical monsters. We revile 
 them for it and proceed to make moral monsters of our 
 own children. ^The most excusable parents are those who 
 try to correct their own faults in their offspring. The 
 parent who says to his child: "I am one of the successes 
 of the Almighty: therefore imitate me in every particular 
 or I will have the skin off your back" (a quite common 
 attitude) is a much more absurd figure than the man who, 
 with a pipe in his mouth, thrashes his boy for smokin» 
 If you must hold yourself up to your children as an object 
 lesson (which is not at all necessary), hold yourself up as 
 a warning and not as an example. But you had much 
 better let the child's character alone. If you once allow 
 yourself to regard a child as so much material for you to 
 manufacture into any shape that happens to suit your 
 fancy you are defeating the experiment of the Life Force. 
 You are assuming that the child does not know its own 
 business, and that you do. In this you are sure to be 
 wrong : the child feels the drive of the Life Force (often 
 called the Will of God); and you cannot feel it for him. 
 Handel's parents no doubt thought they knew better than 
 their child when they tried to prevent his becoming a mu- 
 sician. They would have been equally wrong and equally 
 
Parents and Children xix 
 
 unsuccessful if they had tried to prevent the child becom- 
 ing a great rascal had its genius lain in that direction. 
 Handel would have been Handel, and Napoleon and Peter 
 of Russia themselves in spite of all the parents in creation, 
 because, as often happens, they were stronger than their 
 parents. But this does not happen always. Most chil- 
 dren can be, and many are, hopelessly warped and wasted 
 by parents who are ignorant and silly enough to suppose 
 that they know what a human being ought to be, and who 
 stick at nothing in their determination to force their chil- 
 dren into their moulds. Every child has a right to its 
 own bent. It has a right to be a Plymouth Brother 
 though its parents be convinced atheists. It has a right 
 to dislike its mother or father or sister or brother or 
 uncle or aunt if they are antipathetic to it. It has a 
 right to find "its own way and go its own way, wheth^ 
 that way seems wise or foolish to others, exactly as an 
 adult has. It has a right to privacy as to its own doings 
 and its own affairs as much as if it were its own father. , 
 
 Small and Large Families 
 
 These rights have now become more important than 
 they used to be, because the modern practice of limiting 
 families enables them to be more effectually violated. In 
 a family of ten, eight, six, or even four children, the rights 
 of the younger ones to a great extent take care of them- 
 selves and of the rights of the elder ones too. Two adult 
 parents, in spite of a house to keep and an income to earn, 
 can still interfere to a disastrous extent with the rights and 
 liberties of one child. But by the time a fourth child has 
 arrived, they are not only outnumbered two to one, but 
 are getting tired of the thankless and mischievous job of 
 bringing up their children in the way they think they 
 should go. The old observation that members of large 
 families get on in the world holds good because in large 
 
XX Parents and Children 
 
 families it is impossible for each child to receive what 
 schoolmasters call "individual attention." The children 
 may receive a good deal of individual attention from one 
 another in the shape of outspoken reproach, ruthless rid- 
 icule, and violent resistance to their attempts at aggres- 
 sion; but the parental despots are compelled by the mul- 
 titude of their subjects to resort to political rather than 
 personal rule, and to spread their attempts at moral 
 monster-making over so many children, that each child 
 has enough freedom, and enough sport in the prophylactic 
 process of laughing at its elders behind their backs, to 
 escape with much less damage than the single child. In 
 a large school the system may be bad; but the personal 
 influence of the head master has to be exerted, when it is 
 exerted at all, in a public way, because he has little more 
 power of working on the affections of the individual scholar 
 in the intimate way that, for example, the mother of a 
 single child can, than the prime minister has of working 
 on the affections of any individual voter. 
 
 Children as Nuisances 
 
 Experienced parents, when children's rights are preached 
 to them, very naturally ask whether children are to be al- 
 lowed to do what they like. The best reply is to ask 
 whether adults are to be allowed to do what they like. 
 The two cases are the same. The adult who is nasty is 
 not allowed to do what he likes: neither can the child 
 who likes to be nasty. There is no difference in principle 
 between the rights of a child and those of an adult: the 
 difference in their cases is one of circumstance. An adult 
 is not supposed to be punished except by process of law; 
 nor, when he is so punished, is the person whom he has 
 injured allowed to act as judge, jury, and executioner. 
 It is true that employers do act in this way every day to 
 their workpeople; but this is not a justified and intended 
 
Parents and Children xxi 
 
 part of the situation: it is an abuse of Capitalism which 
 nobody defends in principle. As between child and parent 
 or nurse it is not argued about because it is inevitable. 
 You cannot hold an impartial judicial inquiry every time 
 a child misbehaves itself. To allow the child to misbe- 
 have without instantly making it unpleasantly conscious 
 of the fact would be to spoil it. The adult has therefore 
 to take action of some sort with nothing but his conscience 
 to shield the child from injustice or unkindness. The ac- 
 tion may be a torrent of scolding culminating in a furious 
 smack causing terror and pain, or it may be a remon- 
 strance causing remorse, or it may be a sarcasm causing 
 shame and humiliation, or it may be a sermon causing the 
 child to believe that it is a little reprobate on the road to 
 hell. The child has no defence in any case except the 
 kindness and conscience of the adult; and the adult had 
 better not forget this; for it involves a heavy responsibility. 
 
 And now comes our diflBculty. The responsibility, be- 
 ing so heavy, cannot be discharged by persons of feeble 
 character or intelligence. And yet people of high character 
 and intelligence cannot be plagued with the care of chil- 
 dren. A child is a restless, noisy little animal, with an 
 insatiable appetite for knowledge, and consequently a 
 maddening persistence in asking questions. If the child 
 is to remain in the room with a highly intelligent and sen- 
 sitive adult, it must be told, and if necessary forced, to 
 sit still and not speak, which is injurious to its health, un- 
 natural, unjust, and therefore cruel and selfish beyond 
 toleration. Consequently the highly intelligent and sen- 
 sitive adult hands the child over to a nurserymaid who 
 has no nerves and can therefore stand more noise, but 
 who has also no scruples, and may therefore be very bad 
 company for the child. 
 
 Here we have come to the central fact of the question: 
 a fact nobody avows, which is yet the true explanation of 
 the monstrous system of child imprisonment and torture 
 
xxii Parents and Children 
 
 which we disguise under such hypocrisies as education, 
 training, formation of character and the rest of it. This 
 fact is simply that a child is a nuisance to a grown-up 
 person. What is more, the nuisance becomes more and 
 more intolerable as the grown-up person becomes more 
 cultivated, more sensitive, and more deeply engaged in 
 the highest methods of adult work. The child at play is 
 noisy and ought to be noisy: Sir Isaac Newton at work is 
 quiet and ought to be quiet. And the child should spend 
 most of its time at play, whilst the adult should spend 
 most of his time at work. I am not now writing on behalf 
 of persons who coddle themselves into a ridiculous con- 
 dition of nervous feebleness, and at last imagine themselves 
 unable to work under conditions of bustle which to healthy 
 people are cheerful and stimulating. I am sure that if 
 people had to choose between living where the noise of 
 children never stopped and where it was never heard, all 
 the goodnatured and sound people would prefer the in- 
 cessant noise to the incessant silence. But that choice is 
 not thrust upon us by the nature of things. There is no 
 reason why children and adults should not see just as 
 much of one another as is good for them, no more and no 
 less. Even at present you are not compelled to choose 
 between sending your child to a boarding school (which 
 means getting rid of it altogether on more or less hypo- 
 critical pretences) and keeping it continually at home. 
 Most working folk today either send their children to 
 day schools or turn them out of doors. This solves the 
 problem for the parents. It does not solve it for the chil- 
 dren, any more than the tethering of a goat in a field or 
 the chasing of an unlicensed dog into the streets solves it 
 for the goat or the dog; but it shews that in no class are 
 people willing to endure the society of their children, and 
 consequently that it is an error to believe that the family 
 provides children with edifying adult society, or that the 
 family is a social unit. The family is in that, as in so many 
 
Parents and Children xxiii 
 
 other respects, a humbug. Coid people and young people 
 cannot walk at the same pace without distress and' final 
 loss of health to one of the parties. When they are sitting 
 indoors they cannot endure the same degrees of tempera- 
 ture and the same supplies of fresh air. Even if the main 
 factors of noise, restlessness, and inquisitiveness are left 
 out of account, children can stand with indifference sights, 
 sounds, smells, and disorders that would make an adult 
 of fifty utterly miserable; whilst on the other hand such 
 adults find a tranquil happiness in conditions which to 
 children mean unspeakable boredom. And since our 
 system is nevertheless to pack them all into the same house 
 and pretend that they are happy, and that this particular 
 sort of happiness is the foundation of virtue, it is found 
 that in discussing family life we never speak of actual 
 adults or actual children, or of realities of any sort, but 
 always of ideals such as The Home, a Mother's Influence, 
 a Father's Care, Filial Piety, Duty, Affection, Family Life, 
 etc. etc., which are no doubt very comforting phrases, 
 but which beg the question of what a home and a mother's 
 influence and a father's care and so forth really come to 
 in practice7\ How many hours a week of the time when 
 his children are out of bed does the ordinary bread-win- 
 ning father spend in the company of his children or even 
 in the same building with them? The home may be a 
 thieves' kitchen, the mother a procuress, the father a 
 violent drunkard; or the mother and father may be fash- 
 ionable people who see their children three or four times 
 a year during the holidays, and then not oftener than they 
 can help, living meanwhile in daily and intimate contact 
 with their valets and lady's-maids, whose influence and 
 care are often dominant in the household. Affection, as 
 distinguished from simple kindliness, may or may not 
 exist: when it does it either depends on qualities in the 
 parties' that would produce it equally if they were of no 
 kin to one another, or it is a more or less morbid survival 
 
xxiv Parents and Children 
 
 of the nursing passion; for aflPection between adults (if 
 they are really adult in mind and not merely grown-up 
 children) and creatures so relatively selfish and cruel as 
 children necessarily are without knowing it or meaning 
 it, cannot be called natural: in fact the evidence shews 
 that it is easier to love the company of a dog than of a 
 commonplace child between the ages of six and the be- 
 ginnings of controlled maturity; for women who cannot 
 bear to be separated from their pet dogs send their chil-- 
 dren to boarding schools cheerfully. They may say and 
 even believe that in allowing their children to leave home 
 they are sacrificing themselves for their children's good; 
 but there are very few pet dogs who would not be the 
 better for a month or two spent elsewhere than in a lady's 
 lap or roasting on a drawingroom hearthrug. Besides, 
 to allege that children are better continually away from 
 home is to give up the whole popular sentimental theory 
 of the family; yet the dogs are kept and the children are 
 banished. 
 
 Child Fanciers 
 
 There is, however, a good deal of spurious family affec- 
 tion. There is the clannishness that will make a dozen 
 brothers and sisters who quarrel furiously among them,- 
 selves close up their ranks and make common cause against 
 a brother-in-law or a sister-in-law. And there is a strong 
 sense of property in children, which often makes mothers 
 and fathers bitterly jealous of allowing anyone else to . 
 interfere with their children, whom they may none the 
 less treat very badly. JAnd there is an extremely danger- 
 ous craze for children which leads certain people to es- 
 tablish orphanages and baby farms and schools, seizing 
 any pretext for filling their houses with children exactly 
 as some eccentric old ladies and gentlemen fill theirs with 
 cats. In such places the children are the victims of all 
 the caprices of doting affection and all the excesses of 
 
Parents and Cliildren xxv 
 
 lascivious crueltyTJ Yet the people wto have this morbid 
 craze seldom have any difficulty in finding victims. Par- 
 ents and guardians are so worried by children and so 
 anxious to get rid of them that anyone who is willing to 
 take them off their hands is welcomed and whitewashed. 
 The very people who read with indignation of Squeers and 
 Creakle in the novels of Dickens are quite ready to hand 
 over their own children to Squeers and Creakle, and to 
 pretend that Squeers and Creakle are monsters of the 
 past. But read the autobiography of Stanley the traveller, 
 or sit in the company of men talking about their school- 
 days, and you will soon find that fiction, which must, if it 
 is to be sold and read, stop short of being positively sick- 
 ening, dare not tell the whole truth about the people to 
 whom children are handed over on educational pretexts. 
 Not very long ago a schoolmaster in Ireland was murdered 
 by his boys; and for reasons which were never made public 
 it was at first decided not to prosecute the murderers. 
 Yet all these flogging schoolmasters and orphanage fiends 
 and baby farmers are "lovers of children." They are 
 really child fanciers (like bird fanciers or dog fanciers) by 
 irresistible natural predilection, never happy unless they 
 are surrounded by their victims, and always certain to 
 make their living by accepting the custody of children, 
 no matter how many alternative occupations may be 
 available. And bear in mind that they are only the ex- 
 treme instances of what is commonly called natural affec- 
 tion, apparently because it is obviously unnatural. 
 
 The really natural feeling of adults for children in the 
 long prosaic intervals between the moments of affection- 
 ate impulse is just that feeling that leads them to avoid 
 their care and constant company as a burden beyond bear- 
 ing, and to pretend that the places they send them to are 
 well conducted, beneficial, and indispensable to the suc- 
 cess of the children in after life. The true cry of the kind 
 mother after her little rosary of kisses is "Run away. 
 
xxvi Parents and Children 
 
 darling." It is nicer than "Hold your noise, you young 
 devil; or it will be the worse for you"; but fundamentally 
 it means the same thing: that if you compel an adult and 
 a child to live in one another's company either the adult 
 or the child will be miserable. There is nothing wha*ever 
 unnatural or wrong or shocking in this fact; and there is 
 no harm in it if only it be sensibly faced and provided for. 
 The mischief that it does at present is produced by our 
 efforts to ignore it, or to smother it under a heap of sen- 
 timental lies and false pretences. 
 
 Childhood as a State of Sin 
 
 Unfortunately all this nonsense tends to accumulate as 
 we become more sympathetic. In many families it is 
 still the custom to treat childhood frankly as a state of 
 sin, and impudently proclaim the monstrous principle 
 that little children should be seen and not heard, and to 
 enforce a set of prison rules designed solely to make co- 
 habitation with children as convenient as possible for 
 adults without the smallest regard for the interests, either 
 remote or immediate, of the children. This system tends 
 to produce a tough, rather brutal, stupid, unscrupulous 
 class, with a fixed idea that all enjoyment consists in 
 undetected sinning; and in certain phases of civilization 
 people of this kind are apt to get the upper hand of more 
 amiable and conscientious races and classes. They have 
 the ferocity of a chained dog, andare proud of it. But the 
 end of it is that they are always in chains, even at the 
 height of their military or political success: they win 
 everything on condition that they are afraid to enjoy it. 
 Their civilizations rest on intimidation, which is so nec- 
 essary to them that when they cannot find anybody 
 brave enough to intimidate them they intimidate them- 
 selves and live in a continual moral and political panic. 
 In the end they get found out and bullied. But that is 
 
Parents and Children xxvii 
 
 not the point that concerns us here, which is, that they 
 are in some respects better brought up than the children 
 of sentimental people who are always anxious and miser- 
 able about their duty to their children, and who end by 
 neither making their children happy nor having a toler- 
 able life for themselves. A selfish tyrant you know where to 
 have, and he (or she) at least does not confuse your affec- 
 tions; but a conscientious and kindly meddler may liter- 
 ally worry you out of your senses. It is fortunate that 
 only very few parents are capable of doing what they 
 conceive their duty continuously or 6ven at all, and that 
 still fewer are tough enough to ride roughshod over their 
 children at home. 
 
 School 
 
 But please observe the limitation "at home." VWhat 
 private amateur parental enterprise cannot do may be 
 done very effectively by organized professional enter- 
 prise in large institutions established for the purpose. 
 And it is to such professional enterprise that parents 
 hand over their children when they can afford it. They 
 send their children to school; and there is, on the whole, 
 nothing on earth intended for innocent people so hor- 
 rible as a school.^ To begin with, it is a prison. But it is 
 in some respects more cruel than a prison. In a prison, 
 for instance, you are not forced to read books written by 
 the warders and the gov"-».jr (who of course would not 
 be warders and governors if they could write readable 
 books), and beaten or otherwise tomented if you cannot 
 remember their utterly unmemorable contents. In the 
 prison you are not forced to sit listening to turnkeys dis- 
 coursing without charm or interest on subjects that they 
 dont understand and dont care about, and are therefore 
 incapable of making you understand or care about. In 
 a prison they may torture your body; but they do not 
 torture your brains ; and they protect you against violence 
 
xxviii Parents and Children 
 
 and outrage from your fellow prisoners. In a school you 
 have none of these advantages. With the world's book- 
 shelves loaded with fascinating and inspired books, the 
 very manna sent down from Heaven to feed your souls, 
 you are forced to read a hideous imposture called a school 
 book, written by a man who cannot write: a book from 
 which no human being can learn anything: a book which, 
 though you may decipher it, you cannot in any fruitful 
 sense read, though the enforced attempt will make you 
 loathe the sight of a book all the rest of your life, \jyith 
 millions of acres of woods and valleys and hills and wind 
 and air and birds and streams and fishes and all sorts 
 of instructive and healthy things easily accessible, or 
 with streets and shop windows and crowds and vehicles 
 and all sorts of city delights at the door, you are forced 
 to sit, not in a room with some human grace and comfort 
 of furniture and decoration, but in a stalled pound with 
 a lot of other children, beaten if you talk, beaten if you 
 move, beaten if you cannot prove by answering idiotic 
 questions that even when you escaped from the pound 
 and from the eye of your gaoler, you were still agonizing 
 over his detestable sham books instead of daring to livej 
 And your childish hatred of your gaoler and flogger is 
 nothing to his adult hatred of you; for he is a slave forced 
 to endure your society for his daily bread. You have 
 not even the satisfaction of knowing how you are tortur- 
 ing him and how he loathes you; and you give yourself 
 unnecessary pains to annoy him with furtive tricks and 
 spiteful doing of forbidden things. No wonder he is 
 sometimes provoked to fiendish outbursts of wrath. No 
 wonder men of downright sense, like Dr Johnson, admit 
 that under such circumstances children will not learn 
 anything unless they are so cruelly beaten that they 
 make desperate efforts to memorize words and phrases 
 to escape flagellation. It is a ghastly business, quite 
 beyond words, this schooling. 
 
Parents and Children xxix 
 
 And now I hear cries of protest arising all round. First 
 my own schoolmasters, or their ghosts, asking whether I 
 was cruelly beaten at school? No; but then I did not 
 learn anything at school. Dr Johnson's schoolmaster 
 presumably did care enough whether Sam learned any- 
 thing to beat him savagely enough to force him to lame 
 his mind — for Johnson's great mind was lamed — by learn- 
 ing his lessons. None of my schoolmasters really cared 
 a rap (or perhaps it would be fairer to them to say that 
 their employers did not care a rap and therefore did not 
 give them the necessary caning powers) whether I learnt 
 my lessons or not, provided my father paid my schooling 
 bill, the collection of which was the real object of the 
 school. Consequently I did not learn my school lessons, 
 having mmch more important ones in hand, with the re- 
 sult that I have not wasted my life trifling with literary 
 fools in taverns as Johnson did when he should have been 
 shaking .England with the thunder of his spirit. My 
 schooling did me a great deal of harm and no good what- 
 ever: it was simply dragging a child's soul through the 
 dirt; Ijjjt I escaped Squeers and Creakle just as I escaped 
 Johnson and Carlyle. And this is what happens to most 
 of us. We are not effectively coerced to learn: we stave 
 off punishment as far as we can by lying and trickery and 
 guessing and using our wits; and when this does not suflSce 
 we scribble impositions, or suffer extra imprisonments — 
 "keeping in" was the phrase in my time — or let a master 
 strike us with a cane and fall back on our pride at_being 
 able to bear it physically (he not being allowed to hit us 
 too hard) to outface the dishonor we should have been 
 taught to die rather than endure. And so idleness and 
 worthlessness on the one hand and a pretence of coercion 
 on the other became a despicable routine. If my school- 
 masters had been really engaged in educating me instead 
 of painfully earning .their^bread by keeping me from an- 
 noying my elders they would have turned me out of the 
 
XXX Parents and Children 
 
 school, telling me that I was thoroughly disloyal to it; 
 that I had no intention of learning; that I was mocking 
 and distracting the boys who did wish to learn; that I 
 was a liar and a shirker and a seditious little nuisance; 
 and that nothing could injure me in character and degrade 
 their occupation more than allowing me (much less forc- 
 ing me) to remain in the school under such conditions. 
 But in order to get expelled, it was necessary to commit a 
 crime of such atrocity that the parents of other boys, 
 would have threatened to remove their sons sooner than 
 allow them to be schoolfellows with the delinquent. I 
 can remember only one case in which such a penalty was 
 threatened; and in that case the culprit, a boarder, had 
 kissed a housemaid, or possibly, being a handsome 
 youth, been kissed by her. She did not kiss me; and no- 
 body ever dreamt of expelling me. The truth was, a boy 
 meant just so much a year to the institution. That was 
 why he was kept there against his will. That was why 
 he was kept there when his expulsion would have been an 
 unspeakable relief and benefit both to his teachers and 
 himself. 
 
 It may be argued that if the uncommercial attitude had 
 been taken, and all the disloyal wasters and idlers shewn 
 sternly to the door, the school would not have been emp- 
 tied, but filled. But so honest an attitude was impossible. 
 The masters must have hated the school much more than 
 the boys did. Just as you cannot imprison a man with- 
 out imprisoning a warder to see that he does not escape, 
 the warder being tied to the prison as efifectually by the 
 fear of unemployment and starvation as the prisoner is 
 by the bolts and bars, so these poor schoolmasters, with 
 their small . salaries and large classes, were as much 
 prisoners as we were, and much more responsible and 
 anxious ones. They could not impose the heroic attitude 
 on their employers; nor would they have been able to 
 obtain places as schoolmasters if their habits had been 
 
Parents and Children xxxi 
 
 heroic. For the best of them their employment was 
 provisional: they looked forward to escaping from it into 
 the pulpit. The ablest and most impatient of them were 
 often so irritated by the awkward, slow-witted, slovenly 
 boys: that is, the ones that required special consideration 
 and patient treatment, that they vented their irritation 
 on them ruthlessly, nothing being easier than to entrap 
 or bewilder such a boy into giving a pretext for punish- 
 ing him. 
 
 My Scholastic Acquirements 
 
 The results, as far as I was concerned, were what might 
 have been expected. My school made only the thinnest 
 pretence of teaching anything but Latin and Greek. 
 When I went there as a very small boy I knew a good deal 
 of Latin grammar which I had been taught in a few weeks 
 privately by my uncle. When I had been several years 
 at school this same uncle examined me and discovered 
 that the net result of my schooling was that I had forgotten 
 what he had taught me, and had learnt nothing else. To 
 this day, though I can still decline a Latin noun and re- 
 peat some of the old paradigms in the old meaningless 
 way, because their rhythm sticks to me, I have never yet 
 seen a Latin inscription on a tomb that I could translate 
 throughout. Of Greek I can decipher perhaps the greater 
 part of the Greek alphabet. In short, I am, as to classical 
 education, another Shakespear. I can read French as 
 easily as English; and under pressure of necessity I can 
 turn to account some scraps of German and a little oper- 
 atic Italian; but these I was never taught at school. In- 
 stead, I was taught lying, dishonorable submission to 
 tyranny, dirty stories, a blasphemous habit of treating 
 love and maternity as obscene jokes, hopelessness, eva- 
 sion, derision, cowardice, and aU'the blackguard's shifts 
 by which the coward intimidates other cowards. And if 
 
xxxii Parents and Children 
 
 I had been a boarder at an English public school instead 
 of a day boy at an Irish one, I might have had to add to 
 these, deeper shames still. 
 
 Schoolmasters of Genius 
 
 And now, if I have reduced the ghosts of my school- 
 masters to melancholy acquiescence in all this (which 
 everybody who has been at an ordinary school will recog- 
 nize as true), I have still to meet the much more sincere 
 protests of the handful of people who have a natural genius 
 for "bringing up" children. I shall be asked with kindly 
 scorn whether I have heard of Froebel and Pestalozzi, 
 whether I know the work that is being done by Miss 
 Mason and the Dottoressa Montessori or, best of all as I 
 think, the Eurythmics School of Jacques Dalcroze at 
 Hellerau near Dresden. Jacques Dalcroze, like Plato, 
 believes in saturating his pupils with music. They walk 
 to music, play to music, work to music, obey drill com- 
 mands that would bewUder a guardsman to music, think 
 to music, live to music, get so clearheaded about music 
 that they can move their several limbs each in a different 
 metre until they become complicated living magazines 
 of cross rhythms, and, what is more, make music for others 
 to do aU these things to. Stranger still, though Jacques 
 Dalcroze, like all these great teachers, is the completest 
 of tyrants, knowing what is right and that he must and 
 will have the lesson just so or else break his heart (not 
 somebody else's, observe), yet his school is so fascinating 
 that every woman who sees it exclaims "Oh, why was I 
 not taught like this!" and elderly gentlemen excitedly 
 enrol themselves as students and distract classes of infants 
 by their desperate endeavors to beat two in a bar with one 
 hand and three with the other, and start off on earnest 
 walks round the room, taking two steps backward when- 
 ever Monsieur Dalcroze calls out "Hop!" Oh yes: I 
 
Parents and Children xxxiii 
 
 know all about these wonderful schools that you cannot 
 keep children or even adults out of, and these teachers 
 whom their pupils not only obey without coercion, but 
 adore. And if you will tell me roughly how many Masons 
 and Montessoris and Dalcrozes you think you can pick 
 up in Europe for salaries of from thirty shillings to five 
 pounds a week, I will estimate your chances of converting 
 your millions of little scholastic hells into little scholastic 
 heavens. If you are a distressed gentlewoman starting 
 to make a living, you can still open a little school; and 
 you can easily buy a secondhand brass plate inscribed 
 Pestalozzian Institute and nail it to your door, though 
 you have no more idea of who Pestalozzi was and, what 
 he advocated or how he did it than the manager of a 
 hotel which began as a Hydropathic has of the water 
 cure. Or you can buy a cheaper plate inscribed Kindek- 
 GAHTEN, and imagine, or leave others to imagine, that 
 Froebel is the governing genius of your little creche. No 
 doubt the new brass plates are being inscribed Montessori 
 Institute, and wiU be used when the Dotteressa is no longer 
 with us by aU the Mrs Pipchins and Mrs Wilfers thrbugh- 
 out this unhappy land. 
 
 I will go further, and admit that the brass plates may 
 not all be frauds. I will teU you that one of my friends 
 was led to genuine love and considerable knowledge of 
 classical literature by an Irish schoolmaster whom you 
 would call a hedge schoolmaster (he would not be allowed 
 to teach anything now) and that it took four years of 
 Harrow to obliterate that knowledge and change the love 
 into loathing. Another friend of mine who keeps a school 
 in the suburbs, and who deeply deplores iny "prejudice 
 against schoolmasters," has offered to accept my chal- 
 lenge to tell his pupils that they are as free to get up and 
 go out of the school at any moment as their parents are 
 to get up and go out of a theatre where my plays are 
 being performed. Even among my own schoolmasters I 
 
xxxiv Parents and Children 
 
 can recollect a few whose classes interested me, and whom 
 I should certainly have pestered for information and in- 
 struction if I could have got into any decent human re- 
 lationship with them, and if they had not been compelled 
 by their position to defend themselves as carefully against 
 such advances as against furtive attempts to hurt them 
 accidentally in the football field or smash their hats with 
 a clod from behind a wall. But these rare cases actually 
 do more harm than good; for they encourage us to pre- 
 tend that all schoolmasters are like that. Of what use 
 is it to us that there are always somewhere two or three 
 teachers of children whose specific genius for their occu- 
 pation triumphs over our tyrannous system and even finds 
 in it its opportunity.' For that matter, it is possible, if 
 difficult, to find a solicitor, or even a judge, who has some 
 notion of what law means, a doctor with a glimmering of 
 science, an officer who understands duty and discipline, 
 and a clergyman with an inkling of religion, though there 
 are nothing like enough of them to go round. But even 
 the few who, like Ibsen's Mrs Solness, have "a genius for 
 nursing the souls of little children" are like angels forced 
 to work in prisons instead of in heaven; and even at that 
 they are mostly underpaid and despised. That friend 
 of mine who went from the hedge schoolmaster to Har- 
 row once saw a schoolmaster rush from an elementary 
 school in pursuit of a boy and strike him. My friend, not 
 considering that the unfortunate man was probably 
 goaded beyond endurance, smote the schoolmaster and 
 blackened his eye. The schoolmaster appealed to the 
 law; and my friend found himself waiting nervously in 
 the Hammersmith Police Court to answer for his breach 
 of the peace. In his anxiety he asked a police officer 
 what would happen to him. "What did you do?" said 
 the officer. "I gave a man a black eye" said my friend. 
 "Six pounds if he was a gentleman: two pounds if he 
 wasnt," said the constable. "He was a schoolmaster" 
 
Parents and Children xxxv 
 
 said my friend. "Two pounds" said the officer; and two 
 pounds it was. The blood money was paid cheerfully; 
 and I have ever since advised elementary schoolmasters 
 to qualify themselves in the art of self-defence, as the 
 British Constitution expresses our national estimate of 
 them by allowing us to blacken three of their eyes for 
 the same price as one of an ordinary professional man. 
 How many Froebels and Pestalozzis and Miss Masons 
 and Doctoress Montessoris would you be likely to get on 
 these terms even if they occurred much more frequently 
 in nature than they actually do.? 
 
 No: I cannot be put off by the news that our system 
 would be perfect if it were worked by angels. I do not 
 admit it even at that, just as I do not admit that 
 if the sky fell we should all catch larks. But I do 
 not propose to bother about a supply of specific genius 
 which does not exist, and which, if it did exist, could 
 operate only by at once recognizing and establishing 
 the rights of children. 
 
 What We Do Not Teach, and Why 
 
 To my mind, a glance at the subjects now taught in 
 schools ought to convince any reasonable person that the 
 object of the lessons is to keep children out of mischief, 
 and not to qualify them for their part in life as responsible 
 citizens of a free State. It is not possible to maintain 
 freedom in any State, no matter how perfect its original 
 constitution, unless its publicly active citizens know a good 
 deal of constitutional history, law, and political science, 
 with its basis of economics. If as much pains had been 
 taken a century ago to make us all understand Ricardo's 
 law of rent as to learn our catechisms, the face of the world 
 would have been changed for the better. But for that 
 very reason the greatest care is taken to keep such bene- 
 ficially subversive knowledge from us, with the result that 
 
xxxvi Parents and Children 
 
 in public life we are either place-hunters, anarchists, or 
 sheep shepherded by wolves. 
 
 But it will be observed that these are highly contro- 
 versial subjects. Now no controversial subject can be 
 taught dogmatically. He who knows only the official 
 side of a controversy knows less than nothing of its nature. 
 The abler a schoolmaster is, the more dangerous he is to 
 his pupils unless they have the fullest opportunity of 
 hearing another equally able person do his utmost to 
 shake his authority and convict him of error. 
 
 At present such teaching is very unpopular. It does 
 not exist in schools; but every adult who derives his 
 knowledge of public affairs from the newspapers can take 
 in, at the cost of an extra halfpenny, two papers of oppo- 
 site politics. Yet the ordinary man so dislikes having his 
 mind unsettled, as he calls it, that he angrily refuses to 
 allow a paper which dissents from his views to be brought 
 into his house. Even at his club he resents seeing it, and 
 excludes it if it happens to run counter to the opinions 
 of all the members. The result is that his opinions are 
 not .worth considering. A churchman who never reads 
 The Freethinker very soon has no more real religion than 
 the atheist who never reads The Church Times. The at- 
 titude is the same in both cases: they want to hear 
 nothing good of their enemies; consequently they remain 
 enemies and suffer from bad blood all their lives; whereas 
 men who know their opponents and understand their 
 case, quite commonly respect and like them, and always 
 learn something from them. 
 
 Here, again, as at so many points, we come up against 
 the abuse of schools to keep people in ignorance and error, 
 so that they may be incapable of successful revolt against 
 their industrial slavery. The most important simple 
 fundamental economic truth to impress on a child in 
 complicated civilizations like ours is the truth that who- 
 ever consumes goods or services without producing by 
 
Parents and Children xxxvii 
 
 personal efiPort the equivalent of what he or she consumes, 
 inflicts on the community precisely the same injury that 
 a thief produces, and would, in any honest State, be treated 
 as a thief, however full his or her pockets might be of 
 money made by other people. The nation that first teaches 
 its children that truth, instead of flogging them if they 
 discover it for themselves, may have to fight all the slaves 
 of all the other nations to begin with; but it will beat them 
 as easily as an unburdened man with his hands free and 
 with all his energies in full play can beat an invalid who 
 has to carry another invalid on his back. 
 
 This, however, is not an evil produced by the denial of 
 children's rights, nor is it inherent in the nature of schools. 
 I mention it only because it would be folly to call for a 
 reform of our schools without taking account of the cor- 
 rupt resistance which awaits the reformer. 
 
 A word must also be said about the opposition to re- 
 form of the vested interest of the classical and coercive 
 schoolmaster. He, poor wretch, has no other means of 
 livelihood; and reform would leave him as a workman is 
 now left when he is superseded by a machine. He had 
 therefore better do what he can to get the workman com- 
 pensated, so as to make the public familiar with the idea 
 of compensation before his own turn comes. 
 
 Taboo in Schools 
 
 The suppression of economic knowledge, disastrous as 
 it is, is quite intelligible, its corrupt motive being as clear 
 as the motive of a burglar for concealing his jemmy 
 from a policeman, ^ut the other great suppression in 
 our schools, the suppression of the subject of sex, is a 
 case of taboo. In mankind, the lower the type, and 
 the less cultivated the mind, the less courage there is 
 to face important subjects objectively. The ablest and 
 most highly cultivated people continually discuss religion. 
 
xxxviii Parents and Children 
 
 politics, and sex: it is hardly an exaggeration to say that 
 they discuss nothing else with fully-awakened interest. 
 Commoner and less cultivated people, even when they 
 form societies for discussion, make a rule that politics and 
 religion are not to be mentioned, and take it for granted 
 that no decent person would attempt to discuss sex. The 
 three subjects are feared because they rouse the crude 
 passions which call for furious gratification in murder and 
 rapine at worst, and, at best, lead to quarrels and unde- 
 sirable states of consciousness^ 
 
 Even when this excuse of bad manners, ill temper, and 
 brutishness (for that is what it comes to) compels us to 
 accept it from those adults among whom political and 
 theological discussion does as a matter of fact lead to the 
 drawing of knives and pistols, and sex discussion leads to 
 obscenity, it has no application to children except as an 
 imperative reason for training them to respect other peo- 
 ple's opinions, and to insist on respect for their own in 
 these as in other important matters which are equally 
 dangerous: for example, money. And in any case there 
 are decisive reasons; superior, like the reasons for sus- 
 pending conventional reticences between doctor and pa- 
 tient, to all considerations of mere decorum, for giving 
 proper instruction in the facts of sex. Those who object 
 to it (not counting coarse people who thoughtlessly seize 
 every opportunity of affecting and parading a fictitious 
 delicacy) are, in effect, advocating ignorance as a safe- 
 guard against precocity. If ignora,nce were practicable 
 there would be something to be said for it up to the age 
 at which ignorance is a danger instead of a safeguard. 
 Even as it is, it seems undesirable that any special em- 
 phasis should be given to the subject, whether by way of 
 delicacy and poetry or too impressive warning. But the 
 plain fact is that in refusing to allow the child to be taught 
 by qualified unrelated elders (the parents shrink from the 
 lesson, even when they are otherwise qualified, because 
 
Parents and Children xxxix 
 
 their own relation to the child makes the subject impossible 
 between them) we are virtually arranging to have our 
 children taught by other children in guilty secrets and 
 unclean jests. And that settles the question for all sen- 
 sible people. 
 
 The dogmatic objection, the sheer instinctive taboo 
 which rules the subject out altogether as indecent, has 
 no age limit. It means that at no matter what age a 
 woman consents to a proposal of marriage, she should do 
 so in ignorance of the relation she is undertaking. When 
 this actually happens (and apparently it does happen 
 oftener than would seem possible) a horrible fraud is 
 being practiced on both the man and the woman. He is 
 led to believe that she knows what she is promising, and 
 that he is in no danger of finding himself bound to a woman 
 to whom he is eugenically antipathetic. She contemplates 
 nothing but such affectionate relations as may exist be- 
 tween her and her nearest kinsmen, and has no knowledge 
 of the condition which, if not foreseen, must come as an 
 amazing revelation and a dangerous shock, ending possibly 
 in the discovery that the marriage has been an irreparable 
 mistake. Nothing can justify such a risk. There may 
 be people incapable of understanding that the right to 
 know all there is to know about oneself is a natural human 
 right that sweeps away all the pretences of others to tam- 
 per with one's consciousness in order to produce what 
 they choose to consider a good character. But they must 
 here bow to the plain mischievousness of entrapping peo- 
 ple into contracts on which the happiness of their whole 
 lives depends without letting them know what they are 
 undertaking. 
 
 Alleged Novelties in Modern Schools 
 
 There is just one more nuisance to be disposed of before 
 I come to the positive side of my case. I mean the per- 
 
xl Parents and Children 
 
 son who tells me that my schooldays belong to a bygone 
 order of educational ideas and institutions, and that schools 
 are not now a bit like my old school. I reply, with Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, by calling on my soul to give this state- 
 ment the lie. Some years ago I lectured in Oxford on 
 the subject of Education. A friend to whom I mentioned 
 my intention said, "You know nothing of modern edu- 
 cation: schools are not now what they were when you 
 were a boy." I immediately procured the time sheets of 
 half a dozen modern schools, and found, as I expected, 
 that they might all have been my old school: there was 
 no real difference. I may mention, too, that I have vis- 
 ited modern schools, and observed that there is a tendency 
 to hang printed pictures in an untidy and soulless manner 
 on the walls, and occasionally to display on the mantel- 
 shelf a deplorable glass case containing certain objects 
 which might possibly, if placed in the hands of the pupils, 
 give them some practical experience of the weight of a 
 pound and the length of an inch. And sometimes a 
 scoundrel who has rifled a bird's nest or killed a harmless 
 snake encourages the children to go and do likewise by 
 putting his victims into an imitation nest and bottle and 
 exhibiting them as aids to "Nature study." A suggestion 
 that Nature is worth study would certainly have staggered 
 my schoolmasters; so perhaps I may admit a gleam of 
 progress here. But as any chUd who attempted to handle 
 these dusty objects would probably be caned, I do not 
 attach any importance to such modernities in school 
 furniture. The school remains what it was in my boy- 
 hood, because its real object remains what it was. And 
 that object, I repeat, is to keep the children out of mis- 
 chief: mischief meaning for the most part worrying the 
 grown-ups. 
 
Parents and Children xli 
 
 What is to be Done? 
 
 The practical question, then, is what to do with the 
 children. Tolerate them at home we will not. Let them 
 run loose in the streets we dare not until our streets be- 
 come safe places for children, which, to our utter shame, 
 they are not at present, though they can hardly be worse 
 than some homes and some schools. 
 
 The grotesque difficulty of making even a beginning 
 was brought home to me in the little village in Hertford- 
 shire where I write these lines by the lady of the manor, 
 who asked me very properly what I was going to do for 
 the village school. I did not know what to reply. , As 
 the school kept the children quiet during my working 
 hours, I did not for the sake of my own personal conven- 
 ience want to blow it up with dynamite as I should like 
 to blow up most schools. So I asked for guidance. "You 
 ought to give a prize," said the lady. I asked if there was 
 a prize for good conduct. As I expected, there was: one 
 for the best-behaved boy and another for the best-be- 
 haved girl. On reflection I offered a handsome prize for 
 the worst-behaved boy and girl on condition that a record 
 should be kept of their subsequent careers and compared 
 with the records of the best-behaved, in order to ascer- 
 tain whether the school criterion of good conduct was valid 
 out of school. My offer was refused because it would not 
 have had the effect of encouraging the children to give 
 as little trouble as possible, which is of course the real 
 object of all conduct prizes in schools. 
 
 I must not pretend, then, that I have a system ready 
 to replace all the other systems. Obstructing the way of 
 the proper organization of childhood, as of everything else, 
 lies our ridiculous misdistribution of the national income, 
 with its accompanying class distinctions and imposition 
 of snobbery on children as a necessary part of their social 
 training. The result of our economic folly is that we are 
 
xlii Parents and Ciildren 
 
 a nation of undesirable acquaintances; and the first object 
 of all our institutions for children is segregation. If, for 
 example, our children were set free to roam and play about 
 as they pleased, they would have to be policed; and the 
 first duty of the police in a State like ours would be to see 
 that every child wore a badge indicating its class in so- 
 ciety, and that every child seen speaking to another child 
 with a lower-class badge, or any child wearing a higher 
 badge than that allotted to it by, say, the College of 
 Heralds, should immediately be skinned alive with a birch 
 rod. It might even be insisted that girls with high-class 
 badges should be attended by footmen, grooms, or even 
 military escorts. In short, there is hardly any limit to 
 the follies with which our Commercialism would infect 
 any system that it would tolerate at all. But something 
 like a change of heart is still possible; and since all the 
 evils of snobbery and segregation are rampant in our 
 schools at present we may as well make the best as the 
 worst of them. 
 
 Children's Rights and Duties 
 
 Now let us ask what are a child's rights, and what are 
 the rights of society over the child. Its rights, being clearly 
 those of any other human being, are summed up in the 
 right to live: that is, to have all the conclusive arguments 
 that prove that it would be better dead, that it is a 'child 
 of wrath, that the population is already excessive, that 
 the pains of life are greater than its pleasures, that its 
 sacrifice in a hospital or laboratory experiment might 
 save millions of lives, etc. etc. etc., put out of the question, 
 and its existence accepted as necessary and sacred, all 
 theories to the contrary notwithstanding, whether by 
 Calvin or Schopenhauer or Pasteur or the nearest person 
 with a taste for infanticide./' And this right to live in- 
 cludes, and in fact is, the right to be what the child likes 
 
Parents and Children xliii 
 
 and can, to do what it likes and can, to make what it likes 
 and can, to think what it likes and can, to smash what it 
 dislikes and can, and generally to behave in an altogether 
 unaccountable manner within the limits imposed by the 
 similar rights of its neighbors. And the rights of society 
 over it clearly extend to requiring it to qualify itself to 
 live in society without wasting other peoples time : that is, 
 it must know the rules of the road, be able to read pla- 
 cards and proclamations, fill voting papers, compose and 
 send letters and telegrams, purchase food and clothing and 
 railway tickets for itself, count money and give and take 
 change, and, generally, know how many beans made five. 
 It must know some law, were it only a simple set of com- 
 mandments, some political economy, agriculture enough 
 to shut the gates of fields with cattle in them and not to 
 trample on growing crops, sanitation enough not to defile 
 its haunts, and religion enough to have some idea of why 
 it is allowed its rights and why it must respect the rights 
 of others. And the rest of its education must consist of 
 anything else it can pick up; for beyond this society can- 
 not go with any certainty, and indeed can only go this 
 far rather apologetically and provisionally, as doing the 
 best it can on very uncertain ground. 
 
 Should Children Earn their Living? 
 
 Now comes the question how far children should be 
 asked to contribute to the support of the community. In 
 approaching it we must put aside the considerations 
 that now induce all humane and thoughtful political stu- 
 dents to agitate for the uncompromising abolition of child 
 labor under our capitalist system. It is not the least of 
 the curses of that system that it will bequeath to future 
 generations a mass of legislation to prevent capitalists 
 from "using up nine generations of men in one generation," 
 as they began by doing until they were restrained by law 
 
xliv Parents and Children 
 
 at the suggestion of Robert Owen, the founder of English 
 Socialism. Most of this legislation will become an in- 
 sufferable restraint upon freedom and variety of action 
 when Capitalism goes the way of Druidic human sacri- 
 fice (a much less slaughterous institution). There is 
 every reason why a child should not be allowed to work 
 for commercial profit or for the support of its parents at 
 the expense of its own future; but there is no reason 
 whatever why a child should not do some work for its own 
 sake and that of the community if it can be shewn that 
 both it and the community will be the better for it. 
 
 Children's Happiness 
 
 Also it is important to put the happiness of the children 
 rather carefully in its place, which is really not a front 
 place. The unsympathetic, selfish, hard peopl^ who re- 
 gard happiness as a very exceptional indulgence to which 
 children are by no means entitled, though they may be 
 allowed a very little of it on their birthdays or at Christ- 
 mas, are sometimes better parents in effect than those who 
 imagine that children are as capable of happiness as 
 adults. Adults habitually exaggerate their own capacity 
 in that direction grossly; yet most adults can stand, an 
 allowance of happiness that would be quite thrown away 
 on children. The secret of being miserable is to have 
 leisure to bother about whether you are happy or not. 
 The cure for it is occupation, because occupation means 
 pre-occupation; and the pre-occupied person is neither 
 happy nor unhappy, but simply alive and active, which 
 is pleasanter than any happiness until you are tired of it. 
 That is why it is necessary to happiness that one should 
 be tired. Music after dinner is pleasant: music before, 
 breakfast is so unpleasant as to be clearly unnatural. To 
 people who are not overworked holidays are a nuisance. 
 To people who are, and who can afford them, they are a 
 
Parents and Children xlv 
 
 troublesome necessity. A perpetual holiday is a good 
 working definition of hell. 
 
 The Horror of the Perpetual Holiday- 
 It will be said here that, on the contrary, heaven is 
 always conceived as a perpetual holiday, and that who- 
 ever is not born to an independent income is striving for 
 one or longing for one because it gives holidays for life. 
 To which I reply, first, that heaven, as conventionally 
 conceived, is a place so inane, so dull, so useless, so miser- 
 able, that nobody has ever ventured to describe a whole 
 day in heaven, though plenty of people have described a 
 day at the seaside; and that the genuine popular verdict 
 on it is expressed in the proverb "Heaven for holiness 
 and Hell for company." Second, I point out that the 
 wretched people who have independent incomes and no 
 useful occupation, do the most amazingly disagreeable 
 and dangerous things to make themselves tired and hun- 
 gry in the evening. When they are not involved in what 
 they call sport, they are doing aimlessly what other peo- 
 ple have to be paid to do: driving horses and motor cars; 
 trying on dresses and walking up and down to shew them 
 off; and acting as footmen and housemaids to royal per- 
 sonages. The sole and obvious cause of the notion that 
 idleness is delightful and that heaven is a place where 
 there is nothing to "be done, is our school system and our 
 industrial system. The school is a prison in which work 
 is a punishment and a curse. In avowed prisons, hard 
 labor, the only alleviation of a prisoner's lot, is treated as 
 an aggravation of his punishment; and everything possible 
 is done to intensify the prisoner's inculcated and unnatural 
 notion that work is an evil. In industry we are over- 
 worked and underfed prisoners. Under such absurd cir- 
 cumstances our judgment of things becomes as perverted 
 as our habits. If we were habitually underworked and 
 
xlvi Parents and Children 
 
 overfed, our notion of heaven would be a place where 
 everybody worked strenuously for twenty-four hours a 
 day and never got anything to eat. 
 
 Once realize that a perpetual holiday is beyond human 
 endurance, and that "Satan finds some mischief still for 
 idle hands to do" and it will be seen that we have no right 
 to impose a perpetual holiday on children. If we did, 
 they would soon outdo the Labor Party in their claim for 
 a Right to Work Bill. 
 
 In any case no child should be brought up to suppose 
 that its food and clothes come down from heaven or are 
 miraculously conjured from empty space by papa. Loath- 
 some as we have made the idea of duty (like the idea of 
 work) we must habituate children to a sense of repayable 
 obligation to the community for what they consume and 
 enjoy, and inculcate the repayment as a point of honor. 
 If we did that today — and nothing but flat dishonesty 
 prevents us from doing it — we should have no idle rich 
 and indeed probably no rich, since there is no distinction 
 in being rich if you have to pay scot and lot in personal 
 effort like the working folk. Therefore, if for only half 
 an hour a day, a child should do something serviceable 
 to the community. 
 
 Productive work for children has the advantage that 
 its discipline is the discipline of impersonal necessity, not 
 that of wanton personal coercion. The eagerness of chil- 
 dren in our industrial districts to escape from school to 
 the factory is not caused by lighter tasks or shorter hours 
 in the factory, nor altogether by the temptation of wages, 
 nor even by the desire for novelty, but by the dignity of 
 adult work, the exchange of the factitious personal tyranny 
 of the schoolmaster, from which the grown-ups are free, 
 for the stern but entirely dignified Laws of Life to which 
 all flesh is subject. 
 
Parents and Children xlvii 
 
 University Schoolboyishness 
 
 Older children might do a good deal before beginning 
 their collegiate education. What is the matter with our 
 universities is that all the students are schoolboys, whereas 
 it is of the very essence of university education that they 
 should be men. The function of a university is not to 
 teach things that can now be taught as well or better by 
 University Extension lectures or by private tutors or mod- 
 ern correspondence classes with gramophones. We go to 
 them to be socialized; to acquire the hall mark of com- 
 munal training; to become'citizens of the world instead of 
 inmates of the enlarged rabbit hutches we call homes; to 
 learn manners and become unchallengeable ladies and 
 gentlemen. The social pressure which eflfects these changes 
 should be that of persons who have faced the full respon- 
 sibilities of adults as working members of the general 
 community, not that of a barbarous rabble of half eman- 
 cipated schoolboys and unemancipable pedants. It is 
 true that in a reasonable state of society this outside ex- 
 perience would do for us very completely what the uni- 
 versity does now so corruptly that we tolerate its bad 
 manners only because they are better than no manners 
 at all. But the university will always exist in some form 
 as a community of persons desirous of pushing their cul- 
 ture to the highest pitch they are capable of, not as solitary 
 students reading in seclusion, but as members of a body 
 of individuals all pursuing culture, talking culture, think- 
 ing culture, above all, criticizing culture. If such persons 
 are to read and talk and criticize to any purpose, they 
 must know the world outside the university at least as 
 well as the shopkeeper in the High Street doe?. And this 
 is just what they do not know at present. You may say 
 of them, paraphrasing Mr. Kipling, "What do they know 
 of Plato that only Plato know?" If our universities 
 would exclude everybody who had not earned a living by 
 
xlviii Parents and Children 
 
 his or her own exertions for at least a couple of^ears» 
 their effect would be vastly improved. 
 
 The New Laziness 
 
 The child of the future, then, if there is to be any 
 future but one of decay, wiU work more or less for its 
 living from an early age; and in doing so it will not shock 
 anyone, provided there be no longer any reason to asso- 
 ciate the conception of children working for their living 
 with infants toiling in a factory for ten hours a day or 
 boys drudging from nine to six under gas lamps in under- 
 ground city offices. Lads and lasses in their teens will 
 probably be able to produce as much as the most ex- 
 pensive person now costs in his own person (it is retinue 
 that eats up the big income) without working too hard 
 or too long for quite as much happiness as they can en- 
 joy. The question to be balanced then will be, not how 
 soon people should be put to work, but how soon they 
 should be released from any obligation of the kind. A 
 life's work is like a day's work: it can begin early and 
 leave off early or begin late and leave off late, or, as with' 
 us, begin too early and never leave off at all, obviously 
 the worst of all possible plans. In any event we must 
 finally reckon work, not as the curse our schools and 
 prisons and capitalist profit factories make it seem today, 
 but as a prime necessity of a tolerable existence. And if 
 we cannot devise fresh wants as fast as we develop the 
 means of supplying them, there will come a scarcity of the 
 needed, cut-and-dried, appointed work that is always 
 ready to everybody's hand. It may have to be shared 
 out among people all of whom want more of it. And then 
 a new sort of laziness will become the bugbear of society: 
 the laziness that refuses to face the mental toil and ad- 
 venture of making work by inventing new ideas or ex- 
 tending the domain of knowledge, and insists on a ready- 
 
Parents and Children xlix 
 
 made routine. It may come to forcing people to retire 
 before they are willing to make way for younger ones: 
 that is, to driving all persons of a certain age out of in- 
 dustry, leaving them to find something experimental to 
 occupy them on pain of perpetual holiday. Men will 
 then try to spend twenty thousand a year for the sake of 
 having to earn it. Instead of being what we are now, 
 the cheapest and nastiest of the animals, we shall be the 
 costliest, most fastidious, and best bred. In short, there 
 is no end to the astonishing things that may happen when 
 the curse of Adam becomes first a blessing and then an 
 incurable habit. And in that day we must not grudge 
 children their share of it. 
 
 The Infinite School Task 
 
 The question of children's work, however, is only a 
 question of what the child ought to do for the community. 
 How highly it should qualify itself is another matter. 
 But most of the difficulty of inducing children to learn 
 would disappear if our demands became not only definite 
 but finite. When learning is only an excuse for imprison- 
 ment, it is an instrument of torture which becomes more 
 painful the more progress is made. Thus when you have 
 forced a child to learn the Church Catechism, a docu- 
 ment profound beyond the comprehension of most adults, 
 you are sometimes at a standstill for something else to 
 teach; and you therefore keep the wretched child repeat- 
 ing its catechism again and again until you hit on the 
 plan of making it learn instalments of Bible verses, prefer- 
 ably from the book of Numbers. But as it is less trouble 
 to set a lesson that you know yourself, there is a tendency 
 to keep repeating the already learnt lesson rather than 
 break new ground. At school I began with a fairly com- 
 plete knowledge of Latin grammar in the childish sense 
 of being able to repeat all the paradigms ; and I was kept 
 
1 Parents and Children 
 
 at this, or rather kept in a class where the master never 
 asked me to do it because he knew I could, and therefore 
 devoted himself to trapping the boys who could not, until 
 I finally forgot most of it. But when progress took place, 
 what did it mean? First it meant Caesar, with the fore- 
 knowledge that to master Caesar meant only being set at 
 Virgil, with the culminating horror of Greek and Homer 
 in reserve at the end of that. I preferred Caesar, because 
 his statement that Gaul is divided into three parts, though 
 neither interesting nor true, was the only Latin sentence 
 I could translate at sight: therefore the longer we stuck 
 at Caesar the better I was pleased. Just so do less classic- 
 ally educated children see nothing in the mastery of ad- 
 dition but the beginning of subtraction, and so on through 
 multiplication and division and fractions, with the black 
 cloud of algebra on the horizon. And if a boy rushes 
 through all that, there is always the calculus to fall back 
 on, unless indeed you insist on his learning music, and 
 proceed to hit him if he cannot tell you the year Beethoven 
 was born. 
 
 A child has a right to finality as regards its compul- 
 sory lessons. Also as regards physical training. At pres- 
 ent it is assumed that the schoolmaster has a right to 
 force every child into an attempt to become Porson and 
 Bentley, Leibnitz and Newton, all rolled into one. This 
 is the tradition of the oldest grammar schools. Li our 
 times an even more horrible and cynical claim has been 
 made for the right to drive boys through compulsory 
 games in the playing fields until they are too much ex- 
 hausted physically to do anything but drop off to sleep. 
 This is supposed to protect them from vice; but as it also 
 protects them from poetry, literature, music, meditation 
 and prayer, it may be dismissed with the obvious remark 
 that if boarding schools are places whose keepers are driven 
 to such monstrous measures lest more abominable things 
 should happen, then the sooner boarding schools are vio- 
 
Parents and Children li 
 
 lently abolished the better. It is true that society may 
 make physical claims on the child as well as mental ones: 
 the child must learn to walk, to use a knife and fork, to 
 swim, to ride a bicycle, to acquire sufficient power of self- 
 defence to make an attack on it an arduous and uncertain 
 enterprise, perhaps to fly. What as a matter of common- 
 sense it clearly has not alright to do is to make this an 
 excuse for keeping the child slaving for ten hours at phys- 
 ical exercises on the ground that it is not yet as dexterous 
 as Cinquevalli and as strong as Sandow. 
 
 The Rewards and Risks of Knowledge 
 
 In a word, we have no right to insist on educating a 
 child; for its education can end only with its life and will 
 not even then be complete. Compulsory completion of 
 education is the last folly of a rotten and desperate civ- 
 ilization. It is the rattle in its throat before dissolution. 
 All we can fairly do is to prescribe certain definite ac- 
 quirements and accomplishments as qualifications for 
 certain employments; and to secure them, not by the 
 ridiculous method of infiicting injuries on the persons who 
 have not yet mastered them, but by attaching certain 
 privileges (not pecuniary) to the employments. 
 
 Most acquirements carry their own privileges with 
 them. Thus a baby has to be pretty closely guarded and 
 imprisoned because it cannot take care of itself. It has 
 even to be carried about (the most complete conceivable 
 infringement of its liberty) until it can walk. But nobody 
 goes on carrying children after they can walk lest they 
 should walk into mischief, though Arab boys make their 
 sisters carry them, as our own spoiled children sometimes 
 make their nurses, out of mere laziness, because sisters in 
 the East and nurses in the West are kept in servitude. But 
 in a society of equals (the only reasonable and perma- 
 nently possible sort of society) children are in much greater 
 
lii Parents and Children 
 
 danger of acquiring bandy legs through being left to walk 
 before they are strong enough than of being carried when 
 they are well able to walk. Anyhow, freedom of move- 
 ment in a nursery is the reward of learning to walk; and 
 in precisely the same way freedom of movement in a city 
 is the reward of learning how to read public notices, and 
 to count and use money. The consequences are of course 
 much larger than the mere ability to read the name of a 
 street or the number of a railway platform and the destina- 
 tion of a train. When you enable a child to read these, 
 you also enable it to read this preface, to the utter destruc- 
 tion, you may quite possibly think, of its morals and 
 docility. You also expose it to the danger of being run 
 over by taxicabs and trains. The moral and physical 
 risks of education are enormous : every new power a 
 child acquires, from speaking, walking, and co-ordinat- 
 ing its vision, to conquering continents and founding 
 religions, opens up immense new possibilities of mischief. 
 Teach ,a child to write and you jteach it how to forge: 
 teach it to speak and you teach it how to lie: teach it 
 to walk and you teach it how to kick its mother to 
 death. 
 
 The great problem of slavery for those whose aim is to 
 maintain it is the problem of reconciling the eflSciency of 
 the slave with the helplessness that keeps him in servi- 
 tude; and this problem is fortunately not completely 
 soluble; for it is not in fact found possible for a duke to 
 treat his solicitor or his doctor as he treats his laborers, 
 though they are all equally his slaves: the laborer being 
 ia fact less dependent on his favor than the professional 
 man. Hence it is that men come to resent, of all things, 
 protection, because it so often means restriction of their 
 liberty lest they should make a bad use of it. If there are 
 dangerous precipices about, it is much easier and cheaper 
 to forbid people to walk near the edge than to put up an 
 eflFective fence: that is why both legislators and parents 
 
Parents and Children liii 
 
 and the paid deputies of parents are always inhibiting and 
 prohibiting and punishing and scolding and laming and 
 cramping and delaying progress and growth instead of 
 making the dangerous places as safe as possible and then 
 boldly taking and allowing others to take the irreducible 
 minimum of risk. , 
 
 English Physical Hardihood and Spiritual 
 Cowardice 
 
 It is easier to convert most people to the need for allow- 
 ing their children to run physical risks than moral ones. 
 I can remember a relative of mine who, when I was a small 
 child, unused to horses and very much afraid of them, 
 insisted on putting me on a rather rumbustious pony 
 with little spurs on my heels (knowing that in my agitation 
 I would use them unconsciously), and being enormously 
 amused at my terrors. Yet when that same lady discov- 
 ered that I had found a copy of The Arabian Nights and 
 was devouring it with avidity, she was horrified, and hid 
 it away from me lest it should break my soul as the pony 
 might have broken my neck. This way of producing 
 hardy bodies and timid souls is so common in country 
 houses that you may spend hours in them listening to 
 stories of broken collar bones, broken backs, and broken 
 necks without coming upon a single spiritual adventure 
 or daring thought. 
 
 But whether the risks to which liberty exposes us are 
 moral or physical our right to liberty involves the right 
 to run them. A man who is not free to risk his neck as 
 an aviator or his soul as a heretic is not free at all; and the 
 right to liberty begins, not at the age of 21 years but of 
 21 seconds. 
 
liv Parents and Children 
 
 The Risks of Ignorance and Weakness 
 
 The difficulty with children is that they need protection 
 from risks they are too young to understand, and attacks 
 they can neither avoid nor resist. You may on academic 
 grounds allow a child to snatch glowing coals from the 
 fire once. You will not do it twice. The risks of liberty 
 we must let everyone take; but the risks of ignorance and 
 self-helplessness are another matter. Not only children 
 but adults need protection from them. At present adults 
 are often exposed to risks outside their knowledge or 
 beyond their comprehension or powers of resistance or 
 foresight: for example, we have to look on every day at 
 marriages or financial speculations that may involve far 
 worse consequences than burnt fingers. And just as it 
 is part of the business of adults to protect children, to 
 feed them, clothe them, shelter them, and shift for them 
 in all sorts of ways until they are able to shift for them- 
 selves, it is coming more and more to be seen that this is 
 true not only of the relation between adults and children, 
 but between adults and adults. We shall not always look 
 on indifferently at foolish marriages and financial specu- 
 lations, nor allow dead men to control live communities 
 by ridiculous wills and living heirs to squander and ruin 
 great estates, nor tolerate a hundred other absurd lib- 
 erties that we allow today because we are too lazy to find 
 out the proper way to interfere. But the interference must 
 be regulated by some theory of the individual's rights. 
 Though the right to live is absolute, it is not unconditional. 
 If a man is unbearably mischievous, he must be killed. 
 This is a mere matter of necessity, like the killing of a 
 man-eating tiger in a nursery, a venomous snake in the 
 garden, or a fox in the poultry yard. No society could be 
 constructed on the assumption that such extermination 
 is a violation of the creature's right to live, and therefore 
 must not be allowed. And then at once arises the danger 
 
Parents and Children Iv 
 
 into which morality has led us: the danger of persecution. 
 One Christian spreading his doctrines may seem more 
 mischievous than a dozen thieves: throw him therefore to 
 the lions. A lying or disobedient child may corrupt a 
 whole generation and make human Society impossible: 
 therefore thrash the vice out of him. And so on until our 
 whole system of abortion, intimidation, tyranny, cruelty 
 and the rest is in full swing again. 
 
 The Common Sense of Toleration 
 
 The real safeguard against this is the dogma of Tolera- 
 tion. I need not here repeat the compact treatise on it 
 which I prepared for the Joint Committee on the Censor- 
 ship of Stage Plays, and prefixed to The Shewing Up of 
 Blanco Posnet. It must suflSce now to say that the present 
 must not attempt to schoolmaster the future by pretend- 
 ing to know good from evil in tendency, or protect citizens 
 against shocks to their opinions and convictions, moral, 
 political or religious : in other words it must not persecute 
 doctrines of any kind, or what is called bad taste, and 
 must insist on all persons facing such shocks as they face 
 frosty weather or any of the other disagreeable, dangerous, 
 or bracing incidents of freedom. The expediency of Tol- 
 eration has been forced on us by the fact that progressive 
 enlightenment depends on a fair hearing for doctrines 
 which at first appear seditious, blasphemous, and immoral, 
 and which deeply shock people who never think originally, 
 thought being with them merely a habit and an echo. 
 The deeper ground for Toleration is the nature of creation, 
 which, as we now know, proceeds by evolution. Evolu- 
 tion finds .its way by experiment; and this finding of the 
 way varies according to the stage of development reached, 
 from the blindest groping along the line of least resistance 
 to intellectual speculation, with its practical sequel of 
 hypothesis and experimental verification; or to observa- 
 
Ivi Parents and Children 
 
 tion, induction, and deduction; or even into so rapid and 
 intuitive an integration of all these processes in a single 
 brain that we get the inspired guess of the man of genius 
 and the desperate resolution of the teacher of new truths 
 who is first slain as a blasphemous apostate and then 
 worshipped as a prophet. 
 
 Here the law for the child is the same as for the adult. 
 The high priest must not rend his garments and cry 
 "Crucify him" when he is shocked: the atheist must not 
 clamor for the suppression of Law's Serious Call because 
 it has for two centuries destroyed the natural happiness 
 of innumerable unfortunate children by persuading their 
 parents that it is their religious duty to be miserable. It, 
 and the Sermon on the Mount, and MachiavelK's Prince, 
 and La Rochefoucauld's maxims, and Hymns Ancient and 
 Modern, and De Glanville's apologue, and Dr. Watts's 
 rhymes, and Nietzsche's Gay Science, and Ingersoll's 
 Mistakes of Moses, and the speeches and pamphlets of 
 the people who want us to make war on Germany, and 
 the Noodle's Orations and articles of our politicians and 
 journalists, must all be tolerated not only because any 
 of them may for all we know be on the right track but 
 because it is in the conflict of opinion that we win knowl- 
 edge and wisdom. However terrible the wounds suffered 
 in that conflict, they are better than the barren peace of 
 death that follows when all the combatants are slaughtered 
 or bound hand and foot. 
 
 The difficulty at present is that though this necessity 
 for Toleration is a law of political science as well established 
 as the law of gravitation, our rulers are never taught 
 political science: on the contrary, they are taught in school 
 that the master tolerates nothing that is disagreeable to 
 him; that ruling is simply being master; and that the mas- 
 ter's method is the method of violent punishment. And 
 our citizens, all school taught, are walking in the same 
 darkness. As I write these lines the Home Secretary is 
 
Parents and Children Ivii 
 
 explaining that a man who has been imprisoned for blas- 
 phemy must not be released because his remarks were 
 painful to the feelings of his pious fellow townsmen. Now 
 it happens that this very Home Secretary has driven 
 many thousands of his fellow citizens almost beside them- 
 selves by the crudity of his notions of government, and 
 his simple inability to understand why he should not use 
 and make laws to torment and subdue people who do not 
 happen to agree with him. In a word, he is not a politician, 
 but a grown-up schoolboy who has at last got a cane in 
 his hand. And as all the rest of us are in the same condi- 
 tion (except as to command of the cane) the only objection 
 made to his proceedings takes the shape of clamorous 
 demands that he should be caned instead of being allowed 
 to cane other people. 
 
 The Sin of Athanasius 
 
 It seems hopeless. Anarchists are tempted to preach a 
 violent and implacable resistance to all law as the only 
 remedy; and the result of that speedily is that people 
 welcome any tyranny that will rescue them from chaos. 
 But there is really no need to choose between anarchy 
 and tyranny. A quite reasonable state of things is prac- 
 ticable if we proceed on human assumptions and not 
 on academic ones. If adults will frankly give up their 
 claim to know better than children what the purposes of 
 the Life Force are, and treat the child as an experiment 
 like themselves, and possibly a more successful one, and 
 at the same time relinquish their monstrous parental 
 claims to personal private property in children, the rest 
 must be left to common sense. It is our attitude, our 
 religion, that is wrong. A good beginning might be made 
 by enacting that any person dictating a piece of conduct 
 to a child or to anyone else as the will of God, or as ab- 
 solutely right, should be dealt with as a blasphemer: as. 
 
Iviii Parents and Children 
 
 indeed, guilty of the unpardonable sin against the Holy 
 Ghost. If the penalty were death, it would rid us at once 
 of that scourge of humanity, the amateur Pope. As an 
 Irish Protestant, I raise the cry of No Popery with hered- 
 itary zest. We are overrun with Popes. From curates 
 and governesses, who may claim a sort of professional 
 standing, to parents and uncles and nurserymaids and 
 school teachers and wiseacres generally, there are scores 
 of thousands of human insects groping through our dark- 
 ness by the feeble phosphorescence of their own tails, 
 yet ready at a moment's notice to reveal the will of God 
 on every possible subject; to explain how and why the 
 universe was made (in my youth they added the exact 
 date) and the circumstances under which it will cease to 
 exist; to lay down precise rules of right and wrong con- 
 duct; to discriminate infallibly between virtuous and vi- 
 cious character; and all this with such certainty that they 
 are prepared to visit all the rigors of the law, and all the 
 ruinous penalties of social ostracism on people, however 
 harmless their actions maybe who venture to laugh 
 at their monstrous conceit or to pay their assumptions 
 the extravagant compliment of criticizing them. As to 
 children, who shall say what canings and birchings and 
 terrifyings and threats of hell fire and impositions and 
 humiliations and petty imprisonings and sendings to bed 
 and standing in corners and the like they have suffered 
 because their parents and guardians and teachers knew 
 everything so much better than Socrates or Solon? 
 
 It is this ignorant uppishness that does the mischief. 
 A stranger on the planet might expect that its grotesque 
 absurdity would provoke enough ridicule to cure it; but 
 unfortunately quite the contrary happens. Just as our 
 ill health delivers us into the hands of medical quacks and 
 creates a passionate demand for impudent pretences that 
 doctors can cure the diseases they themselves die of daily, 
 so our ignorance and helplessness set us clamoring for 
 
Parents and Children lix 
 
 spiritual and moral quacks who pretend that they can 
 save our souls from their own damnation. If a doctor were 
 to say to his patients, "I am familiar with your symp- 
 toms, because I have seen other people in your condition; 
 and I wiU bring the very little knowledge we have to your 
 treatment; but except in that very shallow sense I dont 
 know what is the matter with you; and I cant undertake 
 to cure you," he would be a lost man professionally; and if 
 a clergyman, on being called on to award a prize for good 
 conduct in the village school, were to say, "I am afraid 
 I cannot say who is the best-behaved child, because I 
 really do not know what good conduct is; but I will gladly 
 take the teacher's word as to which child has caused least 
 inconvenience," he would probably be unfrocked, if not 
 excommunicated. And yet no honest and intellectually 
 capable doctor or parson can say more. Clearly it would 
 not be wise of the doctor to say it, because optimistic lies 
 have such immense therapeutic value that a doctor who 
 cannot tell them convincingly has mistaken his profession. 
 And a clergyman who is not prepared to lay down the 
 law dogmatically will not be of much use in a village 
 school, though it behoves him all the more to be very 
 careful what law he lays down. But unless both the 
 clergyman and the doctor are in the attitude expressed 
 by these speeches they are not fit for their work. The 
 man who believes that he has morej than a provisional 
 hypothesis to go upon is a born fool. He may have to act 
 vigorously on it. The world has no use for the Agnostic 
 who wont believe anything because anything might be 
 false, and wont deny anything because anything might 
 be true. But there is a wide difference between saying, 
 "I believe this; and I am going to act on it," or, "I dont 
 believe it; and I wont act on it," and saying, "It is true; 
 and it is my duty and yours to act on it," or, "It is false; 
 and it is my duty and yours to refuse to act on it." The 
 difference is as great as that between the Apostles' Creed 
 
Ix Parents and Children 
 
 and the Athanasian Creed. When you repeat the Apostles' 
 Creed you affirm that you believe certain things. There 
 you are clearly within your rights. When you repeat the 
 Athanasian Creed, you affirm that certain things are so, 
 and that anybody who doubts that they are so cannot be 
 saved. And this is simply a piece of impudence on your 
 part, as you know nothing about it except that as good 
 men as you have never heard of your creed. The apostolic 
 attitude is a desire to convert others to our beliefs for the 
 sake of sympathy and light: the Athanasian attitude is a 
 desire to murder people who dont agree with us. I am 
 sufficient of an Athanasian to advocate a law for the speedy 
 execution of all Athanasians, because they violate the 
 fundamental proposition of my creed, which is, I repeat, 
 that all living creatures are experiments. The precise 
 formula for the Superman, ci-devant The Just Man Made 
 Perfect, has not yet been discovered. Until it is, every 
 birth is an experiment in the Great Research which 
 is being conducted by the Life Force to discover that 
 formula. 
 
 The Experiment Experimenting 
 
 And now all the modern schoolmaster abortionists will 
 rise up beaming, and say, "We quite agree. We regard 
 every child in our school as a subject for experiment. We 
 are always experimenting with them. We challenge the 
 experimental test for our system. We are continually 
 guided by our experience in our great work of moulding 
 the character of our future citizens, etc. etc. etc." I am 
 sorry to seem irreconcilable; but it is the Life Force that 
 has to make the experiment and not the schoolmaster; 
 and the Life Force for the child's purpose is in the child 
 and not in the schoolmaster. The schoolmaster is another 
 experiment; and a laboratory in which all the experiments 
 began experimenting on one another would not produce 
 intelligible results. I admit, however, that if my school- 
 
Parents and Children Ixi 
 
 masters had treated me as an experiment of the Life 
 Force: that is, if they had set me free to do as I liked sub- 
 ject only to my political rights and theirs, they could not 
 have watched the experiment very long, because the first 
 result would have been a rapid movement on my part in 
 the direction of the door, and my disappearance there- 
 through. 
 
 It may be worth inquiring where I should have gone 
 to. I should say that practically every time I should 
 have gone to a much more educational place. I should 
 have gone into the country, or into the sea, or into the 
 National Gallery, or to hear a band if there was one, or 
 to any library where there were no schoolbooks. I should 
 have read very dry and difficult books : for example, though 
 nothing would have induced me to read the budget of 
 stupid party lies that served as a text-book of history in 
 school, I remember reading Robertson's Charles V. and 
 his history of Scotland from end to end most laboriously. 
 Once, stung by the airs of a schoolfellow who alleged that 
 he had read Locke On The Human Understanding, I at- 
 tempted to read the Bible straight through, and actually 
 got to the Pauline Epistles before I broke down in disgust 
 at what seemed to me their inveterate crookedness of 
 mind. If there had been a school where children were 
 really free, I should have had to be driven out of it for 
 the sake of my health by the teachers; for the children 
 to whom a literary education can be of any use are in- 
 satiable: they win read and study far more than is good 
 for them. In fact the real difficulty is to prevent them 
 from wasting their time by reading for the sake of reading 
 and studying for the sake of studying, instead of taking 
 some trouble to find out what they really like and are 
 capable of doing some good at. Some silly person wUl 
 probably interrupt me here with the remark that many 
 children have no appetite for a literary education at all, 
 and would never open a book if they were not forced to. 
 
Ixii Parents and Children 
 
 I have known many such persons who have been forced 
 to the point of obtaining University degrees. And for all 
 the effect their literary exercises has left on them they 
 might just as well have been put on the treadmill. In 
 fact -they are actually less literate than the treadmill 
 would have left them; for they might by chance have 
 picked up and dipped into a volume of Shakespear or a 
 translation of Homer if they had not been driven to loathe 
 every famous name in literature. I should probably know 
 as much Latin as French, if Latin had not been made the 
 excuse for my school imprisonment and degradation. 
 
 Why We Loathe Learning and Love Sport 
 
 If we are to discuss the importance of art, learning, 
 and intellectual culture, the first thing we have to recog- 
 nize is that we have very little of them at present; and 
 that this little has not been produced by compulsory edu- 
 cation: nay, that the scarcity is unnatural and has been 
 produced by the violent exclusion of art and artists from 
 schools. On the other hand we have quite a considerable 
 degree of bodily culture: indeed there is a continual outcry 
 against the sacrifice of mental accomplishments to ath- 
 letics. In other words a sacrifice of the professed object 
 of compulsory education to the real object of voluntary 
 education. It is assumed that this means that people 
 prefer bodily to mental culture; but may it not mean that 
 they prefer liberty and satisfaction to coercion and pri- 
 vation. Why is it that people who have been taught 
 Shakespear as a school subject loathe his plays and cannot 
 by any means be persuaded ever to open his works after 
 they escape from school, whereas there is still, 300 years 
 after his death, a wide and steady sale for his works to 
 people who read his plays as plays, and not as task work? 
 If Shakespear, or for that matter, Newton and Leibnitz, 
 are allowed to find their readers and students they will 
 
Parents and Children Ixiii 
 
 find them. If their works are annotated and paraphrased 
 by dullards, and the annotations and paraphrases forced 
 on all young people by imprisonment and flogging and 
 scolding, there will not be a single man of letters or higher 
 matheniatician the more in the country: on the contrary 
 there will be less, as so many potential lovers of literature 
 and mathematics will have been incurably prejudiced 
 against them. Everyone who is conversant with the class 
 in which child imprisonment and compulsory schooling 
 is carried out to the final extremity of the university de- 
 gree knows that its scholastic culture is a sham; that it 
 knows little about literature or art and a great deal about 
 point-to-point races; and that the village cobbler, who 
 has never read a page of Plato, and is admittedly a dan- 
 gerously ignorant man politically, is nevertheless a Soc- 
 rates compared to the classically educated gentlemen who 
 discuss politics in country houses at election time (and 
 at no other time) after their day's earnest and skilful 
 shooting. Think of the years and years of weary torment 
 the women of the piano-possessing class have been forced 
 to spend over the keyboard, fingering scales. How many 
 of them could be bribed to attend a pianoforte recital 
 by a great player, though they will rise from sick beds 
 rather than miss Ascot or Goodwood? 
 
 Another familiar fact that teaches the same lesson is 
 that many women who have voluntarily attained a high 
 degree of culture cannot add up their own housekeeping 
 books, though their education in simple arithmetic was 
 compulsory, whereas their higher education has been 
 wholly voluntary. Everywhere we find the same result. 
 The imprisonment, the beating, the taming and laming, the 
 breaking of young spirits, the arrest of development, the 
 atrophy of all inhibitive power except the power of fear, 
 are real: the education is sham. Those who have been 
 taught most know least. 
 
Ixiv Parents and Children 
 
 Antichrist 
 
 Among the worst effects of the unnatural segregation of 
 children in schools and the equally unnatural constant as- 
 sociation of them with adults in the family is the utter 
 defeat of the vital element in Christianity. Christ stands 
 in the world for that intuition of the highest humanity 
 that we, being members one of another, must not com- 
 plain, must not scold, must not strike, nor revile nor per- 
 secute nor revenge nor punish. Now family life and school 
 life are, as far as the moral training of children is concerned, 
 nothing but the deliberate inculcation of a routine of com- 
 plaint, scolding, punishment, persecution, and revenge as 
 the natural and only possible way of dealing with evil or 
 inconvenience. "Aint nobody to be whopped for this 
 here.?" exclaimed Sam Weller when he saw his employer's 
 name written up on a stage coach, and conceived the phe- 
 nomenon as an insult which reflected on himself. This 
 exclamation of Sam WeUer is at once the negation of 
 Christianity and the beginning and the end of current 
 morality; and so it will remain as long as the family and 
 the school persist as we know them : that is, as long as the 
 rights of children are so utterly denied that nobody will 
 even take the trouble to ascertain what they are, and com- 
 ing of age is like the turning of a convict into the street 
 after twenty-one years penal servitude. Indeed it is worse; 
 for the convict may have learnt before his conviction how 
 to live in freedom and may remember how to set about it, 
 however lamed his powers of freedom may have become 
 through disuse; but the child knows no other way of life 
 but the slave's way. Born free, as Rousseau says, he has 
 been laid hands on by slaves from the moment of his birth 
 and brought up as a slave. How is he, when he is at last 
 set free, to be anything else than the slave he actually 
 is, clamoring for war, for the lash, for police, prisons, and 
 scaffolds in a wild panic of delusion that without these 
 
Parents and Children Ixv 
 
 things he is lost. The grown-up Englishman is to the end 
 of his days a badly brought-up child, beyond belief quar- 
 relsome, petulant, selfish, destructive, and cowardly: 
 afraid that the Germans will come and enslave him; that 
 the burglar will come and rob him; that the bicycle or 
 motor car will run over him; that the smallpox will attack 
 him; and that the devil will run away with him and empty 
 him out like a sack of coals on a blazing fire unless his 
 nurse or his parents or his schoolmaster or his bishop or 
 his judge or his army or his navy will do something to 
 frighten these bad things away. And this Englishman, 
 without the moral courage of a louse, will risk his neck for 
 fun fifty times every winter in the hunting field, and at 
 Badajos sieges and the like will ram his head into a hole 
 bristling with sword blades rather than be beaten in the 
 one department in which he has been brought up to con- 
 sult his own honor. As a Sportsman (and war is funda- 
 mentally the sport of hunting and fighting the most 
 dangerous of the beasts of prey) he feels free. He will 
 tell you himself that the true sportsman is never a snob, a 
 coward, a duffer, a cheat, a thief, or a liar. Curious, is it 
 not, that he has not the same confidence in other sorts of 
 man? 
 
 And even sport is losing its freedom. Soon everybody 
 wiU be schooled, mentally and physically, from the cradle 
 to the end of the term of adult compulsory military serv- 
 ice, and finally of compulsory civil service lasting until 
 the age of superannuation. Always more schooling, more 
 compulsion. We are to be cured by an excess of the dose 
 that has poisoned us. Satan is to cast out Satan.. 
 
 Under the Whip 
 
 Clearly this will not do. We must reconcile education 
 with liberty. We must find out some means of making 
 men workers and, if need be, warriors, without making 
 
Ixvi Parents and Children 
 
 theia slaves. We must cultivate the noble virtues that 
 have their root in pride. Now no schoolmaster will teach 
 these any more than a prison governor will teach his pris- 
 oners how to mutiny and escape. Self-preservation forces 
 him to break the spirit that revolts against him, and to 
 inculcate submission, even to obscene assault, as a duty. 
 A bishop once had the hardihood to say that he would 
 rather see England free than England sober. Nobody has 
 yet dared to say that he would rather see an England of 
 ignoramuses than an England of cowards and slaves. 
 And if anyone did, it would be necessary to point out that 
 the antithesis is not a practical one, as we have got at 
 present an England of ignoramuses who are also cowards 
 and slaves, and extremely proud of it at that, because in 
 school they are taught to submit, with what they ridicu- 
 lously call Oriental fatalism (as if any Oriental has ever 
 submitted more helplessly and sheepishly to robbery and 
 oppression than we Occidentals do), to be driven day after 
 day into compounds and set to the tasks they loathe by 
 the men they hate and fear, as if this were the inevitable 
 destiny of mankind. And naturally, when they grow up, 
 they helplessly exchange the prison of the school for the 
 prison of the mine or the workshop or t the office, and 
 drudge along stupidly and miserably, with just enough 
 gregarious instinct to turn furiously on any intelligent 
 person who proposes a change. It would be quite easy 
 to make England a paradise, according to our present 
 ideas, in a few years. There is no mystery about it: the 
 way has been pointed out over and over again. The 
 difficulty is not the way but the will. And we have no 
 will because the first thing done with us in childhood was 
 to break our will. Can anything be more disgusting than 
 the spectacle of a nation reading the biography of Glad- 
 stone and gloating over the account of how he was flogged 
 at Eton, two of his schoolfellows being compelled to hold 
 him down whilst he was flogged. Not long ago a public 
 
Parents and Children Ixvii 
 
 body in England had to deal with the case of a school- 
 master who, conceiving himself insulted by the smoking 
 of a cigaret against his orders by a pupil eighteen years 
 old, proposed to flog him publicly as a satisfaction to what 
 he called his honor and authority. I had intended to give 
 the particulars of this case, but find the drudgery of re- 
 peating such stuflE too sickening, and the effect unjust to 
 a man who was doing only what others all over the coun- 
 try were doing as part of the established routine of what 
 is called education. The astounding part of it was the 
 manner ia which the person to whom this outrage on 
 decency seemed quite proper and natural claimed to be 
 a functionary of high character, and had his claim al- 
 lowed. In Japan he would hardly have been allowed the 
 privilege of committing suicide. What is to be said of a 
 profession in which such obscenities are made points of 
 honor, or of institutions in which they are an accepted 
 part of the daily routine? Wholesome people would not 
 argue about the taste of such nastinesses : they would spit 
 them out; but we are tainted with flagellomania from 
 our childhood. When wUl we realize that the fact that 
 we can become accustomed to anything, however dis- 
 gusting at first, makes it necessary for us to examine 
 carefully everything we have become accustomed to? 
 Before motor cars became common, necessity had accus- 
 tomed us to a foulness in our streets which would ha /a 
 horrified us had the street been our drawing-room carpet. 
 Before long we shall be as particular about our streets as 
 we now are about our carpets; and their condition in the 
 nineteenth century will become as forgotten and incred- 
 ible as the condition of the corridors of palaces and the 
 courts of castles was as late as the eighteenth century. 
 This foulness, we can plead, was imposed on us as a ne- 
 cessity by the use of horses and of huge retinues; but 
 flogging has never been so imposed: it has always been a 
 vice, craved for on any pretext by those depraved by it. 
 
Ixviii Parents and Children 
 
 Boys were flogged when criminals were hanged, to impress 
 the awful warning on them. Boys were flogged at bound- 
 aries, to impress the boundaries on their memory. Other 
 methods and other punishments were always available: 
 the choice of this one betrayed the sensual impulse which 
 makes the practice an abomination. But when its vicious- 
 ness made it customary, it was practised and tolerated 
 on all hands by people who were innocent of anything 
 worse than stupidity, ill temper, and inability to discover 
 other methods of maintaining order than those they had 
 always seen practised and approved of. From children 
 and animals it extended to slaves and criminals. In the 
 days of Moses it was limited to 39 lashes. In the 
 early nineteenth century it had become an open madness: 
 soldiers were sentenced to a thousand lashes for trifling 
 offences, with the result (among others less.mentionable) 
 that the Iron Duke of Wellington complained that it was 
 impossible to get an order obeyed in the British army 
 except in two or three crack regiments. Such frantic 
 excesses of this disgusting neurosis provoked a reaction 
 against it; but the clamor for it by depraved persons never 
 ceased, and was tolerated by a nation trained to it from 
 childhood in the schools until last year (1913), when in 
 what must be described as a paroxysm of sexual excite- 
 ment provoked by the agitation concerning the -White 
 Sia.ve Traffic (the purely commercial nature of which I 
 was prevented from exposing on the stage by the Censor- 
 ship twenty years ago) the Government yielded to an 
 outcry for flagellation led by the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, and passed an Act under which a judge can sentence 
 a man to be flogged to the utmost extremity with any 
 iostrument usable for such a purpose that he cares to 
 prescribe. Such an Act is not a legislative phenomenon 
 but a psychopathic one. Its effect on the White Slave 
 Traffic was, of course, to distract public attention from 
 its real cause and from the people who really profit by it 
 
Parents and Children Ixix 
 
 to imaginary "foreign scoundrels," and to secure a monop- 
 oly of its organization for women. 
 
 And all this evil is made possible by the schoolmaster 
 with his cane and birch, by the parents getting rid as best 
 they can of the nuisance of children making noise and 
 mischief in the house, and by the denial to children of the 
 elementary rights of human beings. 
 
 The first man who enslaved and "broke iq" an animal 
 with a whip would have invented the explosion engine 
 instead could he have foreseen the curse he was laying on 
 his race. For men and women learnt thereby to enslave 
 and break in their children by the same means. These 
 children, grown up, knew no other methods of training. 
 Finally the evil that was done for gain by the greedy was 
 refined on and done for pleasure by the lustful. Flogging 
 has become a pleasure purchasable in our streets, and 
 inhibition a grown-up habit that children play at. "Go 
 and see what baby is doing; and tell him he mustnt" is 
 the last word of the nursery; and the grimmest aspect of 
 it is that it was first formulated by a comic paper as a 
 capital joke. 
 
 Technical Instruction 
 
 Technical instruction tempts to violence (as a short 
 cut) more than liberal education. The sailor in Mr 
 Rudyard Kipling's Captains Courageous, teaching the 
 boy the names of the ship's tackle with a rope's end, does 
 not disgust us as our schoolmasters do, especially as the 
 boy was a spoiled boy. But an unspoiled boy would not 
 have needed that drastic medicine. Technical training 
 may be as tedious as learning to skate or to play the piano 
 or violin; but it is the price one must pay to achieve cer- 
 tain desirable results or necessary ends. It is a monstrous 
 thing to force a child to learn Latin or Greek or mathe- 
 matics on the ground that they are an indispensable gym- 
 nastic for the mental powers. It would be monstrous 
 
Ixx Parents and Children 
 
 even if it were true; for there is no labor that might not 
 be imposed on a child or an adult on the same pretext; 
 but as a glance at the average products of our public 
 school and university education shews that it is not true, 
 it need not trouble us. But it is a fact that ignorance of 
 Latin and Greek and mathematics closes certain careers 
 to men (I do not mean artificial, unnecessary, noxious 
 careers like those of the commercial schoolmaster). Lan- 
 guages, even dead ones, have their uses; and, as it seems 
 to many of us, mathematics have their uses. They will 
 always be learned by people who want to learn them; 
 and people will always want to learn them as long as they 
 are of any importance in life: indeed the want will survive 
 their importance: superstition is nowhere stronger than 
 in the field of obsolete acquirements. And they will never 
 be learnt fruitfully by people who do not want to learn 
 them either for their own sake or for use in necessary work. 
 There is no harder schoolmaster than experience; and 
 yet experience fails^to teach where there is no desire to 
 learn. 
 
 Stni, one must not begin to apply this generalization 
 too early. And this brings me to an important factor in 
 the case: the factor of evolution. 
 
 Docility and Dependence 
 
 If anyone, impressed by my view that the rights of a 
 child are precisely those of an adult, proceeds to treat a 
 child as if it were an adult, he (or she) will find that though 
 the plan will work much better at some points than the 
 usual plan, at others it will not work at all; and this dis- 
 covery may provoke him to turn back from the whole 
 conception of children's rights with a jest at the expense 
 of bachelors' and old maids' children. In dealing with 
 children what is needed is not logic but sense. There is 
 no logical reason why young persons should be allowed 
 
Parents and Children Ixxi 
 
 greater control of their property the day after they are 
 twenty-one than the day before it. There is no logical 
 reason why I, who strongly object to an adult standing 
 over a boy of ten with a Latin grammar, and saying, 
 "you must learn this, whether you want to or not," 
 should nevertheless be quite prepared to stand over a 
 boy of five with the multiplication table or a copy book 
 or a code of elementary good manners, and practice on 
 his docility to make him learn them. And there is no log- 
 ical reason why I should do for a child a great many little 
 offices, some of them troublesome and disagreeable, which 
 I should not do for a boy twice its age, or support a boy 
 or girl when I would unhesitatingly throw an adult on 
 his own resources. But there are practical reasons, and 
 sensible reasons, and affectionate reasons for all these 
 illogicalities. Children do not want to be treated alto- 
 gether as adults: such treatment terrifies them and over- 
 burdens them with responsibility. In truth, very few 
 adults care to be called on for independence and origi- 
 nality: they also are bewildered and terrified in the absence 
 of precedents and precepts and commandments; but 
 modern Democracy allows them a sanctioning and can- 
 celling power if they are capable of using it, which chil- 
 dren are not. To treat a child wholly as an adult would 
 be to mock and destroy it. Infantile docility and juvenile 
 dependence are, like death, a product of Natural Selection; 
 and though there is no viler crime than to abuse them, 
 yet there is no greater cruelty than to ignore them. I 
 have complained sufficiently of what I suffered through 
 the process of assault, imprisonment, and compulsory les- 
 sons that taught me nothing, which are called my school- 
 ing. But I could say a good deal also about the things 
 I was not taught and should have been taught, not to 
 mention the things I was allowed to do which I should 
 not have been allowed to do. I have no recollection of 
 being taught to read or write; so I presume I was born with 
 
Ixxii Parents and Children 
 
 both faculties; but many people seem to have bitter recol- 
 lections of being forced reluctantly to acquire them. And 
 though I have the uttermost contempt for a teacher so 
 ill mannered and incompetent as to be unable to make a 
 child learn to read and write without also making it cry, 
 still I am prepared to admit that I had rather have been 
 compelled to learn to read and write with tears by an 
 incompetent and ill mannered person than left in igno- 
 rance. Reading, writing, and enough arithmetic to use 
 money honestly and accurately, together with the rudi- 
 ments of law and order, become necessary conditions of a 
 child's liberty before it can appreciate the importance of 
 its liberty, or foresee that these accomplishments are 
 worth acquiring. Nature has provided for this by evolv- 
 ing the instinct of docility. Children are very docile: 
 they have a sound intuition that they must do what they 
 are told or perish. And adults have an intuition, equally 
 sound, that they must take advantage of this docility to 
 teach children how to live properly or the chQdren will 
 not survive. The difficidty is to know where to stop. To 
 illustrate this, let us consider the main danger of childish 
 docility and parental officiousness. 
 
 The Abuse of Docility 
 
 Docility may survive as a lazy habit long after it has 
 ceased to be a beneficial instinct. If you catch a child 
 when it is young enough to be instinctively docile, and 
 keep it in a condition of unremitted tutelage under the 
 nurserymaid, the governess, the preparatory school, the 
 secondary school, and the university, until it is an adult, 
 you will produce, not a self-reliant, free, fully matured 
 human being, but a grown-up schoolboy or schoolgirl, 
 capable of nothing in the way of original or independent 
 action except outbursts of naughtiness in the women and 
 blackguardism in the men. That is exactly what we get 
 
Parents and Children Ixxiii 
 
 at present in our ricli and consequently governing classes: 
 they pass from juvenility to senility without ever touching 
 maturity except in body. The classes which cannot afiFord 
 this sustained tutelage are notably more self-reliant and 
 grown-up: an office boy of fifteen is often more of a man 
 than a university student of twenty. Unfortunately this 
 precocity is disabled by poverty, ignorance, narrowness, 
 and a hideous power of living without art or love or beauty 
 and being rather proud of it. The poor never escape from 
 servitude: their docility is preserved by their slavery. 
 And so all become the prey of the greedy, the selfish, the 
 domineering, the unscrupulous, the predatory. If here 
 and there an individual refuses to be docile, ten docile 
 persons wUl beat him or lock him up or shoot him or hang 
 him at the bidding of his oppressors and their own. The 
 crux of the whole difficulty about parents, schoolmasters, 
 priests, absolute monarchs, and despots of every sort, is 
 the tendency to abuse natural docility. A nation should 
 always be healthily rebellious; but the king or prime min- 
 ister has yet to be found who will make trouble by culti- 
 vating that side of the national spirit. A child should 
 begin to assert itself early, and shift for itself more and 
 more not only in washing and dressing itself, but in opin- 
 ions and conduct; yet as nothing is so exasperating and 
 so unlovable as an uppish child, it is useless to expect par- 
 ents and schoolmasters to inculcate this uppishness. Such 
 unamiable precepts as Always contradict an authoritative 
 statement. Always return a blow. Never lose a chance of 
 a good fight. When you are scolded for a mistake ask the 
 person who scolds you whether he or she supposes you 
 did it on purpose, and follow the question with a blow 
 or an insult or some other unmistakable expression of 
 resentment. Remember that the progress of the world 
 depends on your knowing better than your elders, are 
 just as important as those of The Sermon on the Mount; 
 but no one has yet seen them written up in letters of gold 
 
Ixxiv Parents and Children 
 
 in a schoolroom or nursery. The child is taught to be 
 kind, to be respectful, to be quiet, not to answer back, to 
 be truthful when its elders want to find out anything from 
 it, to lie when the truth would shock or hurt its elders, to 
 be above all things obedient, and to be seen and not heard. 
 Here we have two sets of precepts, each warranted to spoil 
 a child hopelessly if the other be omitted. Unfortunately 
 we do not allow fair play between them. The rebellious, 
 intractable, aggressive, selfish set provoke a corrective 
 resistance, and do not pretend to high moral or religious 
 sanctions; and they are never urged by grown-up people 
 on young people. They are therefore more in danger of 
 neglect or suppression than the other set, which have all 
 the adults, all the laws, all the religions on their side. 
 How is the child to be secured its due share of both bodies 
 of doctrine? 
 
 The Schoolboy and the Homeboy 
 
 ' In practice what happens is that parents notice that 
 boys brought up at home become mollycoddles, or prigs, 
 or dufiEers, unable to take care of themselves. They see 
 that boys should learn to rough it a little and to mix 
 with children of their own age. This is natural enough. 
 When you have preached at and punished a boy until he 
 is a moral cripple, you are as much hampered by him as 
 by a physical cripple; and as you do not intend to have 
 him on your hands all your life, and are generally rather 
 impatient for the day when he will earn his own living 
 and leave you to attend to yourself, you sooner or later 
 begin to talk to him about the need for self-reliance, learn- 
 ing to think, and so forth, with the result that your vic- 
 tim, bewildered by your inconsistency, concludes that 
 there is no use trying to please you, and falls into an 
 attitude of sulky resentment. Which is an additional 
 inducement to pack him ofif to school. 
 
Parents and Children Ixxv 
 
 Vin school, he finds himself in a dual world, under two 
 dispensations. There is the world of the boys, where the 
 point of honor is to be untameable, always ready to fight, 
 ruthless in taking the conceit out of anyone who ventures 
 to give himself airs of superior knowledge or taste, and 
 generally to take Lucifer for one's model. And there is 
 the world of the masters, the world of discipline, submis- 
 sion, diligence, obedience, and continual and shameless 
 assumption of moral and intellectual authori^^^ Thus 
 the schoolboy hears both sides, and is so far better off 
 than the homebred boy who hears only one. But the 
 two sides are not fairly presented. They are presented as 
 good and evil, as vice and virtue, as villainy and heroism. 
 The boy feels mean and cowardly when he obeys, and self- 
 ish and rascally when he disobeys. He looses his moral 
 courage just as he comes to hate books and languages. 
 In the end, John Ruskin, tied so close to his mother's 
 apron-string that he did not escape even when he went to 
 Oxford, and John Stuart Mill, whose father ought to have 
 been prosecuted for laying his son's childhood waste with 
 lessons, were superior, as products of training, to our 
 schoolboys. They were very conspicuously superior in 
 moral courage; and though they did not distinguish them- 
 selves at cricket and football, they had quite as much 
 physical hardihood as any civilized man needs. But it is 
 to be observed that Ruskin's parents were wise people 
 who gave John a full share in their own life, and put up 
 with his presence both at home and abroad when they 
 must sometimes have been very weary of him; and Mill, 
 as it happens, was deliberately educated to challenge all 
 the most sacred institutions of his country. The house- 
 holds they were brought up in were no more average 
 households than a Montessori school is an average school. 
 
Ixxvi Parents and Children 
 
 The Comings of Age of Children 
 
 All this inculcated adult docility, which wrecks every 
 civilization as it is wrecking ours, is inhuman and un- 
 natural. We must reconsider our institution of the Com- 
 ing of Age, which is too late for some purposes, and too 
 early for others. There should be a series of Coming of 
 Ages for every individual. The mammals have their first 
 coming of age when they are weaned; and it is noteworthy 
 that this rather cruel and selfish operation on the part of 
 the parent has to be performed resolutely, with claws and 
 teeth; for your little mammal does not want to be weaned, 
 and yields only to a pretty rough assertion of the right 
 of the parent to be relieved of the child as soon as the 
 child is old enough to bear the separation. The same 
 thing occurs with children: they hang on to the mother's 
 apron-string and the father's coat tails as long as they 
 can, often baffling those sensitive parents who know that 
 children should think for themselves and fend for them- 
 selves, but are too kind to throw them on their own re- 
 sources with the ferocity of the domestic cat. The child 
 should have its first coming of age when it is weaned, 
 another when it can talk, another when it can walk, 
 another when it can dress itself without assistance; and 
 when it can read, write, count money, and pass an ex- 
 amination in going a simple errand involving a purchase 
 and a journey by rail or other public method of locomotion, 
 it should have quite a majority. At present the children 
 of laborers are soon mobile and able to shift for them- 
 selves, whereas it is possible to find grown-up women in 
 the rich classes who are actually afraid to take a walk in 
 the streets unattended and unprotected. It is true that 
 this is a superstition from the time when a retinue was 
 part of the state of persons of quality, and the unattended 
 person was supposed to be a common person of no quality, 
 earning a living; but this has now become so absurd that 
 
Parents and Children Ixxvii 
 
 children and young women are no longer told why they 
 are forbidden to go about alone, and have to be persuaded 
 that the streets are dangerous places, which of course 
 they are; but people who are not educated to live danger- 
 ously have only half a life, and are more likely to die mis- 
 erably after all than those who have taken all the common 
 risks of freedom from their childhood onward as matters 
 of course. 
 
 The Conflict of Wills 
 
 The world wags in spite of its schools and its families 
 because both schools and families are mostly very largely 
 anarchic: parents and schoolmasters are good-natured or 
 weak or lazy; and children are docile and affectionate and 
 very shortwinded in their fits of naughtiness; and so most 
 families slummock along and muddle through until the 
 children cease to be children. In the few cases when the 
 parties are energetic and determined, the child is crushed 
 or the parent is reduced to a cipher, as the case may be. 
 When the opposed forces are neither of them strong enough 
 to annihilate the other, there is serious trouble: that is 
 how we get those feuds between parent and child which 
 recur to our memo'ry so ironically when we hear people 
 sentimentalizing about natural affection. We even get 
 tragedies; for there is nothing so tragic to contemplate or 
 so devastating to suffer as the oppression of will without 
 conscience; and the whole tendency of our family and 
 school system is to set the will of the parent and the school 
 despot above conscience as something that must be de- 
 ferred to abjectly and absolutely for its own sake. 
 
 The strongest, fiercest force in nature is human will. 
 It is the highest organization we know of the will that has 
 created the whole universe. Now all honest civilization, 
 religion, law, and convention is an attempt to keep this 
 force within beneficent bounds. What corrupts civiliza- 
 tion, religion, law, and convention (and they are at pres- 
 
Ixxviii Parents and Children 
 
 ent pretty nearly as corrupt as they dare) is the constant 
 attempts made by the wills of individuals and classes to 
 thwart the wills and enslave the powers of other individuals 
 and classes. The powers of the parent and the school- 
 master, and of their public analogues the lawgiver and 
 the judge, become instruments of tyranny in the hands 
 of those who are too narrow-minded to understand law and 
 exercise judgment; and in their hands (with us they mostly 
 fall into such hands) law becomes tyranny. And what is 
 a tyrant.? Quite simply a person who says to another 
 person, young or old, "You shall do as I tell you; you shall 
 make what I want; you shall profess my creed; you shall 
 have no wUl of your own; and your powers shall be at the 
 disposal of my will." It has come to this at last: that the 
 phrase "she has a will of her own," or "he has a will of 
 his own" has come to denote a person of exceptional 
 obstinacy and self-assertion. And even persons of good 
 natural disposition, if brought up to expect such defer- 
 ence, are roused to unreasoning fury, and sometimes to 
 the commission of atrocious crimes, by the slightest chal- 
 lenge to their authority. Thus a laborer may be dirty, 
 drunken, untruthful, slothful, untrustworthy in every 
 way without exhausting the indulgence of the country 
 house. But let him dare to be "disrespectful" and he is 
 a lost man, though he be the cleanest, soberest, most 
 diligent, most veracious, most trustworthy man in the 
 county. Dickens's instinct for detecting social cankers 
 never served him better than when he shewed us Mrs Heep 
 teaching her son to "be umble," knowing that if he carried 
 out that precept he might be pretty well anything else 
 he liked. The maintenance of deference to our wills be- 
 comes a mania which will carry the best of us to any ex- 
 tremity. We will allow a village of Egyptian fellaheen or 
 Indian tribesmen to live the lowest life they please among 
 themselves without molestation; but let one of them slay 
 an Englishman or even strike him on the strongest provo- 
 
Parents and Children Ixxix 
 
 cation, and straightway we go stark mad, burning and 
 destroying, shooting and shelling, flogging and hanging, 
 if only such survivors as we may leave are thoroughly 
 cowed in the presence of a man with a white face. In 
 the 'committee room of a local council or city corporation, 
 the humblest employees of the committee find defenders 
 if they complain of harsh treatment. Gratuities are voted, 
 indulgences and holidays are pleaded for, delinquencies are 
 excused in the most sentimental manner provided only 
 the employee, however patent a hypocrite or incorrigible 
 a slacker, is hat in hand. But let the most obvious measure 
 of justice be demanded by the secretary of a Trade Union 
 in terms which omit all expressions of subservience, and 
 it is with the greatest difficulty that the cooler-headed 
 can defeat angry motions that the letter be thrown into 
 the waste paper basket and the committee proceed to 
 the next business. 
 
 The Demagogue's Opportunity 
 
 And the employee has in him the same fierce impulse 
 to impose his will without respect for the will of others. 
 Democracy is in practice nothing but a device for cajoling 
 from him the vote he refuses to arbitrary authority. He 
 will not vote for Coriolanus; but when an experienced 
 demagogue comes along and says, "Sir: you are the dic- 
 tator: the voice of the people is the voice of God; and I 
 am only your very humble servant," he says at once, 
 "All right: tell me what to dictate," and is presently en- 
 slaved more effectually with his own silly consent than 
 Coriolanus would ever have enslaved him without asking 
 his leave. And the trick by which the demagogue defeats 
 Coriolanus is played on him in his turn by his inferiors. 
 Everywhere we see the cunning succeeding in the world 
 by seeking a rich or powerful master and practising on his 
 lust for subservience. The political adventurer who gets 
 
Ixxx Parents and Children 
 
 into parliament by offering himself to the poor voter, 
 not as his representative but as his will-less soulless "del- 
 egate," is himself the dupe of a clever wife who repudiates 
 Votes for Women, knowing well that whilst the man is 
 master, the man's mistress will rule. Uriah Heep may 
 be a crawling creature; but his crawling takes him upstairs. 
 
 Thus does the selfishness of the will turn on itself, and 
 obtain by flattery what it cannot seize by open force. 
 Democracy becomes the latest trick of tyranny: "woman- 
 liness" becomes the latest wile of prostitution. 
 
 Between parent and child the same conflict wages and 
 the same destruction of character ensues. Parents set 
 themselves to bend the will of their children to their own 
 — to break their stubborn spirit, as they call it — with the 
 ruthlessness of Grand Inquisitors. Cunning, unscrupu- 
 lous children learn all the arts of the sneak in circumventing 
 tyranny: children of better character are cruelly distressed 
 and more or less lamed for life by it. 
 
 Our Quarrelsomeness 
 
 As between adults, we find a general quarrelsomeness 
 which makes political reform as impossible to most Eng- 
 lishmen as to hogs. Certain sections of the nation get 
 cured of this disability. University men, sailors, and pol- 
 iticians are comparatively free from it, because the com- 
 munal life of the University, the fact that in a ship a man 
 must either learn to consider others or else go overboard 
 or into irons, and the habit of working on committees 
 and ceasing to expect more of one's own way than is in- 
 cluded in the greatest common measure of the committee, 
 educate the will socially. But no one who has ever had 
 to guide a committee of ordinary private Englishmen 
 through their first attempts at collective action, in com- 
 mittee or otherwise, can retain any illusions as to the ap- 
 palling effects on our national manners and character of 
 
Parents and Children Ixxxi 
 
 the organization of the home and the school as petty tyr- 
 annies, and the absence of all teaching of self-respect and 
 training in self-assertion. Bullied and ordered about, the 
 Englishman obeys like a sheep, evades like a knave, or 
 tries to murder his oppressor. Merely criticized or opposed 
 in committee, or invited to consider anybody's views but 
 his own, he feels personally insulted and wants to resign 
 or leave the room unless he is apologized to. And his 
 panic and bewilderment when he sees that the older hands 
 at the work have no patience with him and do not intend 
 to treat him as infallible, are pitiable as far as they are 
 anything but ludicrous. That is what comes of not being 
 taught to consider other people's wills, and left to submit 
 to them or to over-ride them as if they were the winds and 
 the weather. Such a state of mind is incompatible not 
 only with the democratic introduction of high civilization, 
 but with the comprehension and E"~''-/e-"ance of such 
 civilized institutions as have been introduced by benevo- 
 lent and intelligent despots and aristocrats. 
 
 We Must Reform Society before we can 
 Reform Ourselves 
 
 When we come to the positive problem of what to do 
 with children if we are to give up the established plan, 
 we find the difficulties so great that we begin to under- 
 stand why so many people who detest the system and 
 look back with loathing on their own schooldays, must 
 helplessly send their children to the very schools they 
 themselves were sent to, because there is no alternative 
 except abandoning the children to undisciplined vaga- 
 bondism, ^an in society must do as everybody else does 
 in his class : only fools and romantic novices imagine that 
 freedom is a mere matter of the readiness of the individual 
 to snap his fingers at convention. It is true that most 
 
Ixxxii Parents and Children 
 
 of us live in a condition of quite unnecessary inhibition, 
 wearing ugly and uncomfortable clothes, making ourselves 
 and other people miserable by the heathen horrors of 
 mourning, staying away from the theatre because we 
 cannot afford the stalls and are ashamed to go to the 
 pit, and in dozens of other ways enslaving ourselves when 
 there are comfortable alternatives open to us without 
 any real drawbacks. The contemplation of these petty 
 slaveries, and of the triumphant ease with which sensible 
 people throw them off, creates an impression that if we 
 only take Johnson's advice to free our minds from cant, 
 we can achieve freedon^J But if we all freed our minds 
 from cant we should find that for the most part we should 
 have to go on doing the necessary work of the world ex- 
 actly as we did it before until we organized new and free 
 methods of doing it. Many people believed in secondary 
 co-education (boys and girls taught together) before 
 schools like Bedales were founded: indeed the practice 
 was common enough in elementary schools and in Scot- 
 land; but their belief did not help them until Bedales and 
 St George's were organized; and there are still not nearly 
 enough co-educational schools in existence to accommo- 
 date all the children of the parents who believe in co-edu- 
 cation up to university age, even if they could always 
 afford the fees of these exceptional schools. It may be 
 edifying to tell a duke that our public schools are all wrong 
 in their constitution and methods, or a costermonger that 
 children should be treated as in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister 
 instead of as they are treated at the elementary school at 
 the corner of his street; but what are the duke and the 
 coster to do.? Neither of them has any effective choice 
 in the matter: their children must either go to the schools 
 that are, or to no school at all. And as the duke thinks 
 with reason that his son will be a lout or a milksop or a 
 prig if he does not go to school, and the coster knows that 
 his son wUl become an illiterate hooligan if he is left t» 
 
Parents and Children Ixxxiii 
 
 the streets, there is no real alternative for either of them. 
 Child life must be socially organized: no parent, rich or 
 poor, can choose institutions that do not exist; and the 
 private enterprise of individual schoolmasters appealing 
 to a group of well-to-do parents, though it may shew what 
 can be done by enthusiasts with new methods, cannot 
 touch the mass of our children. For the average parent 
 or child nothing is really available except the established 
 practice; and this is what makes it so important that the 
 established practice should be a sound one, and so useless 
 for clever individuals to disparage it unless they can organ- 
 ize an alternative practice and make it, too, general. 
 
 The Pursuit of Manners 
 
 If you cross-examine the duke and the coster, you will 
 find that they are not concerned for the scholastic attain- 
 ments of their children. Ask the duke whether he could 
 pass the standard examination of twelve-year-old children 
 in elementary schools, and he will admit, with an entirely 
 placid smile, that he would almost certainly be ignomin- 
 iously plucked. And he is so little ashamed of or dis- 
 advantaged by his condition that he is not prepared to 
 spend an hour in remedying it. The coster may resent 
 the inquiry instead of being amused by it; but his answer, 
 if true, will be the same. What they both want for their 
 children is the communal training, the apprenticeship to 
 society, the lessons in holding one's own among people of 
 all sorts with whom one is not, as in the home, on privileged 
 terms. These can be acquired only by "mixing with the 
 world," no matter how wicked the world is. No parent 
 cares twopence whether his children can write Latin 
 hexameters or repeat the dates of the accession of all the 
 English monarchs since the Conqueror; but all parents 
 are earnestly anxious about the manners of their children. 
 Better Claude Duval than Kaspar Hauser. Laborers who 
 
Ixxxiv Parents and Children 
 
 are contemptuously anti-clerical in their opinions will send 
 their daughters to the convent school because the nuns 
 teach them some sort of gentleness of speech and behavior. 
 And peers who tell you that our public schools are rotten 
 through and through, and that our Universities ought to 
 be razed to the foundations, send their sons to Eton and 
 Oxford, Harrow and Cambridge, not only because there 
 is nothing else to be done, but because these places, though 
 they turn out blackguards and ignoramuses and boobies 
 galore, turn them out with the habits and manners of the 
 society they belong to. Bad as those manners are in 
 many respects, they are better than no manners at all. 
 And no individual or family can possibly teach them. 
 They can be acquired only by living in an organized com- 
 munity in which they are traditional. 
 
 Thus we see that there are reasons for the segregation 
 of children even in families where the great reason: 
 namely, that children are nuisances to adults, does not 
 press very hardly, as, for instance, in the houses of the 
 very poor, who can send their children to play in the 
 streets, or the houses of the very rich, which are so large 
 that the children's quarters can be kept out of the parents' 
 way like the servants' quarters. 
 
 Not too much Wind on the Heath, Brother 
 
 What, then, is to be done.'' For the present, unfortu- 
 nately, little except propagating the conception of Chil- 
 dren's Rights. Only the achievement of economic equality 
 through Socialism can make it possible to deal thoroughly 
 with the question from the point of view of the total 
 interest of the community, which must always consist 
 of grown-up children. Yet economic equality, like all 
 simple and obvious arrangements, seems impossible to 
 people brought up as children are now. Still, something 
 can be done even within class limits. Large communities 
 
Parents and Children Ixxxv 
 
 of children of the same class are possible today; and 
 voluntary organization of outdoor life for children has 
 already begun in Boy Scouting and excursions of one 
 kind or another. The discovery that anything, even school 
 life, is better for the child than home life, will become an 
 over-ridden hobby; and we shall presently be told by our 
 faddists that anything, even camp life, is better than school 
 life. Some blundering beginnings of this are already per- 
 ceptible. There is a movement for making our British 
 children into priggish little barefooted vagabonds, all 
 talking like that born fool George Borrow, and supposed 
 to be splendidly healthy because they would die if they 
 slept in rooms with the windows shut, or perhaps even 
 with a roof over their heads. StiU, this is a fairly healthy 
 folly; and it may do something to establish Mr Harold 
 Cox's claim of a Right to Roam as the basis of a much 
 needed law compelling proprietors of land to provide 
 plenty of gates in their fences, and to leave them unlocked 
 when there are no growing crops to be damaged nor bulls 
 to be encountered, instead of, as at present, imprisoning 
 the human race in dusty or muddy thoroughfares between 
 walls of barbed wire. 
 
 The reaction against vagabondage will come from the 
 children themselves. For them freedom will not mean the 
 expensive kind of savagery now called "the simple life." 
 Their natural disgust with the visions of cockney book 
 fanciers blowing themselves out with "the wind on the 
 heath, brother," and of anarchists who are either too 
 weak to understand that men are strong and free in 
 proportion to the social pressure they can stand and the 
 complexity of the obligations they are prepared to under- 
 take, or too strong to realize that what is freedom to them 
 may be terror and bewilderment to others, will drive them 
 back to the home and the school if these have meanwhile 
 learned the lesson that children are independent human 
 beings and have rights. 
 
Ixxxvi Parents and Children 
 
 Wanted : a Child's Magna Charta 
 
 Whether we shall presently be discussing a Juvenile 
 Magna Charta or Declaration of Rights by way of in- 
 cluding children in the Constitution is a question on which 
 I leave others to speculate. But if it could once be estab- 
 lished that a child has an adult's Right of Egress from 
 uncomfortable places and unpleasant company, and there 
 were children's lawyers to sue pedagogues and others for 
 assault and imprisonment, there would be an amazing 
 change in the behavior of schoolmasters, thp quality of 
 school books, and the amenities of school Ufe. That 
 Consciousness of Consent which, even in its present de- 
 lusive form, has enabled Democracy to oust tyrannical 
 systems in spite of all its vulgarities and stupidities and 
 rancors and ineptitudes and ignorances, would operate 
 as powerfully among children as it does now among 
 grown-ups. No doubt the pedagogue would promptly 
 turn demagogue, and woo his scholars by all the arts of 
 demagogy; but none of these arts can easily be so dis- 
 honorable or mischievous as the art of caning. And, after 
 all, if larger liberties are attached to the acquisition of 
 knowledge, and the child finds that it can no more go to 
 the seaside without a knowledge of the multiplication and 
 pence tables than it can be an astronomer without math- 
 ematics, it will learn the multiplication table, which is 
 more than it always does at present, in spite of all the can- 
 ings and keepings in. 
 
 The Pursuit of Learning 
 
 When the Pursuit of Learning comes to mean the 
 pursuit of learning by the child instead of the pursuit 
 of the child by Learning, cane in hand, the danger will be 
 precocity of the intellect, which is just as undesirable as 
 precocity of the emotions. We still have a silly habit 
 
Parents and Children Ixxxvii 
 
 of talking and thinking as if intellect were a mechanical 
 process and not a passion; and in spite of the German 
 tutors who confess openly that three out of every five of 
 the young men they coach for examinations are lamed 
 for life thereby; in spite of Dickens and his picture of 
 little Paul Dombey dying of lessons, we persist in heaping 
 on growing children and adolescent youths and maidens 
 tasks Pythagoras would have declined out of common 
 regard for his own health and common modesty as to his 
 own capacity. And this overwork is not all the effect of 
 compulsion; for the average schoolmaster does not compel 
 his scholars to learn: he only scolds and punishes them if 
 they do not, which is quite a different thing, the net effect 
 being that the school prisoners need not learn unless they 
 like. Nay, it is sometimes remarked that the school dunce 
 — meaning the one who does not like — often turns out 
 well afterwards, as if idleness were a sign of ability and 
 character. A much more sensible explanation is that the 
 so-called dunces are not exhausted before they begin the 
 serious business of life. It is said that boys will be boys; 
 and one can only add one wishes they would. Boys really 
 want to be manly, and are unfortunately encouraged 
 thoughtlessly in this very dangerous and overstraining 
 aspiration. All the people who have really worked (Her- 
 bert Spencer for instance) warn us against work as earn- 
 estly as some people warn us against drink. When learning 
 is placed on the voluntary footing of sport, the teacher 
 will find himself saying every day "Run away and play: 
 you have worked as much as is good for you." Trying to 
 make children leave school will be like trying to make 
 them go to bed; and it will be necessary to surprise them 
 with the idea that teaching is work, and that the teacher 
 is tired and must go play or rest or eat: possibilities 
 always concealed by that infamous humbug the current 
 schoolmaster, who achieves a spurious divinity and a 
 witch doctor's authority by persuading children that he 
 
Ixxxviii Parents and Children 
 
 is not human, just as ladies persuade them that they 
 have no legs. 
 
 Children and Game: a Proposal 
 
 Of the many wUd absurdities of our existing social 
 order perhaps the most grotesque is the costly and strictly 
 enforced reservation of large tracts of country as deer 
 forests and breeding grounds for pheasants whilst there 
 is so little provision of the kind made for children. I 
 have more than once thought of trying to introduce the 
 shooting of children as a sport, as the children would 
 then be preserved very carefully for ten months in the 
 year, thereby reducing their death rate far more than the 
 fusillades of the sportsmen during the other two would 
 raise it. At present the killing of a fox except by a pack 
 of foxhounds is regarded with horror; but you may and 
 do kill children in a hundred and fifty ways provided 
 you do not shoot them or set a pack of dogs on them. It 
 must be admitted that the foxes have the best of it; and 
 indeed a glance at our pheasants, our deer, and our chil- 
 dren wUl convince the most sceptical that the children 
 have decidedly the worst of it. 
 
 This much hope, however, can be extracted from the 
 present state of things. It is so fantastic, so mad, so 
 apparently impossible, that no scheme of reform need 
 ever henceforth be discredited on the ground that it is 
 fantastic or mad or apparently impossible. It is the sen- 
 sible schemes, unfortunately, that are hopeless in England. 
 Therefore I have great hopes that my own views, though 
 fundamentally sensible, can be made to appear fantastic 
 enough to have a chance. 
 
 First, then, I lay it down as a prime condition of sane 
 society, obvious as such to anyone but an idiot, that in 
 any decent community, children should find in every 
 part of their native country, food, clothing, lodging, in- 
 
Parents and Children Ixxxix 
 
 struction, and parental kindness for the asking. For the 
 matter of that, so should adults; but the two cases differ 
 in that as these commodities do not grow on the bushes, 
 the adults cannot have them unless they themselves 
 organize and provide the supply, whereas the children 
 must have them as if by magic, with nothing to do but 
 rub the lamp, like Aladdin, and have their needs satisfied. 
 
 The Parents' Intoleralble Burden 
 
 There is nothing new in this: it is how children have 
 always had and must always have their needs satisfied. 
 The parent has to play the part of Aladdin's djinn; and 
 many a parent has sunk beneath the burden of this serv- 
 ice. All the novelty we need is to organize it so that in- 
 stead of the individual child fastening like a parasite on 
 its own particular parents, the whole body of children 
 should be thrown not only upon the whole body of par- 
 ents, but upon the celibates and childless as well, whose 
 present exemption from a full share in the social burden 
 of children is obviously unjust and unwholesome. Today 
 it is easy to find a widow who has at great cost to herself 
 in pain, danger, and disablement, borne six or eight chil- 
 dren. In the same town you will find rich bachelors and 
 old maids, and married couples with no children or with 
 families voluntarily limited to two or three. The eight 
 children do not belong to the woman in any real or legal 
 sense. When she has reared them they pass away from 
 her into the community as independent persons, marrying 
 strangers, working for strangers, spending on the com- 
 munity the life that has been built up at her expense. No 
 more monstrous injustice could be imagined than that 
 the burden of rearing the children should fall on her alone 
 and not on the celibates and the selfish as well. 
 
 This is so far recognized that already the child finds, 
 wherever it goes, a school for it, and somebody to force 
 
xc Parents and Children 
 
 it into the school; and more and more these schools are 
 being driven by the mere logic of facts to provide the 
 children with meals, with boots, with spectacles, with 
 dentists and doctors. In fact, when the child's parents 
 are destitute or not to be found, bread, lodging, and cloth- 
 ing are provided. It is true that they are provided grudg- 
 ingly and on conditions infamous enough to draw down 
 abundant fire from Heaven upon us every day in the shape 
 of crime and disease and vice; but still the practice of 
 keeping children barely alive at the charge of the commun- 
 ity is established; and there is no need for me to argue 
 about it. I propose only two extensions of the practice. 
 One is to provide for all the child's reasonable human 
 wants, on which point, if you differ from me, I shall take 
 leave to say that you are socially a fool and personally 
 an inhuman wretch. The other is that these wants should 
 be supplied in complete freedom from compulsory school- 
 ing or compulsory anything except restraint from crime, 
 though, as they can be supplied only by social organiza- 
 tion, the child must be conscious of and subject to the 
 conditions of that organization, which may involve such 
 portions of adult responsibility and duty as a child may 
 be able to bear according to its age, and which will in 
 any case prevent it from forming the vagabond and anar- 
 chist habit of mind. 
 
 One more exception might be necessary: compulsory 
 freedom. I am sure that a child should not be impris- 
 oned in a school. I am not so sure that it should not 
 sometimes be driven out into the open — imprisoned in 
 the woods and on the mountains, as it were. For there 
 are frowsty children, just as there are frowsty adults, 
 who dont want freedom. This morbid result of over- 
 domestication would, let us hope, soon disappear with its 
 
Parents and Children xci 
 
 Mobilization 
 
 Those who see no prospect held out to them by this 
 except a country in which all the children shall be roam- 
 ing savages, should consider, first, whether their condition 
 would be any worse than that of the little caged savages 
 of today, and second, whether either children or adults 
 are so apt to run wild that it is necessary to tether them 
 fast to one neighborhood to prevent a general dissolution 
 of society. My own observation leads me to believe that 
 we are not half mobilized enough. True, I cannot deny 
 that we are more mobile than we were. You will still 
 find in the home counties old men who have never been 
 to London, and who tell you that they once went to Win- 
 chester or St Albans much as if they had been to the South 
 Pole; but they are not so common as the clerk who has 
 been to Paris or to Lovely Lucerne, and who "goes away 
 somewhere" when he has a holiday. His grandfather 
 never had a holiday, and, if he had, would no more have 
 dreamed of crossing the Channel than of taking a box at 
 the Opera. But with all allowance for the Polytechnic 
 excursion and the tourist agency, our inertia is still ap- 
 palling. I confess to having once spent nine years in 
 London without putting my nose outside it; and though 
 this was better, perhaps, than the restless globe-trotting 
 vagabondage of the idle rich, wandering from hotel to 
 hotel and never really living anywhere, yet I should no 
 more have done it if I had been properly mobilized in my 
 childhood than I should have worn the same suit of clothes 
 all that time (which, by the way, I very nearly did, my 
 professional income not having as yet begun to sprout). 
 There are masses of people who could afford at least a 
 trip to Margate, and a good many who could afford a 
 trip round the world, who are more immovable than 
 Aldgate pump. To others, who would move if they knew 
 how, travelling is surrounded with imaginary difficulties 
 
xcii Parents and Children 
 
 and terrors. In short, the difficulty is not to fix people, 
 but to root them up. We keep repeating the silly proverb 
 that a rolling stone gathers no moss, as if moss were a 
 desirable parasite. What we mean is that a vagabond does 
 not prosper. Even this is not true, if prosperity means 
 enjoyment as well as responsibility and money. The real 
 misery of vagabondage is the misery of having nothing to 
 do and nowhere to go, the misery of being derelict of God 
 and Man, the misery of the idle, poor or rich. And this 
 is one of the miseries of unoccupied childhood. The un- 
 occupied adult, thus afflicted, tries many distractions 
 which are, to say the least, unsuited to children. But 
 one of them, the distraction of seeing the world, is inno- 
 cent and beneficial. Also it is childish, being a continua- 
 tion of what nurses call "taking notice," by which a 
 child becomes experienced. It is pitiable nowadays to 
 see men and women doing after the age of 45 all the trav- 
 elling and sightseeing they should have done before they 
 were 15. Mere wondering and staring at things is an 
 important part of a child's education : that is why children 
 can be thoroughly mobilized without making vagabonds 
 of them. A vagabond is at home nowhere because he 
 wanders: a child should wander because it ought to be at 
 home everywhere. And if it has its papers and its pass- 
 ports, and gets what it requires not by begging and pilfer- 
 ing, but from responsible agents of the community as of 
 right, and with some formal acknowledgment of the obli- 
 gations it is incurring and a knowledge of the fact that 
 these obligations are being recorded: if, further, certain 
 qualifications are exacted before it is promoted from per- 
 mission to go as far as its legs will carry it to using mechan- 
 ical aids to locomotion, it can roam without much danger 
 of gypsification. 
 
 Under such circumstances the boy or girl could always 
 run away, and never be lost; and on no other conditions 
 can a child be free without being also a homeless outcast. 
 
Parents and Children xciii 
 
 Parents could also run away from disagreeable children or 
 drive them out of doors or even drop their acquaintance, 
 temporarily or permanently, without inhumanity. Thus 
 both parties would be on their good behavior, and not, as 
 at present, on their filial or parental behavior, which, 
 like all unfree behavior, is mostly bad behavior. 
 
 As to what other results might follow, we had better 
 wait and see; for nobody now alive can imagine what 
 customs and institutions would grow up in societies of 
 free children. Child laws and child fashions, child man- 
 ners and child morals are now not tolerated; but among 
 free children there would certainly be surprising develop- 
 ments in this direction. I do not think there would be 
 any danger of free children behaving as badly as grown-up 
 people do now because they have never been free. They 
 could hardly behave worse, anyhow. 
 
 Children's Rights and Parents' Wrongs 
 
 A very distinguished man once assured a mother of my 
 acquaintance that she would never know what it meant 
 to be hurt until she was hurt through her children. 
 Children are extremely cruel without intending it; and in 
 ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the reason is that they 
 do not conceive their elders as having any human feelings. 
 Serve the elders right, perhaps, for posing as superhuman ! 
 The penalty of the impostor is not that he is found out 
 (he very seldom is) but that he is taken for what he pre- 
 tends to be, and treated as such. And to be treated as 
 anything but what you really are may seem pleasant to 
 the imagination when the treatment is above your merits; 
 but in actual experience it is often quite the reverse. When 
 I was a very small boy, my romantic imagination, stim- 
 ulated by early doses of fiction, led me to brag to a still 
 smaller boy so outrageously that he, being a simple soul, 
 really believed me to be an invincible hero. I cannot 
 
xciv Parents and Children 
 
 remember whether this pleased me much; but I do re- 
 member very distinctly that one day this admirer of 
 mine, who had a pet goat, found the animal in the hands 
 of a larger boy than either of us, who mocked him and 
 refused to restore the animal to his rightful owner. 
 Whereupon, naturally, he came weeping to me, and de- 
 manded that I should rescue the goat and annihilate the 
 aggressor. My terror was beyond description : fortunately 
 for me, it imparted such a ghastliness to my voice and 
 aspect as I, under the eye of my poor little dupe, advanced 
 on the enemy with that hideous extremity of cowardice 
 which is called the courage of despair, and said "You let 
 go that goat," that he abandoned his prey and fled, to 
 my unforgettable, unspeakable relief. I have never since 
 exaggerated my prowess in bodily combat. 
 
 Now what happened to me in the adventure of the 
 goat happens very often to parents, and would happen 
 to schoolmasters if the prison door of the school did not 
 shut out the trials of life. I remember once, at school, 
 the resident head master was brought down to earth by 
 the sudden illness of his wife. In the confusion that en- 
 sued it became necessary to leave one of the schoolrooms 
 without a master. I was in the class that occupied that 
 schoolroom. To have sent us home would have been to 
 break the fundamental bargain with our parents by which 
 the school was bound to keep us out of their way for half 
 the day at all hazards. Therefore an appeal had to be 
 made to our better feelings: that is, to our common hu- 
 manity, not to make a noise. But the head master had 
 never admitted any common humanity with us. We had 
 been carefully broken in to regard him as a being quite 
 aloof from and above us: one not subject to error or suf- 
 fering or death or illness or mortality. Consequently 
 sympathy was impossible; and if the unfortunate lady 
 did not perish, it was because, as I now comfort myself 
 with guessing, she was too much pre-occupied with her 
 
Parents and Children xcv 
 
 own pains, and possibly making too much noise herself, 
 to be conscious of the pandemonium downstairs. 
 
 A great deal of the fiendishness of schoolboys and the 
 cruelty of children to their elders is produced just in this 
 way. Elders cannot be superhuman beings and suffering 
 fellow-creatures at the same time. If you pose as a little 
 god, you must pose for better for worse. 
 
 How Little We Know About Our Parents 
 
 The relation between parent and child has cruel mo- 
 ments for the parent even when money is no object, and 
 the material worries are delegated to servants and school 
 teachers. The child and the parent are strangers to one 
 another necessarily, because their ages must differ widely. 
 Read Goethe's autobiography; and note that though he 
 was happy in his parents and had exceptional powers of 
 observation, divination, and story-telling, he knew less 
 about his father and mother than about most of the other 
 people he mentions. I myself was never on bad terms 
 with my mother: we lived together until I was forty-two 
 years old, absolutely without the smallest friction of any 
 kind; yet when her death set me thinking curiously about 
 our relations, I realized that I knew very little about 
 her. Introduce me to a strange woman who was a child 
 when I was a child, a girl when I was a boy, an adolescent 
 when I was an adolescent; and if we take naturally to one 
 another I will know more of her and she of me at the end 
 of forty days (I had almost said of forty minutes) than I 
 knew of my mother at the end of forty years. A contem- 
 porary stranger is a novelty and an enigma, also a possi- 
 bility; but a mother is like a broomstick or like the sun in 
 the heavens, it does not matter which as far as one's 
 knowledge of her is concerned: the broomstick is there 
 and the sun is there; and whether the child is beaten by 
 it or warmed and enlightened by it, it accepts it as a fact 
 
xcvi Parents and Children 
 
 in nature, and does not conceive it as having had youth, 
 passions, and weaknesses, or as still growing, yearning, 
 suffering, and learning. If I meet a widow I may ask her 
 all about her marriage; but what son ever dreams of ask- 
 ing his mother about her marriage, or could endure to 
 hear of it without violently breaking off the old sacred 
 relationship between them, and ceasing to be her child 
 or anything more to her than the first man in the street 
 might be? 
 
 Yet though in this sense the child cannot realize its 
 parent's humanity, the parent can realize the child's; for 
 the parents with their experience of life have none of the 
 illusions about the child that the child has about the 
 parents; and the consequence is that the child can hurt 
 its parents' feelings much more than its parents can hurt 
 the child's, because the child, even when there has been 
 none of the deliberate hypocrisy by which children are 
 taken advantage of by their elders, cannot conceive 
 the parent as a fellow-creature, whilst the parents know 
 very well that the children are only themselves over 
 again. The child cannot conceive that its blame or con- 
 tempt or want of interest could possibly hurt its parent, 
 and therefore expresses them all with an indifference 
 which has given rise to the term enfant terrible (a tragic 
 term in spite of the jests connected with it); whilst the 
 parent can suffer from such slights and reproaches more 
 from a child than from anyone else, even when the child 
 is not beloved, because the child is so unmistakably sincere 
 in them. 
 
 Our Abandoned Mothers 
 
 Take a very common instance of this agonizing incom- 
 patibility. A widow brings up her son to manhood. He 
 meets a strange woman, and goes off with and marries 
 her, leaving his mother desolate. It does not occur to him 
 that this is at all hard on her:' he does it as a matter of 
 
Parents and Children xcvii 
 
 course, and actually expects Ms mother to receive, on 
 terms of special affection, the woman for whom she has 
 been abandoned. If he shewed any sense of what he was 
 doing, any remorse; if he mingled his tears with hers and 
 asked her not to think too hardly of him because he had 
 obeyed the inevitable destiny of a man to leave his father 
 and mother and cleave to his wife, she could give him her 
 blessing and accept her bereavement with dignity and 
 without reproach. But the man never dreams of such con- 
 siderations. To him his mother's feeling in the matter, 
 when she betrays it, is unreasonable, ridiculous, and even 
 odious, as shewing a prejudice against his adorable bride. 
 I have taken the widow as an extreme and obvious case; 
 but there are many husbands and wives who are tired of 
 their consorts, or disappointed in them, or estranged 
 from them by infidelities; and these parents, in losing a 
 son or a daughter through marriage, may be losing every- 
 thing they care for. No parent's love is as innocent as the 
 love of a child: the exclusion of all conscious sexual feeling 
 from it does not exclude the bitterness, jealousy, and de- 
 spair at loss which characterize sexual passion: in fact, 
 what is called a pure love may easily be more selfish and 
 jealous than a carnal one. Anyhow, it is plain matter of 
 fact that naively selfish people sometimes try with fierce 
 jealousy to prevent their children marrying. 
 
 Family AflFection 
 
 Until the family as we know it ceases to exist, nobody 
 will dare to analyze parental affection as distinguished 
 from that general human sympathy which has secured to 
 many an orphan fonder care in a stranger's house than it 
 would have received from its actual parents. Not even 
 Tolstoy, in The Kreutzer Sonata, has said all that we 
 suspect about it. When it persists beyond the period at 
 which it ceases to be necessary to the child's welfare, it 
 
xcviii Parents and Children 
 
 is apt to be morbid; and we are probably wrong to in- 
 culcate its deliberate cultivation. The natural course is 
 for the parents and children to cast ofiE the specific parental 
 and filial relation when they are no longer necessary to 
 one another. The child does this readily enough to form 
 fresh ties, closer and more fascinating. Parents are not 
 always excluded from such compensations: it happens 
 sometimes that when the children go out at the door the 
 lover comes in at the window. Indeed it happens now 
 oftener than it used to, because people remain much 
 longer in the sexual arena. [The cultivated Jewess no 
 longer cuts off her hair at her marriage. The British 
 matron has discarded her cap and her conscientious ugli- 
 ness; and a bishop's wife at fifty has more of the air of a 
 femme galante than an actress had at thirty-five in her 
 grandmother's time.'^But as people marry later, the facts 
 of age and time still inexorably condemn most parents to 
 comparative solitude when their children marry. This may 
 be a privation and may be a relief: probably in healthy 
 circumstances it is no worse than a salutary change of 
 habit; but even at that it is, for the moment at least, a 
 wrench. For though parents and children sometimes dis- 
 like one another, there is an experience of succor and a 
 habit of dependence and expectation formed in infancy 
 which naturally attaches a child to its parent or to its 
 nurse (a foster parent) in a quite peculiar way. A benefit 
 to the child may be a burden to the parent; but people 
 become attached to their burdens sometimes more than 
 the burdens are attached to them; and to "suffer little 
 children" has become an affectionate impulse deep in our 
 nature. 
 
 Now there is no such impulse to suffer our sisters and 
 brothers, our aunts and uncles, much less our cousins. If 
 we could choose our relatives, we might, by selecting con- 
 genial ones, mitigate the repulsive effect of the obligation 
 to like them and to admit them to our intimacy. But to 
 
Parents and Children xcix 
 
 have a person imposed on us as a brother merely because 
 he happens to have the same parents is unbearable when, 
 as may easily happen, he is the sort of person we should 
 carefully avoid if he were anyone else's brother. All Eu- 
 rope (except Scotland, which has clans instead of fam- 
 ilies) draws the line at second cousins. Protestantism 
 draws it still closer by making the first cousin a marriage- 
 able stranger; and the only reason for not drawing it at. 
 sisters and brothers is that the institution of the family 
 compels us to spend our childhood with them, and thus 
 imposes on us a curious relation in which familiarity de- 
 stroys romantic charm, and is yet expected to create a 
 specially warm affection. Such a relation is dangerously 
 factitious and unnatural; and the practical moral is that 
 the less said at home about specific family affection the 
 better. Children, like grown-up people, get on well enough 
 together if they are not pushed down one another's throats ; 
 and grown-up relatives will get on together in proportion 
 to their separation and their care not to presume on their 
 blood relationship. We should let children's feelings take 
 their natural course without prompting. I have seen a 
 child scolded and called unfeeling because it did not occur 
 to it to make a theatrical demonstration of affectionate 
 delight when its mother returned after an absence: a 
 typical example of the way in which spurious family sen- 
 timent is stoked up. We are, after all, sociable animals; 
 and if we are let alone in the matter of our affections, and 
 well brought up otherwise, we shall not get on any the 
 worse with particular people because they happen to be 
 our brothers and sisters and cousins. The danger lies in 
 assuming that we shall get on any better. 
 
 The main point to grasp here is that families are not 
 kept together at present by family feeling but by human 
 feeling. The family cultivates sympathy and mutual 
 help and consolation as any other form of kindly associa- 
 tion cultivates them; but the addition of a dictated com- 
 
c Parents and Children 
 
 pulsory afifection as an attribute of near kinship is not 
 only unnecessary, but positively detrimental; and the 
 alleged tendency of modern social development to break 
 up the family need alarm nobody. We" cannot break up 
 the facts of kinship nor eradicate its natural emotional 
 consequences. What we can do and ought to do is to set 
 people free to behave naturally and to change their be- 
 havior as circumstances change. To impose on a citizen 
 of London the family duties of a Highland cateran in the 
 eighteenth century is as absurd as to compel him to carry 
 a claymore and target instead of an umbrella. The civ- 
 ilized man has no special use for cousins; and he may pres- 
 ently find that he has no special use for brothers and 
 sisters. The parent seems likely to remain indispensable; 
 but there is no reason why that natural tie should be 
 made the excuse for unnatural aggravations of it, as 
 crushing to the parent as they are oppressive to the child. 
 The mother and father will not always have to shoulder 
 the burthen of maintenance which should fall on the Atlas 
 shoulders of the fatherland and motherland. Pending 
 such reforms and emancipations, a shattering break-up of 
 the parental home must remain one of the normal incidents 
 of marriage. The parent is left lonely and the child is not. 
 Woe to the old if they have no impersonal interests, no 
 convictions, no public causes to advance, no tastes or 
 hobbies! It is well to be a mother but not to be a mother- 
 in-law; and if men were cut off artificially from intellec- 
 tual and public interests as women are, the father-in-law 
 would be as deplorable a figure in popular tradition as 
 the mother-in-law. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that some people hold that 
 blood relationship should be kept a secret from the per- 
 sons related, and that the happiest condition in this re- 
 spect is that of the foundling who, if he ever meets his 
 parents or brothers or sisters, passes them by without 
 knowing them. And for such a view there is this to be 
 
Parents and Children ci 
 
 said: that our family system does unquestionably take 
 the natural bond between members of the same family, 
 which, like all natural bonds, is not too tight to be borne, 
 and superimposes on it a painful burden of forced, incul- 
 cated, suggested, and altogether unnecessary affection 
 and responsibility which we should do well to get rid of 
 by making relatives as independent of one another as 
 possible. 
 
 The Fate of the Family 
 
 The difficulty of inducing people to talk sensibly about 
 the family is the same as that which I pointed out in a 
 previous volume as confusing discussions of marriage. 
 Marriage is not a single invariable institution: it changes 
 from civilization to civilization, from religion to religion, 
 from civil code to civil code, from frontier to frontier. 
 The family is still more variable, because the number of 
 persons constituting a family, unlike the number of persons 
 constituting a marriage, varies from one to twenty: indeed, 
 when a widower with a family marries a widow with a 
 family, and the two produce a third family, even that 
 very high number may be surpassed. And the conditions 
 may vary between opposite extremes: for example, in a 
 London or Paris slum every child adds to the burden of 
 poverty and helps to starve the parents and all the other 
 children, whereas in a settlement of pioneer colonists 
 every child, from the moment it is big enough to lend a 
 hand to the family industry, is an investment in which 
 the only danger is that of temporary over-capitalization. 
 Then there are the variations in family sentiment. Some- 
 times the family organization is as frankly political as the 
 organization of an army or an industry: fathers being no 
 more expected to be sentimental about their children 
 than colonels about soldiers, or factory owners about their 
 employees, though the mother may be allowed a little 
 tenderness if her character is weak. The Roman father 
 
cii Parents and Children 
 
 was a despot: the Chinese father is an object of worship: 
 the sentimental modern western father is often a play- 
 fellow looked to for toys and pocket-money. The farmer 
 sees his children constantly: the squire sees them only 
 during the holidays, and not then oftener than he can 
 help: the tram conductor, when employed by a joint stock 
 company, sometimes never sees them at all. 
 
 Under such circumstances phrases like The Influence 
 of Home Life, The Family, The Domestic Hearth, and 
 so on, are no more specific than The Mammals, or The 
 Man In The Street; and the pious generalizations founded 
 so glibly on them by our sentimental moralists are un- 
 workable. When households average twelve persons 
 with the sexes about equally represented, the results may 
 be fairly good. When they average three the results may 
 be very bad indeed; and to lump the two together under 
 the general term The Family is to confuse the question 
 hopelessly. The modern small family is much too stuffy: 
 children "brought up at home" in it are unfit for society. 
 
 But here again circumstances differ. ^If the parents 
 live in what is called a garden suburb, where there is a 
 good deal of social intercourse, and the family, instead of 
 keeping itself to itself, as the evil old saying is, and glower- 
 ing at the neighbors over the blinds of the long street in 
 which nobody knows his neighbor and everyone wishes 
 to deceive him as to his income and social importance, is 
 in effect broken up by school life, by out-of-door habits, 
 and by frank neighborly intercourse through dances and 
 concerts and theatricals and excursions and the like, fam- 
 ilies of four may turn out much less barbarous citizens 
 than families of ten which attain the Boer ideal of being 
 out of sight of one another's chimney smoke^ 
 
 All one can say is, roughly, that the homelier the home, 
 and the more familiar the family, the worse for everybody 
 concerned. The family ideal is a humbug and a nuisance: 
 one might as reasonably talk of the barrack ideal, or the 
 
Parents and Children ciii 
 
 forecastle ideal, or any other substitution of the machinery 
 of social organization for the end of it, which must always 
 be the fullest and most capable life: in short, the most 
 godly life. And this significant word reminds us that 
 though the popular conception of heaven includes a 
 Holy Family, it does not attach to that family the notion 
 of a separate home, or a private nursery or kitchen or 
 mother-in-law, or anything that constitutes the family as 
 we know it. Even blood relationship is miraculously 
 abstracted from it; and the Father is the father of all 
 children, the mother the mother of all mothers and babies, 
 and the Son the Son of Man and the Savior of his brothers : 
 one whose chief utterance on the subject of the conven- 
 tional family was an invitation to all of us to leave our 
 families and follow him, and to leave the dead to bury the 
 dead, and not debauch ourselves at that gloomy festival 
 the family funeral, with its sequel of hideous mourning 
 and grief which is either affected or morbid. 
 
 Family Mourning 
 
 I do not know how far this detestable custom of mourn- 
 ing is carried in France; but judging from the appearance 
 of the French people I should say that a Frenchwoman 
 goes into mourning for her cousins to the seventeenth 
 degree. The result is that when I cross the Channel I 
 seem to have reached a country devastated by war or 
 pestilence. It is really suffering only from the family. 
 Will anjone pretend that England has not the best of 
 this striking difference.'' Yet it is such senseless and un- 
 natural conventions as this that make us so impatient of 
 what we call family feeling. Even apart from its insuffer- 
 able pretensions, the family needs hearty discrediting; 
 for there is hardly any vulnerable part of it that could not 
 be amputated with advantage. 
 
civ Parents and Children 
 
 Art Teaching 
 
 By art teaching I hasten to say that I do not mean 
 giving children lessons in freehand drawing and perspec- 
 tive. I am simply calling attention to the fact that fine 
 art is the only teacher except torture. I have already 
 pointed out that nobody, except under threat of torture, 
 can read a school book. The reason is that a school book 
 is not a work of art. Similarly, you cannot listen to a 
 lesson or a sermon unless the teacher or the preacher is 
 an artist. You cannot read the Bible if you have no sense 
 of literary art. The reason why the continental European 
 is, to the Englishman or American, so surprisingly ignorant 
 of the Bible, is that the authorized English version is a 
 great work of literary art, and the continental versions 
 are comparatively artless. To read a dull book; to listen 
 to a tedious play or prosy sermon or lecture; to stare at 
 uninteresting pictures or ugly buildings: nothing, short 
 of disease, is more dreadful than this. The violence done 
 to our souls by it leaves injuries and produces subtle mal- 
 adies which have never been properly studied by psycho- 
 pathologists. Yet we are so inured to it in school, where 
 practically all the teachers are bores trying to do the work 
 of artists, and all the books artless, that we acquire a 
 truly frightful power of enduring boredom. We even 
 acquire the notion that fine art is lascivious and destruc- 
 tive to the character. In church, in the House of Com- 
 mons, at public meetings, we sit solemnly listening to 
 bores and twaddlers because from the time we could walk 
 or speak we have been snubbed, scolded, bullied, beaten 
 and imprisoned whenever we dared to resent being bored 
 or twaddled at, or to express our natural impatience and 
 derision of bores and twaddlers. And when a man arises 
 with a soul of sufficient native strength to break the bonds 
 of this inculcated reverence and to expose and deride 
 and tweak the noses of our humbugs and panjandrums. 
 
Parents and Children cv 
 
 like Voltaire or Dickens, we are shocked and scandalized, 
 even when we cannot help laughing. Worse, we dread 
 and persecute those who can see and declare the truth, 
 because their sincerity and insight reflects on our delusion 
 and blindness. We are all like Nell Gwynne's footman, 
 who defended Nell's reputation with his fists, not because 
 he believed her to be what he called an honest woman, 
 but because he objected to be scorned as the footman of 
 one who was no better than she should be. 
 
 This wretched power of allowing ourselves to be bored 
 may seem to give the fine arts a chance sometimes. 
 People will sit through a performance of Beethoven's 
 ninth symphony or of Wagner's Ring just as they will sit 
 through a dull sermon or a front bench politician saying 
 nothing for two hours whilst his unfortunate country is 
 perishing through the delay of its business in Parliament. 
 But their endurance is very bad for the ninth symphony, 
 because they never hiss when it is murdered. I have heard 
 an Italian conductor (no longer living) take the adagio 
 of that symphony at a lively allegretto, slowing down for 
 the warmer major sections into the speed and manner of 
 the heroine's death song in a Verdi opera; and the listeners, 
 far from relieving my excruciation by rising with yells of 
 fury and hurling their programs and opera glasses at the 
 miscreant, behaved just as they do when Richter conducts 
 it. The mass of imposture that thrives on this combination 
 of ignorance with despairing endurance is incalculable. 
 Given a pubUc trained from childhood to stand anything 
 tedious, and so saturated with school discipline that even 
 with the doors open and no schoolmasters to stop them 
 they will sit there helplessly until the end of the concert or 
 opera gives them leave to go home; and you will have in 
 great capitals hundreds of thousands of pounds spent every 
 night in the season on professedly artistic entertainments 
 which have no other effect on fine art than to exacerbate 
 the hatred in which it is already secretly held in England. 
 
cvi Parents and Children 
 
 Fortunately, there are arts that cannot be cut oflF from 
 the people by bad performances. We can read books for 
 ourselves; and we can play a good deal of fine music for 
 ourselves with the help of a pianola. Nothing stands 
 between us and the actual handwork of the great masters 
 of painting except distance; and modern photographic 
 methods of reproduction are in some cases quite and in 
 many nearly as effective in conveying the artist's message 
 as a modern edition of Shakespear's plays is in conveying 
 the message that first existed in his handwriting. \The 
 reproduction of great feats of musical execution is already 
 on the way: the phonograph, for all its wheezing and 
 snarling and braying, is steadily improving in its manners; 
 and what with this improvement on the one hand, and 
 on the other that blessed selective faculty which enables 
 us to ignore a good deal of disagreeable noise if there is a 
 thread of music in the middle of it (few critics of the pho- 
 nograph seem to be conscious of the very considerable 
 mechanical noise set up by choirs and orchestras) we 
 have at last reached a point at which, for example, a 
 person living in an English village where the church music 
 is the only music, and that music is made by a few well- 
 intentioned ladies with the help of a harmonium, can 
 hear masses by Palestrina very passably executed, and 
 can thereby be led to the discovery that Jackson in F and 
 Hymns Ancient and Modern are not perhaps t^e last 
 word of beauty and propriety in the praise of God^ 
 
 In short, there is a vast body of art now within the reach 
 of everybody. The difficulty is that this art, which alone 
 can educate us in grace of body and soul, and which 
 alone can make the history of the past live for us or the 
 hope of the future shine for us, which alone can give 
 delicacy and nobility to our crude lusts, which is the ap- 
 pointed vehicle of inspiration and the method of the com- 
 munion of saints, is actually branded as sinful among us 
 because, wherever it arises, there is resistance to tyranny. 
 
Parents and Children evii 
 
 breaking of fetters, and the breath of freedom. The 
 attempt to suppress art is not wholly successful : we might 
 as well try to suppress oxygen. But it is carried far enough 
 to inflict on huge numbers of people a most injurious art 
 starvation, and to corrupt a great deal of the art that is 
 tolerated. You will find in England plenty of rich families 
 with little more culture than their dogs and horses. And 
 you will find poor families, cut off by poverty and town 
 life from the contemplation of the beauty of the earth, 
 with its dresses of leaves, its scarves of cloud, and its 
 contours of hill and valley, who would positively be hap- 
 pier as hogs, so little have they cultivated their humanity 
 by the only effective instrument of culture: art. The 
 dearth is artificially maintained even when there are the 
 means of satisfying it. Story books are forbidden, picture 
 post cards are forbidden, theatres are forbidden, operas 
 are forbidden, circuses are forbidden, sweetmeats are for- 
 bidden, pretty colors are forbidden, all exactly as vice is 
 forbidden. The Creator is explicitly prayed to, and im- 
 plicitly convicted of indecency every day. An association 
 of vice and sin with everything that is delightful and of 
 goodness with everything that is wretched and detestable 
 is set up. All the most perilous (and glorious) appetites 
 and propensities are at once inflamed by starvation and 
 uneducated by art. All the wholesome conditions which 
 art imposes on appetite are waived: instead of cultivated 
 men and women restrained by a thousand delicacies, re- 
 pelled by ugliness, chilled by vulgarity, horrified by coarse- 
 ness, deeply and sweetly moved by the graces that art has 
 revealed to them and nursed in them, we get indiscrim- 
 inate rapacity in pursuit of pleasure and a parade of the 
 grossest stimulations in catering for it. We have a con- 
 tinual clamor for goodness, beauty, virtue, and sanctity, 
 with such an appalling inability to recognize it or love it 
 when it arrives that it is more dangerous to be a great 
 prophet or poet than to promote twenty companies for 
 
cviii Parents and Children 
 
 swindling simple folk out of their savings. Do not for a 
 moment suppose that uncultivated people are merely in- 
 different to high and noble qualities. They hate them 
 malignantly. At best, such qualities are like rare and 
 beautiful birds: when they appear the whole country 
 takes down its guns; but the birds receive the statuary 
 tribute of having their corpses stuffed. 
 
 And it really all comes from the habit of preventing 
 children from being troublesome. You are so careful of 
 your boy's morals, knowing how troublesome they may 
 be, that you keep him away from the Venus of Milo only 
 to find him in the arms of the scullery maid or someone 
 much worse. You decide that the Hermes of Praxiteles 
 and Wagner's Tristan are not suited for young girls; and 
 your daughter marries somebody appallingly unlike either 
 Hermes or Tristan solely to escape from your parental 
 protection. You have not stifled a single passion hor 
 averted a single danger: you have depraved the passions 
 by starving them, and broken down all the defences 
 which so effectively protect children brought up in free- 
 dom. You have men who imagine themselves to be min- 
 isters of religion openly declaring that when they pass 
 through the streets they have to keep out in the wheeled 
 traffic to avoid the temptations of the pavement. You 
 have them organizing hunts of the women who tempt them 
 — poor creatures whom no artist would touch without a 
 shudder — and wildly clamoring for more clothes to dis- 
 guise and conceal the body, and for the abolition of pic- 
 tures, statues, theatres, and pretty colors. And incredible 
 as it seems, these unhappy lunatics are left at large, un- 
 rebuked, even admired and revered, whilst artists have 
 to struggle for toleration. To them an undraped human 
 body is the most monstrous, the most blighting, the 
 most obscene, the most unbearable spectacle in the uni- 
 verse. To an artist it is, at its best, the most admirable 
 spectacle in nature, and, at its average, an object of indif- 
 
Parents and Children cix 
 
 ference. If every rag of clothing miraculously dropped 
 from the inhabitants of London at noon tomorrow (say 
 as a preliminary to the Great Judgment), the artistic 
 people would not turn a hair; but the artless people would 
 go mad and call on the mountains to hide them. I submit 
 that this indicates a thoroughly healthy state on the part 
 of the artists, and a thoroughly morbid one on the part 
 of the artless. And the healthy state is attainable in a 
 cold country like ours only by familiarity with the un- 
 draped figure acquired through pictures, statues, and 
 theatrical representations in which an illusion of natural 
 clotheslessness is produced and made poetic. 
 
 In short, we all grow up stupid and mad to just the 
 extent to which we have not been artistically educated; 
 and the fact that this taint of stupidity and madness has 
 to be tolerated because it is general, and is even boasted 
 of as characteristically English, makes the situation all 
 the worse. It is becoming exceedingly grave at present, 
 because the last ray of art is being cut ofiE from our schools 
 by the discontinuance of religious education. 
 
 The Impossibility of Secular Education 
 
 Now children must be taught some sort of religion. 
 Secular education is an impossibility. Secular education 
 comes to this: that the only reason for ceasing to do evil 
 and learning to do well is that if you do not you will be 
 caned. This is worse than being taught in a church school 
 that if you become a dissenter you will go to hell; for hell 
 is presented as the instrument of something eternal, di- 
 vine, and inevitable : you cannot evade it the moment the 
 schoolmaster's back is turned. What confuses this issue 
 and leads even highly intelligent religious persons to ad- 
 vocate secular education as a means of rescuing children 
 from the strife of rival proselytizers is the failure to dis- 
 tinguish between the child's personal subjective need for 
 
ex Parents and Children 
 
 a religion and its right to an impartially communicated 
 historical objective knowledge of all the creeds and 
 Churches. Just as a child, no matter what its race and 
 color may be, should know that there are black men and 
 brown men and yellow men, and, no matter what its 
 political convictions may be, that there are Monarchists 
 and Republicans and Positivists, Socialists and TJnso- 
 cialists, so it should know that there are Christians and 
 Mahometans and Buddhists and Shintoists and so forth, 
 and that they are on the average just as honest and well- 
 behaved as its own father, p'or example, it should not be 
 told that Allah is a false god set up by the Turks and 
 Arabs, who will all be damned for taking that liberty; 
 but it should be told that many English people think so, 
 and that many Turks and Arabs think the converse about 
 English people. It should be taught that Allah is simply 
 the name by which God is known to Turks and Arabs, who 
 are just as eligible for salvation as any Christian. Further, 
 that the practical reason why a Turkish child should pray 
 in a mosque and an English child in a church is that as 
 worship is organized in Turkey in mosques in the name of 
 Mahomet and in England in churches in the name of 
 Christ, a Turkish child joining the Church of England or 
 an English child following Mahomet will find that it has 
 no place for its worship and no organization of its religion 
 within its reacl^^ Any other teaching of the history and 
 present facts of religion is false teaching, and is politically 
 extremely dangerous in an empire in which a huge majority 
 of the fellow subjects of the governing island do not pro- 
 fess the religion of that island. 
 
 But this objectivity, though intellectually honest, tells 
 the child only what other people believe. What it should 
 itself believe is quite another matter. The sort of Ra- 
 tionalism which says to a child "You must suspend your 
 judgment until you are old enough to choose your reli- 
 gion" is Rationalism gone mad. The child must have a 
 
Parents and Children cxi 
 
 conscience and a code of honor (which is the essence of re- 
 ligion) even if it be only a provisional one, to be revised at 
 its confirmation. For confirmation is meant to signalize a 
 spiritual coming of age, and may be a repudiation. Really 
 active souls have many confirmations and repudiations as 
 their life deepens and their knowledge widens. But what 
 is to guide the child before its first confirmation? Not 
 mere orders, because orders must have a sanction of some 
 sort or why should the child obey them? If, as a Secular- 
 ist, you refuse to teach any sanction, you must say "You 
 will be punished if you disobey." "Yes," says the child 
 to itself, "if I am found out; but wait until your back is 
 turned and I will do as I like, and lie about it." There 
 can be no objective punishment for successful fraud; and 
 as no espionage can cover the whole range of a child's 
 conduct, the upshot is that the child becomes a liar and 
 schemer with an atrophied conscience. And a good many 
 of the orders given to it are not obeyed after all. Thus 
 the Secularist who is not a fool is forced to appeal to the 
 child's vital impulse towards perfection, to the divine 
 spark; and no resolution not to call this impulse an im- 
 pulse of loyalty to the Fellowship of the Holy Ghost, or 
 obedience to the Will of God, or any other standard theo- 
 logical term, can alter the fact that the Secularist has 
 stepped outside Secularism and is educating the child 
 religiously, even if he insists on repudiating that pious 
 adverb and substituting the word metaphysically. 
 
 Natural Selection as a Religion 
 
 We must make up our minds to it therefore that what- 
 ever measures we may be forced to take to prevent the 
 recruiting sergeants of the Churches, free or established, 
 from obtaining an exclusive right of entry to schools, we 
 shall not be able to exclude religion from them. The 
 most horrible of all religions: that which teaches us to 
 
cxii Parents and Children 
 
 regard ourselves as the helpless prey of a series of senseless 
 accidents called Natural Selection, is allowed and even 
 welcomed in so-called secular schools because it is, in a 
 sense, the negation of all religion; but for school purposes 
 a religion is a belief which affects conduct; and no belief 
 affects conduct more radically and often so disastrously 
 as the belief that the universe is a product of Natural 
 Selection. What is more, the theory of Natural Selection 
 cannot be kept out of schools, because many of the natural 
 facts that present the most plausible appearance of design 
 can be accounted for by Natural Selection; and it would be 
 so absurd to keep a child in delusive ignorance of so po- 
 tent a factor in evolution as to keep it in ignorance of 
 radiation or capillary attraction. Even if you make a 
 religion of Natural Selection, and teach the child to regard 
 itself as the irresponsible prey of its circumstances and 
 appetites (or its heredity as you will perhaps call them), 
 you will none the less find that its appetites are stimulated 
 by your encouragement and daunted by your discourage- 
 ment; that one of its appetites is an appetite for perfec- 
 tion; that if you discourage this appetite and encourage 
 the cruder acquisitive appetites the child will steal and 
 lie and be a nuisance to you; and that if you encourage its 
 appetite for perfection and teach it to attach a peculiar 
 sacredness to it and place it before the other appetites, it 
 will be a much nicer child and you will have a much easier 
 job, at which point you will, in spite of your pseudo- 
 scientific fargon, find yourself back in the old-fashioned 
 religious teaching as deep as Dr. Watts and in fact 
 fathoms deeper. 
 
 Moral Instruction Leagues 
 
 And now the voices of our Moral Instruction Leagues 
 will be lifted, asking whether there is any reason why the 
 appetite for perfection should not be cultivated in ration- 
 
Parents and Children cxiii 
 
 ally scientific terms instead of being associated with the 
 story of Jonah and the great fish and the thousand other 
 tales that grow up round religions. Yes: there are many 
 reasons; and one of them is that children all like the story 
 of Jonah and the whale (they insist on its being a whale 
 in spite of demonstrations by Bible smashers without any 
 sense of humor that Jonah would not have fitted into a 
 whale's gullet — as if the story would be credible of a whale 
 with an enlarged throat) and that no child on earth can 
 stand moral instruction books or catechisms or any other 
 statement of the case for religion in abstract terms. The 
 object of a moral instruction book is not to be rational, 
 scientific, exact, proof against controversy, nor even cred- 
 ible: its object is to make children good; and if it makes 
 them sick instead its place is the waste-paper basket. 
 
 Take for an illustration the story of Elisha and the 
 bears. To the authors of the moral instruction books it 
 is in the last degree reprehensible. It is obviously not 
 true as a record of fact; and the picture it gives us of the 
 temper of God (which is what interests an adult reader) 
 is shocking and blasphemous. But it is a capital story for 
 a child. It interests a child because it is about bears; 
 and it leaves the child with an impression that children 
 who poke fun at old gentlemen and make rude remarks 
 about bald heads are not nice children, which is a highly 
 desirable impression, and just as much as a child is capa- 
 ble of receiving from the story. When a story is about 
 God and a child, children take God for granted and 
 criticize the child. Adults do the opposite, and are thereby 
 led to talk great nonsense about the bad effect of Bible 
 stories on infants. 
 
 But let no one think that a child or anyone else can 
 learn religion from a teacher or a book or by any academic 
 process whatever. It is only by an unfettered access to 
 the whole body of Fine Art: that is, to the whole body of 
 inspired revelation, that we can build up that conception 
 
cxiv Parents and Children 
 
 of divinity to whicli all virtue is an aspiration. And to 
 hope to find this body of art purified from all that is 
 obsolete or dangerous or fierce or lusty, or to pick and 
 choose what will be good for any particular child, much 
 less for all children, is the shallowest of vanities. Such 
 schoolmasterly selection is neither possible nor desirable. 
 Ignorance of evil is not virtue but imbecility: admiring 
 it is like giving a prize for honesty to a man who has not 
 stolen your watch because he did not know you had one. 
 Virtue chooses good from evil; and without knowledge 
 there can be no choice. And even this is a dangerous sim- 
 plification of what actually occurs. We are not choosing: 
 we are growing. Were you to cut all of what you call the 
 evil out of a child, it would drop dead. If you try to stretch 
 it to full human stature when it is ten years old, you will 
 simply pull it into two pieces and be hanged. And when 
 you try to do this morally, which is what parents and 
 schoolmasters are doing every day, you ought to be hanged; 
 and some day, when we take a sensible view of the matter, 
 you will be; and serve you right. The child does not stand 
 between a good and a bad angel: what it has to deal with 
 is a middling angel who, in normal healthy cases, wants 
 to be a good angel as fast as it can without killing itself 
 in the process, which is a dangerous one. 
 
 Therefore there is no question of providing the child 
 with a carefully regulated access to good art. There is no 
 good art, any more than there is good anything else in 
 the absolute sense. Art that is too good for the child 
 will either teach it nothing or drive it mad, as the Bible 
 has driven many people mad who might have kept their 
 sanity had they been allowed to read much lower forms 
 of literature. The practical moral is that we must read 
 whatever stories, see whatever pictures, hear whatever 
 songs and symphonies, go to whatever plays we like. We 
 shall not like those which have nothing to say to us; and 
 though everyone has a right to bias our choice, no one 
 
Parents and Children cxv 
 
 has a right to deprive us of it by keeping us from any 
 work of art or any work of art from us. 
 
 I may now say without danger of being misunderstood 
 that the popular English compromise called Cowper- 
 Templeism (unseetarian Bible education) is not so silly 
 as it looks. It is true that the Bible inculcates half a dozen 
 religions: some of them barbarous; some cynical and pes- 
 simistic; some amoristic and romantic; some sceptical and 
 challenging; some kindly, simple, and intuitional; some 
 sophistical and intellectual; none suited to the character 
 and- conditions of western civilization unless it be the 
 Christianity which was finally suppressed by the Cruci- 
 fixion, and has never been put into practice by any State 
 before or since. But the Bible contains the ancient lit- 
 erature of a very remarkable Oriental race; and the imposi- 
 tion of this literature, on whatever false pretences, on our 
 children left them more literate than if they knew no lit- 
 erature at all, which was the practical alternative. And 
 as our Authorized Version is a great work of art as well, 
 to know it was better than knowing no art, which also 
 was the practical alternative. It is at least not a school 
 book; and it is not a bad story book, horrible as some of 
 the stories are. Therefore as between the Bible and the 
 blank represented by secular education, the choice is with 
 the Bible. 
 
 The Bible 
 
 But the Bible is not sufficient. The real Bible of modern 
 Europe is the whole body of great literature in which the 
 inspiration and revelation of Hebrew Scripture has been 
 continued to the present day. Nietzsche's Thus Spake 
 Zoroaster is less comforting to the ill and unhappy than 
 the Psalms; but it is much truer, subtler, and more edify- 
 ing. The pleasure we get from the rhetoric of the book 
 of Job and its tragic picture of a bewildered soul cannot 
 disguise the ignoble irrelevance of the retort of God with 
 
cxvi Parents and Children 
 
 which it closes, or supply the need of such modern revela- 
 tions as Shelley's Prometheus or The Niblung's Ring of 
 Richard Wagner. There is nothing in the Bible greater 
 in inspiration than Beethoven's ninth symphony; and 
 the power of modern music to convey that inspiration to 
 a modern man is far greater than that of Elizabethan 
 English, which is, except for people steeped in the Bible 
 from childhood like Sir Walter Scott and Ruskin, a dead 
 language. 
 
 Besides, many who have no ear for literature or for 
 music are accessible to architecture, to pictures, to statues, 
 to dresses, and to the arts of the stage. Every device of 
 art should be brought to bear on the young; so that they 
 may discover some form of it that delights them naturally; 
 for there will come to all of them that period between 
 dawning adolescence and full maturity when the pleasures 
 and emotions of art will have to satisfy cravings which, 
 if starved or insulted, may become morbid and seek dis- 
 graceful satisfactions, and, if prematurely gratified other- 
 wise'.than poetically, may destroy the stamina of the race. 
 And it must be borne in mind that the most dangerous art 
 for this necessary purpose is the art that presents itself 
 as religious ecstasy. Young people are ripe for love long 
 before they are ripe for religion. Only a very foolish person 
 would substitute the Imitation of Christ for Treasure 
 Island as a present for a boy or girl, or for Byron's Don 
 Juan as a present for a swain or lass. Pickwick is the 
 safest saint for us in our nonage. Flaubert's Temptation 
 of St Anthony is an excellent book for a man of fifty, 
 perhaps the best within reach as a healthy study of vi- 
 sionary ecstasy; but for the purposes of a boy of fifteen 
 Ivanhoe and the Templar make a much better saint and 
 devil. And the boy of fifteen will find this out for himself 
 if he is allowed to wander in a well-stocked literary garden, 
 and hear bands and see pictures and spend his pennies on 
 cinematograph shows. His choice may often be rather 
 
Parents and Children exvii 
 
 disgusting to his elders when they want him to choose the 
 best before he is ready for it. The greatest Protestant 
 Manifesto ever written, as far as I know, is Houston 
 Chamberlain's Foundations of the Nineteenth Century: 
 everybody capable of it should read it. Probably the 
 History of Maria Monk is at the opposite extreme of 
 merit (this is a guess: I have never read it); but it is 
 certain that a boy let loose in a library would go for Maria 
 Monk and have no use whatever for Mr Chamberlain. 
 I should probably have read Maria Monk myself if I had 
 not had the Arabian Nights and their like to occupy me 
 better. In art, children, like adults, will find their level 
 if they are left free to find it, and not restricted to what 
 adults think good for them. Just at present our young 
 people are going mad over ragtimes, apparently because 
 syncopated rhythms are new to them. If they had learnt 
 what can be done with syncopation from Beethoven's 
 third Leonora overture, they would enjoy the ragtimes all 
 the more; but they would put them in their proper place 
 as amusing vulgarities. 
 
 Artist Idolatry 
 
 But there are more dangerous influences than ragtimes 
 waiting for people brought up in ignorance of fine art. 
 Nothing is more pitiably ridiculous than the wild worship 
 of artists by those who have never been seasoned in youth 
 to the enchantments of art. Tenors and prima donnas, 
 pianists and violinists, actors and actresses enjoy powers 
 of seduction which in the middle ages would have exposed 
 them to the risk of being burnt for sorcery. But as they 
 exercise this power by singing, playing, and acting, no 
 great harm is done except perhaps to themselves. Far 
 graver are the powers enjoyed by brilliant persons who 
 are also connoisseurs in art. The influence they can ex- 
 ercise on young people who have been brought up in the 
 
cxviii Parents and Children 
 
 darkness and wretchedness of a home without art, and 
 in whom a natural bent towards art has always been baf- 
 fled and snubbed, is incredible to those who have not 
 witnessed and understood it. He (or she) who reveals 
 the world of art to them opens heaven to them. They 
 become satellites, disciples, worshippers of the apostle. 
 Now the apostle may be a voluptuary without much con- 
 science. Nature may have given him enough virtue to 
 suffice in a reasonable environment. But this allowance 
 may not be enough to defend him against the tempta- 
 tion and demoralization of finding himself a little god 
 on the strength of what ought to be a quite ordinary cul- 
 ture. He may find adorers in all directions in our uncul- 
 tivated society among people of stronger character than 
 himself, not one of whom, if they had been artistically 
 educated, would have had anything to learn from him or 
 regarded him as in any way extraordinary apart from his 
 actual achievements as an artist. Tartuffe is not always 
 a priest. Indeed he is not always a rascal: he is often a 
 weak man absurdly credited with omniscience and per- 
 fection, and taking unfair advantages only because they 
 are offered to him and he is too weak to refuse. Give 
 everyone his culture, and no one will offer him more than 
 his due. 
 
 In thus delivering our children from the idolatry of 
 the artist, we shall not destroy for them the enchantment 
 of art: on the contrary, we shall teach them to demand 
 art everywhere as a condition attainable by cultivating 
 the body, mind, and heart. Art, said Morris, is the ex- 
 pression of pleasure in work. And certainly, when work 
 is made detestable by slavery, there is no art. It is only 
 when learning is made a slavery by tyrannical teachers 
 that art becomes loathsome to the pupil. 
 
Parents and Children cxix 
 
 "The Machine" 
 
 When we set to work at a Constitution to secure free- 
 dom for children, we had better bear in mind that the 
 children may not be at all obliged to us for our pains. 
 Rousseau said that men are born free; and this saying, in 
 its proper bearings, was and is a great and true saying; 
 yet let it not lead us into the error of supposing that all 
 men long for freedom and embrace it when it is offered 
 to them. On the contrary, it has to be forced on them; 
 and even then they will give it the slip if it is not religiously 
 inculcated and strongly safeguarded. 
 
 Besides, men are born docile, and must in the nature of 
 things remain so with regard to everything they do not 
 understand. Now political science and the art of gov- 
 ernment are among the things they do not understand, 
 and indeed are not at present allowed to understand. 
 They can be enslaved by a system, as we are at present, 
 because it happens to be there, and nobody understands 
 it. An intelligently worked Capitalist system, as Comte 
 saw, would give us all that most of us are intelligent enough 
 to want. What makes it produce such unspeakably vUe 
 results is that it is an automatic system which is as little 
 understood by those who profit by it in money as by those 
 who are starved and degraded by it: our millionaires and 
 statesmen are manifestly no more "captains of industry" 
 or scientific politicians than our bookmakers are mathe- 
 maticians. For some time past a significant word has 
 been coming into use as a substitute for Destiny, Fate, 
 and Providence. It is "The Machine": the machine that 
 has no god in it. Why do governments do nothing in spite 
 of reports of Royal Commissions that establish the most 
 frightful urgency? Why do our philanthropic millionaires 
 do nothing, though they are ready to throw bucketfuls of 
 gold into the streets? The Machine will not let them. 
 Always the Machine. In short, they dont know how. 
 
cxx Parents and Children 
 
 They try to reform Society as an old lady might try to 
 restore a broken down locomotive by prodding it with a 
 knitting needle. Aid this is not at all because they are 
 born fools, but because they have been educated, not 
 into manhood and freedom, but into blindness and slavery 
 by their parents and schoolmasters, themselves the vic- 
 tims of a similar misdirection, and consequently of The 
 Machine. They do not want liberty. They have not 
 been educated to want it. They choose slavery and in- 
 equality; and all the other evils are automatically added 
 to them. 
 
 And yet we must have The Machine. It is only in un- 
 skilled hands under ignorant direction that machinery is 
 dangerous. We can no more govern modern communities 
 without political machinery than we can feed and clothe 
 them without industrial machinery. Shatter The Ma- 
 chine, and you get Anarchy. And yet The Machine works 
 so detestably at present that we have people who advocate 
 Anarchy and call themselves Anarchists. 
 
 The Provocation to Anarchism 
 
 What is valid in Anarchism is that all Governments try 
 to simplify their task by destroying liberty and glorifying 
 authority in general and their own deeds in particular. 
 But the difficulty in combining law and order with free 
 institutions is not a natural one. It is a matter of incul- 
 cation. If people are brought up to be slaves, it is useless 
 and dangerous to let them loose at the age of twenty-one 
 and say "Now you are free." No one with the tamed soul 
 and broken spirit of a slave can be free. It is like saying 
 to a laborer brought up on a family income of thirteen 
 shillings a week, "Here is one hundred thousand pounds: 
 now you are wealthy." Nothing can make such a man 
 really wealthy. Freedom and wealth are difficult and 
 responsible conditions to which men must be accustomed 
 
Parents and Children cxxi 
 
 and socially trained from birth. A nation that is free at 
 twenty-one is not free at all; just as a man first enriched 
 at fifty remains poor all his life, even if he does not curtail 
 it by drinking himself to death in the first wild ecstasy of 
 being able to swallow as much as he likes for the first 
 time. You cannot govern men brought up as slaves 
 otherwise than as slaves are governed. You may pile 
 Bills of Right and Habeas Corpus Acts on Great Charters; 
 promulgate American Constitutions; burn the chateaux 
 and guillotine the seigneurs; chop off the heads of kings 
 and queens and set up Democracy on the ruins of feudal- 
 ism : the end of it all for us is that already in the twentieth 
 century there has been as much brute coercion and savage 
 intolerance, as much flogging and hanging, as much im- 
 pudent injustice on the bench and lustful rancor in the 
 pulpit, as much naive resort to torture, persecution, and 
 suppression of free speech and freedom of the press, as 
 much war, as much of the vilest excess of mutilation, 
 rapine, and delirious indiscriminate slaughter of helpless 
 non-combatants, old and young, as much prostitution of 
 professional talent, literary and political, in defence of 
 manifest wrong, as much cowardly sycophancy giving 
 fine names to all this villainy or pretending that it is 
 "greatly exaggerated," as we can find any record of from 
 the days when the advocacy of liberty was a capital offence 
 and Democracy was hardly thinkable. Democracy ex- 
 hibits the vanity of Louis XIV, the savagery of Peter of 
 Russia, the nepotism and provinciality of Napoleon, the 
 fickleness of Catherine II: in short, all the childishnesses 
 of all the despots without any of the qualities that enabled 
 the greatest of them to fascinate and dominate their 
 contemporaries. 
 
 And the flatterers of Democracy are as impudently 
 servile to the successful, and insolent to common honest 
 folk, as the flatterers of the monarchs. Democracy in 
 America has led to the withdrawal of ordinary refined 
 
cxxii Parents and Children 
 
 persons from politics; and' the same result is coming in 
 England as fast as we make Democracy as democratic as 
 it is in America. This is true also of popular religion: it 
 is so horribly irreligious that nobody with the smallest 
 pretence to culture, or the least inkling of what the great 
 prophets vainly tried to make the world understand, will 
 have anything to do with it except for purely secular 
 reasons. 
 
 Imagination 
 
 Before we can clearly understand how baleful is this 
 condition of intimidation in which we live, it is necessary 
 to clear up the confusion made by our use of the word 
 imagination to denote two very different powers of mind. 
 One is the power to imagine things as they are not: this 
 I call the romantic imagination. The other is the power 
 to imagine things as they are without actually sensing 
 them; and this I will call the realistic imagination. Take 
 for example marriage and war. One man has a vision of 
 perpetual bliss with a domestic angel at home, and of 
 flashing sabres, thundering guns, victorious cavalry 
 charges, and routed enemies in the field. That is romantic 
 imagination; and the mischief it does is incalculable. It 
 begins in silly and selfish expectations of the impossible, 
 and ends in spiteful disappointment, sour grievance, 
 cynicism, and misanthropic resistance to any attempt to 
 better a hopeless world. The wise man knows that imag- 
 ination is not only a means of pleasing himself and beguil- 
 ing tedious hours with romances and fairy tales and fools' 
 paradises (a quite defensible and delightful amusement 
 when you know exactly what you are doing and where 
 fancy ends and facts begin), but also a means of foreseeing 
 and being prepared for realities as yet unexperienced, 
 and of testing the possibility and desirability of serious 
 Utopias. He does not expect his wife to be an angel; nor 
 does he overlook the facts that war depends on the rous- 
 
Parents and Children exxiii 
 
 ing of all the murderous blackguardism still latent in 
 mankind; that every victory means a defeat; that fatigue, 
 hunger, terror, and disease are the raw material which 
 romancers work up into military glory; and that soldiers 
 for the most part go to war as children go to school, be- 
 cause they are afraid not to. They are afraid even to say 
 they are afraid, as such candor is punishable by death in 
 the military code. 
 
 A very little realistic imagination gives an ambitious 
 person enormous power over the multitudinous victims 
 of the romantic imagination. For the romancer not only 
 pleases himself with fictitious glories: he also terrifies 
 himself with imaginary dangers. He does not even pic- 
 ture what these dangers are: he conceives the unknown . 
 as always dangerous. When you say to a realist "You 
 must do this" or "You must not do that," he instantly 
 asks what will happen to him if he does (or does not, as 
 the case may be). Failing an unromantic convincing 
 answer, he does just as he pleases unless he can find for 
 himself a real reason for refraining. In short, though you 
 can intimidate him, you cannot bluff him. But you can 
 always bluff the romantic person: indeed his grasp of real 
 considerations is so feeble that you find it necessary to 
 bluff him even when you have solid considerations to 
 offer him instead. The campaigns of Napoleon, with 
 their atmosphere of glory, illustrate this. In the Eus- 
 sian campaign Napoleon's marshals achieved miracles of 
 bluff, especially Ney, who, with a handful of men, mon- 
 strously outnumbered, repeatedly kept the Russian troops 
 paralyzed with terror by pure bounce. Napoleon himself, 
 inuch more a realist than Ney (that was why he dominated 
 him), would probably have surrendered; for sometimes 
 the bravest of the brave will achieve successes never at- 
 tempted by the cleverest of the clever. Wellington was 
 a completer realist than Napoleon. It was impossible to 
 persuade Wellington that he was beaten until he actually 
 
cxxiv Parents and Children 
 
 was beaten. He was unbluflfable; and if Napoleon had 
 understood the nature of Wellington's strength instead 
 of returning Wellington's snobbish contempt for him by 
 an academic contempt for Wellington, he would not have 
 left the attack at Waterloo to Ney and D'Erlon, who, on 
 that field, did not know when they were beaten, whereas 
 Wellington knew precisely when he was not beaten. The 
 unbluffable would have triumphed anyhow, probably, 
 because Napoleon was an academic soldier, doing the aca- 
 demic thing (the attack in columns and so forth) with 
 superlative ability and energy; whilst Wellington was an 
 original soldier who, instead of outdoing the terrible aca- 
 demic columns with still more terrible and academic 
 columns, outwitted them with the thin red line, not of 
 heroes, but, as this uncompromising realist never hesitated 
 to testify, of the scum of the earth. 
 
 Government by Bullies 
 
 These picturesque martial incidents are being repro- 
 duced every day in our ordinary life. We are blufifed by 
 hardy simpletons and headstrong bounders as the Russians 
 were bluffed by Ney; and our Wellingtons are threadbound 
 by slave-democracy as Gulliver was threadbound by the 
 Lilliputians. We are a mass of people living in a submis- 
 sive routine to which we have been drilled from our 
 childhood. When you ask us to take the simplest step 
 outside that routine, we say shyly, "Oh, I really couldnt," 
 or "Oh, I shouldnt like to," without being able to point 
 out the smallest harm that could possibly ensue: victims^ 
 not of a rational fear of real dangers, but of pure abstract 
 fear, the quintessence of cowardice, the very negation of 
 "the fear of God." Dotted about among us are a few 
 spirits relatively free from this inculcated paralysis, 
 sometimes because they are half-witted, sometimes be- 
 cause they are unscrupulously selfish, sometimes because 
 
Parents and Children cxxv 
 
 they are realists as to money and unimaginative as to 
 other things, sometimes even because they are exception- 
 ally able, but always because they are not afraid of shad- 
 ows nor oppressed with nightmares. And we see these 
 few rising as if by magic into power and affluence, and 
 forming, with the millionaires who have accidentally 
 gained huge riches by the occasional windfalls of our com- 
 merce, the governing class. Now nothing is more disas- 
 trous than a governing class that does not know how to 
 govern. And how can this rabble of the casual products 
 of luck, cunning, and folly, be expected to know how to 
 govern.? The merely lucky ones and the hereditary ones 
 do not owe their position to their qualifications at all. 
 As to the rest, the realism which seems their essential 
 qualification often consists not only in a lack of romantic 
 imagination, which lack is a merit, but of the realistic, 
 constructive, Utopian imagination, which lack is a ghastly 
 defect. Freedom from imaginative illusion is therefore 
 no guarantee whatever of nobility of character: that is 
 why inculcated submissiveness makes us slaves to people 
 much worse than ourselves, and why it is so important 
 that submissiveness should no longer be inculcated. 
 
 And yet as long as you have the compulsory school as 
 we know it, we shall have submissiveness inculcated. 
 What ismore, until the active hours of child life are organ- 
 ized separately from the active hours of adult life, so that 
 adults can enjoy the society of children in reason without 
 being tormented, disturbed, harried, burdened, and hind- 
 ered in their work by them as they would be now if there 
 were no compulsory schools and no children hypnotized 
 into the belief that they must tamely go to them and be 
 imprisoned and beaten and over-tasked in them, we shall 
 have schools under one pretext or another; and we shall 
 have all the evil consequences and all the social hopeless- 
 ness that result from turning a nation of potential freemen 
 and freewomen into a nation of two-legged spoilt spaniels 
 
cxxvi Parents and Children 
 
 with everytliing crushed out of their nature except dread 
 of the whip. Liberty is the breath of life to nations; and 
 liberty is the one thing that parents, schoolmasters, and 
 rulers spend their lives in extirpating for the sake of an 
 immediately quiet and finally disastrous life. 
 
MISALLIANCE 
 XXI 
 
 1910 
 
 '< X 
 
MISALLIANCE 
 
 Johnny Tarleton, an ordinary young business man of 
 thirty or less, is taking his weekly Friday to Tuesday in the 
 house of his father, John Tarleton, who has made a great deal 
 of money out of Tarleton's Underwear. The house is in 
 Surrey, on the slope of Hindhead; and Johnny, reclining, 
 novel in hand, in a swinging chair with a little awning above 
 it, is enshrined in a spacious half hemisphere of glass which 
 forms a pavilion commanding the garden, and, beyond it, a 
 barren but lovely landscape of hill profile with fir trees, com- 
 mons of bracJeen and gorse, and wonderful cloud pictures. 
 
 The glass pavilion springs from a bridgelike arch in the 
 wall of the house, through which one comes into a big hall with 
 tiled flooring, which suggests that the proprietor's notion of 
 domestic luxury is founded on the lounges of week-end hotels. 
 The arch is not quite in the centre of the wall. There is more 
 wall to its right than to its left, and this space is occupied by 
 a hat rack and umbrella stand in which tennis rackets, white 
 parasols, caps, Panama hats, and other summery articles are 
 bestowed. Just through the arch at this corner stands a new 
 portable Turkish bath, recently unpacked, unth its crate be- 
 side it, and on the crate the drawn nails and the hammer used 
 in unpacking. Near the crate are open boxes of garden games: 
 bowls and croquet. Nearly in the middle of the glass wall of 
 the pavilion is a door giving on the garden, unth a couple of 
 steps to surmount the hot-water pipes which shirt the glass. 
 At intervals round the pavilion are marble pillars with speci- 
 mens of Viennese pottery on them, very flamboyant in colour 
 and florid in design. Between them are folded garden chairs 
 flung anyhow against the pipes. In the side walls are two 
 doors: one near the hat stand, leading to the interior of the 
 
4 Misalliance 
 
 house, the other on the opposite side and at the other end, lead- 
 ing to the vestibule. 
 
 There is no solid furniture except a sideboard which stands 
 against the wall between the vestibule door and the pavilion, a 
 small writing table with a blotter, a rack for telegram forms 
 and stationery, and a wastepaper basket, standing out in the 
 hall near the sideboard, and a lady's worktable, with two 
 chairs at it, towards the other side of the lounge. The writing 
 table has also two chairs at it. On the sideboard there is a 
 tantalus, liqueur bottles, a syphon, a glass jug of lemonade, 
 tumblers, and every convenience for casual drinking. Also a 
 plate of sponge cakes, and a highly ornate punchbowl in the 
 same style as the keramic display in the pavilion. Wicker 
 chairs and little bamboo tables with ash trays and boxes of 
 matches on them are scattered in all directions. In the pavil- 
 ion, which is flooded vrith sunshine, is the elaborate patent 
 swing seat and awning in which Johnny reclines viith his 
 novel. There are two wicker chairs right and left of him. 
 
 Bentley Summ^rhays, one of those smallish, thinskinned 
 youths, who from 17 to ^0 retain unaltered the mental airs of 
 the later and the physical appearance of the earlier age, ap- 
 pears 'in the garden and comes through the glass door into the 
 pavilion. He is unmistakably a grade above Johnny socially; 
 and though he looks sensitive enough, his assurance and his 
 high voice are a little exasperating. 
 
 Johnny. Hallo! Wheres your luggage? 
 
 Bentley. I left it at the station. Ive walked up from 
 Haslemere. [He goes to the hat stand and hangs up his hat], 
 
 Johnny [shortly] Oh! And who's to fetch it? 
 
 Bentley. Dont know. Dont care. Providence, prob- 
 ably. If not, your mother will have it fetched. 
 
 Johnny. Not her business, exactly, is it? 
 
 Bentley [returning to the pavilion] Of course not. Thats 
 w^hy one loves her for doing it. Look here: chuck away 
 your sUly week-end novel, and talk to a ch&p. After a 
 
Misalliance 5 
 
 week in that filthy office my brain is simply blue-mouldy. 
 Lets argue about something intellectual. [He throws him- 
 self into the wicker chair on Johnny's right]. 
 
 Johnny [straightening up in the swing with a yell of pro- 
 test] No. Now seriously. Bunny, Ive come down here to 
 have a pleasant week-end; and I'm not going to stand your 
 confounded arguments. If you want to argue, get out of 
 this and go over to the Congregationalist minister's. He's 
 a nailer at arguing. He likes it. 
 
 Bentlet. You cant argue with a person when his liveli- 
 hood depends on his not letting you convert him. And 
 would you mind not calling me Bunny. My name is 
 Bentley Summerhays, which you please. 
 JoHNNT. Whats the matter with Bunny? 
 Bentlet. It puts me in a false position. Have you ever 
 considered the fact that I was an afterthought? 
 
 JoHNNT. An afterthought? What do you mean by 
 that? 
 
 Bentlet. I — 
 
 Johnny. No, stop: I dont want to know. It's only a 
 dodge to start an argument. 
 
 Bentlet. Dont be afraid: it wont overtax your brain. 
 My father was 44 when I was born. My mother was 41. 
 There was twelve years between me and the next eldest. 
 I was unexpected. I was probably unintentional. My 
 brothers and sisters are not the least like me. Theyre the 
 regular thing that you always get in the first batch from 
 young parents : quite- pleasant, ordinary, do-the-regular- 
 thing sort: all body and no brains, like you. 
 Johnny. Thank you. 
 
 Bentlet. Dont mention it, old chap. Now I'm difiPer- 
 ent. By the time I was born, the old couple knew some- 
 thing. So I came out all brains and no more body than is 
 absolutely necessary. I am really a good deal older than 
 you, though you were born ten years sooner. Everybody 
 feels that when they hear us talk; consequently, though 
 
6 Misalliance 
 
 it's quite natural to hear me calling you Johnny, it sounds 
 ridiculous and unbecoming for you to call me Bunny. 
 [He rises]. 
 
 Johnny. Does it, by George? You stop me doing it if 
 you can: thats all. 
 
 Bentlet. If you go on doing it after Ive asked you not, 
 youU feel an awful swine. [He strolls away carelessly to the 
 sideboard with his eye on the sponge cakes]. At least I should; 
 but I suppose youre not so particular. 
 
 Johnny {rising vengefully and following Bentley, who is 
 forced to turn and listen] I'U tell you what it is, my boy: 
 you want a good talking to; and I'm going to give it to 
 you. If you think that because your father's a K.C.B., 
 and you want to marry my sister, you can make yourself as 
 nasty as you please and say what you like, youre mistaken. 
 , Let me tell you that except Hypatia, not one person in 
 / this house is in favor of her marrying you; and I dont 
 'believe shes happy about it herself. The match isnt set- 
 tled yet: dont forget that. Youre on trial in the office be- 
 cause the Governor isnt giving his daughter money for an 
 idle man to live on her. Youre on trial here because my 
 mother thinks a girl should know what a man is like in 
 the house before she marries him. Thats been going on 
 for two months now; and whats the result? Youve got 
 yourself thoroughly disliked in the office; and youre get- 
 ting yourself thoroughly disliked here, all through your 
 bad manners and your conceit, and the damned impu- 
 dence you think clever. 
 
 Bentley [deeply wounded and trying hard to control him- 
 self] Thats enough, thank you. . You dont suppose, I hope, 
 that I should have come down if I had known that that was 
 how you felt about me. [He makes for the vestibule door]. 
 
 Johnny [collaring him]. No: you dont run away. I'm 
 going to have this out with you. Sit down: d'y' hear? 
 [Bentley attempts to go vrith dignity. Johnny slings him into 
 a chair at the writing table, where he sits, bitterly humiliated. 
 
Misalliance • 7 
 
 lut afraid to speak lest he should burst into tears], Thats the 
 advantage of having more body than brains, you see: it 
 enables me to teach you manners; and I'm going to do it 
 too. Youre a spoilt young pup; and you need a jolly good 
 licking. And if youre not careful youU get it: I'll see to 
 that next time you call me a swine. 
 
 Bentlet. I didnt call you a swine. But [bursting into a 
 fury of tears] you are a swine: youre a beast: youre a 
 brute: youre a cad: youre a liar: youre a bully: I should 
 like to wring your damned neck for you. 
 
 Johnny [with a derisive laugh] Try it, my son. [Bent- 
 ley gives an inarticulate sob of \rage]. Fighting isnt in your 
 line. Youre too small and youre too childish. I always sus- 
 pected that your cleverness wouldnt come to very much 
 when it was brought up against something solid: some 
 decent chap's fist, for instance. 
 
 Bentlet. I hope your beastly fist may come up against 
 a mad bull or a prizefighter's nose, or something solider 
 than me. I dont care about your fist; but if everybody 
 here dislikes me — [he is checked by a sob]. Well, I dont 
 care. [Trying to recover himself] I'm sorry I intruded: I 
 didnt know. [Breaking down again] Oh you beast! you 
 pig! Swine, swine, swine, swine, swine! Now! 
 
 Johnny. All right, my lad, all right. Sling your mud as 
 hard as you please: it wont stick to me. What I want to 
 know is this. How is it that your father, who I suppose is 
 the strongest man England has produced in our time — 
 
 Bentlet. You got that out of your halfpenny paper. A 
 lot you know about him! 
 
 Johnny. I dont set up to be able to do anything but 
 adniire him and appreciate him and be proud of him as an 
 Englishman. If it wasnt for my respect for him, I wouldnt 
 have stood your cheek for two days, let alone two months. 
 But what I cant understand is why he didnt lick it out of 
 you when you were a kid. For twenty-five years he kept 
 a place twice as big as England in order: a place full of 
 
8 Misalliance 
 
 seditious cofifee-colored heathens and pestilential white 
 agitators in the middle of a lot of savage tribes. And yet 
 he couldnt keep you in order. I dont set up to be half the 
 man your father undoubtedly is; but, by George, it's lucky 
 for you you were not my son. I dont hold with my own 
 father's views about corporal punishment being wrong. 
 It's necessary for some people; and I'd have tried it on you 
 until you first learnt to howl and then to behave yourself. 
 
 Bentlet [contemptuously] Yes: behavior wouldnt come 
 naturally to your son, would it? 
 
 Johnny [stung into sudden violence] Now you keep a civil 
 
 ! tongue in your head. I'll stand none of your snobbery. 
 
 j I'm just as proud of Tarleton's Underwear as you are of 
 
 ' your father's title and his K.C.B., and all the rest of it. 
 
 My father began in a little hole of a shop in Leeds no bigger 
 
 than our pantry down the passage there. He — 
 
 Bentlet. Oh yes: I know. Ive read it. "The Ro- 
 mance of Business, or The Story of Tarleton's Underwear. 
 Please Take One!" I took one the day after I first met 
 Hypatia. I went and bought half a dozen unshrinkable 
 vests for her sake. 
 
 JoBNNT. Well: did they shrink? 
 
 Bentlet. Oh, dont be a fool. 
 
 JoHNNT. Never mind whether I'm a fool or not. Did 
 they shrink? Thats the point. Were they worth the 
 money? 
 
 Bentlet. I couldnt wear them: do you think my skin's 
 as thick as your customers' hides? I'd as soon have 
 dressed myself in a nutmeg grater. 
 
 Johnnt. Pity your father didnt give your thin skin a 
 jolly good lacing with a cane — ! 
 
 Bentlet. Pity you havnt got more than one idea! If 
 you want to know, they did try that on me once, when I 
 was a smaU kid. A silly governess did it. I yelled fit to 
 bring down the house and went into convulsions and brain 
 fever and that sort of thing for three weeks. So the old 
 
Misalliance 9 
 
 girl got the sack; and serve her right! After that, I was 
 let do what I like. My father didnt want me to grow up 
 a broken-spirited spaniel, which is your idea of a man, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Johnny. Jolly good thing for you that my father made 
 you come into the office and shew what you were made of. 
 And it didht come to much: let me tell you that. When 
 the Governor asked me where I thought we ought to put 
 you, I said, "Make him the Office Boy." The Governor 
 said you were too green. And so you were. 
 
 Bbntlet. I daresay. So would you be pretty green if 
 you were shoved into my father's set. I picked' up your 
 silly business in a fortnight. Youve been at it ten years; 
 and you havnt picked it up yet. 
 
 Johnny. Dont talk rot, child. You know you simply 
 make me pity you. 
 
 Bentley. "Romance of Business" indeed! The real 
 romance of Tarleton's business is the story that you imder- 
 stand anything about it. You never could explain any 
 mortal thing about it to me when I asked you. "See what 
 was done the last time": that was the beginning and the 
 end of your wisdom. Youre nothing but a turnspit. 
 
 Johnny.' A what! 
 
 Bentley. A turnspit. If your father hadnt made a 
 roasting jack for you to turn, youd be earning twenty-four 
 shillings a week behind a counter. 
 
 Johnny. If you dont take that back and apologize for 
 your bad manners, I'll give you as good a hiding as ever — 
 
 Bentley. Help! Johnny's beating me! Oh! Murder! 
 [He throws himself on the ground, uttering piercing yells]. 
 
 Johnny. Dont be a fool. Stop that noise, will you. 
 I'm not going to touch you. Sh — sh — 
 
 Hypatia rushes in through the inner door, followed by Mrs 
 Tarleton, and throws herself on her knees by Bentley. Mrs 
 Tarleton, whose knees are stiver, bends over him and tries to 
 .lift him. Mrs Tarleton is a shrewd and motherly old lady who 
 
10 Misalliance 
 
 has been pretty in her time, and is still very pleasant and like- 
 able and unaffected. Hypatia is a typical English girl of a 
 sort never called typical: that is, she has an opaque white 
 skin, black hair, large dark eyes with black brows and lashes, 
 curved lips, sw^ glances_an d movements that flash ^jmL-of a 
 waiting stillness, boundless^energy and audacity held in leash. 
 
 Htpatia [pouncing on Bentley with no very gentle hand\ 
 Bentley: whats the matter? Dont cry like that: whats 
 the use? Whats happened? 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Are you ill, child? [They get him up]. 
 There, there, pet! It's all right: dont cry [they put him 
 into a chair]: there! there! there! Johnny will go for the 
 doctor; and he'll give you something nice to make it weU. 
 
 Htpatia. What has happened, Johnny? 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Was it a wasp? 
 
 Bentley [impatiently] Wasp be dashed! 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Oh Bunny! that was a naughty word. 
 
 Bentley. Yes, I know: I beg ^ your pardon. [He rises, 
 and extricates himself from them] Thats all right. Johnny 
 frightened me. You know how easy it is to hurt me; and 
 I'm too small to defend myself against Johnny. 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Johnny: how often have I told you 
 that you must not bully the little ones. I thought youd 
 outgrown all that. 
 
 Htpatia [angrily] I do declare, mamma, that Johnny's 
 brutality makes it impossible to live in the house with him. 
 
 Johnny [deeply hurt] It's twenty-seven years, mother, 
 since you had that row with me for licking Robert and 
 giving Hypatia a black eye because she bit me. I prom- 
 ised you then that I'd never raise my hand to one of them 
 again; and Ive never broken my word. And now because 
 this young whelp begins to cry out before he's hurt, you 
 treat me as if I were a brute and a savage. 
 
 Mbs Tableton. No dear, not a savage; but you know 
 you must not call our visitor naughty names. 
 
 Bentley. Oh, let him alone — 
 
Misalliance 11 
 
 Johnny [fiercely] Dont you interfere between my 
 mother and me: d'y' hear? 
 
 Hypatia. Johnny's lost his temper, mother. "We'd 
 better go. Come, Bentley. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Yes: that will be best. [To Bentley] 
 Johnny doesnt mean any harm, dear: he'll be himself 
 presently. Come. 
 
 The two ladies go out through the inner door with Bentley, 
 who turns at the door to grin at Johnny as he goes out. 
 
 Johnny, left alone, clenches his fists and grinds his teeth, but 
 can find no relief in that way for his rage. After choking and 
 stamping for a moment, he makes for the vestibule door. It 
 opens before he reaches it; and Lord Summerhays comes in. 
 Johnny glares at him, speechless. Lord Summerhays takes 
 in the situation, and quickly takes the punchbowl from the 
 sideboard and offers it 'to Johnny. 
 
 LoBD Summerhays. Smash it. Dont hesitate: it's an 
 ugly thing. Smash it: hard. [Johnny, with a stifled yell, 
 dashes it in pieces, and then sits down and mops his brow]. 
 Feel better now? [Johnny nods]. I know only one person 
 alive who could drive me to the point of having either to 
 break china or commit murder; and that person is my son 
 Bentley. Was it he? [Johnny nods again, not yet able to 
 speak]. As the car stopped I heard a yell which is only too 
 familiar to me. It generally means that some infuriated 
 person is trying to thrash Bentley. Nobody has ever suc- 
 ceeded, though almost everybody has tried. [He seats him- 
 self comfortably close to the writing table, and sets to work to 
 collect the fragments of the punchbowl in the wastepaper 
 basket whilst Johnny, tvith diminishing difficulty, collects 
 himself]. Bentley is a problem which I confess I have 
 never been able to solve. He was born to be a great success 
 at the age of fifty. Most Englishmen of his class seem to 
 be born to be great successes at the age of twenty-four at 
 most. The domestic problem for me is how to endure 
 Bentley until he is fifty. The problem for the nation is 
 
12 Misalliance 
 
 how to get itself governed by men whose growth is arrested' 
 when they are little more than college lads. Bentley 
 doesnt really mean to be offensive. You can always make 
 him cry by telling him you dont like him. Only, he cries 
 so loud that the experiment should be made in the open 
 air: in the middle of Salisbury Plain if possible. He has a 
 hard and penetrating intellect and a remarkable power of 
 looking facts in the face; but unfortunately, being very 
 young, he has no idea of how very little of that sort of 
 thing most of us can stand. On the other hand, he is 
 frightfully sensitive and even affectionate; so that he 
 probably gets as much as he gives in the way of hurt feel- 
 ings. YouU excuse me rambling on like this about my 
 son. 
 
 Johnny [who has pulled himself together] You did it on 
 purpose. I wasnt quite myself: I needed a moment to 
 pull round: thank you. 
 
 Lord Summebhays. Not at all. Is your father at home? 
 
 Johnny. No: he's -opening one of his free libraries. 
 Thats another nice little penny gone. He's mad on read- 
 ing. He promised another free library last week. l_It!s 
 ruinous. ItU hit you as well as me when Bunny marries 
 Hypatia. When all Hypatia's money is thrown away on 
 libraries, where will Bunny come in? Cant you stop 
 him? 
 
 LoED Summebhays. I'm afraid not. Hes a perfect 
 whirlwind. Indefatigable at public work. Wonderful 
 man, I think. 
 
 Johnny. Oh, public work! He does too much of it. 
 It's really a sort of laziness, getting away from your own 
 serious business to amuse yourself with other people's. 
 Mind: I dont say there isnt another side to it. It has 
 its value as an advertisement. It makes useful acquaint- 
 ances and leads to valuable business connections. But 
 it *takes his mind ofif the main chance; dnd he over- 
 does it. 
 
Misalliance 13 
 
 LoBD SuMMEEHATS. The danger of public business is : 
 that it never ends. A man may kill himself at it. 
 
 Johnny. Or he can spend more on it than it brings 
 him in: thats how I look at it. What I say is that every- 
 body's business is nobody's business. I hope I'm not a 
 hard man, nor a narrow man, nor unwilling to pay reason- 
 able taxes, and subscribe in reason to deserving charities, 
 and even serve on a jury in my turn; and no man can say 
 I ever refused to help a friend out of a difficulty when he 
 was worth helping. But when you ask me to go beyond 
 that, I tell you frankly I dont see it. I never did see it, 
 even when I was only a boy, and had to pretend to take 
 in all the ideas the Governor fed me up with. I didnt see 
 it; and I dont see it. 
 
 LoED SuMMEEHAYS. There is certainly no business 
 reason why you should take more than your share of the 
 world's work. 
 
 Johnny. So I say. It's really a great encouragement to 
 me to find you agree with me. For of course if nobody 
 agrees with you, how are you to know that youre not a 
 fool? 
 
 LOED SuMMEEHAYS. Quite so. 
 
 Johnny. I wish youd talk to him about it. It's no use' 
 my saying anything: I'm a child to him still: I have no 
 influence. Besides, you know how to handle men. See 
 how you handled me when I was making a fool of myself 
 about Bunny! 
 
 LoED SuMMEEHAYS. Not at all. 
 
 Johnny. Oh yes I was: I know I was. Well, if my 
 blessed father had come in he'd have told me to control 
 myself. As if I was losing my temper on purpose! 
 
 Bentley returns, newly washed. He beams when he sees his 
 father, and comes affectionately behind him and pats him on 
 the shoulders. 
 
 Bentley. JHel-lo, commander! have you come? lye 
 been making a filthy silly ass of myself here. I'm awfully 
 
14 Misalliance i 
 
 sorry, Johnny, old chap: I beg your pardon. Why dont 
 you kick me when I go on like that? 
 
 LoBD SuMMEKHATS. As We Came through Godalming I 
 thought I heard some yelling — 
 
 Bentlet. I should think you did. Johnny was rather 
 rough on me, though. He told me nobody here liked me; 
 and I was silly enough to believe him. 
 
 LoED SuMMEBHATS. And all the women have been kiss- 
 ing you and pitying you ever since to stop your crying, I 
 suppose. Baby ! 
 
 Bentlet. I did cry. But I always feel good after crying : 
 it relieves my wretched nerves. I feel perfectly jolly now. 
 
 LoBD SuMMBEHATs. Not at all ashamed of yourself, for 
 instance? 
 
 Bentlet. If I started being ashamed of myself I 
 shouldnt have time for anything else all my life. I say : I 
 feel very fit anji-spryj/ Lets all go down and meet the 
 Grand Cham. <[He goes to the hatstand and takes down his 
 hat]. 
 
 Lord Summebhats. Does Mr Tarleton like to be called 
 the Grand Cham, do you think, Bentley? 
 
 Bentlet. Well, he thinks hes too modest for it. He 
 calls himself Plain John. But you cant call him that in 
 his own office: besides, it doesnt suit him: it's not flam- 
 boyant enough. 
 
 JoHNNT. Flam what? 
 
 Bentlet. Flamboyant. Lets go and meet him. Hes 
 telephoned from Guildford to say hes on the road. The 
 dear old son is always telephoning or telegraphing: he 
 thinks hes hustling along like anything when hes only 
 sending unnecessary messages. ' f 
 
 LoED SuMMBRHATS. Thank you: I should prefer a 
 quiet afternoon. 
 
 Bentlet. Right O. I shant press Johnny: hes had 
 enough of me for one week-end. [He goes out through the 
 pavilion into the grounds]. 
 
Misalliance 15 
 
 Johnny. Not a bad idea, that. 
 
 Lord Summebhays. What? 
 
 Johnny. Going to meet the Governor. You know you 
 wouldnt think it; but the Governor Hkes Bunny rather. 
 And Bunny is cultivating it. I shouldnt be surprised if 
 he thought he could squeeze me out one of these days. 
 
 LoBD SuMMERHAYS. You dout Say so! Young rascal! 
 I want to consult you about him, if you dont mind. Shall 
 we stroU over to the Gibbet.? Bentley is too fast for me as 
 a walking companion; but I should like a short turn. 
 
 Johnny [rising eagerly, highly flattered] Right you are. 
 ThatU suit me down to the ground. [He takes a Panama 
 and stick from the hat stand]. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton and Hypatia come back just as the two men 
 are going out. Hypatia salutes Summerhays from a distance 
 with an e nigmatic lift of her eyelids in his direction and a 
 demure nod before she sits down at the worktable and busies 
 herself with her needle. Mrs Tarleton, hospitably fussy, goes 
 over to him. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, Lord Summerhays, I didnt know 
 you were here. Wont you have some tea? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. No, thank you: I'm not allowed 
 tea. And I'm ashamed to say Ive knocked over your 
 beautiful punch-bowl. You must let me replace it. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, it doesnt matter: I'm only too 
 glad to be rid of it. The shopman told me it was in the 
 best taste; but when my poor old nurse Martha got catar- 
 act. Bunny said it was a merciful provision of Nature to 
 prevent_h er seeing our china.. 
 
 "^LoBD&DTtfMERHAYs [gfavely] That was exceedingly rude 
 of Bentley, Mrs Tarleton. I hope you told him so. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, bless you! I dont care what he 
 says; so long as he says it to me and not before visitors. 
 
 Johnny. We're going out for a stroll, mother. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. All right: dont let us keep you. Never 
 mind about that crock: I'll get the girl to come and take 
 
16 Misalliance 
 
 the pieces away. [Recollecting herself] There! Ive done 
 it again! 
 
 Johnny. Done what? 
 
 Mrs Taeleton. Called her the girl. You know. Lord 
 Summerhays, its a funny thing; but now I'm getting old, 
 I'm dropping back into all the ways John and I had when 
 we had barely a hundred a year. You should have known 
 me when I was forty! I talked like a duchess; and if 
 Johnny or Hypatia let slip a word that was like old times, 
 I was down on them like anything. And now I'm begin- 
 ning to do it myself at every turn. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEKHAYS. There conies a time when all that 
 seems to matter so little. Even queens drop the mask 
 when they reach our time of life. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Let you alone for giving a thing a 
 pretty turn! Youre a humbug, you know. Lord Summer- 
 hays. John doesnt know it; and Johnny doesnt know it; 
 but you and I know it, dont we? Now thats something that 
 even you cant answer; so be ofiF with you for your walk 
 without another word. 
 
 Lord Summerhays smiles; bows; and goes out through the 
 vestibule door, followed by Johnny. Mrs Tarleton sits down 
 at the worktable and takes out her darning materials and one 
 of her husband's socks. Hypatia is at the other side of the 
 table, on her mother's right. They chat as they work. 
 
 Hypatia. I wonder whether they laugh at us when they 
 are by themselves! 
 
 Mks Tableton. Who? 
 
 Hypatia. Bentley and his father and all the toffs in 
 their set. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Oh, thats only their way. I used to 
 think that the aristocracy were a nasty sneering lot, and 
 that they were laughing at me and John. Theyre always 
 giggling and pretending not to care much about anything. 
 But you get used to it: theyre the same to one another and 
 to everybody. Besides, what does it matter what they 
 
Misalliance 17 
 
 think? It's far worse when theyre civil, because that al- 
 ways means that they want you to lend them money; and 
 you must never do that, Hypatia, because they never pay. 
 How can they? They dont make anything, you see. Of 
 course, if you can make up your mind to regard it as a 
 gift, thats different; but then they generally ask you 
 again; and you may as well say no first as last. You 
 neednt be afraid of the aristocracy, dear: theyre only 
 human creatures like ourselves after all; and youU hold 
 your own with them easy enough. 
 
 Hypatia. Oh, I'm not a bit afraid of them, I assure 
 you. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Well, no, not afraid of them, exactly; 
 but youve got to pick up their ways. You know, dear, I 
 never quite agreed with your father's notion of keeping 
 clear of them, and sending you to a school that was so 
 expensive that they couldnt afford to send their daughters 
 there; so that all the girls belonged to big business fami- 
 lies like ourselves. It takes all sorts to make a world; and 
 I wanted you to see a little of all sorts. When you marry 
 Bunny, and go among the women of his father's set, theyll 
 shock you at first. 
 
 Hypatia [incredulously] How? 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Well, the things they talk about. 
 
 Hypatia. Oh! scandalmongering? 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh no: we all do that: thats only 
 human nature. But you know theyve no notion of 
 decency. I shall never forget the first day I spent with a 
 marchioness, two duchesses, and no end of Ladies This and 
 That. Of course it was only a committee: theyd put me 
 on to get a big subscription out of John. I'd never heard 
 such talk in my life. 'The things they mentioned ! And it 
 was the marchioness that started it. 
 
 Hypatia. What sort of things? 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Drainage! ! She'd tried three systems 
 in her castle; and she was going to do away with them 
 
18 Misalliance 
 
 all and try another. I didnt know which way to look when 
 she began talking about it: I thought theyd all have got 
 up and gone out of the room. But not a bit of it, if you 
 please. They were all just as bad as she. They all had 
 systems; and each of them swore by her own system. I 
 sat there with my cheeks burning until one of the duchesses, 
 thinking I looked out of it, I suppose, asked me what 
 system I had. I said I was sure I knew nothing about such 
 things, and hadnt we better change the subject. Then the 
 fat was in the fire, I can teU you. There was a regular 
 terror of a countess with an anaerobic system; and she told 
 me, downright brutally, that I'd better learn something 
 about them before my children died of diphtheria. That 
 was just two months after I'd buried poor little Bobby; 
 and that was the very thing he died of, poor little lamb! 
 I burst out crying: I couldnt help it. It was as good 
 as telling me I'd killed my own child. I had to go away; 
 but before I was out of the door one of the duchesses — 
 quite a young woman — began talking about what sour 
 milk did in her inside and how she expected to live to be 
 over a hundred if she took it regularly. And me listening 
 to her, that had never dared to think that a duchess could 
 have anything so common as an inside! I shouldnt have 
 minded if it had been children's insides: we have to talk 
 about them. But grown-up people! I was glad to get 
 away that time. 
 
 Hypatia. There was a physiology and hygiene class 
 started at school; but of course none of our girls were let 
 attend it. 
 
 Mbs Tahleton. If it had been an aristocratic school 
 plenty would have attended it. Thats what theyre like: 
 theyve nasty minds. With really nice good women a thing 
 is either decent or indecent; and if it's indecent, we just 
 dont mention it or pretend to know about it; and theres 
 an end of it. But all the aristocracy cares about is whether 
 it can get any good out of the thing. Theyre what Johnny 
 
Misalliance 19 
 
 calls cynical-like. And of course nobody can say a word 
 to them for it. Theyre so high up that they can do and 
 say what they like. 
 
 Htpatia. Well, I think they might leave the drains to 
 their husbands. I shouldnt think much of a man that left 
 such things to me. 
 
 Mrs Takleton. Oh, dont think that, dear, whatever 
 you do. I never let on about it to you; but it's me that 
 takes care of the drainage here. After what that countess 
 said to me I wasnt going to lose another child or trust John. 
 And I don't want my grandchildren to die any more than 
 my children. 
 
 Htpatia. Do you think Bentley will ever be as big a 
 man as his father? I dont mean clever: I mean big and 
 strong. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Not he. Hes overbred, like one of 
 those expensive little dogs. I like a bit of a mongrel my- 
 self, whether it's a man or a dog: theyre the best for 
 everyday. But we all have our tastes : whats one woman's 
 meat is another woman's poison. Bunny's a dear little 
 fellow; but I never could have fancied him for a husband 
 when I was your age. 
 
 Htpatia. Yes; but he has some brains. Hes not like 
 all the rest. One can't have everything. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, youre quite right, dear: quite 
 right. It's a great thing to have brains: look what it's 
 done for your father! Thats the reason I never said a word 
 when you jilted poor Jerry Mackintosh. 
 
 Htpatia [excusing herself] I really couldnt stick it out 
 with Jerry, mother. I know you liked him; and nobody 
 can deny that hes a splendid animal— 
 
 Mrs Tarleton [sAocfed] Hypatia! Howcan you! The 
 things that girls say nowadays! 
 
 Htpatia. Well, what else can you call him.? If I'd 
 been deaf or he'd been dumb, I could have married him. 
 But living with father, Ive got accustomed to cleverness. 
 
20 Misalliance 
 
 Jerry would drive me mad: you know very well hes a 
 iool: even Johnny thinks Mm a fool. 
 
 Mks Tableton [up in arms at once in defence of her boy] 
 Now dont begin about my Johnny. You know it annoys 
 me. Johnny's as clever as anybody else in his own way. 
 I dont say hes as clever as you in some ways; but hes a 
 man, at all events, and not a little squit of a thing like 
 your Bunny. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, I say nothing against your darling: we 
 all know Johnny's perfection. 
 
 Mbs Tablbton. Dont be cross, dearie. You let 
 Johnny alone; and I'll let Bunny alone. I'm just as bad 
 as you. There! 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, I dont mind your saying that about 
 Bentley. It's true. He is a little squit of a thing. I wish 
 he wasnt. But who else is there? Think of all the other 
 chances Ive had! Not one of them has as much brains in 
 his whole body as Bentley has in his little finger. Besides, 
 theyve no distinction. It's as much as I can do to tell 
 one from the other. They wouldnt even have money if 
 they werent the sons of their fathers, like Johnny. Whats 
 a girl to do? I never met anybody like Bentley before. 
 He may be small; but hes the best of the bunch: you 
 cant deny that. 
 
 Mes Taeleton [ivitk a sigh] Well, my pet, if you fancy 
 him, theres no more to be said. 
 
 A pause follows this remark: the two women sewing 
 
 Htpatia. Mother: do you think marriage is as much 
 a question of fancy as it used to be in your time and 
 father's? 
 
 Mes Taeleton. Oh, it wasnt much fancy with me, 
 dear: your father just wouldnt take no for an answer; 
 and I was only too glad to be his wife instead of his shop- 
 girl. Still, it's curious; but I had more choice than you 
 in a way, because, you see, I was poor; and there are so 
 
Misalliance 21 
 
 many more poor men than rich ones that I might have 
 had more of a pick, as you might say, if John hadnt 
 suited me. 
 
 Htpatia. I can imagine all sorts of men I could fall in 
 love with; but I never seem to meet them. The real 
 ones are too small, like Bunny, or too sUly, like Jerry. 
 Of course one can get into a state about any man: fall 
 in love with him if you like to call it that. But who would 
 risk marrying a man for love.? I shouldnt. I remember 
 three girls at school who agreed that the one man you 
 should never marry was the man you were in love with, 
 because it would make a perfect slave of you. Theres a 
 sort of instinct against it, I think, thats just as strong 
 as the' other instinct. One of them, to my certain knowl- 
 edge, refused a man she was in love with, and married 
 another who was in love with her; and it turned out very 
 well. 
 
 Mrs Takleton. Does aU that mean that youre not in 
 love with Bunny? 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, how could anybody be in love with 
 Bunny? I like him to kiss me just as I like a baby to kiss 
 me. I'm fond of him; and he never bores me; and I see 
 that hes very clever; but I'm not what you call gone about 
 him, if thats what you mean. 
 
 Mrs Taeleton. Then why need you marry him? 
 
 Htpatia. What better can I do? I must marry some- 
 body, I suppose. Ive realized that since I was twenty- 
 three. I always used to take it as a matter of course that 
 I should be married before I was twenty. 
 
 Bentlbt's Voice [in. the garden] Youve got to keep 
 yourself fresh: to look at these things with an open 
 mind. 
 
 John Takleton's Voice. Quite right, quite right: I 
 always say so. 
 
 Mas Taeleton. Theres your father, and Bunny with 
 him. 
 
22 Misalliance 
 
 Bentlet. Keep young. Keep your eye on me. Thats 
 the tip for you. 
 
 ~ Bentley and Mr Tarleton {an immense and genial veteran 
 . of trade) come into view and enter the pavilion. 
 
 John Tarleton. You think youre young, do you? You 
 think I'm old? [energetically shaking off his motoring coat 
 and hanging it up loith his cap], 
 
 Bentlet [helping him with the coat] Of course youre 
 old. Look at your face and look at mine. What you call 
 your youth is nothing but your levity. Why do we get on 
 so well together? Because I'm a young cub and youre an 
 old josser. [He throws a cushion at Hypatia's feet and sits 
 down on it with his bade against her knees]. 
 
 Tableton. Old! Thats all you know about it, my lad. 
 How do. Patsy! [Hypatia kisses him]. How is my Chicka- 
 biddy? [He kisses Mrs Tarleton' s hand and poses expan- 
 sively in the middle of the picture]. Look at me! Look at 
 these wrinkles, these gray hairs, this repulsive mask that 
 you call old age! What is it? [Vehemently] I ask you, what 
 is it? 
 
 Bentley. Jolly nice and venerable, old man. Dont be 
 discouraged. 
 
 Tableton. Nice? Not a bit of it. Venerable? Vener- 
 able be blowed ! Read your Darwin, my boy. Read your 
 Weismann. [He goes to the sideboard for a drink of 
 lemonade]. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. For shame, John! Tell him to read 
 his Bible. 
 
 Tarleton [manipulating the syphon] Whats the use of 
 telling children to read the Bible when you know they 
 wont. I was kept away from the Bible for forty years by 
 being told to read it when I was young. Then I picked it 
 up one evening in a hotel in Sunderland when I had left 
 all my papers in the train; and I found it wasnt half bad. 
 [He drinks, and puts down the glass with a smack of enjoy- 
 ment]. Better than most halfpenny papers, anyhow, if 
 
Misalliance 23 
 
 only you could make people believe it. [He sits down by 
 the writing-table, near his vdfe]. But if you want to under- 
 stand old age scientifically, read Darwin and Weismann. 
 Of course if you want to understand it romantically, read 
 about Solomon. 
 
 Mks Tableton. Have you bad tea, Jobn? 
 
 Takleton. Yes. Dont interrupt me wben I'm' improv- 
 ing the boy's mind. Where was I? This repulsive mask — 
 Yes. [Explosively] What is death? 
 
 Mbs Tableton. John! 
 
 Hypatia. Death is a rather unpleasant subject, 
 papa. 
 
 Tableton. Not a bit. Not scientifically. Scientifically 
 it's a delightful subject. You think death's natural. Well, 
 it isnt. You read Weismann. There wasnt any death to 
 start with. You go look in any ditch outside and youll find 
 swimming about there as fresh as paint some of the 
 identical little live cells that Adam christened in the 
 Garden of Eden. But if big things like us didnt die, we'd 
 crowd one another oflf the face of the globe. Nothing 
 survived, sir, except the sort of people that had the sense 
 and good manners to die and make room for the fresh 
 supplies. And so death was introduced by Natural Selec- 
 tion. You get it out of your head,^5iy lad, that I'm going 
 to die because I'm wearing out or decaying. Theres no 
 such thing as decay to a vital man. I shall clear out; but ' 
 I shant decay. 
 
 Bentlet. And what about the wrinkles and the almond 
 tree and the grasshopper that becomes a burden and the 
 desire that fails? 
 
 Tableton. Does it? by George! No, sir: it spiritual- 
 izes. As to your grasshopper, I can carry an elephant. 
 
 Mbs Tableton. You do say such things. Bunny ! What 
 does he mean by the almond tree? 
 
 Tableton. He means my white hairs: the repulsive 
 mask. That, my boy, is another invention of Natural 
 
24 Misalliance 
 
 Selection to disgust young women with me, and give the 
 lads a turn. 
 
 MesTaeleton. John: I wont have it. Tha±s a forbid- 
 den subject. 
 
 Taeleton. They talk of the wickedness and vanity of 
 women painting their faces and wearing auburn wigs at 
 fifty. But why shouldnt they? Why should a woman 
 allow Nature to put a false mask of age on her when she 
 knows that shes as young as ever? Why should she look 
 in the glass and see a wrinkled lie when a touch of fine 
 art will shew her a glorious truth? The wrinkles are a 
 dodge to repel young men. Suppose she doesnt want to 
 repel young men! Suppose she likes them! 
 
 Mes Taeleton. Bunny: take Hypatia out into the 
 grounds for a walk: theres a good boy. John has got one 
 of his naughty fits this evening. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, never mind me. I'm used to him. 
 
 Bentley. I'm not. I never heard such conversation: 
 I cant believe my ears. And mind you, this is the man who 
 objected- to my marrying his daughter on the ground that 
 a marriage between a member of the great and good middle 
 class with one of the vicious and corrupt aristocracy would 
 be a misalliance. A misalliance, if you please! This is the 
 man Ive adopted as a father! 
 
 Taeleton. Eh! Whats that? Adopted me as a 
 father, have you? 
 
 Bentlet. Yes. Thats an idea of mine. I knew a chap 
 named Joey Percival at Oxford (you know I was two 
 months at Balliol before I was sent down for telling the 
 old Tvoman who was head of that silly college what I jolly 
 well thought of him. He would have been glad to have 
 me back, too, at the end of six months; but I wouldnt 
 go: I just let him want; and serve him right!) Well, Joey 
 was a most awfully clever fellow, and so nice! I asked 
 him what made such a difiEerence between him and all the 
 other pups — they were pups, if you like. He told me it 
 
Misalliance 25 
 
 was very simple: they had only one father apiece; and 
 he had three. 
 
 Mbs Takleton. Dont talk nonsense, child. How could 
 that be? 
 
 Bentlet. Oh, very simple. His father — 
 
 Tahleton. Which father? 
 
 Bentlet. The first one: the regulation natural chap. 
 He kept a tame philosopher in the house : a sort of Coler- 
 idge or Herbert Spencer kind of card, you know. That was 
 the second father. Then his mother was an Italian prin- 
 cess; and she had an Italian priest always about. He was 
 supposed to take charge of her conscience; but from what 
 I could make out, she jolly well took charge of his. The 
 whole three of them took charge of Joey's conscience. He 
 used to hear them arguing like mad about everything. 
 You see, the philosopher was a freethinker, and always 
 believed the latest thing. The priest didnt believe any- 
 thing, because it was sure to get him into trouble with 
 someone or another. And the natural father kept an open 
 mind and believed whatever paid him best. Between the 
 lot of them Joey got cultivated no end. He said if he 
 could only have had three mothers as well, he'd have 
 backed himself against Napoleon. 
 
 Takleton [impressed] Thats an idea. Thats a most 
 interesting idea: a most important idea. 
 
 Mbs Tahleton. You always were one for ideas, 
 John. 
 
 Tahleton. Youre right. Chickabiddy. What do I tell 
 Johnny when he brags about Tarleton's Underwear? It's 
 not the underwear. The underwear be hanged! Anybody 
 can make underwear. Anybody can sell underwear. 
 Tarleton's Ideas: thats whats done it. Ive often thought 
 of putting that up over the shop. 
 
 Bentlet. Take me into partnership when you do, old 
 man. I'm wasted on the underwear; but I shall come in 
 strong on the ideas. 
 
26 Misalliance 
 
 Takleton. You be a good boy; and perhaps I 
 will. 
 
 Mks Takleton [scenting a plot against her beloved Johnny] 
 Now, John: you promised — 
 
 Takleton. Yes, yes. All right. Chickabiddy: dont 
 fuss. Your precious Johnny shant be interfered with. 
 [Bouncing up, too energetic to sit still] But I'm getting sick 
 of that old shop. Thirty-five years Ive had of it: same 
 blessed old stairs to go up and down every day: same old 
 lot: same old game: sorry I ever started it now. I'll 
 chuck it and try something else: something that will give 
 a scope to all my faculties. 
 
 Htpatia. Theres money in underwear: theres none in 
 wild-cat ideas. 
 
 Takleton. Theres money in me, madam, no matter 
 what I go into. 
 
 Mrb Takleton. Dont boast, John. Dont tempt Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 Takleton. Rats! You dont understand Providence. 
 Providence likes to be tempted. Thats the secret of the 
 successful man. Read Browning. Natural theology on an 
 island, eh? Caliban was afraid to tempt Providence: that 
 was why he was never able to get even with Prospero. 
 What did Prospero do? Prospero didnt even tempt 
 Providence: he was Providence. Thats one of Tarleton's 
 ideas; and dont you forget it. 
 
 Bentlet. You are full of beef today, old man. 
 
 Takleton. Beef be blowed ! Joy of life. Read Ibsen. 
 [He goes into the pavilion to relieve his restlessness, and stares 
 out with his hands thruM deep in his pockets], 
 
 Hypatia [thoughtful] Bentley: couldnt you invite your 
 friend Mr Percival down here? 
 
 Bentley. Not if I know it. Youd throw me over the 
 moment you set eyes on him. 
 
 Mks 'Takleton. Oh, Bunny! For shame! 
 
 Bentlet. Well, who'd marry me, dyou suppose, if they 
 
Misalliance 27 
 
 could get my brains with a full-sized body? No, thank 
 you. I shall take jolly good care to keep Joey out of this 
 until Hypatia is past praying for. 
 
 Johnny and Lord Summerhays return through the 'pavilion 
 from their stroll. 
 
 Tahleton. Welcome! welcome! Why have you stayed 
 away so long? 
 
 Lord Summeehats {shaking hands] Yes : I should have 
 come sooner. But I'm still rather lost in England. [Johnny 
 takes his hat and hangs it up beside his own]. Thank you. 
 [Johnny returns to his swing and his novel. Lord Summer- 
 hays comes to the writing table]. The fact is that as Ive 
 nothing to do, I never have time to go anywhere. [He sits 
 down next Mrs Tarleton]. 
 
 Tarleton [following him and sitting down on his left] 
 Paradox, paradox. Good. Paradoxes are the only truths. 
 Read Chesterton. But theres lots for you to do here. You 
 have a genius for government. You learnt your job out 
 there in Jinghiskahn. Well, we want to be governed here 
 in England. Govern us. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHATS. Ah yes, my friend; but in Jing- 
 hiskahn you have to govern the right way. If you dont, 
 you go under and come home. Here everything has to be 
 done the wrong way, to suit governors who understand 
 nothing but partridge shooting (our English native princes, 
 in fact) and voters who dont know what theyre voting 
 about. I dont understand these democratic games; and 
 I'm afraid I'm too old to learn. What can I do but sit in 
 the window of my club, which consists mostly of retired 
 Indian Civil servants? We look on at the muddle and the 
 folly and amateurishness; and we ask each other where a 
 single fortnight of it would have landed us. 
 
 Tarleton. Very true. Still, Democracy's all right, 
 you know. Read Mill. Read Jefierson. 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Yes. Democracy reads well; but 
 it doesnt act well, like some people's plays. No, no, my 
 
28 Misalliance 
 
 friend Tarleton: to make Democracy work, you need an 
 aristocratic democracy. To make Aristocracy work, you 
 need a democratic aristocracy. Youve got neither; and 
 theres an end of it. 
 
 Tahleton. StUl, you know, the superman may come. 
 The superman's an idea. I believe in ideas. Read Whats- 
 hisname. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHATS. Reading is a dangerous amusement, 
 Tarleton. I wish I could persuade your free library 
 people of that. 
 
 Taeleton. Why, man, it's the beginning of education. 
 
 Lord Summekhats. On the contrary, it's the end of it. 
 How can you dare teach a man to read until youve taught 
 him everything else first? 
 
 Johnny [intercepting his father's reply by coming out of 
 the swing and taking thT floor] Leave it at that. Thats 
 good sense. Anybody on for a game of tennis? 
 
 Bentlet. Oh, lets have some more improving conver- 
 sation. Wouldnt you rather, Johnny? 
 
 Johnny. If you ask me, no. 
 
 Taeleton. Johnny: you dont cultivate your mind. 
 You dont read. 
 
 Johnny [coming between his mother and Lord Summer- 
 hays, book in hand] Yes I do. I bet you what you like 
 that, page for page, I read more than you, though I dont 
 talk about it so much. Only, I dont read the same books. 
 I like a book with a plot in it. Yoti like a book with noth- 
 ing in it but some idea that the chap that writes it keeps 
 Vorrying, like a cat chasing its own tail. I can stand a 
 -little of it, just as I can stand watching the cat for two 
 minutes, say, when Ive nothing better to do. But a man 
 soon gets fed up with that sort of thing. The fact is, you 
 look on an author as a sort of god. I look on him as a man 
 that I pay to do a certain thing for me. I pay him to 
 amuse me and to take me out of myself and make me 
 forget. 
 
Misalliance 29 
 
 Taeleton. No. Wrong principle. You want to re- 
 member. Read Kipling. "Lest we forget." 
 
 JoHNNT. If Kipling wants to remember, let him re- 
 member. If he had to run Tarleton's Underwear, he'd be 
 jolly glad to forget. As he has a much softer job, and 
 wants to keep himself before the public, his cry is, "Dont 
 you forget the sort of things I'm rather clever at writing 
 about." Well, I dont blame him: it's his business: I 
 should do the same in his place. But what he wants and' 
 what I want are two different things. I want to forget; 
 and I pay another man to make me forget. If I buy a 
 book or go to the theatre, I wait to forget the shop and 
 forget myself from the moment I go in to the moment I 
 come out. Thats what I pay my money for. And if I 
 find that the author's simply getting at me the whole time, 
 I consider that hes obtained mj ; noney under false pre- 
 tences. I'm not a morbid crank: I'm a natural man; and, 
 as such, I dont like being got at. If a man in my employ- 
 ment did it, I should sack him. If a member of my club 
 did it, I should cut him. If he went too far with it, I should 
 bring his conduct before the committee. I might even 
 punch his head, if it came to that. Well, who and what is 
 an author that he should be privileged to take liberties 
 that are not allowed to other men? 
 
 Mrs Tableton. You see, John! What have I always 
 told you.? Johnny has as much to say for himself as any- 
 body when he likes. 
 
 JoHNNT. I'm no fool, mother, whatever some people 
 may fancy. I dont set up to have as many ideas as the 
 Governor; but what ideas I have are consecutive, at all 
 events. I can think as well as talk. 
 
 Bentlet [to Tarleton, chuckling] Had you there, old 
 man, hadnt he? You are rather all over the shop with 
 your ideas, aint you? 
 
 Johnny [handsomely] I'm not saying anything against 
 you. Governor. But I do say that the time has come for 
 
30 Misalliance 
 
 sane, healthy, unpretending men like me to make a stand 
 against this conspiracy of the writing and talking and 
 artistic lot to put us in the back row. It isnt a fact that 
 we're inferior to them: it's a put-up job; and it's they 
 that have put the Job up. It's we that run the country for 
 them; and all the thanks we get is to be told we're Philis- 
 tines and vulgar tradesmen and sordid city men and so 
 forth, and that theyre all angels of light and leading. The 
 time has come to assert ourselves and put a stop to their 
 stuck-up nonsense. Perhaps if wie" had -nothing better to 
 do than talking or writing, we could do it better than they. 
 Anyhow, theyre the failures and refuse of business (hardly 
 a man of them that didnt begin in an oflSce) and we're the 
 successes of it. Thank God I havnt failed yet at anything; 
 and I dont believe I should fail at literature if it would pay 
 me to turn my hand to it. 
 
 Bentlet. Hear, hear! 
 
 Mrs Takleton. Fancy you writing a book, Johnny! 
 Do you think he could. Lord Summer hays? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Why not? As a matter of fact all 
 the really prosperous authors I have met since my return 
 to England have been very like him. 
 
 Tarleton [again impressed] Thats an idea. Thats a 
 new idea. I believe I ought to have made Johnny an 
 author. Ive never said so before for fear of hurting his 
 feelings, because, after all, the lad cant help it; but 
 Ive never thought Johnny worth tuppence as a man of 
 business. 
 
 Johnny' [sarcastic] Oh! You think youve always 
 kept that to yourself, do you. Governor? I know your 
 opinion of me as well as you know it yourself. It takes 
 one man of business to appreciate another; and you arrtt, 
 and you never have been, a real man of business. I 
 know where Tarleton's would have been three of four 
 times if it hadnt been for me. [With a snort and a nod to 
 emphasise the implied warning, he retreats to the Turkish 
 
Misalliance 31 
 
 bath, and lolls against it with an air of good-humoured 
 indifference]. 
 
 Taeleton. Well, who denies it? Youre quite right, 
 my boy. I don't mind confessing to you,all that the cir- 
 cumstances that condemned me to keep a shop are the 
 biggest tragedy in modern life. I ought to have been a 
 writer. I'm essentially a man of ideas. When I was a 
 young man I sometimes used to pray that I might fail, so 
 that I should be justified in giving up business and doing 
 something: something first-class. But it was no good: I 
 couldnt fail. I said to myself that if I could only once go 
 to my Chickabiddy here and shew her a chartered ac- 
 countant's statement proving that I'd made £20 less than 
 last year, I could ask her to let me chance Johnny's and 
 Hypatia's future by going into literature. But it was no 
 good. First it was £250 more than last year. Then it was 
 £700. Then it was £2000. Then I saw it was no use: /Ffo- 
 metheus was chained to his rock: read Shelley: read 
 Mrs Browning. Well, well, it was not to be. [He rises 
 solemnly]. Lord Summer hays : I ask you to excuse me for 
 a few moments. There are times when a man needs to 
 meditate in solitude on his destiny. A chord is touched; 
 and he sees the drama of his life as a spectator sees a play. 
 Laugh if you feel inclined: no man sees the comic side of 
 it more than I. In the theatre of life everyone may be 
 amused except the actor. [Brightening] Theres an idea 
 in this: an idea for a picture. What a pity young Bentley 
 is not a painter! Tarleton meditating on his destiny. Not 
 in a toga. Not in the trappings of the tragedian or the 
 philosopher. In plain coat and trousers: a man like any 
 other man. And beneath that coat and trousers a human 
 soul. Tarleton's Underwear! [He goes out gravely into the 
 vestibule]. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton [fondly] I suppose it's a wife's partiality. 
 Lord Summerhays; but I do think John is really great. 
 I'm sure he was meant to be a king. My father looked 
 
32 Misalliance 
 
 down on John, because he was a rate collector, and John 
 kept a shop. It hurt his pride to have to borrow money so 
 often from John; and he used to console himself by say- 
 ing, "After all, he's only a linendraper." But at last one 
 day he said to me, "John is a king." 
 
 Bentley. How much did he borrow on that occasion? 
 
 Lord Summerhats [sharply] Bentley! 
 
 MrsTableton. Oh, dont scold the child: he'd have to 
 say something like that if it was to be his last word on 
 earth. Besides, hes quite right: my poor father had 
 asked for his usual five pounds; and John gave him a 
 hundred in his big way. Just like a king. 
 
 Lord Summerhats, Not at all. I had five kings to 
 manage in Jinghiskahn; and I think you do your husband 
 some injustice, Mrs Tarleton. They pretended to like me 
 because I kept their brothers from murdering them; but 
 I didnt like them. And I like Tarleton. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Everybody does. I really must go and 
 make the cook do him a Welsh rabbit. He expects one on 
 special occasions. [She goes to the inner door]. Johnny: 
 when he comes back ask him where we're to put that new 
 Turkish bath. Turkish baths are his latest. . [She goes out]. 
 
 Johnny [coming forward again] Now that the Governor 
 has given himself away, and the old lady's gone, I'll tell 
 you something. Lord Summerhays. If you study men 
 whove made an enormous pile in business without being 
 keen on money, youU find that they all have a slate oflE. 
 The Governor's a wonderful man; but hes not quite all 
 there, you know. If you notice, hes diflferent from me; and 
 ^whatever my failings may be, I'm a sane man. Erratic: 
 thats what he is. And the danger is that some day he'll 
 give the whole show away. 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Giving the show away is a method 
 like any other method. Keeping it to yourself is only 
 another method. I should keep an open mind about it. 
 
 Johnny. Has it ever occurred to you that a man with 
 
Misalliance 33 
 
 an open mind must be a bit of a scoundrel? If you ask me, 
 I like a man who makes up his mind once for all as to 
 whats right and whats wrong and then sticks to it. At all 
 events you know where to have him. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEHHAYS. That may not be his object. 
 
 Bentlet. He may want to have you, old chap. 
 
 Johnny. Well, let him. If a member of my club wants 
 to steal my umbrella, he knows where to find it. If a man 
 put up for the club who had an open mind on the subject 
 of property in umbrellas, I should blackball him. An open 
 mind is all very well in clever talky-talky; but in conduct 
 and in business give me solid ground. 
 
 LoED SuMMEEHAYs. Yes: the quicksands make life 
 diflScult. Still, there they are. It's no use pretending 
 theyre rocks. 
 
 Johnny. I dont know. You can draw a line and make 
 other chaps toe it. Thats what I call morality. 
 
 LoED StJMMEEHAYS. Very true. But you dont make 
 any progress when youre toeing a line. 
 
 Hypatia [suddenly, as if she could bear no more of it] 
 Bentley: .do go and play tennis with Johnny. You must 
 take exercise. 
 
 LoED SuMMEKHAYS. Do, my boy, do. [To Johnny\ 
 Take him out and make him skip about. 
 
 Bentley [rising reluctantly] I promised you two inches 
 more round my chest this summer. I tried exercises with 
 an indiarubber expander; but I wasnt strong enough: in- 
 stead of my expanding it, it crumpled me up. Come 
 along, Johnny. 
 
 Johnny. Do you no end of good, young chap. [He goes 
 out toith Bentley through the pavilion]. 
 
 Hypatia throws aside her work with an enormous sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 LOED SuMMEEHAYS. At last! -VJ >>-■*■*- 
 
 Hypatia. At last. Oh, if I might only have a holiday in 
 an asylum for the dumb. How I envy the animals! They 
 
S4 Misalliance 
 
 cant talk. If Johnny could only put back his ears or wag 
 his tail instead of laying down the law, how much better 
 it would be! We should know when he was cross and when 
 he was pleased; and thats all we know now, with all his 
 talk. It never stops: talk, talk, talk, talt Thats my life. 
 All the day I listen to mamma talking; at dinner I listen to 
 papa talking; and when papa stops for breath I listen to 
 Johnny talking. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. You make me feel very guilty. I 
 talk too, I'm afraid. 
 
 Hypatia. Oh, I dont mind that, because your talk 
 is a novelty. But it must have been dreadful for your 
 daughters. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. I suppose so. 
 
 Hypatia. If parents would only realize how they bore 
 their children! Three or four times in the last half hour 
 Ive been on the point of screaming. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. Were we very dull? 
 
 Hypatia. Not at all: you were very clever. Thats 
 whats so hard to bear, because it makes it so difficult to 
 avoid listening. You see, I'm young; and I do so want 
 something to happen. My mother tells me that when I'm 
 her age, I shall be only too glad that nothing's happened; 
 but I'm not her age; so what good is that to me? Theres 
 my father in the garden, meditating on his destiny. All 
 very well for him : hes had a destiny to meditate on; but I 
 havnt had any destiny yet. Everything's happened to him: 
 nothing's happened to me. Thats why this unending talk 
 is so maddeningly uninteresting to me. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. It would be worse if we sat in 
 silence. 
 
 Hypatia. No it wouldnt. If you all sat in silence, as if 
 you were waiting for something to happen, then there 
 would be hope even if nothing did happen. But this 
 eternal cackle, cackle, cackle about things in general is 
 only fit for old, old, OLD people. I suppose it means 
 
Misalliance 35 
 
 something to them: theyve had their fling. All I listen 
 for is some sign of it ending in something; but just when 
 it seems to be coming to a point, Johnny or papa just starts 
 another hare; and it all begins over again; and I realize 
 that it's never going to lead anywhere and never going to 
 stop. Thats when I want to scream. I wonder how you 
 can stand it. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEEHATS. Well, I'm old and garrulous myself, 
 you see. Besides, I'm not here of my own free will, 
 exactly. I came because you ordered me to come. 
 
 Htpatia. Didnt you want to come? 
 
 LoHD SuMMEKHATS. My dear: after thirty years of 
 managing other people's business, men lose the habit of 
 considering what they want or dont want. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, dont begin to talk about what men do, 
 and about thirty years experience. If you cant get off that 
 subject, youd better send for Johnny and papa and begin 
 it all over again. 
 
 Lord Summebhats. I'm sorry. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Htpatia. I asked you, didnt you want to come? 
 
 Lord Summebhats. I did not stop to consider whether 
 I wanted or not, because when I read your letter I knew 
 I had to come. 
 
 Htpatia. Why? 
 
 Lord Summebhats. Oh come, Miss Tarleton ! Really, 
 really! Dont force me to call you a blackmailer to your 
 face. You have me in your power; and I do what you 
 tell me very obediently. Dont ask me to pretend I do it 
 of my own free will. 
 
 Htpatia. I dont know what a blackmailer is. I havnt 
 even that much experience. 
 
 LoBD Summebhats. A blackmailer, my dear young 
 lady, is a person who knows a disgraceful secret in the life 
 of another person, and extorts money from that other 
 person by threatening to make his secret public unless the 
 money is paid. 
 
S6 Misalliance 
 
 Htpatia. I havnt asked you for money. 
 
 Lord Summehhats. No; but you asked me to come 
 down here and talk to you; and you mentioned casually 
 that if I didnt youd have nobody to talk about me to but 
 Bentley. That was a threat, was it not? 
 
 Htpatia. Well, I wanted you to come. 
 
 Lord Stjmmebhays. In spite of my age and my unfor- 
 tunate talkativeness? 
 
 Htpatia. I like talking to you. I can let myself go 
 with you. I can say things to you I cant say to other 
 people. 
 
 Lord Summehhats. I wonder why? 
 
 Htpatia. Well, you are the only really clever, grown- 
 up, high-class, experienced man I know who has given 
 himself away to me by making an utter fool of himself 
 with me. You cant wrap yourself up in your toga after 
 that. You cant give yourself airs with me. 
 
 Lord Stjmmerhays. You mean you can tell Bentley 
 about me if I do. 
 
 Htpatia. Evenif there wasnt any Bentley: even if you 
 didnt care (and I really dont see why you should care so 
 much) still, we never could be on conventional terms with 
 one another again. Besides, Ive got a feeling for you : al- 
 most a ghastly sort of love for you. 
 
 Lord Summehhats [shrinking] I beg you — no, please. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, it's nothing at all flattering: and, of 
 course, nothing wrong, as I suppose youd call it. 
 
 Lord Summehhats. Please believe that I know that. 
 When men of my age 
 
 Htpatia [impatiently] Oh, do talk about yourself when 
 you mean yourself, and not about men of your age. 
 
 Lord Summehhats. I'll put it as bluntly as I can. 
 When, as you say, I made an utter fool of myself, believe 
 me, I made a poetic fool of myself. I was seduced, not by 
 appetites which, thank Heaven, Ive long outlived: not 
 even by the desire of second childhood for a child com- 
 
Misalliance 37 
 
 panion, but by the innocent impulse to place the delicacy 
 and wisdom and spirituality of my age at the affectionate 
 service of your youth for a few years, at the end of which 
 you would be a grown, strong, formed— widow. Alas, my 
 dear, the delicacy of age reckoned, as usual, without the 
 derision and cruelty of youth. You told me that you 
 didnt want to be an old man's nurse, and that you didnt 
 want to have undersized children like Bentley. It served 
 me right: I dont reproach you: I was an old fool. But 
 how you can imagine, after that, that I can suspect you of 
 the smallest feeling for me except the inevitable feeling of 
 early youth for late age, or imagine that I have any feeling 
 for you except one of shrinking humiliation, I cant 
 understand. 
 
 Htpatia. I dont blame you for falling in love with me. 
 I shall be grateful to you all my life for it, because that 
 was the first time that anything really interesting happened 
 to me. 
 
 Lord Summebhats. Do you mean to tell me that noth- 
 ing of that kind had ever happened before.'' that no man 
 had ever 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, lots. Thats part of the routine of life 
 here: the very dullest part of it. The young man who 
 comes a-courting is as familiar an incident in my life as 
 coffee for breakfast. Of course, hes too much of a gentle- 
 man to misbehave himself; and I'm too much of a lady to 
 let him; and hes shy and sheepish; and I'm correct and 
 self-possessed; and at last, when I can bear it no longer, 
 I either frighten him off, or give him a chance of propos- 
 ing, just to see how he'll do it, and refuse him because he 
 does it in the same silly way as all the rest. You dont call 
 that an event in one's life, do you? With you it was dif- 
 ferent. I should as soon have expected the North Pole to 
 fall in love with me as you. You know I'm only a linen- 
 draper's daughter when all's said. I was afraid of you: 
 you, a great man! a lord! and older than my father. 
 
38 Misalliance 
 
 Andthen, what a situation it was! Just think of it! I was 
 engaged to your son; and you knew nothing about it. 
 He was afraid to tell you: he brought you down here be- 
 cause he thought if he could throw us togetherj I could get 
 round you because I was such a ripping girl. We arranged 
 it all: he and I. We got Papa and Mamma and Johnny 
 out of the way splendidly; and then Bentley took himself 
 off, and left us — -you and me ! — to take a walk through the 
 heather and admire the scenery of Hindhead. You never 
 dreamt that it was all a plan : that what made me so nice 
 was the way I was playing up to my destiny as the sweet 
 girl that was to make your boy happy. And then! and 
 then ! [She rises to dance and clap her hands in her glee]. 
 
 Lord Stjmmebhays [shuddering] Stop, stop. Can no 
 woman understand a man's delicacy? 
 
 Hypatia [revelling in the recollection] And then — ha, ha! 
 — you proposed. You! A father! For your son's girl! 
 
 Lord Summekhats. Stop, I tell you. Dont profane 
 what you dont understand. 
 
 Htpatia. That was something happening at last with a 
 vengeance. It was splendid. It was my first peep behind 
 the scenes. If I'd been seventeen I should have fallen in 
 love with you. Even as it is, I feel quite dififerently 
 towards you from what I do towards other old men. So 
 [offering her hand] you may kiss my hand if that will be 
 any fun for you. 
 
 Lord Summebhats [rising and recoiling to the table, 
 deeply revolted] No, no, no. How dare you? [She laughs 
 mischievously]. How callous youth is ! How coarse! How 
 cynical! How ruthlessly cruel! 
 
 Htpatia. Stuff! It's only that youre tired of a great 
 many things Ive never tried. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. It's not alone that. Ive not for- 
 gotten the brutality of my own boyhood. But do try to 
 learn, glorious young beast that you are, that age is squeam- 
 ish, sentimental, fastidious. If you cant understand my 
 
Misalliance 39 
 
 tolier feelings, at least you know the bodily infirmities of 
 the old. You know that I darent eat all the rich things you 
 gobble up at every meal; that I cant bear the noise' and 
 racket and clatter that affect you no more than they affect 
 a stone. Well, my soul is like that too. Spare it: be 
 gentle with it [he involuntarily puts out his hands to plead: 
 she takes them with a laugh]. If you could possibly think 
 of me as half an angel and half an invalid, we should get 
 
 rmuch better together. 
 Htpatia. We get on very well, I think. Nobody else 
 ever called me a glorious young beast. I like that. Glo- 
 rious young beast expresses exactly what I like to be. 
 
 LoHD SuMMEBHATS [eostricoting his hands and sitting 
 down] Where on earth did you get these morbid tastes? 
 You seem to have been well brought up in a normal, 
 healthy, respectable, middle-class family. Yet you go on 
 like the most unwholesome product of the rankest Bohe- 
 mianism. 
 
 Htpatia. Thats just it. I'm fed up with 
 
 LoKD SuMMEBHATS. Horrible expression. Dont. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, I daresay it's vulgar; but theres no other 
 word for it. I'm fed up with nice things: with respec- 
 tability, with propriety! When a woman has nothing to 
 do, money and respectability mean that nothing is ever 
 allowed to happen to her. I dont want to be good ; and I 
 dont want to be bad: I just dont want to be bothered about 
 either good or bad: I want to be an active verb. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHATS. An active verb? Oh, I see. An 
 active verb signifies to be, to do, or to suffer. 
 
 Htpatia. Just so: how clever of you ! I want to be; I 
 want to do; and I'm game to suffer if it costs that. But 
 stick here doing nothing but being good and nice and 
 ladylike I simply wont. Stay down here with us for a 
 week; and I'll shew you what it means: shew it to you 
 going on day after day, year after year, lifetime after 
 lifetime. 
 
40 Misalliance 
 
 LoED SuMMERHATS. Shew me what? 
 
 Htpatia. Girls withering into ladies. Ladies withering 
 into old maids. Nursing old women. Running errands for 
 old men. Good for nothing else at last. Oh, you cant 
 imagine the fiendish selfishness of the old people and the 
 maudlin sacrifice of the young. It's more unbearable than 
 any poverty: more horrible than any regular-right-down 
 wickedness. Oh, home! home! parents! family! duty! 
 how I loathe them ! How I'd like to see them all blown to 
 bits ! The poor escape. The wicked escape. Well, I cant 
 be poor: we're rolling in money: it's no use pretending 
 we're not. But I can be wicked; and I'm quite prepared 
 to be. 
 
 Lord Stjmmekhays. You think that easy? 
 
 Htpatia. Well, isnt it? Being a man, you ought to 
 know. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHAYS. It requires some natural talent, 
 which can no doubt be cultivated. It's not really easy to 
 be anything out of the common. 
 
 Hypatia. Anyhow, I mean to make a fight for living. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHAYS. Living your own life, I believe the 
 Suffragist phrase is. 
 
 Hypatia. Living any life. Living, instead of withering 
 without even a gardener to snip you ofiE when youre rotten. 
 
 Lord Summekhays. Ive lived an active life; but Ive 
 withered all the same. 
 
 Hypatia. No: youve worn out: thats quite dififerent. 
 And youve some life in you yet or you wouldnt have 
 fallen in love with me. You can never imagine how 
 delighted I was to find that instead of being the correct 
 sort of big panjandrum you were supposed to be, you were 
 really an old rip like papa. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHAYS. No, uo: uot about your father: I 
 really cant bear it. And if you must say these terrible 
 things: these heart- wounding shameful things, at least 
 find something prettier to call me than an old rip. 
 
Misalliance 41 
 
 Htpatia. Well, what would you call a man proposi^ 
 to a girl who might be 
 
 Lord Summebhats. His daughter: yes, I know. 
 
 Htpatia. I was going to say his granddaughter. 
 
 LoBD Summebhats. You always have one more blow to 
 get in. 
 
 Htpatia. Youre too sensitive. Did you ever make mud 
 pies when you were a kid — beg pardon: a chUd. 
 
 LoBD Summebhats. I hope not. 
 
 Htpatia. It's a dirty job; but Johnny and I were 
 vulgar enough to like it. I like young people because 
 theyre not too afraid of dirt to live. Ive grown out of the 
 mud pies; but I like slang; and I like bustling you up by 
 saying things that shock you; and I'd rather put up with 
 swearing and smoking than with dull respectability; and 
 there are lots of things that would just shrivel you up that 
 I think rather jolly. Now! 
 
 LoED Summebhats. Ive not the slightest doubt of it. 
 Dont insist. 
 
 Htpatia. It's not your ideal, is it? / 
 
 Lord Summebhats. No. 
 
 Htpatia. Shall I tell you why? Your ideal is an old 
 woman. I daresay shes got a young face; but shes an 
 old woman. Old, old, old. Squeamish. Cant stand up 
 to things. Cant enjoy things: not real things. Always 
 on the shrink. 
 
 LoBD Summebhats. On the shrink! Detestable ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Htpatia. Bah! you cant stand even a little thing like 
 that. What good are you? Oh, what good are you? 
 
 Lord Summebhats. Dont ask me. I dont know. I 
 dont know. 
 
 Tarleton returns from the vestibule. Hypatia sits down 
 demurely. 
 
 Htpatia. Well, papa: have you meditated on your 
 destiny? 
 
42 Misalliance 
 
 Takleton [puzzled] What? Oh! my destiny. Gad, 
 1 forgot all about it: Jock started a rabbit and put it clean 
 out of my head. Besides, why should I give way to morbid 
 ^introspection? It's a sign of madness. Read Lombroso. 
 [To Lord Summerhays] Well, Summerhays, has my little 
 girl been entertaining you? 
 
 LoKD Summerhays. Yes. She is a wonderful enter- 
 tainer. 
 
 Tarleton. I think my idea of bringing up a young girl 
 has been rather a success. Dont you listen to this, Patsy: 
 it might make you conceited. Shes never been treated 
 like a child. I always said the same thing to her mother. 
 Let her read what she likes. Let her do what she likes. 
 Let her go where she likes. Eh, Patsy? 
 
 Htpatia. Oh yes, if there had only been anything for 
 me to do, any place for me to go, anything I wanted to read. 
 
 Tarleton. There, you see! Shes not satisfied. Rest- 
 less. Wants things to happen. Wants adventures to drop 
 out of the sky. 
 
 Hypatia [gathering up her work] If youre going to talk 
 about me and my education, I'm oflF. 
 
 Tarleton. Well, well, off with you. [To Lord Summer- 
 hays] Shes active, like me. She actually wanted me to 
 put her into the shop. 
 
 Hypatia. Well, they tell me that the girls there have 
 adventures sometimes. [She goes out through the inner door] 
 
 Tarleton. She had me there, though she doesnt know 
 it, poor innocent lamb! Public scandal exaggerates enor- 
 mously, of course; but moralize as you will, superabun- 
 dant vitality is a physical fact that cant be talked away. 
 [He sits down between the writing table and the sideboard]. 
 DiflGicult question this, of bringing up children. Between 
 ourselves, it has beaten me. I never was so surprised in 
 my life as when I came to know Johnny as a man of 
 business and found out what he was really like. How did 
 you manage with your sons? 
 
Misalliance 43 
 
 LoBD SuMMEEHATs. Well, I really hadnt time to be a 
 father: thats the plain truth of the matter. Their poor 
 dear mother did the usual thing while they were with us. 
 Then of course, Harrow, Cambridge, the usual routine of 
 their class. I saw very little of them, and thought very 
 little about them: how could I? with a whole province 
 on my hands. They and I are — acquaintances. Not per- 
 haps, quite ordinary acquaintances: theres a sort of — er — 
 I should almost call it a sort of remorse about the way we 
 shake hands (when we do shake hands) which means, I 
 suppose, that we're sorry we dont care more for one an- 
 other; and I'm afraid we dont meet oftener than we can 
 help. We put each other too much out of countenance. 
 It's really a very diflScult relation. To my mind not alto- 
 gether a natural one. 
 
 Tarleton [impressed, as usual] Thats an idea, certainly. 
 I dont think anybody has ever written about that. 
 
 Lord Stjmmerhats. Bentley is the only one who was 
 really my son in any serious sense. He was completely 
 spoilt. When he was sent to a preparatory school he 
 simply yeUed until he was sent home. Harrow was out of 
 the question; but we managed to tutor him into Cam- 
 bridge. No use: he was sent down. By that time my 
 work was over; and I saw a good deal of him. But I 
 could do nothing with him — except look on. I should 
 have thought your case was quite different. You keep up 
 the middle-class tradition: the day school and the business 
 training instead of the university. I believe in the day 
 school part of it. At all events, you know your own 
 children. 
 
 Takleton. Do you? I'm not so sure of it. Fact is, my 
 dear Summerhays, once childhood is over, once the little 
 animal has got past the stage at which it acquires what 
 you might call a sense of decency, it's all up with the 
 relation between parent and child. You cant get over the 
 fearful shyness of it. 
 
44 Misalliance 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHATS. Shyness? 
 
 Tableton. Yes, shyness. Read Dickens. 
 
 LoED SuMMEEHATS [suTprised] Dickcns!! Of all au- 
 thors, Charles Dickens! Are you serious? 
 
 Tableton. I dont mean his books. Read his letters 
 to his family. Read any man's letters to his children. 
 Theyre not human. Theyre not about himself or them- 
 selves. Theyre about hotels, scenery, about the weather, 
 about getting wet and losing the train and what he saw on 
 the road and all that. Not a word about himself. Forced. 
 Shy. Duty letters. All fit to be published: that says 
 everything. I tell you theres a wall ten feet thick and ten 
 miles high between parent and child. I know what I'm 
 talking about. Ive girls in my employment: girls and 
 young men. I had ideas on the subject. I used to go to 
 the parents and tell them not to let their children go out 
 into the world without instruction in the dangers and 
 temptations they were going to be thrown into. What 
 did every one of the mothers say to me? "Oh, sir, how 
 could I speak of such things to my own daughter?" The 
 men said I was quite right; but they didnt do it, anyxmore 
 than I'd been able to do it myself to Johnny. I had to 
 leave books in his way; and I felt just awful when I did 
 it. Believe me, Summerhays, the relation between the 
 young and the old should be an innocent relation. It 
 should be something they could talk about. Well, the 
 relation between parent and child may be an affectionate 
 relation. It may be a useful relation. It may be a neces- 
 sary relation. But it can never be an innocent relation. 
 Youd die rather than allude to it. Depend on it, in a 
 thousand years itU be considered bad form to know who 
 your father and mother are. Embarrassing. Better hand 
 Bentley over to me. I can look him in the face and talk to 
 him as man to man. You can have Johnny. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHATS. Thank you. Ive lived so long in a 
 country where a man may have fifty sons, who are no more 
 
Misalliance 45 
 
 to him than a regiment of soldiers, that I'm afraid Ive 
 lost the English feeling about it. 
 
 Tarleton [restless again] You mean Jinghiskahn. Ah 
 yes. Good thing the empire. Educates us. Opens our 
 minds. Knocks the Bible out of us. And civilizes the 
 other chaps. 
 
 LoHD SuMMEHHATS. Yes: it civilizes them. And it 
 uncivilizes us. Their gain. Our loss, Tarleton, believe me, 
 our loss. 
 
 Tarleton. Well, why not? Averages out the human 
 race. Makes the nigger half an Englishman. Makes the 
 Englishman half a nigger. 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Speaking as the unfortunate Eng- 
 lishman in question, I dont like the process. If I had my 
 life to live over again, I'd stay at home and supercivilize 
 myself. 
 
 Tarleton. Nonsense! dont be selfish. Think how 
 youve improved the other chaps. Look at the Spanish 
 empire! Bad job for Spain, but splendid for South Amer- 
 ica. Look at what the Romans did for Britain ! They burst 
 up and had to clear out; but think of all they taught us! 
 They were the making of us : I believe there was a Roman 
 camp on Hindhead : I'll shew it to you tomorrow. Thats 
 the good side of Imperialism: it's unselfish. I despise 
 the Little Englanders: theyre always thinking about 
 England. Smallminded. I'm for the Parliament of man, 
 the federation of the world. Read Tennyson. [He settles 
 down again]. Then theres the great food question. 
 
 Lord Summerhays [apprehensively] Need we go into 
 that this afternoon? 
 
 Tarleton. No; but I wish youd tell the Chickabiddy 
 that the Jinghiskahns eat no end of toasted cheese, and 
 that it's the secret of their amazing health and long 
 life! 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Unfortunately they are neither 
 healthy nor long lived. And they dont eat toasted cheese. 
 
46 
 
 Misalliance 
 
 Tableton. There you are! They would be if they ate 
 it. Anyhow, say what you like, provided the moral is a 
 Welsh rabbit for my supper. 
 
 Lord Sttmmekhats. British morality in a nutshell ! 
 
 Tarleton [hugely amused] Yes. Ha ha ! Awful hypo- 
 crites, aint we? 
 
 They are interrupted by excited cries from the grounds. 
 
 Htpatia 
 
 Bentlet 
 
 Papa! Mamma! Come out as fast as you 
 
 can. Quick. Quick. 
 Hello, governor! Come out. An aeroplane. 
 
 Look, look. 
 [starting up] Aeroplane! Did he say an 
 
 Tableton 
 aeroplane? 
 
 Lord Summeehats. Aeroplane! [A shadow falls on the 
 pavilion; and some of the glass at the top is shattered and 
 falls on the floor]. 
 
 Tarleton and Lord Summerhays rush, out through the pa- 
 vilion into the garden 
 
 Htpatia 
 
 Bentlet 
 
 Tableton 
 
 Take care. Take care of the 
 
 chimney. 
 Come this side : it's coming right 
 
 where youre standing. 
 Hallo! where the devil are you 
 coming? youll have my roof 
 oflF. 
 He's lost control. 
 Mbs Tableton. Look, look, Hypatia. There are two 
 people in it. 
 
 Bentlet. Theyve cleared it. Well steered! 
 
 LOBD SUMMEBHATS 
 
 Tableton 
 
 LoBD Summebhats 
 Mbs Tableton 
 
 Bentlet 
 
 Yes; but theyre coming slam into 
 
 the greenhouse. 
 Look out for the glass. 
 Theyll break all the glass. Theyll 
 
 spoil all the grapes. 
 Mind where youre coming. He'll. 
 
 save it. No: theyre down. 
 
LOBD SUMMEK- 
 HAYS 
 
 Htpatia 
 
 Tarleton 
 
 MisalKance 47 
 
 An appalling crash of breaking glass is heard. Everybody 
 shrieks. 
 
 Mbs Tarleton ( Oh, are they killed? John: are they 
 killed? 
 Are you hurt? Is anything broken? 
 
 Can you stand? 
 Oh, you must be hurt. Are you sure? 
 Shall I get you some water? Or 
 some wine? 
 Are you all right? Sure you wont have 
 some brandy just to take off the 
 shock. 
 
 The Aviator. No, thank you. Quite right. Not a 
 scratch. I assure you I'm all right. 
 
 Bentlet. What luck! And what a smash! You are 
 a lucky chap, I can tell you. 
 
 The Aviator and Tarleton come in through the pavilion, 
 followed by Lord Summerhays and Bentley, the Aviator on 
 Tarleton' s right. Bentley passes the Aviator and turns to have 
 an admiring look at him,. Lord Summerhays overtakes Tarle- 
 ton less pointedly on the opposite side with the same object. 
 
 The Aviator. I'm really very sorry. I'm afraid Ive 
 knocked your vinery into a cocked hat. (Effusively) You 
 dont mind, do you? 
 
 Tarleton. Not a bit. Come in and have some tea. 
 Stay to dinner. Stay over the week-end. All my life Ive 
 wanted to fly. 
 
 The Aviator [taking off his goggles] Youre really more 
 than kind. 
 
 Bentlet. Why, its Joey Percival. 
 Percival. Hallo, Ben! That you? 
 Tarleton. What! The man with three fathers! 
 Percival. Oh! has Ben been talking about me? 
 Tarleton. Consider yourself as one of the family — if 
 yoii will do me the honor. And your friend too. Wheres 
 your friend? 
 
48 Misalliance 
 
 Percival. Oh, by the way! before he comes in : let me 
 explain. I dont know him. 
 
 Tahleton. Eh? 
 
 Pebcival. Havnt even looked at him. I'm trying to 
 make a club record with a passenger. The club supplied 
 the passenger. He just got in; and Ive been too busy 
 handling the aeroplane to look at him. I havnt said a 
 word to him; and I cant answer for him socially; but 
 hes an ideal passenger for a flyer. He saved me from a 
 smash. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHATS. I saw it. It was extraordinary. 
 
 When you were thrown out he held on to the top bar 
 with one hand. You came past him in the air, going 
 straight for the glass. He caught you and turned you 
 off into the flower bed, and then lighted beside you like 
 a bird. 
 
 ~ Pebcival. How he kept his head I cant imagine. 
 Frankly, I didnt. 
 
 The Passenger, also hegoggled, comes in through the 
 pavilion with Johnny and the two ladies. The Pas- 
 senger co-mes between Percival and Tarleton, Mrs Tarle- 
 ton between Lord Summerhays and her husband, Hypatia 
 between Percival and Bentley, and Johnny to Bentley's 
 right. 
 
 Tableto'n. Just discussing your prowess, my dear 
 sir. Magnificent. YouU stay to dinner. YouU stay the 
 night. Stay over the week. The Chickabiddy will be 
 delighted. 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Wont you take oS your goggles and 
 have some tea? 
 
 The Passenger begins to remove the goggles. 
 
 Tableton. Do. Have a wash. Johnny: take the gen- 
 tleman to your room: I'll look after Mr Percival. They 
 must — 
 
 By this time the passenger has got the goggles off, and 
 stands revealed as a remarkably good-looking woman. 
 
Misalliance 
 
 49 
 
 All 
 together. 
 
 Mes Taeleton f Well I never!!! 
 
 Bentlet [in a whisper] Oh, I say! 
 
 Johnny By George! 
 
 Lord Summeehats A lady! 
 
 Htpatia a woman! 
 
 Taeleton [to Percival\ You never 
 
 told me — 
 
 Peecival [ I hadnt the least idea— 
 
 An embarrassed pause. 
 
 Peecival. I assure you if I'd had the faintest notion 
 that my passenger was a lady I shouldnt have left you to 
 shift for yourself in that selfish way. 
 
 LoED Summeehats. The lady seems to have shifted for 
 both very effectually, sir. 
 
 Peecival. Saved my life. I admit it most grate- 
 fully. 
 
 Taeleton. I must apologize, madam, for having of- 
 fered you the civUities appropriate to the opposite sex. 
 And yet, why opposite? We are all human: males and 
 females of the same species. When the dress is the same 
 the distinction vanishes. I'm proud to receive in my 
 house a lady of evident refinement and distinction. Allow 
 me to introduce myself: Tarleton: John Tarleton {seeing 
 conjecture in the passenger's eye) — yes, yes: Tarleton's Un- 
 derwear. My wife, Mrs Tarleton: youU excuse me for 
 having in what I had taken to be a confidence between man 
 and man alluded to her as the Chickabiddy. My daughter 
 Hypatia, who has always wanted some adventure to drop 
 out of the sky, and is now, I hope, satisfied at last. Lord 
 Summerhays: a man known wherever the British flag 
 waves. His son Bentley, engaged to Hypatia. Mr Joseph 
 Percival, the promising son of three highly intellectual 
 fathers. 
 
 Htpatia [startled] Bentley's friend.' [Bentley nods]. 
 
 Taeleton [continuing, to the passenger] May I now ask 
 to be allowed the pleasure of knowing your name? 
 
50 Misalliance 
 
 The Passengee. My name is Lina Szczepanowska [pro- 
 nouncing it Sh-Chepanovska]. 
 
 Pekcival. Sh I beg your pardon? 
 
 Lina. Szczepanowska. 
 
 Pebcital [dubiously] Thank you. 
 
 Tableton [very politely] Would you mind saying it again? 
 
 Lina. Say fish. 
 
 Tableton. Fish. 
 
 Lina. Say church. 
 
 Tableton. Church. 
 
 Lina. Say fish church. 
 
 Tableton [remonstrating] But it's not good sense. ' 
 
 Lina [inexorable] Say fish church. 
 
 Tableton. Fish church. 
 
 Lina. Again. 
 
 Tableton. No, but — [resigning himself] fish church. 
 
 Lina. Now say Szczepanowska. 
 
 Tableton. Szczepanowska. Got it, by Gad. [A sibi- 
 lant whispering becomes audible: they are all saying Sh-ch to 
 themselves]. [Szczepanowska! Not an English name, 
 is it? 
 
 Lina. Polish. I'm a Pole. 
 
 Tableton. Ah yes. Interesting nation. Lucky people 
 to get the government of their country taken o£E their 
 hands. Nothing to do but cultivate themselveaI3 Same 
 as we took Gibraltar off the hands of the Spaniards. Saves 
 the Spanish taxpayer. Jolly good thing for us if the Ger- 
 mans took Portsmouth. Sit down, wont you? 
 
 The group breaks up. Johnny and Bentley hurry to the 
 pavilion and fetch the two wicker chairs. Johnny gives his to 
 Lina. Hypatia and Percival take the chairs at the worktable. 
 Lord Summerhays gives the chair at the vestibule end of the 
 writing table to Mrs Tarlelon; and Bentley replaces it with a 
 wicker chair, which Lord Summerhays takes. Johnny re- 
 mains standing behind the worktable, Bentley behind his 
 father. 
 
Misalliance 51 
 
 Mks Tarleton [to Lina] Have some tea now, wont you? 
 
 LiNA. I never drink tea. 
 
 Tableton [sitting down at the end of the writing table 
 nearest Lina] Bad thing to aeroplane on, I should imagine. 
 Too jumpy. Been up much? 
 
 LiNA. Not in an aeroplane. Ive parachuted; but thats 
 child's play. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. But arnt you very foolish to run such a 
 dreadful risk? 
 
 LiNA. You cant live without running risks. 
 
 Mes Tableton. Oh, what a thing to say! Didnt you 
 know you might have been kiUed? 
 
 Lina. That was why I went up. 
 
 Htpatia. Of course. Cant you understand the fasci- 
 nation of the thing? the novelty! the daring! the sense of 
 something happening! 
 
 Lina. Oh no. It's too tame a business for that. I went 
 up for family reasons. 
 
 Tableton. Eh? What? Family reasons? 
 
 Mrs Tableton. I hope it wasnt to spite youi: mother? 
 
 Pebcival [quicJdy] Or your husband? 
 
 Lina. I'm not married. And why should I want to spite 
 my mother? 
 
 Htpatia [aside to PercivaJ] That was clever of you, Mr 
 Percival. 
 
 Pebcival. What? 
 
 Htpatia. To find out. 
 
 Tableton. I'm in a difficulty. I cant understand a 
 ladygoing up in an aeroplane for family reasons. It's - 
 rude to be curious and ask questions; but then it's inhu- 
 man to be indifferent, as if you didnt care. 
 
 Lina. I'll tell you with pleasure. For the last hundred 
 and fifty years, not a single day has passed without some 
 member of my family risking his life — or her life. It's 
 a point of honor with us to keep up that tradition. Usu- 
 ally several of us do it; but it happens that just at this 
 
52 Misalliance 
 
 jnoment it is being kept up by one of my brothers only. 
 Early this morning I got a telegram from him to say that 
 there had been a fire, and that he could do nothing for the 
 ^est of the wee^_-ii'ortunately I had an invitation from the 
 Aerial League to see this gentleman try to break the pas- 
 senger record. I appealed to the President of the League 
 to let me save the honor of my family. He arranged it 
 for me. 
 "" Tarleton. Oh, I must be dreaming. This is stark rav- 
 ing nonsense. 
 
 LiNA [quietly] You are quite awake, sir. 
 
 Johnny. We cant all be dreaming the same thing. 
 Governor. 
 
 Tarleton. Of course not, you duffer; but then I'm 
 dreaming you as well as the lady. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Dont be silly, John. The lady is only 
 joking, I'm sure. [To Lina] I suppose your luggage is in 
 the aeroplane. 
 
 Pbrcival. Luggage was out of the question. If I stay 
 to dinner I'm afraid I cant change unless youll lend me 
 some clothes. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Do you mean neither of you? 
 
 Percival. I'm afraid so. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh well, never mind: Hypatia will 
 lend the lady a gown. 
 
 LiNA. Thank you: I'm quite comfortable as I am. 
 I am not accustomed to gowns: they hamper me and 
 make me feel ridiculous; so if you dont mind I shall not 
 change. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Well, I'm beginning to think I'm doing 
 a bit of dreaming myself. 
 
 Hypatia [impatiently] Oh, it's all right, mamma. 
 Johnny: look after Mr. Percival. [To lAna, rising] Come 
 with me. 
 
 Lina follows her to the inner door. They all rise. 
 
 Johnny [to Percival] I'll shew you. 
 
Misalliance 53 
 
 Pekcival. Thank you. 
 
 Lina goes out with Hypatia, and Percival with Johnny. 
 
 Mrs Takleton. Well, this is a nice thing to happen! 
 And look at the greenhouse! Itll cost thirty pounds to 
 mend it. People have no right to do such things. And 
 you invited them to dinner too! What sort of woman is 
 that to have in our house when you know that all Hindhead 
 will be calling on us to see that aeroplane? Bunny: come 
 with me and help me to get all the people out of the 
 grounds: I declare they came running as if theyd sprung 
 up out of the earth {she makes jor the inner door\. 
 
 Takleton. No: dont you trouble. Chickabiddy: I'll 
 tackle em. 
 
 Mbs Takleton. Indeed youll do nothing of the kind: 
 youU stay here quietly with Lord Summerhays. Youd 
 invite them all to dinner. Come, Bunny. [She goes out, 
 followed by Bentley. Lord Summerhays sits down again]. 
 
 Takleton. Singularly beautiful woman, Summerhays. 
 What do you make of her? She must be a princess. Whats 
 this family of warriors and statesmen that risk their lives 
 every day? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. They are evidently not warriors 
 and statesmen, or they wouldnt do that. 
 
 Tableton. Well, then, who the devil are they? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. I think I know. The last time I 
 saw that lady, she did something I should not have thought 
 possible. 
 
 Takleton. What was that? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Well, she walked backwards along 
 a taut wire without a balancing pole and turned a somer- 
 sault in the middle. I remember that her name was Lina, 
 and that the other name was foreign; though I dont recol- 
 lect it. 
 
 Takleton. Szcz! You couldnt have forgotten that it 
 
 youd heard it. 
 
 Lord Summerhays. I didnt hear it: I only saw it on a 
 
54 Misalliance 
 
 program. But it's clear shes an acrobat. It explains how 
 she saved Percival. And it accounts for her family pride. 
 
 Takleton. An acrobat, eh? Good, good, good! Sum- 
 merhays: that brings her within reach. Thats better than 
 a princess. I steeled this evergreen heart of mine when I 
 thought she was a princess. Now I shall let it be touched. 
 She is accessible. Good. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. I hope you are not serious. Re- 
 member: you have a family. You have a position. You 
 are not in your first youth. 
 
 Tarleton. No matter. 
 
 Theres magic in the night 
 When the heart is young. 
 
 My heart is young. Besides, I'm a married man, not a 
 widower like you. [A married man can do anything he likes 
 if his wife dont mind. A widower cant be too careful. Not 
 that I would have you think me an unprincipled man or a 
 bad husband7\ I'm not. But Ive a superabundance of vi- 
 tality. Read Pepys' Diary. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. The woman is your guest, Tarleton. 
 
 Tarleton. Well, is she? A woman I bring into my 
 house is my guest. A woman you bring into my house is 
 my guest. But a woman who drops bang down out of the 
 sky into my greenhouse and smashes every blessed pane of 
 glass in it must take her chance. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. Still, you know that my name must 
 not be associated with any scandal. Youll be careful, 
 wont you? 
 
 Tarleton. Oh Lord, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I 
 was only joking, of course. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton comes back through the inner door. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Well I never! John: I dont think that 
 young woman's right in her head. Do you know what shes 
 just asked for? 
 
 Tarleton. Champagne? 
 
Misalliance 55 
 
 Mrs TABiiETON. No. She wants a Bible and six oranges. 
 
 Tarleton. What? 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. A Bible and six oranges. 
 
 Tarleton. I understand the oranges: shes doing an 
 orange cure of some sort. But what on earth does she want 
 the Bible for? 
 
 ' ^ Mrs Tarleton. I'm sure I cant imagine. She cant be 
 right in her head. 
 
 Lord Summebhats. Perhaps she wants to read it. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. But why should she, on a weekday, at 
 all events. What would you advise me to do. Lord Sum- 
 merhays? 
 
 Lord Summerhats. Well, is there a Bible in the house? 
 
 Tarleton. Stacks of em. Therte the family Bible, and 
 the Dore Bible, and the paraflel revised version Bible, and 
 the Doves Press Bible, and Johnny's Bible and Bobby's 
 Bible and Patsy's Bible, and the Chickabiddy's Bible and 
 my Bible; and I daresay the servants could raise a few 
 more between them. Let her have the lot. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Dont talk like that before Lord Sum- 
 merhays, John. 
 
 Lord StrMMERHATS. It doesnt matter, Mrs Tarleton : in 
 Jinghiskahn it was a punishable offence to expose a Bible 
 for sale. The empire has no religion. 
 
 lAna comes in. She has left her cap in Hypatia's room. 
 She stops on the landing just inside the door, and speaks over 
 the handrail. 
 
 LiNA. Oh, Mrs Tarleton, shall I be making myself 
 very troublesome if I ask for a music-stand in my room 
 as well? 
 
 Tarleton. Not at all. You can have the piano if you 
 like. Or the gramophone. Have the gramophone. 
 
 LiNA. No, thank you: no music. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton \going to the steps] Do you think it's 
 good for you to eat so many oranges? Arnt you afraid of 
 getting jaundice? 
 
56 Misalliance 
 
 LiNA [coming down] Not in the least. But billiard balls 
 will do quite as well. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. But you cant eat billiard balls, child! 
 
 Takleton. Get em. Chickabiddy. I understand. [He 
 imitates a juggler tossing up balls]. Eh? 
 
 LiNA [going to him, past his wife] Just so. 
 
 Tablbton. Billiard balls and cues. Plates, knives, and 
 forks. Two paraffin lamps and a hatstand. 
 
 LiNA. No: that is popular low-class business. In our 
 family we touch nothing but classical work. Anybody can 
 do lamps and hatstands. / can do silver bullets. That is 
 really hard. [She passes on to Lord Summerhays, and looks 
 gravely down at him as he sits by the writing table]. 
 
 Mks Tableton. Well, I'm sure I dont know what youre 
 talking about; and I only hope you know yourselves. 
 However, you shall have what you want, of course. [She 
 goes up the steps and leaves the room]. 
 
 LoBD Summeehats. Will you forgive my curiosity? 
 What is the Bible for? 
 
 LiNA. To quiet my soul. 
 
 LoBD StTMMEBHAYS [with a sigk] Ah yes, yes. It no 
 longer quiets mine, I am sorry to say. 
 
 LiNA. That is because you do not know how to read it. 
 Put it up before you on a stand; and open it at the Psalms. 
 When you can read them and understand them, quite 
 quietly and happily, and keep six balls in the air all the 
 time, you are in perfect condition; and youll never make 
 a mistake that evening. If you find you cant do that, then 
 go and pray until you can. And be very careful that 
 evening. 
 
 LoBD Summeehats. Is that the usual form of test in 
 your profession? 
 
 LiNA. Nothing that we Szczepanowskis do is usual, my 
 lord. 
 
 LoED Summeehats. Are you all so wonderful? 
 
 LiNA. It is our profession to be wonderful. 
 
Misalliance 57 
 
 Lord Stjmmerhats. Do you never condescend to do 
 as common people do? For instance, do you not pray as 
 common people pray? 
 
 LiNA. Common people do not pray, my lord: they only 
 beg. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEEHATs. You never ask for anything? 
 
 LiNA. No. 
 
 LoED SuMMEEHATS. Then why do you pray? 
 
 LiNA. To remind myself that I have a soul. 
 
 Tableton [walking about] True. Fine. Good. Beau- 
 tiful. All this damned materialism: what good is it to 
 anybody? Ive got a soul: dont tell me I havnt. Cut me 
 up and you cant find it. Cut up a steam engine and you 
 cant find the steam. But, by George, it makes the engine 
 go. Say what you will, Summerhays, the divine spark is 
 a fact. 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Have I denied it? 
 
 Taeleton. Our whole civilization is a denial of it. 
 Read Walt Whitman. 
 
 LoED Summerhays. I shall go to the billiard room and 
 get the balls for you. 
 
 LiNA. Thank you. 
 
 Lord Summerhays goes out through the vestibule door. 
 
 Taeleton [going to her] Listen to me. [She turns 
 quickly]. What you said just now was beautiful. You 
 touch chords. You appeal to the poetry in a man. You 
 inspire him. Come now! Youre a woman of the world: 
 youre independent: you must have driven lots of men 
 crazy. You know the sort of man I am, dont you? See 
 through me at a glance, eh? 
 
 LiNA. Yes. [She sits down quietly in the chair Lord 
 Summerhays has just left]. 
 
 Tarleton. Good. Well, do you like me? Dont mis- 
 understand me: I'm perfectly aware that youre not 
 going to fall in love at first sight with a ridiculous old 
 shopkeeper. I cant help that ridiculous old shopkeeper. I 
 
58 Misalliance 
 
 have to carry him about with me whether I like it or not. 
 I have to pay for his clothes, though I hate the cut of 
 them: especially the waistcoat. I have to look at him in 
 the glass while I'm shaving. I loathe him because hes a 
 living lie. My soul's not like that: it's like yours. I want 
 to make a fool of myself. About you. Will you let me? 
 
 LiNA [very calm] How much will you pay? 
 
 Takleton. Nothing. But I'll throw as many sover- 
 eigns as you like into the sea to shew you that I'm in 
 earnest. 
 
 LiNA. Are those your usual terms? 
 
 Takleton. No. I never made that bid before. 
 
 LiNA [prodticing a dainty little book and preparing to write 
 in it] What did you say your name was? 
 
 Tahleton. John Tarleton. The great John Tarleton 
 of Tarleton's Underwear. 
 
 LiNA [writing] T-a-r-l-e-t-o-n. Er ? [She looks up 
 
 at him inquiringly]. 
 
 Tableton [promptly] Fifty-eight. 
 
 LiNA. Thank you. I keep a list of all my offers. I like 
 to know what I'm considered worth. 
 
 Tahleton. Let me look. 
 
 LiNA [offering the book to him] It's in Polish. 
 
 Tahleton. Thats no good. Is mine the lowest offer? 
 
 LiNA. No: the highest. 
 
 Takleton. What do inost of them come to? Dia- 
 monds? Motor cars? Furs? Villa at Monte Carlo? 
 
 LiNA. Oh yes: all that. And sometimes the devotion 
 of a lifetime. 
 
 Takleton. Fancy that! A young man offering a 
 woman his old age as a temptation ! 
 
 LiNA. By the way, you did not say how long. 
 
 Tarleton. Until you get tired of me. 
 
 LiNA. Or until you get tired of me? 
 
 Tahleton. I never get tired. I never go on long 
 enough for that. But when it becomes so grand, so in- 
 
Misalliance 59 
 
 spiring that I feel that everything must be an anti-climax 
 after that, then I run away. 
 
 LiNA. Does she let you go without a struggle? 
 
 Tableton. Yes. Glad to get rid of me. When love 
 takes a man as it takes me — when it makes him great — 
 it frightens a woman. 
 
 LiNA. The lady here is your wife, isnt she? Dont you 
 care for her? 
 
 Tableton. Yes. And mind! she comes first always. I 
 reserve her dignity even when I sacrifice my own. Youll 
 respect that point of honor, wont you? 
 
 LiNA. Only a point of honor? 
 
 Tableton [impulsively] No, by God! a point of affec- 
 tion as well. 
 
 LiNA [smiling, pleased with him] Shake hands, old pal 
 [she rises and offers him her hand frankly]. 
 
 Tableton [giving his hand rather dolefully] Thanks. 
 That means no, doesnt it? 
 
 LiNA. It means something that will last longer than yes. 
 I like you. I admit you to my friendship. What a pity 
 you were not trained when you were young! Youd be 
 young still. 
 
 Tableton. I suppose, to an athlete like you, I'm pretty 
 awful, eh? 
 
 LiNA. Shocking. 
 
 Tableton. Too much crumb. Wrinkles. Yellow 
 patches that wont come off. Short wind. I know. I'm 
 ashamed of myself. I could do nothing on the high rope. 
 
 LiNA. Oh yes: I could put you in a wheelbarrow and 
 run you along, two hundred feet up. 
 
 Tableton [shuddering] Ugh! Well, I'd do even that 
 for you. Read The Master Builder. 
 
 LiNA. Have you learnt everything from books? 
 
 Tableton. Well, have you learnt everything from the 
 fljring trapeze? 
 
 Lina. On the flying trapeze there is often another 
 
60 Misalliance 
 
 woman; and her life is in your hands every night and 
 your life in hers, vj 
 
 Takleton. Lina: I'm going to make a fool of myself. 
 I'm going to cry [he crumples into the nearest chair]. 
 
 Lina. Pray instead: dont cry. Why should you cry? 
 Youre not the first I've said no to. 
 
 Takleton. If you had said yes, should I have been the 
 first then? 
 
 Lina. What right have you to ask? Have I asked am I 
 the first? 
 
 Takleton. Youre right: a vulgar question. To a man 
 like me, everybody is the first. Life renews itself. 
 
 Lina. The youngest child is the sweetest. 
 
 Takleton. Dont probe too deep, Lina. It hurts. 
 
 Lina. You must get out of the habit of thinking that 
 these things matter so much. It's linendraperish. 
 
 Takleton. Youre quite right. Ive often said so. All 
 the same, it does matter; for I want to cry. [He buries 
 his face in his arms on the work-table and sobs]. 
 
 Lina [going to him] O la la! [SAe slaps him vigorously, 
 but not unkindly, on the shoulder]. Courage, old pal, cour- 
 age! Have you a gymnasium here? 
 
 Takleton. Theres a trapeze and bars and things in the 
 billiard room. 
 
 Lina. Come. You need a few exercises. I'll teach you 
 how to stop crying. [She takes his arm and leads him off 
 into the vestibule]'. 
 
 A young man, cheaply dressed and strange in manner, ap- 
 pears in the garden; steals to the pavilion door; and looks in. 
 Seeing that there is nobody, he enters cautiously until he has 
 come far enough to see into the hatstand corner. He draws a 
 revolver, and examines it, apparently to make sure that it is 
 loaded. Then his attention is caught by the Turkish bath. 
 He looks down the lunette, and opens the panels. 
 
 Htpatia [calling in the garden] Mr Percival! Mr Per- 
 cival! Where are you? 
 
Misalliance 61 
 
 The young man makes for the door, hut sees Percival com- 
 ing. He turns and bolts into the Turkish bath, which he closes 
 upon himself just in time to escape being caught by Percival, 
 who runs in through the pavilion, bareheaded. He also, it 
 appears, is in search of a hiding-place; for he stops and 
 turns between the two tables to take a survey of the room; then 
 runs into the corner between the end of the sideboard and the 
 wall. Hypatia, excited, mischievous, her eyes glowing, runs 
 in, precisely on his trail; turns at the same spot; and discov- 
 ers him just as he makes a dash for the pavilion door. She 
 flies back and intercepts him. 
 
 Htpatia. Aha! arnt you glad Ive caught you? 
 
 Percival [illhumoredly turning away from her and com- 
 ing towards the writing table] No I'm not. Confound it, 
 what sort of girl are you? What sort of house is this? 
 Must I throw all good manners to the winds? 
 
 Htpatia Ifollovnng him] Do, do, do, do, do. This is the 
 house of a respectable shopkeeper, enormously rich. This 
 is the respectable shopkeeper's daughter, tired of good 
 manners. [Slipping her left hand into his right] Come, 
 handsome young man, and play with the respectable shop- 
 keeper's daughter. 
 
 Percival [withdrawing quickly from her touch] No, no : 
 dont you know you mustnt go on like this with a perfect 
 stranger? 
 
 Htpatia. Dropped down from the sky. Dont you know 
 that you must always go on like this when you get the 
 chance? You must come to the top of the hill and chase me 
 through the bracken. You may kiss me if you catch me. 
 
 Percival. I shall' do nothing of the sort. 
 
 Htpatia. Yes you will : you cant help yourself. Come 
 along. [She seizes his sleeve]. Fool, fool: come along. 
 Dont you want to? 
 
 Percival. No: certainly not. I should never be for- 
 given if I did it. 
 
 Htpatia. YouU never forgive yourself if you dont. 
 
62 Misalliance 
 
 Percival. Nonsense. Youre engaged to Ben. Ben s 
 my friend. What do you take me for? 
 
 Htpatia. Ben's old. Ben was born old. Theyre all 
 old here, except you and me and the man-woman or 
 woman-man or whatever you call her that came with you. 
 They never do anything: they only discuss whether what 
 other people do is right. Come and give them something 
 to discuss. 
 
 Pebcival. I will do nothing incorrect. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, dont be afraid, little boy: youll get 
 nothing but a kiss; and I'll fight like the devil to keep 
 you from getting that. But we must play on the hill and 
 race through the heather. 
 
 Pebcival. Why.? 
 
 Htpatia. Because we want to, handsome young man. 
 
 Pebcival. But if everybody went on in this way — 
 
 Htpatia. How happy ! oh how happy the world would 
 be! 
 
 Pebcival. But the consequences may be serious. 
 
 Htpatia. Nothing is worth doing unless the conse- 
 quences may be serious. My father says so; and I'm my 
 father's daughter. 
 
 Pebcival. I'm the son of three fathers. I mistrust 
 these wild impulses. 
 
 Htpatia. Take care. Youre letting the moment slip. 
 I feel the first chill of the wave of prudence. Save me. 
 
 Pebcival. EeaUy, Miss Tarleton [she strikes him across 
 the face] — Damn you! [Recovering himself, horrified at his 
 lapse] I beg your pardon; but since weve both forgotten 
 ourselves, youll please allow me to leave the house. [He 
 turns towards the inner door, having left his cap in the bed- 
 room]. 
 
 Htpatia [standing in his way] Are you ashamed of hav- 
 ing said "Damn you" to me? 
 
 Pebcival. I had no right to say it. I'm very much 
 ashamed of it. I have already begged your pardon. 
 
Misalliance 63 
 
 Htpatia. And youre not ashamed of having said 
 "ReaUy, Miss Tarleton." 
 
 Percival. Why should I? 
 
 Htpatia. O man, man! mean, stupid, cowardly, 
 selfish masculine male man! You ought to have been a 
 governess. I was expelled from school for saying that 
 the very next person that said " Really, Miss Tarleton," 
 to me, I would strike her across the face. You were the 
 next. 
 
 Pebcival. I had no intention of being offensive. Surely 
 there is nothing that can wound any lady in — [He hesi- 
 tates, not quite convinced]. At least — er — I really didnt 
 mean to be disagreeable. 
 
 Htpatia. Liar. 
 
 Pebcival. Of course if youre going to insult me, I am 
 quite helpless. Youre a woman: you can say what you 
 like. 
 
 Htpatia. And you can only say what you dare. Poor 
 wretch: it isnt much. [He bites his lip, and sits down, very 
 much annoyed]. Really, Mr Percival! You sit down in the 
 presence of a lady and leave her standing. [He rises 
 hastily]. Ha, ha! Really, Mr Percival ! Oh really, really, 
 really, really, really, Mr Percival! How do you like it? 
 Wouldnt you rather I damned you? 
 
 Pebcival. Miss Tarleton — 
 
 Htpatia [caressingly] Hypatia, [Joey. Patsy, if you 
 like. 
 
 Pebcival. Look here: this is no good. You want to do 
 what you like? 
 
 Htpatia. Dont you? 
 
 Pebcival. No. Ive been too well brought up. Ive 
 argued all through this thing; and I tell you I'm not pre- 
 pared to cast off the social bond. It's like a corset: it's a 
 support to the figure even if it does squeeze and deform it 
 a bit. I want to be free. 
 
 Htpatia. Well, I'm tempting you to be free. 
 
€4 ^ Misalliance 
 
 Peecival. Not at all. Freedom, my good girl, means 
 being able to count on how other people will behave. If 
 every man who dislikes me is to throw a handful of mud 
 in my face, and every woman who likes me is to behave 
 like Potiphar's wife, then I shall be a slave: the slave of 
 uncertainty: the slave of fear: the worst of all slaveries. 
 How would you like it if every laborer you met in the 
 road were to make love to you? No. Give me the blessed 
 protection of a good stiff conventionality among thor- 
 oughly well-brought up ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 Htpatia. Another talker! Men like conventions . be- 
 cause men made them. I didnt make them: I dont like 
 them: I wont keep them. Now, what will you do? 
 '^;^Pebcival. Bolt. [He runs out through the pavilion]. 
 
 Htpatia. I'll catch you. [She dashes off in pursuit]. 
 
 During this conversation the head of the scandalized man in 
 the Turkish bath has repeatedly risen from the lunette, with a 
 strong expression of moral shock. It vanishes abruptly as the 
 two turn towards it in their flight. At the same moment 
 Tarleton comes hack through the vestibule door, exhausted by 
 severe and unaccustomed exercise. 
 
 Takleton \looking after the flying figures with amazement] 
 Hallo, Patsy: whats up? Another aeroplane? [They are 
 far too preoccupied to hear him; and he is left staring after 
 them as they rush away through the garden. He goes to the 
 pavilion door and looks up; hut the heavens are empty. His 
 exhaustion disables him from further inquiry. He dabs his 
 brow with his handkerchief, and walks stiffly to the nearest 
 convenient support, which happens to be the Turkish bath. 
 He props himself upon it with his elbow, and covers his eyes 
 with his hand for a moment. After a few sighing breaths, he 
 feels a little better, and uncovers his eyes. The man's head 
 rises from the lunette a few inches from his nose. He recoils 
 from the hath with a violent start]. Oh Lord! My brain's 
 gone. [Calling piteously] Chickabiddy ! [He staggers down 
 to the writing table]. 
 
Misalliance 65 
 
 The Man [coining out of the bath, pistol in hand] Another 
 sound; and youre a dead man. 
 
 Tarleton [braced] Am I? Well, youre a live one: 
 
 thats one comfort. I thought you were a ghost. [He sits 
 
 [ \ down, quite undisturbed by the pistol] Who are you; and 
 
 what the devil were you doing in my new Turkish bath? 
 
 \ The Man [with tragic intensity] I am the son of LuCinda 
 
 Titmus. 
 
 Takleton [the name conveying nothing to him] Indeed? 
 And how is she? Quite well, I hope, eh? 
 
 The Man. She is dead. Dead, my God! and youre 
 alive. 
 
 Tahlbton [unimpressed by the tragedy, but sympathetic] 
 Oh! Lost your mother? Thats sad. I'm sorry. But we 
 cant all have the luck to survive our mothers, and be nursed 
 out of the world by the hands that nursed us into it. 
 
 The Man. Much you care, damn you! 
 
 Tableton. Oh, dont cut up rough. Face it like a man. 
 You see I didnt know your mother; but Ive no doubt she 
 was an excellent woman. 
 
 The Man. Not know her ! Do you dare to stand there 
 by her opeli grave and deny that you knew her? 
 
 Taeleton [trying to recollect] What did you say her 
 name was? 
 
 The Man. Lucinda Titmus. 
 
 Tahleton. Well, I ought to remember a rum name like 
 that if I ever heard it. But I dont. Have you a photo- 
 graph or anything? 
 
 The Man. Forgotten even the name of your victim! 
 
 Tableton. Oh! she was my victim, was she? 
 
 The Man. She was. And you shall see her face again 
 before you die, dead as she is. I have a photograph. 
 
 Tableton. Good. 
 
 The Man. Ive two photographs. 
 
 Tableton. Still better. Treasure the mother's pic- 
 tures. Good boy! 
 
66 Misalliance 
 
 The Man. One of them as you knew her. The other as 
 she became when you flung her aside, and she withered 
 into an old woman. 
 
 Takleton. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We 
 all grow old. Look at me! [Seeing that the man is embar- 
 rassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with 
 his left hand in his breast pocket] Let me hold the gun for 
 you. 
 
 The Man [retreating to the worktable] Stand back. Do 
 you take me for a fool.'' 
 
 Tableton. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It 
 does you credit. 
 
 The Man. Look here, upon this picture and on this. 
 [He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and 
 points to them with the pistol]. 
 
 Takleton. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for 
 every occasion. [He takes the photographs, one in each hand, 
 and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but 
 without any sign of recognition] What a pretty girl ! Very 
 pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when 
 I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself 
 in those days. [Looking at the other] Curious that we 
 should both have gone the same way. 
 
 The Man. You and she the same way! What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Takleton. Both got stout, I mean. 
 
 The Man. Would you have had her deny herself food? 
 
 Takleton. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's 
 constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on 
 flesh if youre made that way. [He resumes his study of the 
 earlier photograph]. 
 
 The Man. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the 
 sight of the face you once knew so well.'' 
 
 Takleton [too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him] 
 Funny that I cant remember ! Let this be a lesson to you, 
 young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear 
 
Misalliance 67 
 
 I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that 
 brooch [pointing to the photograph]. Have you got that 
 brooch, by the way? [The man again resorts to his breast 
 pocket]. You seem to carry the whole family property in 
 that pocket. 
 
 The Man [producing a brooch] Here it is to prove my 
 bona fides. 
 
 Tarleton [pensively putting the photographs on the table 
 and taking the brooch] I bought that brooch in Cheapside 
 from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. 
 Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet 
 I remember that nian ; and I cant remember your mother. 
 
 The Man. Monster! Without conscience! without 
 even memory! You left her to her shame — 
 
 Takleton [throwing the brooch on the table and rising 
 pepperily] Come, come, young man! none of that. Re- 
 spect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you 
 start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just 
 at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and 
 we were happy together. If you have a word to say against 
 her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. 
 
 The Man. What sort of a joker are you? Are you try- 
 ing to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to 
 me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at 
 you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? 
 
 Takleton. You read a good deal, dont you? 
 
 The Man. What if I do? What has that to do with 
 your infamy and my mother's doom? 
 
 Takleton. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good 
 sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tre- 
 mendous reader: always was. When I was your age I 
 read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you 
 know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one 
 another in that respect? Can you account for it in any 
 
 way? 
 
 The Man. No. What are you driving at? 
 
68 Misalliance 
 
 Taeleton. Well, do you know who your father was? 
 
 The Man. I see what you mean now. You dare set up 
 to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your 
 vile blood in my veins. 
 
 Tarleton [sitting down again with a shrug] Well, if you 
 wont be civU, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? 
 What do you want? Money? 
 
 The Man. How dare you insult me? 
 
 Tarleton. Well, what do you want? 
 
 The Man. Justice. 
 
 Tarleton. Youre quite sure thats all? 
 
 The Man. It's enough for me. 
 
 Tarleton. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody 
 ever had it since the world began, fortunately for them- 
 selves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve 
 come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: 
 we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. 
 
 The Man. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! 
 selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call 
 human nature? 
 
 Tarleton. No : thats what you call it. Come, my lad ! 
 Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; 
 and youve a decent suit of clothes. 
 
 The Man. Forty-two shillings. 
 
 Tarleton. They can do you a very decent suit for 
 forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? 
 
 The Man. Do you take me for a thief? And do you 
 suppose I can get credit like you? 
 
 Tarleton. Then you were able to lay your hand on 
 forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational 
 style, I should think you must spend at least a shilliag a 
 week on romantic literature. 
 
 The Man. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend 
 on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get 
 books at the Free Library. 
 
 Tarleton [springing to his feet] What! ! ! 
 
Misalliance 69 
 
 The Man [recoiling before his vehemence] The Free 
 Library. Theres no harm in that. 
 
 Tableton. Ingjrate! I supply you with free books; and 
 the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's 
 a fine thing to shoot me. [He throws himself doggedly back 
 into his chair]. I'll never give another penny to a Free 
 Library. 
 
 The Man. YouU never give another penny to any- 
 thing. This is the end: for you and me. 
 
 Tableton. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. 
 Whats wrong? Are you out of employment.? 
 
 The Man. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont 
 flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a 
 cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been 
 a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account be- 
 cause my hands are clean. 
 
 Tableton. Well, call away. What have I to account 
 for.? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt 
 she ask me for money? 
 
 The Man. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted 
 your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My 
 father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he 
 was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as 
 yours. 
 
 Tableton. I suppose your mother brought him a little 
 capital. 
 
 The Man. I dont know. Whats that got to do with 
 you? 
 
 Tableton. Well, you say she and I knew one another 
 and parted. She must have had something off me then, 
 you know. One do.esnt get out of these things for nothing. 
 Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of 
 course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, 
 and set him up in business with it, and brought you up 
 respectably; so what the devil have you toscomplain of? 
 
 The Man. Are women to be ruined with impunity? 
 
70 Misalliance 
 
 Tahleton. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware 
 of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. 
 
 The Man. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue 
 with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. 
 
 Takleton. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. 
 Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Hafvnt 
 you? 
 
 The Man. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. 
 Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from 
 nine to six — nine hours of daylight and fresh air-^in a 
 stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an 
 intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he 
 makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his 
 eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences 
 and see how much they come to at the end of the day 
 and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, 
 and add and add, and take money and give change, and 
 fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that 
 money is my own: not one of those transactions has the 
 smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but 
 him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all 
 himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and 
 liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper 
 that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand 
 entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out 
 of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and 
 when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet 
 made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if 
 bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the dam- 
 nable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking 
 is the very worst. 
 
 Tahleton. Why not join the territorials? 
 
 The Man. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even 
 the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap j 
 soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from 
 nine to six be anything— be even a man, let alone a sol- 
 
Misalliance 71 
 
 dier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had 
 enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. 
 Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, 
 and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you 
 in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until 
 one of us makes an example of one of you. 
 
 Tarleton. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? 
 
 The Man. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a 
 business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. 
 So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to 
 do it; but I am. 
 
 Tarleton [rising and facing him] Come, now, as man 
 to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; 
 and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if 
 you could undo all that passed between me and your 
 mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But 
 youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of 
 a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges 
 his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: 
 look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's 
 last sigh. 
 
 The Man. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? 
 And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as 
 heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get 
 the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! [Lina appears at 
 the pavilion door, and comes svnjtly and noiselessly forward 
 on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]. 
 
 Tarleton. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but 
 youre not afraid to shoot yourself. 
 
 The Man. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking 
 untU somebody comes. [He raises the pistol desperately, hut 
 not very resolutely]. 
 
 Lina [at his right elbow] Somebody has come. 
 
 The Man [turning on her] Stand off. I'll shoot you if 
 you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. 
 
 Lina. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. 
 
72 Misalliance 
 
 He tries, •presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round 
 him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light 
 dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the 
 pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, 
 grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol 
 points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina 
 grips his other xorist. 
 
 Lina. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; 
 but I must if you dont let the pistol go. 
 
 The Man [letting Tarleton take it from him] All right: 
 I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a 
 clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police 
 and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine 
 to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. 
 
 Takleton. Dont swear. Thats a lady. [He throws the 
 pistol on the writing table]. 
 
 The Man [looking at Lina in amazement] Beaten by a 
 female! It needed only this. [He collapses in the chair 
 near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help 
 pitying him]. 
 
 Lina. Old pal : dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle 
 and let him get away. 
 
 The Man. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford 
 one. I'm not even that much good. 
 
 Taeleton. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to 
 go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know 
 how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? 
 
 The Man. Take! I got four days last August. 
 
 Tarleton. What did you do.? 
 
 The Man. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent 
 sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic ma- 
 chines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. 
 I spent a penny on the lift and f ourpence on refreshments. 
 That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miser- 
 able that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you 
 know. 
 
Misalliance 73 
 
 LiNA. Come to the gymnasiuin: I'll teach you how to 
 make a man of yourself. [The man is about to rise irreso- 
 lutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when 
 Tarleton stops him]. 
 
 Takleton. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shopt 
 me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a 
 man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body 
 stretched until it's an agony to live — until you have an 
 unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and 
 laughing with pain — then go to the gymnasium with that 
 lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. 
 
 LlNA \jgreatly amused] Was that why you went away, 
 old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had for- 
 gotten to send? ''r. ^Aa-C. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door. 
 
 Mbs Tableton [on the steps] Is anything the matter, 
 John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of 
 an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were 
 ill. [She comes between Tarleton and the man.] Is, anything 
 the matter? 
 
 Takleton. This is the son of an old friend of mine. 
 Mr — er — Mr Gunner. [To the man, who rises awkwardly]. 
 My wife. ! •. 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Good evening to you. 
 
 GuNNEH. Er — [He is too nervous to speak, and makes a 
 shambling how]. 
 
 Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too 
 preoccupied vrith his own affairs to pay any attention to those 
 of the coTnpany. 
 
 Bentlet. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She 
 promised to come out with me; and I cant find her any- 
 where. And wheres Joey? 
 
 GuNNEB [suddenly breaking out aggressively, being inca- 
 pable of any middle way between submissiveness and vio- 
 lence] I can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you 
 where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If 
 
74 Misalliance 
 
 people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable 
 house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our 
 pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! 
 This! — 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Dont you dare, use such language in 
 company. I wont allow it.. 
 
 Tarleton. All right. Chickabiddy: it's not bad lan- 
 guage: it's only Socialism. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my 
 house. 
 
 Tarleton [to Gunner] You hear what Mrs Tarleton 
 says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says 
 or out they go. 
 
 Gunner. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think 
 I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer 
 than I could help? 
 
 Bentlet [running forward between Lina and Gunner] But 
 what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton 
 and Mr Percival, you be|,stly rotter, you? 
 
 Gunnee [to Tarleton]\Oh.l is Hypatia your daughter? 
 /-And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your 
 set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the 
 bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One 
 of the johnnies I slave torj} Well, Joey has more de- 
 cency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are 
 the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my 
 own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is 
 on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn 
 will come. 
 
 Mrs Tableton [naively looking at the wall for the writing] 
 Whatever are you talking about, young man? 
 
 Gunner. I know what I'm talking about. I went into 
 that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Good gracious! hes mad. [To Lina] 
 Did John make him take a Turkish bath? 
 
 Lina. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths : he needs to 
 
Misalliance 75 
 
 put on a little flesk. I dont understand what it's all about. 
 I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. 
 
 Mrs Tableton [m^A a scream] Oh! and John encourag- 
 ing him, I'll be bound ! Bunny: you go for the police. [To 
 Gunner] I'll teach yo^i to come into my house and shoot 
 my husband. 
 
 Gunner. Teach away. I never asked to be let oflp. I'm 
 ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the 
 rest. Women — beautiful women of noble birth — are going 
 to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go 
 to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the 
 knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, 
 sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being 
 made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all 
 skunks and cowards youd be sufiering with them instead 
 of battening here on the plunder of the poor. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton [much vexed] Oh, did you ever hear 
 such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to 
 send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. 
 
 Gunner. I'U go with him. I intend to give myself up. 
 I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what 
 the consequences may be to my miserable self. 
 
 Tarleton. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chick- 
 abiddy : youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not 
 be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man : cut 
 the cackle ; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see ? 
 
 Gunner. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mat- 
 tered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman 
 that might be your mother. [To Lina] And I'm sure 
 youre not particular, if youU excuse my saying so. 
 
 Tarleton. Out with it. What did you see? 
 
 Gunner. I saw your daughter with my own eyes — oh 
 well, never mind what I saw. 
 
 Bentlet [almost crying with anxiety] You beastly rotter, 
 I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding — 
 
76 Misalliance 
 
 Tableton. You cant leave it at that, you know. What 
 did you see my daughter doing? 
 
 GuNNEE. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The 
 Kussian students do it. Women should be as free as 
 men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality 
 that I let myself be shocked by the application of my 
 own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why 
 shouldnt she tell him so? 
 
 Mbs Tarleton. I do wonder at you, John, letting him 
 talk like this before everybody. [Turning rather tartly to 
 Lina] Would you mind going away to the drawing-room 
 just for a few minutes. Miss Chipenoska. This is a private 
 family matter, if you dont mind. 
 
 Lina. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there 
 had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young 
 gentleman. 
 
 Tableton. Youre quite right. Miss Lina: you must 
 stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but 
 since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die 
 than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. 
 
 GuNNEB. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, 
 the women unsexed — 
 
 Tableton. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for 
 Trafalgar Square. 
 
 Htpatia's Voice Outside. No, no. [She breaks off in a 
 stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the 
 garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards 
 she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it 
 full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, 
 flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, 
 realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]. 
 
 Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another 
 except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hy- 
 patia is the first to recover her presence of mind. 
 
 Hypatia. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival 
 has been chasing me down the hill. 
 
Misalliance 77 
 
 Gunner. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. 
 Be fearless. Be truthful. 
 
 Tarleton. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fort- 
 night? I'll pay your expenses. 
 
 Hypatia. What do you mean? 
 
 Gunner. There was a silent witness in the Turkish 
 bath. 
 
 Tarleton. I found him hiding there. Whatever went 
 on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. 
 
 Percival [sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with 
 deep but contained indignation] Am I to understand you as 
 daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie 
 that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? 
 
 Gunner [turning white] You know what I saw and 
 heard. 
 
 Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noise- 
 lessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, 
 swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless. 
 
 Percival. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure 
 you all that there is not one word of truth — not one grain 
 of substance — in this rascally calumny, which no man with 
 a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he 
 had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's 
 conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has 
 been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. 
 [To Gunner] As for you, sir, youU have the goodness to 
 come out with me immediately. I have some business 
 with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence 
 or in her house. 
 
 Gunner [painfully frightened] Why should I go out 
 with you? 
 
 Percival. Because I intend that you shall. 
 
 Gunner. I wont be bullied by you. [Percival makes a 
 threatening step towards him]. Police! [He tries to bolt; but 
 Percival seizes him]. Leave me go, will you? What right 
 have you to lay hands on me? 
 
78 Misalliance 
 
 Tableton. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very 
 poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let hini 
 go. 
 
 Pebcival. Not until he has taken back and made the 
 fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall 
 do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the 
 most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. [Re- 
 leasing Gunner, but facing him ominously] Take your choice. 
 Which is it to he? | 
 
 Gtjnnee. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a 
 desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your 
 grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll 
 fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you 
 darent bully me like this. 
 
 Pebcival. You should have thought of that before you 
 attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for 
 your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. 
 
 GuNNEE. I never said anything against the lady. 
 
 Mbs Tableton 1 ( Oh, listen to that! 
 
 Bentley What a liar! 
 
 Htpatia Oh! 
 
 Tableton J [ Oh, come! 
 
 Pebcival. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. 
 [Pointing to the writing table] Sit down; and take that pen 
 in your hand. [Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; 
 then obeys]. Now write. "I," whatever your name is — 
 
 GuNNBB [after a vain attempt] I cant. My hand's shak- 
 ing too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. 
 I cant. 
 
 Pebcival. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can 
 sign it. 
 
 Bentley [insolently to Gunner] Get up. [Gunner obeys; 
 and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards\ Percival, takes 
 his place and prepares to write]. 
 
 Pebcival. Whats your name? , 
 
 GiTNNEB. John Brown. 
 
Misalliance 79 
 
 Tableton. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace 
 Smith? or Algernon Robinson? 
 
 GuNNEB [agitatedly] But my name is John Brown. 
 There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my 
 name's a common one? 
 
 Bentlet. Shew us a letter addressed to you. 
 
 GuNNEB. How can I? I never get any letters : I'm only 
 a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. [He 
 takes out a not very clean one]. 
 
 Bentlet [vntk disgust] Oh, put it up again. Let it go at 
 John Brown. 
 
 Pebcival. Where do you live? 
 
 GuNKEB. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, 
 N.W. 
 
 Pebcival [dictating] I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield 
 Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that 
 on the 31st May 1909 I— [To Tarleton] What did he do 
 exactly? 
 
 Tableton [dictating] — I trespassed on the land of John 
 Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into 
 his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish 
 bath — • 
 
 Bentlet. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turk- 
 ish bath" — yes? 
 
 Tableton [continuing] — with a pistol, with which I 
 threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton — 
 
 Mes Tableton. Oh, John! You might have been 
 kUled. 
 
 Tableton. — and was prevented from doing so only by 
 the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepa- 
 nowska. -- 
 
 Mbs Tableton. Is she celebrated? [Apologetically] I 
 never dreamt — 
 
 Bentlet. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant 
 spell Szczepanowska. 
 
 Pebcival. I think it's S, z, c, z — [Lina gives him her 
 
80 Misalliance 
 
 visiting-card\. Thank you. [He throws it on Bentley's 
 blotter]. 
 
 Bentlbt. Thanks awfully. [He writes the name}. 
 
 Tarlbton [to Percival] Now it's your turn. 
 
 Pebcival [dictating] I further confess that I was guilty 
 of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss 
 Hypatia Tarleton, for which] there was not a shred of 
 foundation. 
 
 Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes. 
 
 Bentley. " foundation"? 
 
 Pebcival. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her 
 family for my conduct— [fee waits for Bentley to write]. 
 
 Bentley. "conduct"? 
 
 Pebcival. — and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat 
 it, and to amend my life — 
 
 Bentley. "amend my life"? 
 
 Pebcival. — and to do what in me lies to prove worthy 
 of his kindness in giving me another chance — - 
 
 Bentley. "another chance"? 
 
 Pebcival. — and refraining from delivering me up ta 
 the punishment I so richly deserve. 
 
 Bentlbt. "richly deserve." 
 
 Pebcival. [to Hypatia] Does that satisfy you. Miss 
 Tarleton? 
 
 Hypatia. Yes : that will teach him to tell lies next time. 
 
 Bentley [rising to make place for Gunner and handing 
 him the pen] You mean it will teach him to tell the truth 
 next time. 
 
 Tableton. Ahem! Do you. Patsy? 
 
 Pebcival. Be good enough to sign. [Gunner sits down 
 helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]. I hope what you are 
 signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not 
 only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. 
 
 Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavil- 
 ion door. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hy- 
 
Misalliance 81 
 
 patia's account. Lord Summerliays ought to be told 
 about this. 
 
 Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes 
 forward between Perdval and Una. Johnny stops beside 
 Hypatia. 
 
 Percival. Certainly. 
 
 Takleton [uneasily] Take my advice, and cut it short. 
 Get rid of him. 
 
 Mes Takleton. Hypatia ought to have her character 
 cleared. 
 
 Taeleton. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of 
 our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they 
 wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What 
 does it matter, anyhow? 
 
 Pebcival. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either 
 too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be 
 kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just 
 signed? 
 
 Gunner. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? 
 
 Peecival. Of course. [Gunner, who is now incapable of 
 doing anything on his own initiative, signs]. Now stand up 
 and read your declaration to this gentleman. [Gunner 
 makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival 
 adds peremptorily] Now, please. 
 
 Gunner [rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly 
 audible voice, like a very sick man] I, John Brown, of 4 
 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily 
 confess that on the 31"s± May 1909 I trespassed on the 
 land of John Tarleton at E^ndhead, and effected an unlaw- 
 ful entry into his house, v^here I secreted myself in a 
 portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threat- 
 ened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was 
 prevented from doing so only Qy the timely arrival of 
 the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further 
 confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable cal- 
 umny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there 
 
82 Misalliance 
 
 was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly 
 to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise 
 Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to 
 do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in 
 giving me another chance and refraining from delivering 
 me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. 
 
 A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks. 
 
 Percival. Do you consider that sufficient. Lord Sum- 
 merhays? 
 
 Lord Summerhats. Oh quite, quite. 
 
 Percival [to Hypatia] Lord Summerhays would prob- 
 ably like to hear you say that you are satisfied. Miss 
 Tarleton. 
 
 Htpatia [coming out of the swing, and advancing between 
 Percival and Lord Summerhays] I must say that you have 
 behaved like a perfect gentleman, Mr. Percival. 
 
 Percival [first bowing to Hypatia, and then turning with 
 cold contempt to Gunner, who is standing helpless] We need 
 not trouble you any further. [Gunner turns vaguely 
 towards the pavilion]. 
 
 Johnny [unth less r^ned offensiveness, pointing to the 
 pavilion] Thats your way. The gardener will shew you 
 the shortest way into the road. G o the shortest way. 
 
 GtraTNER [oppressed and disconcerted, hardly knows how 
 to get out of the room] Yes, sir. I — [lie turns again, appeal- 
 ing to Tarleton] Maynt I have my mother's photographs 
 back again? [Mrs Tarleton pricks up her ears], 
 
 Tarleton. Eh? What? Oh, the photographs! Yes, 
 yes, yes : take them. [Gunr^r takes them from the table, 
 and is creeping away, when Mrs Tarleton puts out her hand 
 and stops him]. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Whats this, John? What were you 
 doing with his mother's photographs? 
 
 Tarleton. Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Chicka- 
 biddy: it's all right. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton [snatching the photographs from Gun- 
 
Misalliance 83 
 
 ner's irresolute fingers, and, recognizing them at a glance] 
 Lucy Titmus! Oh John, John! 
 
 Takleton [grimly, to Gunner] Young man: youre a 
 fool; but youve just put the lid on this job in a masterly 
 manner. I knew you would. I told you all to let well alone. 
 You wouldnt; and now you must take the consequences 
 — or rather I must take them. 
 
 Mbs Tarleton [to Gunner] Are you Lucy's son? 
 
 GUNNBE. Yes. 
 
 Mbs Takleton. And why didnt you come to me? I 
 didnt turn my back on your mother when she came to me 
 in her trouble. Didnt you know that? 
 
 GuNNEH. No. She never talked to me about anything. 
 
 Tahleton. How could she t§i.lk to her own son? Shy, 
 Summerhays, shy. Parent and child. Shy. [He sits down 
 at the end of the writing table nearest the sideboard like a man 
 resigned to anything that j ate may have in store for him]. 
 
 Mbs Takleton. Then how did you find out? 
 
 Gunneb. From her papers after she died. 
 
 Mks Takleton [shocked] Is Lucy dead? And I never 
 knew! [With an effusion of tenderness] And you here 
 being treated like that, poor orphan, with nobody to take 
 your part! Tear up that foolish paper, child; and sit 
 down and make friends with me. 
 
 ,/ Johnny 1 [Hallo, mother: this is all very well, you 
 know — 
 
 Pekcital ■ But may I point out, Mrs Tarleton, that — 
 i Bentlet Do you mean that after what he said of — 
 
 Htpatia J I Oh, look here, mamma : this is really — 
 ^ Mks Takleton. Will you please speak one at a time? 
 \ Silence. 
 
 Pebcival [in a very gentlemanly manner] Will you allow 
 me to remind you, Mrs Tarleton, that this man has uttered 
 a most serious and disgraceful falsehood concerning Miss 
 Tarleton and myself? 
 
 Mes Takleton. I dont believe a word of it. If the 
 
84 Misalliance 
 
 poor lad was there in the Turkish bath, who has a better 
 right to say what was going on here than he has? You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself. Patsy; and so ought 
 you too, Mr Percival, for encouraging her. [Hypatia re- 
 treats to the pavilion, and exchanges grimaces with Johnny, 
 shamelessly enjoying Percival's sudden reverse. They know 
 their mother]. 
 
 Pebcival [fi'aspmg'] MrsTarleton: I give you my word 
 of honor — 
 
 Mrs Tableton. Oh, go along with you and your word 
 of honor. Do you think I'm a fool.'' I wonder you can look 
 the lad in the face after bullying him and making him sign 
 those wicked lies; and all the time you carrying on with 
 my daughter before youd been half an hour in my house. 
 Fie, for shame! 
 
 Pebcival. Lord Summerhays : I appeal to you. Have 
 I done the correct thing or not? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Youve done your best, Mr Perci- 
 val.v But the correct thing depends for its success on every- 
 body playing the game very strictly. As a single-handed 
 game, it's impossible. 
 
 Besttley [suddenly breaking out lamentably] Joey: have 
 you taken Hypatia away from me? 
 
 Lord Summerhays [severely] Bentley! Bentley! Con- 
 trol yourself, sir. 
 
 Tableton. Come, Mr Percival! the shutters are up on 
 the gentlemanly business. Try the truth. 
 
 Pebcival. I am in a wretched position. If I tell the 
 truth nobody will believe me. 
 
 Tarleton. Oh yes they will. The truth makes every- 
 body believe it. 
 
 Pebcival. It also makes everybody pretend not to 
 believe it. Mrs Tarleton: youre not playing the 
 game. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. I dont think youve behaved at all 
 nicely, Mr Percival. 
 
Misalliance 85 
 
 Bbntlet. I wouldnt have played you such a dirty 
 trick, Joey. [Struggling with a sob] You beast. 
 
 LoKD SuMMERHATS. Bentley: you must control your- 
 self. Let me say at the same time, Mr Percival, that my 
 son seems to have been mistaken in regarding you either as 
 his friend or as a gentleman. 
 
 Percival. Miss Tarleton: I'm sufiFering this for your 
 sake. I ask you just to say that I am not to blame. Just 
 that and nothing more. 
 
 Htpatia [gloating mischievously over his distress] You 
 chased me through the heather and kissed me. You 
 shouldnt have done that if you were not in earnest. 
 
 Percival. Oh, this is really the limit. [Turning des- 
 perately to Gunner] Sir: I appeal to y o u. As a gentleman! 
 as a man of honor! as a man bound to stand by another 
 man! You were in that Turkish bath. You saw how it 
 began. Could any man have behaved more correctly than 
 I did? Is there a shadow of foundation for the accusations 
 brought against me? 
 
 Gunner [sorely perplexed] Well, what do you want me 
 to say? 
 
 Johnny. He has said what he had to say already, hasnt 
 he? Read that paper. 
 
 Gunner. When I tell the truth, you make me go back 
 on it. And now you want me to go back on myself! What 
 is a man to do? 
 
 Percival [patiently] Please try to get your mind clear, 
 Mr Brown. I pointed out to you that you could not, as a 
 gentleman, disparage a lady's character. You agree with 
 me, I hope. 
 
 Gunner. Yes: that sounds all right. 
 
 Percival. But youre also bound to tell the truth. 
 Surely youU not deny that. 
 
 Gunner. Who's denying it? I say nothing against 
 
 it. 
 
 Percival. Of course not. Well, I ask you to tell the 
 
86 Misalliance 
 
 truth simply and unaffectedly. Did you witness any im- 
 proper conduct on my part when you were in the bath? 
 
 GtTNNEB. No, sir. 
 
 JoHNNT ■) f Then what do you mean by saying that — 
 
 Htpatia y <, Do you mean to say that I — 
 
 Bentlby J I Oh, you are a rotter. Youre afraid — 
 
 Tarleton [rising] Stop. [Silence]. Leave it at that. 
 Enough said. You keep quiet, Johnny. Mr Percival: 
 youre whitewashed. So are you, Patsy. Honors are easy. 
 Lets drop the subject. The next thing to do is to open a 
 subscription to start this young man on a ranch in some 
 far country thats accustomed to be in a disturbed state. 
 He— 
 
 Mes Taeleton. Now stop joking the poor lad, John : 
 I wont have it. Hes been worried to death between you all. 
 [To Gunner] Have you had your tea? 
 
 Gunner. Tea? No: it's too early. I'm all right; only 
 I had no dinner: I didnt think I'd want it. I didnt think 
 I'd be alive. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, what a thing to say ! You mustnt 
 talk like that. 
 
 Johnny. Hes out of his mind. He thinks it's past 
 dinner-time. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, youve no sense, Johnny. He calls 
 his lunch his dinner, and has his tea at half-past six. 
 Havnt you, dear? 
 
 Gunner [timidly] Hasnt everybody? 
 
 Johnny [laughing] WeU, by George, thats not bad. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Now dont be rude, Johnny : you know 
 I dont like it. [To Gunner] A cup of tea will pick you 
 up. 
 
 Gunner. I'd rather not. I'm all right. 
 ^ Tarleton [going to the sideboard] Here! try a mouthful 
 / of sloe gin. 
 
 V Gunner. No, thanks. I'm a teetotaler. I cant touch 
 alcohol in any form. 
 
Misalliance 87 
 
 Taeleton. Nonsense! This isnt alcohol. Sloe gin. 
 Vegetarian, you know. 
 
 Gunner [hesitating] Is it a fruit beverage? 
 
 Tahleton. Of course it is. Fruit beverage. Here you 
 are. [He gives him a glass of sloe gin], 
 
 GuNNEB [going to the sideboard] Thanks. [He begins to 
 drink it confidently; but the first mouthful startles and almost 
 choices him]. It's rather hot. 
 
 Taklbton. Do you good. Dont be afraid of it. 
 
 Mes Taeleton [going to him] Sip it, dear. Dont be in 
 a hurry. 
 
 Gunner sips slowly, each sip making his eyes water. 
 
 Johnny [coming forward into the place left vacant by Gun- 
 ner's visit to the sideboard] Well, now that the gentleman 
 has been attended to, I should like to know where we are. 
 It may be a vulgar business habit; but I confess I like to 
 know where I am. 
 
 Taeleton. I dont. Wherever you are, youre there any- 
 how. I tell you again, leave it at that. 
 
 Bentlet. I want to know too. Hypatia's engaged to 
 me. 
 
 Htpatia. Bentley: if you insult me again — if you say 
 another word, I'll leave the house and not enter it until 
 you leave it. 
 
 JoHNNT. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, my 
 boy. 
 
 Bentlet [inarticulate udth fury and suppressed tears] 
 Oh! Beasts! Brutes! 
 
 Mes Taeleton. Now dont hurt his feelings, poor little 
 lamb! 
 
 Lord Summeehats [very sternly] Bentley: you are not 
 behaving well. You had better leave us until you have 
 recovered yourself. 
 
 Bentley goes out in disgrace, but gets no further than half 
 way to the pavilion door, when, vnth a wild sob, he throws 
 himself on the floor and begins to yell. 
 
88 
 
 Misalliance 
 
 LOED SUMMEH- 
 HATS 
 
 Johnny 
 
 Htpatia 
 
 Tableton 
 
 Mbs Tableton 1 f [running to him] Oh, poor child, 
 poor child! Dont cry, duckie: 
 he didnt mean it: dont cry. 
 Stop that infernal noise, sir: do you ' 
 
 hear? Stop it instantly. 
 Thats the game he tried on me. 
 There you are! Now, mother! 
 Now, Patsy! You see for your- 
 selves. 
 [covering her ears] Oh you little 
 wretch! Stop him, Mr Percival. 
 Kick him. 
 Steady on, steady on. Easy, Bunny, 
 easy. 
 
 Lina. Leave him to me, Mrs Tarleton. Stand clear, 
 please. 
 
 She kneels opposite Bentley; quickly lifts the upper half of 
 him from the ground; dives under him; rises with his body 
 hanging across her shoulders; and runs out vdth him. 
 
 Bentley [in scared, sobered, humble tones as he is home 
 off] What are you doing? Let me down. Please, Miss 
 Szczepanowska — [they pass out of hearing]. 
 
 An awestruck silence falls on the company as they speculate 
 on Bentley' s fate. 
 
 Johnny. I wonder what shes going to do with him. 
 Hypatia. Spank him, I hope. Spank him hard. 
 LoED SuMMEBHAYS. I hope SO. I hope so. Tarleton: 
 I'm beyond measure humiliated and annoyed by my son's 
 behavior in your house. I had better take him home. 
 
 Tableton. Not at all: not at all. Now, Chickabiddy: 
 as Miss Lina has taken away Ben, suppose you take away 
 Mr Brown for a while 
 
 GtTNNEB [with unexpected aggressiveness] My name isnt 
 Brown. [They stare at him: he meets their stare defiantly, 
 pugnacious with sloe gin; drains the last drop from his glass; 
 throws it on the sideboard; and advances to the writing table]. 
 
Misalliance 89 
 
 My name's Baker: Julius Baker. Mister Baker. If any 
 man doubts it, I'm ready for him. 
 
 Mrs Tableton. John: you shouldnt have given him 
 ' that sloe gin. It's gone to his head. — 
 
 GuNNEH. Dont you think it. Fruit beverages dont go 
 to the head; and what matter if they did? I say nothing 
 to you, maam: I regard you with respect and affection. 
 [Lachrymosely] You were very good to my mother: my 
 poor mother! [Relapsing into his daring mood] But I say 
 my name's Baker; and I'm not to be treated as a child or 
 made a slave of by any man. Baker is my name. Did you 
 think I was going to give you my real name? Not likely. 
 Not me. 
 
 Taeleton. So you thought of John Brown. That was 
 clever of you. 
 
 Gunner. Clever! Yes: we're not all such fools as you 
 think: we clerks. It was the bookkeeper put me up to 
 that. It's the only name that nobody gives as a false name, 
 he said. Clever, eh? I should think so. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Come now, Julius — 
 
 Gunner [reassuring her gravely] Dont you be alarmed, 
 maam. I know what is due to you as a lady and to myself 
 as a gentleman. I regard you with respect and afifection. 
 If you had been my mother, as you ought to have been, I 
 should have had more chance. But you shall have no 
 cause to be ashamed of me. The strength of a chain is no 
 greater than its weakest link; but the greatness of a poet 
 is the greatness of his greatest moment. Shakespear used 
 to get drunk. Frederick the Great ran away from a battle. 
 But it was what they could rise to, not what they could 
 sink to, that made them great. They werent good always; 
 but they were good on their day. Well, on my day — on my 
 day, mind you — I'm good for something too. I know that 
 Ive made a silly exhibition of myself here. I know I didnt 
 rise to the occasion. I know that if youd been my mother, 
 youd have been ashamed of me. I lost my presence of 
 
90 Misalliance 
 
 mind: I was a contemptible coward. But [slapping himself 
 on the chest] I'm not the man I was then. This is my day. 
 Ive seen the tenth possessor of a foolish face carried out 
 kicking and screaming by a woman. [To Percival\ You 
 crowed pretty big over me. You hypnotized me. But 
 when you were put through the fire yourself, you were 
 found wanting. I tell you straight I dont give a damn 
 for you. 
 
 Mbs Tableton. No: thats naughty. You shouldnt 
 say that before me. 
 
 GuNNBK. I would cut my tongue out sooner than say 
 anything vulgar in your presence; for I regard you with 
 respect and affection. I was not swearing. I was affirm- 
 ing my manhood. 
 
 Mrs Taklbton. What an idea! What puts all these 
 things into your head? 
 
 GuNNEE. Oh, dont you think, because I'm a clerk, 
 that I'm not one of the intellectuals. I'm a reading man, a 
 thinking man. I read in a book — a high class six shilling 
 book — this precept: Affirm your manhood. It appealed to 
 me. Ive always remembered it. I believe in it. I feel I 
 must do it to recover your respect after my cowardly 
 behavior. Therefore I affirm it in your presence. I tell 
 that man who insulted me that I dont give a damn for 
 him. And neither I do. 
 
 Tableton. I say, Summerhays: did you have chaps of 
 this sort in JinghiskahnP 
 
 LoED SuMMEBHATS. Oh yes: they exist everywhere: 
 they are a most serious modern problem. 
 
 Gtjnnee. Yes. Youre right. [Conceitedly] I'm a prob- 
 lem. And I tell you that when we clerks realize that we're 
 problems! well, look out: thats all. 
 
 Lord Summebhats [suavely, to Ounner] You read a great 
 deal, you say? 
 
 GuNNER.vIve read more than any man in this room, if 
 the truth were known, I expect. VThats whats going to 
 
Misalliance 91 
 
 smash up your Capitalism. The problems are beginning to 
 read. Ha! We're free to do that here in England/ What 
 would you do with me in Jinghiskahn if you had me 
 there? 
 
 ^ Lord Summerhats. Well, since you ask me so directly, 
 I'll tell you. I should take advantage of the fact that you 
 have neither sense enough nor strength enough to know 
 how to behave yourself in a difficulty of any sort. I should 
 warn an intelligent and ambitious policeman that 'you are 
 a troublesome person. The intelligent and ambitious po- 
 liceman would take an early opportunity of upsetting your 
 temper by ordering you to move on, and treading on your , 
 heels until you were provoked into obstructing an officer 
 in the discharge of his duty. Any trifle of that sort would 
 be sufficient to make a man like you lose your self-pos- 
 session and put yourself in the wrong. You would then 
 be charged and imprisoned until things quieted down. 
 
 Gunner. And you call that justice! 
 
 Lord Summerhats. No. Justice was not my business. 
 I had to govern a province; and I took the necessary steps 
 to maintain order in it. Men are not governed by justice, 
 but by law or persuasion. When they refuse to be gov- 
 erned by law or persuasion, they have to be governed by 
 force or fraud, or both. I used both when law and persua- 
 sion failed me. Every ruler of men since the world began 
 has done so, even when he has hated both fraud and force 
 as heartily as I do. It is as well that you should know this, 
 my young friend; so that you may recognize in time that 
 anarchism is a game at which the police can beat you. 
 What have you to say to that? 
 
 Gunner. What have I to say to it! Well, I call it 
 scandalous : thats what I have to say to it. 
 
 Lord Summerhats. Precisely: thats all anybody has to 
 say to it, except the British public, which pretends not to 
 believe it. And now let me ask you a sympathetic per- 
 sonal question. Havnt you a headache? 
 
92 Misalliance 
 
 GuNNEB. Well, since you ask me, I have. Ive over- 
 excited myself. 
 
 MhsTablbton. Poor lad! No wonder, after all youve 
 gone through! You want to eat a little and to lie down. 
 You come with me. I want you to tell me about your poor 
 dear mother and about yourself. Come along with me. 
 [She leads the way to the inner door]. 
 
 Gunner [following her obediently] Thank you kindly, 
 madam. [She goes out. Before passing out after her, he 
 ■partly closes the door and stops on the landing for a moment 
 to say] Mind: I'm not knuckling down to any man here. 
 I knuckle down to Mrs Tarleton because shes a woman in 
 a thousand. I affirm my manhood all the same. Under- 
 stand: I dont give a damn for the lot of you. [He hurries 
 out, rather afraid of the consequences of this defiance, which 
 has provoked Johnny to an impatient movement towards 
 him]. 
 
 Htpatia. Thank goodness hes gone ! Oh, what a bore! 
 WHAT a bore! ! ! Talk, talk, talk! 
 
 Taeleton. Patsy: it's no good. We're going to talk. 
 And we're going to talk about you. 
 
 Johnny. It's no use shirking it, Pat. We'd better know 
 where we are. 
 /' LoED SuMMEBHATS. {^Come, Miss Tarleton. Wont you 
 sit down? I'm very tired of standingTi [Hypatia comes 
 from the pavilion and takes a chair at the worktable. Lord 
 Summerhays takes the opposite chair, on her right. Percival 
 takes the chair Johrmy!$lacedfor Lina on tier arrival. Tarle- 
 ton sits down at the end of the writing table. Johnny remains 
 standing. Lord Summerhays continues, with a sigh of relief 
 at being seated.] We shall now get the change of subject 
 we are all pining for. 
 
 Johnny [puzzled] Whats that? 
 
 LoBD Summerhays. The great question. The question 
 that men and women will spend hours over without 
 complaining. The question that occupies all the novel 
 
Misalliance 93 
 
 readers and all the playgoers. The question they never 
 get tired of. 
 
 Johnny. But what question? 
 
 Lord Summebhats. The question which particular 
 young man some young woman will mate with. 
 
 Pebcival. As if it mattered! 
 
 Htpatia [sharply] Whats that you said? 
 
 Pebcival. I said: As if it mattered. 
 
 Htpatia. I call that ungentlemanly. 
 
 Pebcival. Do you care about that? you who are so 
 magnificently unladylike! 
 
 Johnny. Look here, Mr Percival: youre not supposed 
 to insult my sister. 
 
 Hypatia. Oh, shut up, Johnny. I can take care of my- 
 self. Dont you interfere. 
 
 Johnny. Oh, very well. If you choose to give yourself 
 away like that — to allow a man to call you unladylike and 
 then to be unladylike, Ive nothing more to say. 
 
 Hypatia. I think Mr Percival is most ungentlemanly; 
 but I wont be protected. I'll not have my affairs inter- 
 fered with by men on pretence of protecting me. I'm not 
 your baby. If I interfered between you and a woman, you 
 would soon tell me to mind my own business. 
 
 Tableton. Children: dont squabble. Read Dr Watts. 
 Behave yourselves. 
 
 Johnny. Ive nothing more to say; and as I dont seem 
 to be wanted here, I shall take myself off. [He goes out with 
 affected calm through the "pavilion]. 
 
 Tableton. Summerhays: a family is an awful thing, 
 an impossible thing. Cat and dog. Patsy: I'm ashamed of 
 you. 
 
 Hypatia. I'll make it up with Johnny afterwards; but 
 I really cant have him here sticking his clumsy hoof into 
 my affairs. 
 
 LoBD Summerhays. The question is, Mr Percival, are 
 you really a gentleman, or are you not? 
 
94 Misalliance 
 
 Pebcival. Was Napoleon really a gentleman or was lie 
 not? He made the lady get out of the way of the porter 
 / and said, "Respect the burden, madam." That was be- 
 having like a very fine gentleman; but he kicked Volney 
 for saying that what France wanted was the Bourbons 
 back again. That was behaving rather like a navvy .^ Now 
 I, like Napoleon, am not all one piece. On occasion, as 
 you have all seen, I can behave like a gentleman. On 
 occasion, I can behave with a brutal simplicity which Miss 
 Tarleton herself could hardly surpass. 
 
 Takleton. Gentleman or no gentleman. Patsy: what 
 are your intentions? 
 
 Hypatia. My intentions! Surely it's the gentleman 
 who should be asked his intentions. 
 
 Takleton. Come now. Patsy! none of that nonsense. 
 Has Mr Percival said anything to you that I ought to know 
 or that Bentley ought to know? Have you said anything 
 to Mr Percival? 
 
 Hypatia. Mr Percival chased me through the heather 
 and kissed me. 
 
 LoBD SuMMEBHAYs. As a gentleman, Mr Percival, what 
 do you say to that? 
 
 Pebcival. As a gentleman, I do not kiss and tell. As a 
 mere man: a mere cad, if you like, I say that I did so at 
 Miss Tarleton's own suggestion. 
 
 Hypatia . B east ! 
 
 Pebcival. I dont deny that I enjoyed it. But I did not 
 initiate it. And I began by running away. 
 
 Tarleton. So Patsy can run faster than you, can she? 
 
 Pebcival. Yes, when she is in pursuit of me. She runs 
 faster and faster. I run slower and slower. And these 
 woods of yours are full of magic. There was a confounded 
 fern owl. Did you ever hear the churr of a fern owl? Did 
 you ever hear it create a sudden silence by ceasing? Did 
 you ever hear it call its mate by striking its wings together 
 twice and whistling that single note than no nightingale 
 
Misalliance 95 
 
 can imitate? That is what happened in the woods when 
 I was running away. So I turned; and the pursuer be- 
 came the pursued. 
 
 Htpatia. I had to fight like a wild cat. 
 
 Lord Summebhats. Please dent tell us this. It's not 
 fit for old people to hear. 
 
 Tableton. Come: how did it end? 
 
 Hypatia. It's not ended yet. 
 
 Taeleton. How is it going to end? 
 
 Hypatia. Ask him. 
 
 Tableton. How Ls it going to end, Mr Percival? 
 
 Pbkcival. I cant>afford to marry, Mr Tarleton. Ive 
 only a thousand a year until my father dies. Two people 
 cant possibly live on that. 
 
 Tableton. Oh, cant they? When I married, I should 
 have been jolly glad to have felt sure of the quarter of it. 
 
 Pebcival. No doubt; but I am not a cheap person, Mr 
 Tarleton. I was brought up in a household which cost at 
 least seven or eight times that; and I am in constant 
 money diflaculties because I simply dont know how to live 
 on the thousand a year scale. As to ask a woman to share 
 my degrading poverty, it's out of the question. Besides, 
 I'm rather young to marry. I'm only 28. 
 
 Hypatia. Papa: buy the brute for me. 
 
 LoED SuMMEEHAYS [shrinking] My dear Miss Tarleton : 
 dont be so naughty. I know how delightful it is to shock 
 an old man; but there is a point at which it becomes 
 barbarous. Dont. Please dont. 
 
 Hypatia. Shall I tell Papa about you? 
 
 LoBD SuMMEEHAYS. Tarleton: I had better tell you 
 that I once asked your daughter to become my widow. 
 
 Tableton [to Hypatia] Why didnt you accept him, you 
 young idiot? 
 
 Lord Summeehays. I was too old. 
 
 Tableton. All this has been going on under my nose, I 
 suppose. You run after young men; and old men run 
 
96 Misalliance 
 
 after you. And I'm the last person in the world to hear 
 of it. 
 
 Hypatia. How could I tell you? 
 
 LoBD SuMMEEHATs. Parents and children, Tarleton. 
 
 Tahleton. Oh, the gulf that lies between them! the 
 impassable, eternal gulf! And so I'm to buy the brute for 
 you, eh? 
 
 Hypatia. If you please, papa. 
 
 Taeleton. Whats the price, Mr Percival? 
 
 Pekcival. We might do with another fifteen hun- 
 dred if my father would contribute. But I should like 
 more. 
 
 Taeleton. It's purely a question of money with you, 
 is it? 
 
 Percival {after a moment's consideration] Practically 
 yes: it turns on that. 
 
 Taeleton. I thought you might have some sort of 
 preference for Patsy, you know. 
 
 Peecival. Well, but does that matter, do you think? 
 Patsy fascinates me, no doubt. I apparently fascinate 
 Patsy. But, believe me, all that is not worth considering. 
 One of my three fathers (the priest) has married hundreds 
 of couples: couples selected by one another, couples se- 
 lected by the parents, couples forced to marry one another 
 by circumstances of one kind or another; and he assures 
 me that if marriages were made by putting all the men's- 
 names into one sack and the women's names into another, 
 and having them taken out by a blindfolded child like lot- 
 tery numbers, there would be just as high a percentage of 
 happy marriages as we have here in England. He said 
 Cupid was nothing but the blindfolded child: pretty idea 
 that, I think! I shall have as good a chance with Patsy as 
 with anyone else. Mind: I'm not bigoted about it. I'm 
 not a doctrinaire : not the slave of a theory. You and Lord 
 Summerhays are experienced married men. If you can 
 tell me of any trustworthy method of selecting a wife, I 
 
Misalliance 97 
 
 shall be happy to make use of it. I await your sugges- 
 tions. [He looks with polite attention to Lord Summerhays, 
 who, having nothing to say, avoids his eye. He looks to 
 Tarleton, who purses his lips glumly and rattles his money 
 in his pockets without a word\. Apparently neither of you 
 has anything to suggest. Then Patsy will do as well as 
 another, provided the money is forthcoming. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, you beauty, you beauty! 
 
 Takleton. When I married Patsy's mother, I was in 
 love with her. 
 
 Percival. For the first time? 
 
 Taeleton. Yes: for the first time. 
 
 Pebcival. For the last time? 
 
 LoBD SuMMEHHATS [revolted] Sir: you are in the pres- 
 ence of his daughter. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh, dont mind me. I dont care. I'm accus- 
 tomed to Papa's adventures. 
 
 Taeleton [blushing painfully] Patsy, my child : that was; 
 not — not delicate. 
 
 Htpatia. Well, papa, youve never shewn any delicacy 
 in talking to me about my conduct; and I really dont see 
 why I shouldnt talk to you about yours. It's such non- 
 sense! Do you think young people dont know? 
 
 Lord Sttmmehhats. I'm sure they dont feel. Tarleton: 
 this is too horrible, too brutal. If neither of these young 
 people have any — any — any — 
 
 Pebcival. Shall we say paternal sentimentality? I'm 
 extremely sorry to shock you; but you must remember 
 that Ive been educated to discuss human affairs with three 
 fathers simultaneously. I'm an adult person. Patsy is an 
 adult person. You do not inspire me with veneration > 
 Apparently you do not inspire Patsy with veneration. 
 That may surprise you. It may pain you. I'm sorry. It 
 cant be helped. What about the money? 
 
 Tarleton. You dont inspire me with generosity, 
 young man. 
 
98 Misalliance 
 
 Hypatia [laughing with genuine amusement] He had you 
 there, Joey. 
 
 Tablbton. I havnt been a bad father to you. Patsy. 
 
 Htpatia. I dont say you have, dear. If only I could 
 persuade you Ive grown up, we should get along perfectly. 
 
 Tahleton. Do you remember Bill Burt? 
 
 Htpatia. Why? 
 
 Tahleton [to the others] Bill Burt was a laborer here. 
 I was going to sack him for kicking his father. He said 
 his father had kicked him until he was big enough to kick 
 back. Patsy begged him off. I asked that man what it 
 felt like the first time he kicked his father, and found that 
 it was just like kicking any other man. He laughed and 
 said that it was the old man that knew what it felt like. 
 Think of that, Summerhays! think of that! 
 
 Hypatia. I havnt kicked you, papa. 
 
 Tahleton. Youve kicked me harder than Bill Burt ever 
 kicked. 
 
 Lord Summehhays. It's no use, Tarleton. Spare your- 
 self. Do you seriously expect these young people, at their 
 age, to sympathize with what this gentleman calls your 
 paternal sentimentality? 
 
 Tahleton [wistfully] Is it nothing to you but paternal 
 sentimentality. Patsy? 
 
 Hypatia. Well, I greatly prefer your superabundant 
 vitality, papa. 
 
 Tahleton [violently] Hold your tongue, you young 
 devil. The young are all alike: hard, coarse, shallow, 
 cruel, selfish, dirty-minded. You can clear out of my house 
 as soon as you can coax him to take you; and the sooner 
 the better. {To Pereival] I think you said your price was 
 fifteen hundred a year. Take it. And I wish you joy of 
 your bargain. 
 
 Pehcival. If you wish to know who I am — 
 
 Tahleton. I dont care a tinker's curse who you are 
 or what you are. Youre willing to take that girl off my 
 
Misalliance 99 
 
 hands tor fifteen hundred a year: thats all that concerns 
 me. Tell her who you are if you like: it's her affair, not 
 mine. 
 
 Htpatia. Dont answer him, Joey: it wont last. Lord 
 Summerhays, I'm sorry about Bentley; but Joey's the only 
 man for me. 
 
 LoHD SuMMEBHATs. It may — 
 
 Htpatia. Please dont say it may break your poor boy's 
 heart. It's much more likely to break yours. 
 
 LoKD Summbbhats. Oh! 
 
 Tableton [springing to his feet] Leave the room. Do - 
 you hear: leave the room. 
 
 Pebcival. Arnt we getting a little cross? Dont be 
 angry, Mr Tarleton. Read Marcus Aurelius. 
 
 Tableton. Dont you dare make fun of me. Take your 
 aeroplane out of my vinery and yourself out of my house. 
 
 Pebcival [rising, to Hypatia] I'm afraid I shall have to 
 dine at the Beacon, Patsy. 
 
 Htpatia [rising] Do. I dine with you. 
 
 Tableton. Did you hear me tell you to leave the room? 
 
 Htpatia. I did. [To Percival] You see what living with 
 one's parents means, Joey. It means living in a house 
 where you can be ordered to leave the room. Ive got to 
 obey: it's his house, not mine. 
 
 Tableton. Who pays for it? Go and support yourself 
 as I did if you want to be independent. 
 
 Htpatia. I wanted to and you wouldnt let me. How 
 can I support myself when I'm a prisoner? 
 
 Tableton. Hold your tongue. 
 
 Htpatia. Keep your temper. 
 
 Pebcival [coming between them] Lord Summerhays: 
 youU join me, I'm sure, in pointing out to both father and 
 daughter that they have now reached that very common 
 stage in family life at which anything but a blow would be 
 an anti-climax. Do you seriously want to beat Patsy, 
 Mr Tarleton? 
 
100 Misalliance 
 
 Tableton. Yes. I want to thrash the life out of her. 
 If she doesnt get out of my reach, I'll do it. [He sits down 
 and grasps the writing table to restrain himself]. 
 
 Htpatia [coolly going to him and leaning with her breast 
 on his writhing shoulders] Oh, if you want to beat me just 
 to relieve your feelings — just really and truly for the fun of 
 it and the satisfaction of it, beat away. I dont grudge you 
 that. 
 
 Tableton [almost in hysterics] I used to think that this 
 sort of thing went on in other families but that it never 
 could happen in ours. And now — [He is broken with 
 emotion, and continues lamentably] I cant say the right 
 thing. I cant do the right thing. I dont know what is the 
 right thing. I'm beaten; and she knows it. Summerhays: 
 tell me what to do. 
 
 LoBD Summeehays. When my council in Jinghiskahn 
 reached the point of coming to blows, I used to adjourn 
 the sitting. Let us postpone the discussion. Wait until 
 Monday: we shall have Sunday to quiet down in. Believe 
 me, I'm not making fun of you; but I think theres some- 
 thing in this young gentleman's advice. Read something. 
 
 Tableton. I'll read King Lear. 
 
 Hypatia. Dont. I'm very sorry, dear. 
 
 Tableton. Youre not. Youre laughing at me. Serve 
 me right! Parents and children! No man should know 
 his own child. No child should know its own father. Let 
 the family be rooted out of civilization! Let the human 
 race be brought up in institutions! 
 
 Hypatia. Oh yes. How jolly! You and I might be 
 friends then; and Joey could stay to dinner. 
 
 Tableton. Let him stay to dinner. Let him stay to 
 breakfast. Let him spend his life here. Dont you say I 
 drove him out. Dont you say I drove you out. 
 
 Pehcival. I really have no right to inflict myself on 
 you. Dropping in as I did — 
 
 Tableton. Out of the sky. Ha! Dropping in. The 
 
Misalliance 101 
 
 new sport of aviation. You just see a nice house; drop 
 in; scoop up the man's daughter; and ofip with you again. 
 
 Bentley comes hack, with Ms shoulders hanging as if he too 
 had been exercised to the last pitch of fatigue. He is very 
 sad. They stare at hirri as he gropes to Percival's chair. 
 
 Bentlet. I'm sorry for making a fool of myself. I beg 
 your pardon. Hypatia: I'm awfully sorry; but Ive made 
 up my mind that I'll never marry. [He sits down in deep 
 depression]. 
 
 Hypatia [running to him] How nice of you, Bentley! 
 Of course you guessed I wanted to marry Joey. What did 
 the Polish lady do to you? 
 
 Bentley [turning his head away] I'd rather not speak 
 of her, if you dont mind. 
 
 Hypatia. Youve fallen in love with her. [She laughs]. 
 
 Bentley. It's beastly of you to laugh. 
 
 LoBD SuMMERHAYS. Youre not the first to fall today 
 under the lash of that young lady's terrible derision, 
 Bentley. 
 
 Lina, her cap on, and her goggles in her hand, comes im- 
 petuously through the inner door. 
 
 Lina [ore the steps] Mr Percival: can we get that aero- 
 plane started again.' [She comes down and runs to the 
 pavilion door]. I must get out of this into the air: right up 
 into the blue. 
 
 Pebcival. Impossible. The frame's twisted. The 
 petrol has given out: thats what brought us down. And 
 how can we get a clear run to start with among these 
 woods? 
 
 Lina [swooping hack through the middle of the pavilion] 
 We can straighten the frame. We can buy petrol at the 
 Beacon. With a few laborers we can get her out on to 
 the Portsmouth Road and start her along that. 
 
 Tableton [rising] But why do you want to leave us. 
 Miss Szcz? 
 
 Lina. Old pal: this is a stuflfy house. You seem to 
 
102 Misalliance 
 
 think of nothing but making love. All the conversa- 
 tion here is about love-making. All the pictures are about 
 love-making. The eyes of all of you are sheep's eyes. 
 You are steeped in it, soaked in it: the very texts on the 
 walls of your bedrooms are the ones about love. It is dis- 
 gusting. It is not healthy. Your women are kept idle and 
 dressed up for no other purpose than to be made love to. 
 I have not been here an hour; and already everybody 
 makes love to me as if because I am a woman it were my 
 profession to be made love to. First you, old pal. I for- 
 gave you because you were nice about your wife. 
 
 Htpatia. Oh! oh! oh! Oh, papa! 
 
 LiNA. Then you. Lord Summerhays, come to me; and 
 all you have to say is to ask me not to mention that you 
 made love to me in Vienna two years ago. I forgave you 
 because I thought you were an ambassador; and all am- 
 bassadors make love and are very nice and useful to people 
 who travel. Then this young gentleman. He is engaged 
 to this young lady; but no matter for that: he makes love 
 to me because I carry him ofip in my arms when he cries. 
 All these I bore in silence. But now comes your Johnny 
 and tells me I'm a ripping fine woman, and asks me to 
 marry him. I, Lina Szczepanowska, MARRY him! ! ! ! ! I 
 do not mind this boy: he is a child: he loves me: I should 
 have to give him money and take care of him : that would 
 be foolish, but honorable. I do not mind you, old pal: 
 you are what you call an old — ^ouf ! but you do not offer 
 to buy me: you say until we are tired — until you are so 
 happy that you dare not ask for more. That is foolish too, 
 at your age; but it is an adventure: it is not dishonor- 
 able. I do not mind Lord Su,mmerhays: it was in Vienna: 
 they had been toasting him at a great banquet: he was 
 not sober. That is bad for the health; but it is not dishon- 
 orable. But your Johnny! Oh, your Johnny! with his 
 marriage. He will do the straight thing by me. He will 
 give me a home, a position. He tells me I must know 
 
Misalliance 103 
 
 that my present position is not one for a nice woman. 
 Tliis to me, Lina Szczepanowska! I am an honest woman: 
 I earn my living. I am a free woman: I live in my own 
 house. I am a woman of the world: I have thousands of 
 friends: every night crowds of people applaud me, delight 
 in me, buy my picture, pay hard-earned money to see me. 
 I am strong: I am skilful: I am brave: I am independent: 
 I am unbought: I am all that a woman ought to be; and 
 in^ my family there has not been a single drunkard for four 
 generations. And this Englishman! this linendraper! he 
 dares to ask me to come and live with him in this rrrrrrrab- 
 bit hutch, and take my bread from his hand, and ask him 
 for pocket money, and wear soft clothes, and be his woman ! 
 his wife! Sooner than that, I would stoop to the lowest 
 depths of my profession. I would stuff lions with food and 
 pretend to tame them. I would deceive honest people's 
 eyes with conjuring tricks instead of real feats of strength 
 and skill. I would be a clown and set bad examples of 
 conduct to little children. I would sink yet lower and be 
 an actress or an opera singer, imperilling my soul by the 
 wicked lie of pretending to be somebody else. All this I 
 would do sooner than take my bread from the hand of a 
 man and make him the master of my body and soul. And 
 so you may tell your Johnny to buy an Englishwoman : he 
 shall not buy Lina Szczepanowska; and I will not stay 
 in the house where such dishonor is offered me. Adieu. 
 [She turns precipitately to go, but is faced in the pavilion 
 doorway by Johnny, who comes in slowly, his hands in his 
 pockets, meditating deeply]. 
 
 Johnny [confidentially to Lina] You wont mention our 
 little conversation. Miss Shepanoska. It'll do no good; 
 and I'd rather you didnt. 
 
 Tarleton. Weve just heard about it, Johnny. 
 
 Johnny [shortly, but without ill-temper] Oh: is that so? 
 
 Hypatia. The cat's out of the bag, Johnny, about 
 everybody. They were all beforehand with you: papa, 
 
104 Misalliance 
 
 Lord Summerhays, Bentley and all. Dont you let them 
 laugh at you. 
 
 Johnny [a grin slowly overspreading his countenance] 
 
 -Well, theres no use my pretending to be surprised at you, 
 
 Governor, is there? I hope you got it as hot as I did. 
 
 Mind, Miss Shepanoska: it wasnt lost on me. I'm a 
 
 thinking man. I kept my temper. Youll admit that. 
 
 LiNA Ifrankly] Oh yes. I do not quarrel. You are what 
 is called a chump; but you are not a bad sort of chump. 
 
 Johnny. Thank you. Well, if a chump may have an 
 opinion, I should put it at this. You make, I suppose, ten 
 pounds a night off your own bat. Miss Lina? 
 
 LiNA [scornfully] Ten pounds a night! I have made ten 
 pounds a minute. 
 
 Johnny [with increased respect] Have you indeed? I 
 didnt know: youll excuse my mistake, I hope. But the 
 principle is the same. Now I trust you wont be offended 
 at what I'm going to say; but Ive thought about this and 
 watched it in daily experience; and you may take it from 
 • me that the moment a woman becomes pecuniarily inde- 
 pendent, she gets hold of the wrong end of the stick in 
 moral questions. 
 
 Lina. Indeed! And what do you conclude from that. 
 Mister Johnny? 
 
 Johnny. Well, obviously, that independence for women 
 is wrong and shouldnt be' allowed. For their own good, 
 you know. And for the good of morality in general. You 
 agree with me. Lord Summerhays, dont you? 
 
 Lord Summerhays. It's a very moral moral, if I may so 
 express myself. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton comes in softly through the inner door. 
 
 Mrs Tahleton. Dont make too much noise. The 
 lad's asleep. 
 
 Tarleton. Chickabiddy : we have some news for you. 
 T Johnny [apprehensively] Now theres no need, you know. 
 Governor, to worry mother with everything that passes. 
 
Misalliance 105 
 
 Mrs Takleton [coviing to Tarleton] Whats been going 
 on? Dont you hold anything back from me, John. What 
 have you been doing? 
 
 Taeleton. Bentley isnt going to marry Patsy. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Of course not. Is that your great news ? 
 I never believed she'd marry him. 
 
 Tarleton. Theres something else. Mr Percival here — 
 
 Mrs Tarleton [to Percival] Are you going to marry 
 Patsy? 
 
 Percival [diplomatically] Patsy is going to marry me, 
 with your permission. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton. Oh, she has my permission : she ought 
 to have been married long ago. 
 
 Hypatia. Mother! 
 
 Tarleton. Miss Lina here, though she has been so 
 short a time with us, has inspired a good deal of attach- 
 ment in — I may say in almost all of us. Therefore I hope 
 she'll stay to dinner, and not insist on flying away in that 
 aeroplane. 
 
 Percival. You must stay, Miss Szczepanowska. I 
 cant go up again this evening. 
 
 /Lina. Ive seen you work it. Do you think I require 
 iCny help? And Bentley shall come |with me as a 
 (passenger. 
 
 N Bentley [terrified] Go up in an aeroplane! I darent. 
 I Lina. You must learn to dare. 
 -Bentley [pale but heroic] All right. I'll come. 
 
 Lord Summer- 1 [ No, no, Bentley, impossible. I 
 HAYS shall not allow it. 
 
 Mrs Tarleton Do you want to kill the child? He 
 [ shant go. 
 
 Bentley. I will. I'll lie down and yell until you let me 
 go. I'm not a coward. I wont be a coward. 
 
 Lord Summerhays. Miss Szczepanowska: my son is 
 very dear to me. I implore you to wait until tomorrow 
 morning. 
 
106 Misalliance 
 
 LiNA. There may be a storm tomorrow. And I'll go: 
 storm or no storm. I must risk my life tomorrow. 
 
 Bentlet. I hope there will be a storm. 
 
 LiNA [grasping his arm] You are trembling. 
 
 Bentlet. Yes: it's terror, sheer terror. I can hardly 
 see. I can hardly stand. But I'll go with you. 
 
 LiNA [slapping him on the back and knocking a ghastly 
 white smile into-his face] You shall. I like you, my boy. 
 We go tomorrow, together. 
 
 Bentlet. Yes: together: tomorrow. 
 
 Takleton. Well, sufficient unto the day is the evil 
 thereof. Read the old book. 
 
 Mhs Tableton. Is there anything else? 
 
 Tarleton. Well, I — er [he addresses Lina, and stops], 
 I — er [he addresses Lord Summerhays, and stops]. I — er 
 [he gives it up]. Well, I suppose — er — I suppose theres 
 nothing more to be said. 
 
 Htpatia [fervently] Thank goodness! 
 
THE DARK LADY OF THE 
 SONNETS 
 
 XX 
 
 1910 
 
 107 
 
PREFACE TO THE DARK LADY 
 
 OF THE SONNETS 
 
 How the Play came to be Written 
 
 I HAD better explain wky, in this little piece d'oceasion, 
 written for a performance in aid of the funds of the project 
 for establishing a National Theatre as a memorial to 
 Shakespear, I have identified the Dark Lady with Mistress 
 Mary Fitton. First, let me say that I do not contend that 
 the Dark Lady was Mary Fitton, because when the case in 
 Mary's favor (or against her, if you please to consider that 
 the Dark Lady was no better than she ought to have been) 
 was complete, a portrait of Mary came to light and turned 
 out to be that of a fair lady, not of a dark one. That 
 settles the question, if the portrait is authentic, which I see 
 no reason to doubt, and the lady's hair undyed, which is 
 perhaps less certain. Shakespear rubbed in the lady's com- 
 plexion in his sonnets mercilessly; for in his day black 
 hair was as unpopular as red hair was in the early days 
 of Queen Victoria. Any tinge lighter, than raven black 
 must be held fatal to the strongest claim to be the Dark 
 Lady. And so, unless it can be shewn that Shakespear's 
 sonnets exasperated Mary Fitton into dyeing her hair and 
 getting painted in false colors, I must give up all pretence 
 that my play is historical. The later suggestion of Mr 
 Acheson that the Dark Lady, far from being a maid of 
 
 109 
 
110 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 honor, kept a tavern in Oxford and was the mother of 
 Davenant the poet, is the one I should have adopted had 
 I wished to be up to date. Why, then, did I introduce the 
 Dark Lady as Mistress Fitton? 
 
 Well, I had two reasons. The play was not to have 
 been written by me at all, but by Mrs Alfred Lyttelton; 
 and it was she who suggested a scene of jealousy between 
 Queen Elizabeth and the Dark Lady at the expense of the 
 unfortunate Bard. Now this, if the Dark Lady was a maid 
 of honor, was quite easy. If she were a tavern landlady, it 
 would have strained all probability. So I stuck to Mary 
 Fitton. But I had another and more personal reason. I 
 was, in a manner, present at the birth of the Fitton theory. 
 Its parent and I had become acquainted; and he used to 
 consult me on obscure passages in the sonnets, on which, 
 as far as I can remember, I never succeeded in throwing 
 the faintest light, at a time when nobody else thought my . 
 opinion, on that or any other subject, of the slightest im- 
 portance. I thought it would be friendly to immortalize 
 him, as the silly literary saying is, much as Shakespear 
 immortalized Mr W. H., as he said he would, simply by 
 writing about him. 
 
 Let me tell the story formally. 
 
 Thomas Tyler 
 
 Throughout the eighties at least, and probably for 
 some years before, the British Museum reading room was 
 used daily by a gentleman of such astonishing and crush- 
 ing ugliness that no one who had once seen him could ever 
 thereafter forget him. He was of fair complexion, rather 
 golden red than sandy; aged between forty-five and sixty; 
 and dressed in frock coat and tall hat of presentable but 
 never new appearance. His figure was rectangular, waist- 
 less, neckless, ankleless, of middle height, looking shortish 
 because, though he was not particularly stout, there was 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 111 
 
 nothing slender about him. His ugliness was not unami- 
 able; it was accidental, external, excrescential. Attached 
 to his face from the left ear to the point of his chin was 
 a monstrous goitre, which hung down to his collar bone, 
 and was very inadequately balanced by a smaller one on 
 his right eyelid. Nature's malice was so overdone in his 
 case that it somehow failed to produce the effect of re- 
 pulsion it seemed to have aimed at. When you first met 
 Thomas Tyler you could think of nothing else but whether 
 surgery could really do nothing for him. But after a very 
 brief acquaintance you never thought of his disfigure- 
 ments at all, and talked to him as you might to Romeo or 
 Lovelace; only, so many people, especially women, would 
 not risk the preliminary ordeal, that he remained a man 
 apart and a bachelor all hisjlays. I am not to be fright- 
 ened or prejudiced by a tumor; and I struck up a cordial 
 acquaintance with him, in the course of which he kept me 
 pretty closely on the track of his work at the Museum, 
 in which I was then, like himself, a daily reader. 
 
 He was by profession a man of letters of an uncom- 
 mercial kind. He was a specialist in pessimism; had made 
 a translation of Ecclesiastes of which eight copies a year 
 were sold; and followed up the pessimism of Shakespear 
 and Swift with keen interest. He delighted in a hideous 
 conception which he called the theory of the cycles, ac- 
 cording to which the history of mankind and the universe 
 keeps eternally repeating itself without the slightest varia- 
 tion throughout all eternity; so that he had lived and died 
 and had his goitre before and would live and die and have 
 it again and again and again. He liked to believe that 
 nothing that happened to him was completely novel: he 
 was persuaded that he often had some recollection of its 
 previous occurrence in the last cycle. He hunted out 
 allusions to this favorite theory in his three favorite pessi- 
 mists. He tried his hand occasionally at deciphering 
 ancient inscriptions, reading them as people seem to read 
 
112 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 the stars, by discovering bears and bulls and swords and 
 goats where, as it seems to me, nd sane human being can 
 see anything but stars higgledy-piggledy. Next to the 
 translation of Ecclesiastes, his magnum opus was his work 
 on Shakespear's Sonnets, in which he accepted a previous 
 identification of Mr W. H., the "onlie begetter" of the 
 sonnets, with the Earl of Pembroke (William Herbert), 
 and promulgated his own identification of Mistress Mary 
 Fitton with the Dark Lady. Whether he was right or 
 wrong about the Dark Lady did not matter urgently to 
 me : she might have been Maria Tompkins for all I cared. 
 But Tyler would have it that she was Mary Fitton; and 
 he tracked Mary down from the first of her marriages in 
 her teens to her tomb in Cheshire, whither he made a 
 pilgrimage and whence returned in triumph with a picture 
 of her statue, and the news that he was convinced she 
 was a dark lady by traces of paint still discernible. 
 
 In due course he published his edition of the Sonnets, 
 with the evidence he had collected. He lent me a copy 
 of the book, which I never returned. But I reviewed it in 
 the Pall Mall Gazette on the 7th of January 1886, and 
 thereby let loose the Fitton theory in a wider circle of 
 readers than the book could reach. Then Tyler died, 
 sinking unnoted like a stone in the sea. I observed that 
 Mr Acheson, Mrs Davenant's champion, calls him Rev- 
 erend. It may very well be that he got his knowledge of 
 Hebrew in reading for the Church; and there was always 
 something of the clergyman or the schoolmaster in his 
 dress and air. Possibly he may actually have been or- 
 dained. But he never told me that or anything else about 
 his affairs; and his black pessimism would have shot him 
 violently out of any church at present established in the 
 West. Wq, never talked about affairs: we talked about 
 Shakespear, and the Dark Lady, and Swift, and Kohe- 
 leth, and the cycles, and the mysterious moments when a 
 feeling came over us that this had happened to us before. 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 113 
 
 and about the forgeries of the Pentateuch which were 
 offered for sale to the British Museum, and about litera- 
 ture and things of the spirit generally. He always came 
 to my desk at the Museum and spoke to me about some- 
 thing or other, no doubt finding that people who were 
 keen on this sort of conversation were rather scarce. He 
 remains a vivid spot of memory in the void of my forget- 
 fulness, a quite considerable and dignified soul in a gro- 
 tesquely disfiguerd body. 
 
 Frank Harris 
 
 To the review in the Pall Mall Gazette I attribute, 
 rightly or wrongly, the introduction of Mary Fitton to Mr 
 Frank Harris. My reason for this is that Mr Harris wrote 
 a play about Shakespear and Mary Fitton; and when I, 
 as a pious duty to Tyler's ghost, reminded the world that 
 it was to Tyler we owed the Fitton theory, Frank Harris, 
 who clearly had not a notion of what had first put Mary 
 into his head, believed, I think, that I had invented Tyler 
 expressly for his discomfiture; for the stress I laid on 
 Tyler's claims must have seemed unaccountable and per- 
 haps malicious on the assumption that he was to me a mere 
 name among the thousands of names in the British Mu- 
 seum catalogue. Therefore I make it clear that I had and 
 have personal reasons for remembering Tyler, and for 
 regarding myself as in some sort charged with the duty of 
 reminding the world of his work. I am sorry for his sake 
 that Mary's portrait is fair, and that Mr W. H. has veered 
 round again from Pembroke to Southampton; but even so 
 his work was not wasted: it is by exhausting all the hy- 
 potheses that we reach the verifiable one; and after all, 
 the wrong road always leads somewhere. 
 
 Frank Harris's play was written long before mine. I 
 read it in manuscript before the Shakespear Memorial 
 National Theatre was mooted; and if there is anything 
 
114 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 except the Fitton theory (which is Tyler's property) in 
 my play which is also in Mr Harris's it was I who an- 
 nexed it from him and not he from jne. It does not matter 
 anyhow, because this play of mine is a brief trifle, and full 
 of manifest impossibilities at that; whilst Mr Harris's 
 play is serious both in size, intention, and quality. But 
 there could not in the nature of things be much resem- 
 blance, because Frank conceives Shakespear to have been 
 a broken-hearted, melancholy, enormously sentimental 
 person, whereas I am convinced that he was very like 
 myself: in fact, if I had been born in 1556 instead of in 
 1856, 1 should have taken to blank verse and given Shakes- 
 pear a harder run for his money than all the other Eliza- 
 bethans put together. Yet the success of Frank Harris's 
 book on Shakespear gave me great delight. 
 
 To those who know the literary world of London there 
 was a sharp stroke of ironic comedy in the irresistible ver- 
 dict in its favor. In critical literature there is one prize 
 that is always open to competition, one blue ribbon that 
 always carries the highest critical rank with it. To win, 
 you must write the best book of your generation on Shakes- 
 pear. It is felt on all sides that to do this a certain fastid- 
 ious refinement, a delicacy of taste, a correctness of man- 
 ner and tone, and high academic distinction in addition to 
 the indispensable scholarship and literary reputation, are 
 needed; and men who pretend to these qualifications are 
 constantly looked to with a gentle expectation that pres- 
 ently they will achieve the great feat. Now if there is a 
 man on earth who is the utter contrary of everything that 
 this description implies; whose very existence is an insult 
 to the ideal it realizes; whose eye disparages, whose reso- 
 nant voice denounces, whose cold shoulder jostles every 
 decency, every delicacy, every amenity, every dignity, 
 every sweet usage of that quiet life of mutual admiration 
 in which perfect Shakespearian appreciation is expected 
 to arise, that man is Frank Harris. Here is one who is 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 115 
 
 extraordinarily qualified, by a range of sympathy and 
 understanding that extends from the ribaldry of a buc- 
 caneer to the shyest tendernesses of the most sensitive 
 poetry, to be all things to all men, yet whose proud humor 
 it is to be to every man, provided the man is eminent and 
 pretentious, the champion of his enemies. To the Arch- 
 bishop he is an atheist, to the atheist a Catholic mystic, 
 to the Bismarckian Imperialist an Anacharsis Klootz, to 
 Anacharsis Klootz a Washington, to Mrs Proudie a Don 
 Juan, to Aspasia a John Knox: in short, to everyone his 
 complement rather than his counterpart, his antagonist 
 rather than his fellow-creature. Always provided, how- 
 ever, that the persons thus confronted are respectable 
 persons. Sophie Perovskaia, who perished on the scaffold 
 for blowing Alexander II to fragments, may perhaps have 
 echoed Hamlet's 
 
 Oh God, Horatio, what a wounded name — 
 Things standing thus unknown — I leave behind ! 
 
 but Frank Harris, in his Sonia, has rescued her from that 
 injustice, and enshrined her among the saints. He has 
 lifted the Chicago anarchists out of their infamy, and 
 shewn that, compared with the Capitalism that killed 
 them, they were heroes and martyrs. He has done this 
 with the most unusual power of conviction. The story, 
 as he tells it, inevitably and irresistibly displaces all the 
 vulgar, mean, purblind, spiteful versions. There is a pre- 
 cise realism and an unsmiling, measured, determined sin- 
 cerity which gives a strange dignity to the work of one 
 whose fixed practice and ungovernable impulse it is to 
 kick conventional dignity whenever he sees it. 
 
 Harris "durch Mitleid wissend" 
 
 Frank Harris is everything except a humorist, not, ap- 
 parently, from stupidity, but because scorn overcomes 
 humor in him. Nobody ever dreamt of reproaching 
 
116 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 Milton's Lucifer for not seeing the comic side of his fall; 
 and nobody who has read Mr Harris's stories desires to 
 have them lightened by chapters from the hand of Arte- 
 mus Ward. Yet he knows the taste and the value of 
 humor. He was one of the few men of letters who really 
 appreciated Oscar Wilde, though he did not rally fiercely 
 to Wilde's side until the world deserted Oscar in his ruin. 
 I myself was present at a curious meeting between the 
 two, when Harris, on the eve of the Queensberry trial, 
 prophesied to Wilde with miraculous precision exactly 
 what immediately afterwards happened to him, and 
 warned him to leave the country. It was the first time 
 within my knowledge that such a forecast proved true. 
 Wilde, though under no illusion as to the folly of the quite 
 unselfish suit-at-law he had been persuaded to begin, 
 nevertheless so miscalculated the force of the social venge- 
 ance he was unloosing on himself that he fancied it could 
 be stayed by putting up the editor of The Saturday Review 
 (as Mr Harris then was) to declare that he considered 
 Dorian Grey a highly moral book, which it certainly is. 
 When Harris foretold him the truth, Wilde denounced 
 him as a fainthearted friend who was failing him in his 
 hour of need, and left the room in anger. Harris's idiosyn- 
 cratic power of pity saved him from feeling or shewing 
 the smallest resentment; and events presently proved to 
 Wilde how insanely he had been advised in taking the ac- 
 tion, and how accurately Harris had gauged the situation. 
 
 The same capacity for pity governs Harris's study of 
 Shakespear, whom, as I have said, he pities too much; but 
 that he is not insensible to humor is shewn not only by his 
 appreciation of Wilde, but by the fact that the group of 
 contributors who made his editorship of The Saturday 
 Review so remarkable, and of whom I speak none the less 
 highly because I happened to be one of them myself, were 
 all, in their various ways, humorists. 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 117 
 "Sidney's Sister: Pembroke's Mother" 
 
 And now to return to Shakespear. Though Mr Harris 
 followed Tyler in identifying Mary Fitton as the Dark 
 Lady, and the Earl of Pembroke as the addressee of the 
 other sonnets and the man who made love successfully to 
 Shakespear's mistress, he very characteristically refuses 
 to follow Tyler on one point, though for the life of me I 
 cannot remember whether it was one of the surmises 
 which Tyler published, or only one which he submitted to 
 me to see what I would say about it, just as he used to 
 submit diflBcult lines frord the sonnets. 
 
 This surmise was that "Sidney's sister: Pembroke's 
 mother" set Shakespear on to persuade Pembroke to 
 marry, and that this was the explanation of those earlier 
 sonnets which so persistently and unnaturally urged matri- 
 mony on Mr W. H. I take this to be one of the brightest 
 of Tyler's ideas, because the persuasions in the sonnets 
 are unaccountable and out of character unless they were 
 ofiFered to please somebody whom Shakespear desired to 
 please, and who took a motherly interest in Pembroke. 
 There is a further temptation in the theory for me. The 
 most charming of all Shakespear's old women, indeed the 
 most charming of all his women, young or old, is the 
 Countess of Rousillon in All's Well That Ends Well. It 
 ,has a certain individuality among them which suggests a 
 portrait. Mr Harris will have it that all Shakespear's 
 nice old women are drawn from his beloved mother; but 
 I see no evidence whatever that Shakespear's mother was 
 a particularly nice woman or that he was particularly 
 fond of her. That she was a simple incarnation of ex- 
 travagant maternal pride like the mother of Coriolanus 
 in Plutarch, as Mr Harris asserts, I cannot believe: she is 
 quite as likely to have borne her son a grudge for becom- 
 ing "one of these harlotry players" and disgracing the 
 
118 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 Ardens. Anyhow, as a conjectural model for the Countess 
 of Rousillon, I prefer that one of whom Jonson wrote 
 
 Sidney's sister: Pembroke's mother: 
 Death: ere thou has slain another, 
 Learnd and fair and good as she. 
 Time shaU throw a dart at thee. 
 
 But Frank will not have her at any price, because his ideal 
 Shakespear is rather like a sailor in a melodrama; and a 
 sailor in a melodrama must adore his mother. I do not at 
 all belittle such sailors. They are the emblems of human 
 generosity; but Shakespear was not an emblem: he was a 
 man and the author of Hamlet, who had no illusions about 
 his mother. In weak moments one almost wishes he had. 
 
 Shakespear's Social Standing 
 
 On the vexed question of Shakespear's social standing 
 Mr Harris says that Shakespear "had not had the ad- 
 vantage of a middle-class training." I suggest that 
 Shakespear missed this questionable advantage, not be- 
 cause he was socially too low to have attained to it, but 
 because he conceived himself as belonging to the upper 
 class from which our public school boys are now drawn. 
 Let Mr Harris survey for a moment the field of contem- 
 porary journalism. He will see there some men who have 
 the very characteristics from which he infers that Shake- 
 spear was at a social disadvantage through his lack of 
 middle-class training. They are rowdy, ill-mannered, 
 abusive, mischievous, fond of quoting obscene schoolboy 
 anecdotes, adepts in that sort of blackmail which consists 
 in mercilessly libelling and insulting every writer whose 
 opinions are sufficiently heterodox to make it almost im- 
 possible for him to risk perhaps five years of a slender in- 
 come by an appeal to a prejudiced orthodox jury; and 
 they see nothing in all this cruel blackguardism but an 
 uproariously jolly rag, although they are by no means 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 119 
 
 without genuine literary ability, a love of letters, and even 
 some artistic conscience. But he will find not one of the 
 models of his type (I say nothing of mere imitators of it) 
 below the rank that looks at the middle class, not humbly 
 and enviously from below, but insolently from above. 
 Mr Harris himself notes Shakespear's contempt for the 
 tradesman and mechanic, and his incorrigible addiction to 
 smutty jokes. He does us the public service of sweeping 
 away the familiar plea of the Bardolatrous ignoramus, 
 that Shakespear's coarseness was part of the manners of 
 his time, putting his pen with precision on the one name, 
 Spenser, that is necessary to expose such a libel on Eliza- 
 bethan decency. There was nothing whatever to pre- 
 vent Shakespear from being as decent as More was before 
 him, or Bunyan after him, and as self-respecting as Raleigh 
 or Sidney, except the tradition of his class, in which edu- 
 cation or statesmanship may no doubt be acquired by 
 those who have a turn for them, but in which insolence, 
 derision, profligacy, obscene jesting, debt contracting, and 
 rowdy mischievousness, give continual scandal to the 
 pious, serious, industrious, solvent bourgeois. No other 
 class is infatuated enough to believe that gentlemen are 
 born and not made by a very elaborate process of culture. 
 Even kings are taught and coached and drilled from their 
 earliest boyhood to play their part. But the man of 
 family (I am convinced that Shakespear took that view 
 of himself) will plunge into society without a lesson in 
 table manners, into politics without a lesson in history, 
 into the city without a lesson in business, and into the 
 army without a lesson in honor. 
 
 It has been said, with the object of proving Shakespear 
 a laborer, that he could hardly write his name. Why? 
 Because he "had not the advantage of a middle-class 
 training." Shakespear himself tells us, through Hamlet, 
 that gentlemen purposely wrote badly lest they should be 
 mistaken for scriveners; but most of them, then as now. 
 
120 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 -wrote badly because they could not write any better. In 
 short, the whole range of Shakespear's foibles: the snob- 
 bishness, the naughtiness, the contempt for tradesnien 
 and mechanics, the assumption that witty conversation 
 can only mean smutty conversation, the flunkeyism 
 towards social superiors and insolence towards social 
 inferiors, the easy ways with servants which is seen not 
 only between The Two Gentlemen of Verona and their 
 valets, but in the affection and respect inspired by a great 
 servant like Adam: all these are the characteristics of 
 Eton and Harrow, not of the public elementary or private 
 adventure school. They prove, as everything we know 
 about Shakespear suggests, that he thought of the Shake- 
 spears and Ardens as families of consequence, and re- 
 garded himself as a gentleman under a cloud through his 
 father's ill luck in business, and never for a moment as a 
 man of the people. This is at once the 'explanation of 
 and excuse for his snobbery. He was not a parvenu try- 
 ing to cover his humble origin with a purchased coat of 
 arms: he was a gentleman resuming what he conceived 
 to be his natural position as soon as he gained the means 
 to keep it up. 
 
 This Side Idolatry 
 
 There is another matter which I think Mr Harris should 
 ponder. He says that Shakespear was but "little es- 
 teemed by his own generation." He even describes 
 Jonson's description of his "little Latin and less Greek" 
 as a sneer, whereas it occurs in an unmistakably sincere 
 eulogy of Shakespear, written after his death, and is 
 clearly meant to heighten the iiaapression of Shakespear's 
 prodigious natural endowments by pointing out that they 
 were not due to scholastic acquirements. Now there is a 
 sense in which it is true enough that ShakespesCr was too 
 little esteemed by his own generation, or, for the matter 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 121 
 
 of that, by any subsequent generation. The bargees on 
 the Regent's Canal do not chant Shakespear's verses as the 
 gondoliers in Venice are said to chant the verses of Tasso 
 (a practice which was suspended for some reason during 
 my stay in Venice: at least no gondolier ever did it in my 
 hearing). Shakespear is no more a popular author than 
 Rodin is a popular sculptor or Richard Strauss a popular 
 composer. But Shakespear was certainly not such a fool 
 as to expect the Toms, Dicks, and Harrys of his time to 
 be any more interested in dramatic poetry than Newton, 
 later on, expected them to be interested in fluxions. And 
 when we come to the question whether Shakespear missed 
 that assurance which all great men have had from the 
 more capable and susceptible members of their generation 
 that they were great men, Ben Jonson's evidence disposes 
 of so improbable a notion at once and for ever. "I loved 
 the man," says Ben, "this side idolatry, as well as any." 
 Now why in the name of common sense should he have 
 made that qualification unless there had been, not cnly 
 idolatry, but idolatry fulsome enough to irritate Jonson 
 into an express disavowal of it.' Jonson, the bricklayer, 
 must have felt sore sometimes when Shakespear spoke 
 and wrote of bricklayers as his inferiors. He must have 
 felt it a little hard that being a better scholar, and perhaps 
 a braver and tougher man physically than Shakespear, 
 he was not so successful or so well liked. But in spite of 
 this he praised Shakespear to the utmost stretch of his 
 powers of eulogy: in fact, notwithstanding his disclaimer, 
 he did not stop "this side idolatry." If, therefore, even 
 Jonson felt himself forced to clear himself of extravagance 
 and absurdity in his appreciation of Shakespear, there 
 must have been many people about who idolized Shake- 
 spear as American ladies idolize Paderewski, and who 
 carried Bardolatry, even in the Bard's own time, to an 
 extent that threatened to make his reasonable admirers 
 ridiculous. 
 
122 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 Shakespear's Pessimism 
 
 I submit to Mr Harris that by ruling out this idolatry, 
 and its possible efifect in making Shakespear think that his 
 public would stand anything from him, he has ruled out 
 a far more plausible explanation of the faults of such a play 
 as Timon of Athens than his theory that Shakespear's 
 passion for the Dark Lady "cankered and took on proud 
 flesh in him, and tortured him to nervous breakdown and 
 madness." In Timon the intellectual bankruptcy is 
 obvious enough: Shakespear tried once too often to make 
 a play out of the cheap pessimism which is thrown into 
 despair by a comparison of actual human nature with 
 theoretical morality, actual law and administration with 
 abstract justice, and so forth. But Shakespear's percep- 
 tion of the fact that all men, judged by the moral standard 
 which they apply to others and by which they justify their 
 punishment of others, are fools and scoundrels, does not 
 date from the Dark Lady complication : he seems to have 
 been born with it. If in The Comedy of Errors and A 
 Midsummer Night's Dream the persons of the drama are 
 not quite so ready for treachery and murder as Laertes 
 and even Hamlet himself (not to mention the procession 
 of ruffians who pass through the latest plays) it is cer- 
 tainly not because they have any more regard for law or 
 religion. There is only one place in Shakespear's plays 
 where the sense of shame is used as a human attribute; 
 and that is where Hamlet is ashamed, not of anything hi 
 himself has done, but of Jiis mother's relations with his 
 uncle. This scene is an unnatural one: the son's re- 
 proaches to his mother, even the fact of his being able to 
 discuss the subject with her, is more repulsive than her 
 relations with her deceased husband's brother. 
 
 Here, too, Shakespear betrays for once his religious 
 sense by making Hamlet, in his agony of shame, declare 
 that his mother's conduct makes "sweet religion a rh&,p- 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 123 
 
 sody of words." But for that passage we might almost 
 suppose that the feeling of Sunday morning in the country 
 which Orlando describes so perfectly in As You Like It 
 was the beginning and end of Shakespear's notion of 
 religion. I say almost, because Isabella in Measure for 
 Measure has religious charm, in spite of the conventional 
 theatrical assumption that female religion means an in- 
 humanly ferocious chastity. But for the most part 
 Shakespear differentiates his heroes from his villains much 
 more by what they do than by what they are. Don John 
 in Much Ado is a true villain: a man with a malicious 
 will; but he is too dull a duffer to be of any use in a lead- 
 ing part; and when we come to the great villains like 
 Macbeth, we find, as Mr Harris points out, that they are 
 precisely identical with the heroes: Macbeth is only 
 Hamlet incongruously committing murders and engaging 
 in hand-to-hand combats. And Hamlet, who does not 
 dream of apologizing for the three murders he commits, is 
 always apologizing because he has not yet committed a 
 fourth, and finds, to his great bewilderment, that he does 
 not want to commit it. "It cannot be," he says, "but I 
 am pigeon-livered, and lack gall to make oppression bitter; 
 else, ere this, I should have fatted all the region kites with 
 this slave's offal." Really one is tempted to suspect that 
 when Shylock asks "Hates any man the thing he would 
 not kill?" he is expressing the natural and proper senti- 
 ments of the human race as Shakespear understood them, 
 and not the vindictiveness of a stage Jew. 
 
 Gaiety of Genius 
 
 In view of these facts, it is dangerous to cite Shake- 
 spear's pessimism as evidence of the despair of a heart 
 broken by the Dark Lady. There is an irrepressible 
 gaiety of genius which enables it to bear the whole weight 
 of the world's misery without blenching. There is a 
 
124 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 laugh always ready to avenge its tears of discouragement. 
 In the lines which Mr Harris quotes only to declare that 
 he can make nothing of them, and to condemn them as 
 out of character, Richard III, immediately after pitying 
 himself because 
 
 There ia no creature loves me 
 And if I die no soul will pity me, 
 
 adds, with a grin. 
 
 Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself 
 Find in myself no pity for myself? 
 
 Let me again remind Mr Harris of Oscar Wilde. We 
 all dreaded to read De Profundis : our instinct was to stop 
 our ears, or run away from the wail of a broken, though by 
 no means contrite, heart. But we were throwing away our 
 pity. De Profundis was de profundis indeed: Wilde was 
 too good a dramatist to throw away so powerful an effect; 
 but none the less it was de profundis in excelsis. There 
 was more laughter between the lines of that book than in 
 a thousand farces by men of no genius. Wilde, like 
 Richard and Shakespear, found in himself no pity for him- 
 self. There is nothing that marks the born dramatist 
 more unmistakably than this discovery of comedy in his 
 own misfortunes almost in proportion to the pathos with 
 which the ordinary man announces their tragedy. I can- 
 not for the life of me see the broken heart in Shakespear's 
 latest works. "Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate 
 sings" is not the lyric of a broken man; nor is Cloten's 
 comment that if Imogen does not appreciate it, "it is a 
 vice in her ears which horse hairs, and cats' guts, and the 
 voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend," the 
 sally of a saddened one. Is it not clear that to the last 
 there was in Shakespear an incorrigible divine levity, an 
 inexhaustible joy that derided sorrow? Think of the poor 
 Dark Lady having to stand up to this unbearable power 
 of extracting a grim fun from everything. Mr Harris 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 125 
 
 writes as if Shakespear did all the suflFering and the Dark 
 Lady all the cruelty. But why does he not put himself 
 in the Dark Lady's place for a moment as he has put him- 
 self so successfully in Shakespear's? Imagine her read- 
 ing the hundred and thirtieth sonnet! 
 
 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the siin; 
 
 Coral is far more red than her lips' red; 
 
 K snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 
 
 If hairs be wire, black wires grow on her head; 
 
 I have seen roses damasked, red and white. 
 
 But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
 
 And in some perfumes is there more delight 
 
 Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 
 
 I love to hear her speak; yet well I know 
 
 That music hath a far more pleasing sound. 
 
 I grant I never saw a goddess go: 
 
 My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. 
 And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
 As any she belied with false compare. 
 Take this as a sample of the sort of compliment from which 
 she was never for a moment safe with Shakespear. Bear in 
 mind that she was not a comedian; that the Elizabethan 
 fashion of treating brunettes as ugly woman must have 
 made her rather sore on the subject of her complexion; 
 that no human being, male or female, can conceivably 
 enjoy being chaffed on that point in the fourth couplet 
 about the perfumes; that Shakespear's revulsions, as the 
 sonnet immediately preceding shews, were as violent as 
 his ardors, and were expressed with the realistic power and 
 horror that makes Hamlet say that the heavens got sick 
 when they saw the queen's conduct; and then ask Mr 
 Harris whether any woman could have stood it for long, 
 or have thought the "sugred" compliment worth the 
 cruel wounds, the cleaving of the heart in twain, that 
 seemed to Shakespear as natural and amusing a reaction 
 as the burlesquing of his heroics by Pistol, his sermons 
 by Falstaff, and his poems by Cloten and Touchstone. 
 
126 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 Jupiter and Semele 
 
 This does not mean that Shakespear was cruel: evidently 
 he was not; but it was not cruelty that made Jupiter re- 
 duce Semele to ashes: it was the fact that he could not 
 help being a god nor she help being a mortal. The one 
 thing Shakespear's passion for the Dark Lady was not, 
 was what Mr Harris in one passage calls it: idolatrous. If 
 it had been, she might have been able to stand it. The 
 man who "dotes yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves," 
 is tolerable even by a spoilt and tyrannical mistress; but 
 what woman could possibly endure a man who dotes 
 without doubting; who knows, and who is hugely amused 
 at the absurdity of his infatuation for a woman of whose 
 mortal imperfections not one escapes him: a man always 
 exchanging grins with Yorick's skull, and inviting "my 
 lady" to laugh at the sepulchral humor of the fact that 
 though she paint an inch thick (which thq Dark Lady may 
 have done), to Yorick's favor she must come at last. To 
 the Dark Lady he must sometimes have seemed cruel be- 
 yond description: an intellectual Caliban. True, a Cali- 
 ban who could say 
 
 Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises 
 
 Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. 
 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
 
 Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, 
 
 That, if I then had waked after long sleep 
 
 Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming. 
 
 The clouds, methought, would open and shew riches 
 
 Ready to drop on me: that when I wak'd 
 
 I cried to dream again. 
 
 which is very lovely; but the Dark Lady may have had that 
 vice in her ears which Cloten dreaded: she may not have 
 seen the beauty of it, whereas there can be no doubt at all 
 that of "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun," &c., 
 not a word was lost on her. 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 127 
 
 And is it to be supposed that Sliakespear was too stupid 
 or too modest not to see at last that it was a case of Jupiter 
 and Semele? Shakespear was most certainly not modest 
 in that sense. The timid cough of the minor poet was 
 never heard from him. 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 
 Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme 
 
 is only one out of a dozen passages in which he (possibly 
 with a keen sense of the fun of scandalizing the modest 
 coughers) proclaimed his place and his power in "the wide 
 world dreaming of things to come." The Dark Lady 
 most likely thought this side of him insufferably con- 
 ceited; for there is no reason to suppose that she liked his 
 plays any better than Minna Wagner liked Richard's 
 music dramas: as likely as not, she thought The Spanish 
 Tragedy worth six Hamlets. He was not stupid either: 
 if his class limitations and a profession that cut him off 
 from actual participation in great affairs of State had not 
 confined his opportunities of intellectual and political 
 training to private conversation and to the Mermaid 
 Tavern, he would probably have become one of the ablest 
 men of his time instead of being merely its ablest play- 
 wright. One might surmise that Shakespear found out 
 that the Dark Lady's brains could no more keep pace 
 with his than Anne Hathaway's, if there were any evi- 
 dence that their friendship ceased when he stopped writing 
 sonnets to her. As a matter of fact the consolidation of 
 a passion into an enduring intimacy generally puts an 
 end to sonnets. 
 
 That the Dark Lady broke Shakespear s heart, as Mr 
 Harris will have it she did, is an extremely unShake- 
 spearian hypothesis. " Men have died from time to time, 
 and worms have eaten them; but not for love," says 
 Rosalind. Richard of Gloster, into whom Shakespear put 
 
128 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 all his own impish superiority to vulgar sentiment, 
 exclaims 
 
 And this word "love," which greybeards call divine. 
 Be resident in men like one another 
 And not in me: I am myself alone. 
 
 Hamlet has not a tear for Ophelia: her death moves him 
 to fierce disgust for the sentimentality of Laertes by her 
 grave; and when he discusses the scene with Horatio 
 immediately after, he utterly forgets her, though he is 
 sorry he forgot himself, and jumps at the proposal of a 
 fencing match to finish the day with. As against this 
 view Mr Harris pleads Romeo, Orsino, and even Antonio; 
 and he does it so penetratingly that he convinces you that 
 Shakespear did betray himself again and again in these 
 characters; but self -betrayal is one thing; and self- 
 portrayal, as in Hamlet and Mercutio, is another. Shake- 
 spear never "saw himself," as actors say, in Romeo or 
 Orsino or Antonio. In Mr Harris's own play Shakespear 
 is presented with the most pathetic tenderness. He is 
 tragic, bitter, pitiable, wretched and broken among a 
 robust crowd of Jonsons and Elizabeths; but to me he is 
 not Shakespear because I miss the Shakespearian irony 
 and the Shakespearian gaiety. Take these away and 
 Shakespear is no longer Shakespear: all the bite, the im- 
 petus, the strength, the grim delight in his own power of 
 looking terrible facts in the face with a chuckle, is gone; 
 and you have nothing left but that most depressing of all 
 things : a victim. Now who can think of Shakespear as a 
 man with a grievance.'' Even in that most thoroughgoing 
 and inspired of all Shakespear's loves: his love of music 
 (which Mr Harris has been the first to appreciate at any- 
 thing like its value), there is a dash of mockery. "Spit 
 in the hole, man; and tune again." "Divine air! Now 
 is his soul ravished. Is it not strange that sheep's guts 
 should hale the souls out of men's bodies?" "An he had 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 129 
 
 been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have 
 hanged him." There is just as much Shakespear here as 
 in the inevitable quotation about the sweet south and 
 the bank of violets. 
 
 I lay stress on this irony of Shakespear's, this impish re- 
 joicing in pessimism, this exultation in what breaks the 
 hearts of common men, not only because it is diagnostic 
 of that immense energy of life which we call genius, but 
 because its omission is the one glaring defect in Mr Harris's 
 otherwise extraordinarily penetrating book. Fortunately, 
 it is an omission that does not disable the book as (in my 
 judgment) it disabled the hero of the play, because Mr 
 Harris left himself out of his play, whereas he pervades 
 his book, mordant, deep-voiced, and with an unconquer- 
 able style which is the man. 
 
 The Idol of the Bardolaters 
 
 There is even an advantage in having a book on Shake- 
 spear with the Shakespearian irony left out of account. I 
 do not say that the missing chapter should not be added 
 in the next edition: the hiatus is too great: it leaves the 
 reader too uneasy before this touching picture of a writh- 
 ing worm substituted for the invulnerable giant. But it 
 is none the less probable that in no other way could Mr 
 Harris have got at his man as he has. (Yot, after all, what 
 is the secret of the hopeless failure of the academic Bar- 
 dolaters to give us a credible or even interesting Shake- 
 spear, and the easy triumph of Mr Harris in giving us 
 both? Simply that Mr Harris has assumed that he was 
 dealing with a man, whilst the others have assumed that 
 they were writing about a god, and have therefore re- 
 jected every consideration of fact, tradition, or interpreta- 
 tion, that pointed to any human imperfection in their hero. 
 They thus leave themselves with so little material that 
 they are forced to begin by saying that we know very 
 
130 Tire Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 little about Shakespear. As a matter of fact, with the 
 plays and sonnets in our hands, we know much more 
 about Shakespear than we know about Dickens or Thack- 
 eray: the only difficulty is that we deliberately suppress 
 it because it proves that Shakespear was not only very 
 unlike the conception of a god current in Clapham, but 
 was not, according to the same reckoning, even a respect- 
 able man. The academic view starts with a Shakespear 
 who was not scurrilous; therefore the verses about "lousy 
 Lucy" cannot have been written by him, and the cognate 
 passages in the plays are either strokes of character- 
 drawing or gags interpolated by the actors. This ideal 
 Shakespear was too well behaved to get drunk; therefore 
 the tradition that his death was hastened by a drinking 
 bout with Jonson and Drayton must be rejected, and the 
 remorse of Cassio treated as a thing observed, not experi- 
 enced: nay, the disgust of Hamlet at the drinking cus- 
 toms of Denmark is taken to establish Shakespear as the 
 superior of Alexander in self-control, and the greatest of 
 ^teetotallers. 
 
 Now this system of inventing your great man to start 
 with, and then rejecting all the materials that do not fit 
 him, with the ridiculous result that you have to declare 
 that there are no materials at all (with your waste-.paper 
 basket full of them), ends in leaving Shakespear with a 
 much worse character than he deserves. For though it 
 does not greatly matter whether he wrote the lousy Lucy 
 lines or not, and does not really matter at all whether he 
 got drunk when he made a night of it with Jonson and 
 Drayton, the sonnets raise an unpleasant question which 
 does matter a good deal; and the refusal of the academic 
 Bardolaters to discuss or even mention this question has 
 had the effect of producing a silent verdict against Shake- 
 spear. Mr Harris tackles the question openly, and has no 
 difficulty whatever in convincing us that Shakespear was 
 a man of normal constitution sexually, and was not the 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 131 
 
 victim of that most cruel and pitiable of all the freaks of 
 nature: the freak which transposes the normal aim of the 
 afifections. Silence on this point means condemnation; 
 and the condemnation has been general throughout the 
 present generation, though it only needed Mr Harris's 
 fearless handling of the matter to sweep away what is 
 nothing but a morbid and very disagreeable modern fash- 
 ion. There is always some stock accusation brought 
 against eminent persons. When I was a boy every well- 
 known man was accused of beating his wife. Later on, 
 for some unexplained reason, he was accused of psycho- 
 pathic derangement. And this fashion is retrospective. 
 The cases of Shakespear and Michel Angelo are cited as 
 proving that every genius of the first magnitude was a 
 sufferer; and both here and in Germany there are circles 
 in which such derangement is grotesquely reverenced as 
 part of the stigmata of heroic powers. All of which is 
 gross nonsense. Unfortunately, in Shakespear's case, 
 prudery, which cannot prevent the accusation from being 
 whispered, does prevent the refutation from being shouted. 
 Mr Harris, the deep-voiced, refuses to be silenced. He 
 dismisses with proper contempt the stupidity which places 
 an outrageous construction on Shakespear's apologies in 
 the sonnets for neglecting that "perfect ceremony" of 
 love which consists in returning calls and making protesta- 
 tions aiid giving presents and paying the trumpery atten- 
 tions which men of genius always refuse to bother about, 
 and to which touchy people who have no genius attach so 
 much importance. No leader who had not been tam- 
 pered with by the psychopathic monomaniacs could ever 
 put any construction but the obvious and innocent one on 
 these passages. But the general vocabulary of the son- 
 nets to Pembroke (or whoever "Mr W. H." really was) is 
 so overcharged according to modern ideas that a reply on 
 the general case is necessary. 
 
132 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 Shakespear's alleged Sycophancy and 
 Perversion 
 
 That reply, which Mr Harris does not hesitate to give, 
 is twofold: first, that Shakespear was, in his attitude 
 towards earls, a sycophant; and, second, that the nor- 
 mality of Shakespear's sexual constitution is only too well 
 attested by the excessive susceptibility to the normal im- 
 pulse shewn in the whole mass of his writings. This latter 
 is the really conclusive reply. In the case of Michel 
 Angelo, for instance, one must admit that if his works, are 
 set beside those of Titian or Paul Veronese, it is impossible 
 not to be struck by the absence in the Florentine of that 
 susceptibility to feminine charm which pervades the 
 pictures of the Venetians. But, as Mr Harris points out 
 (though he does not use this particular illustration) Paul 
 Veronese is an anchorite compared to Shakespear. The 
 language of the sonnets addressed to Pembroke, extrava- 
 gant as it now seems, is the language of compliment and 
 fashion, transfigured no doubt by Shakespear's verbal 
 magic, and hyperbolical, as Shakespear always seems to 
 people who cannot conceive so vividly as he, but still un- 
 mistakable for anything else than the expression of a 
 friendship delicate enough to be wounded, and a manly 
 loyalty deep enough to be outraged. But the language 
 of the sonnets to the Dark Lady is the language of 
 passion: their cruelty shews it. There is no evidence^ 
 that Shakespear was capable of being unkind in cold 
 blood. But in his revulsions from love, he was bitter, 
 wounding, even ferocious; sparing neither himself nor 
 the unfortunate woman whose only offence was that 
 she had reduced the great man to the common human 
 denominator. 
 
 In seizing on these two points Mr Harris has made so 
 sure a stroke, and placed his evidence so featly that there 
 is nothing left for me to do but to plead that the second is 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 133 
 
 sounder than the first, which is, I think, marked by the 
 prevalent mistake as to Shakespear's social position, or, 
 if you prefer it, the confusion between his actual social 
 position as a penniless tradesman's son taking to the 
 theatre for a livelihood, and his own conception of him- 
 self as a gentleman of good family. I am prepared to con- 
 tend that though Shakespear was undoubtedly senti- 
 mental in his expressions of devotion to Mr W. H. even 
 to a point which nowadays makes both ridiculous, he was 
 not sycophantic if Mr W. H. was really attractive and 
 promising, and Shakespear deeply attached to him. A 
 sycophant does not tell his patron that his fame will sur- 
 vive, not in the renown of his own actions, but in the son- 
 nets of his sycophant. A sycophant, when his patron 
 cuts him out in a love affair, does not tell his patron 
 exactly what he thinks of him. Above all, a sycophant 
 does not write to his patron precisely as he feels on all 
 occasions; and this rare kind of sincerity is all over the 
 sonnets. Shakespear, we are told, was "a very civil 
 gentleman." This must mean that his desire to please 
 people and be liked by them, and his reluctance to hurt 
 their feelings, led him into amiable flattery even when his 
 feelings were not strongly stirred. If this be taken into 
 account along with the fact that Shakespear conceived and 
 expressed all his emotions with a vehemence that some-> 
 times carried him into ludicrous extravagance, making 
 Richard offer his kingdom for a horse and Othello declare 
 of Cassio that 
 
 Had all Ms haira been lives, my great revenge 
 Had stomach for them aU, 
 
 we shall see more civility and hyperbole than sycophancy 
 even in the earlier and more coldblooded sonnets. 
 
134 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 Shakespear and Democracy 
 
 Now take the general case p^ed against Shakespear as 
 an enemy of democracy by Tolstoy, the late Ernest Crosbie 
 and others, and endorsed by Mr Harris. Will it really 
 stand fire? Mr Harris emphasizes the passages in which 
 Shakespear spoke of mechanics and even of small master 
 tradesmen as base persons whose clothes were greasy, 
 whose breath was rank, and whose political imbecility 
 and caprice moved Coriolanus to say to the Roman Radi- 
 cal who demanded at least "good words" from him 
 
 He that will give good words to thee will flatter 
 Beneath abhorring. 
 
 But let us be honest. As political sentiments these lines 
 are an abomination to every democrat. But suppose they 
 are not political sentiments! Suppose they are merely a 
 record of observed fact. John Stuart Mill told our Brit- 
 ish workmen that they were mostly liars. Carlyle told 
 us all that we are mostly fools. Matthew Arnold and 
 Ruskin were more circumstantial and more abusive. 
 Everybody, including the workers themselves, know that 
 they are dirty, drunken, foul-mouthed, ignorant, glutton- 
 ous, prejudiced : in short, heirs to the peculiar ills of poverty 
 and slavery, as well as co-heirs with the plutocracy to all 
 the failings of human nature. Even Shelley admitted, 
 200 years after Shakespear wrote Coriolanus, that univer- 
 sal suffrage was out of the question. Surely the real test, 
 not of Democracy, which was not a live political issue in 
 Shakespear's time, but of impartiality in judging classes, 
 which is what one demands from a great human poet, is 
 not that he should flatter the poor and denounce the rich, 
 but that he should weigh them both in the same balance. 
 Now whoever will read Lear and Measure for Measure 
 will find stamped on his mind such an appalled sense of 
 the danger of dressing man in a little brief authority, such 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 135 
 
 a merciless stripping of the purple from the "poor, bare, 
 forked animal" that calls itself a king and fancies itself a 
 god, that one wonders what was the real nature of the 
 mysterious restraint that kept "Eliza and our James" from 
 teaching Shakespear to be civil to crowned heads, just as 
 one wonders why Tolstoy was allowed to go free when so 
 many less terrible levellers went to the galleys or Siberia. 
 From the mature Shakespear we get no such scenes of 
 village snobbery as that between the stage country gentle- 
 man Alexander Iden and the stage Radical Jack Cade. 
 We get the shepherd in As You Like It, and many honest, 
 brave, human, and loyal servants, beside the inevitable 
 comic ones. Even in the Jingo play, Henry V, we get 
 Bates and Williams drawn with all respect and honor as 
 normal rank and file men. In Julius Caesar, Shakespear 
 went to work with a will when he took his cue from Plu- 
 tarch in glorifying regicide and transfiguring the republi- 
 cans. Indeed hero-worshippers have never forgiven him 
 for belittling Caesar and failing to see that side of his as- 
 sassination which made Goethe denounce it as the most 
 senseless of crimes. Put the play beside the Charles I 
 of Wills, in which Cromwell is written down to a point at 
 which the Jack Cade of Henry VI becomes a hero in com- 
 parison; and then believe, if you can, that Shakespear 
 was one of them that "crook the pregnant hinges of the 
 knee where thrift may follow fawning." Think of Rosen- 
 crantz, Guildenstern, Osric, the fop who annoyed Hotspur, 
 and a dozen passages concerning such people! If such 
 evidence can prove anything (and Mr Harris relies through- 
 out on such evidence) Shakespear loathed courtiers. 
 
 If, on the other hand, Shakespear's characters are mostly 
 members of the leisured classes, the same thing is true of 
 Mr Harris's own plays and mine. Industrial slavery is 
 not compatible with that freedom of adventure, that per- 
 sonal refinement and intellectual culture, that scope of 
 action, which the higher and subtler drama demands. 
 
136 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 Even Cervantes had finally to drop Don Quixote's troubles 
 with innkeepers demanding to be paid for his food and 
 lodging, and make him as free of economic difficulties as 
 Amadis de Gaul. Hamlet's experiences simply could not 
 have happened to a plumber. A poor man is useful on the 
 stage only as a blind man is: to excite sympathy. The 
 poverty of the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet produces 
 a great effect, and even points the sound moral that a poor 
 man cannot afford to have a conscience; but if all the 
 characters of the play had been as poor as he, it would 
 have been nothing but a melodrama of the sort that the 
 Sicilian players gave us here; and that was not the best 
 that lay in Shakespear's power. When poverty is abol- 
 ished, and leisure and grace of life become general, the 
 only plays surviving from our epoch which will have any 
 relation to life as it will be lived then will be those in which 
 none of the persons represented are troubled with want of 
 money or wretched drudgery. Our plays of poverty and 
 squalor, now the only ones that are true to the life of the 
 majority of living men, will then be classed with the rec- 
 ords of misers and monsters, and read only by historical 
 students of social pathology. 
 
 Then consider Shakespear's kings and lords and gentle- 
 men! Would even John Ball or Jeremiah complain that 
 they are flattered? Surely a more mercilessly exposed 
 string of scoundrels never crossed the stage. The very 
 monarch who paralyzes a rebel by appealing to the divinity 
 that hedges a king, is a drunken and sensual assassin, and 
 is presently killed contemptuously before our eyes in spite 
 of his hedge of divinity. I could write as convincing a 
 chapter on Shakespear's Dickensian prejudice against the 
 throne and the nobility and gentry in general as Mr Harris 
 or Ernest Crosbie on the other side. I could even go so 
 far as to contend that one of Shakespear's defects is his 
 lack of an intelligent comprehension of feudalism. He 
 had of course no prevision of democratic Collectivism. He 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 137 
 
 was, except in the commonplaces of war and patriotism, 
 a privateer through and through. Nobody in his plays, 
 whether king or citizen, has any civil public business or 
 conception of such a thing, except in the method of ap- 
 pointing constables, to the abuses in which he called at- 
 tention quite in the vein of the Fabian Society. He was 
 concerned about drunkenness and about the idolatry and 
 hypocrisy of our judicial system; but his implied remedy 
 was personal sobriety and freedom from idolatrous illusion 
 in so far as he had any remedy at all, and did not merely 
 despair of human nature. His first and last word on par- 
 liament was "Get thee glass eyes, and, like a scurvy poli- 
 tician, seem to see the thing thou dost not." He had no 
 notion of the feeling with which the land nationalizers of 
 today regard the fact that he was a party to the enclosure 
 of common lands at Wellcome. The explanation is, not 
 a general deficiency in his mind, but the simple fact that 
 in his day what English land needed was individual ap- 
 propriation and cultivation, and what the English Con- 
 stitution needed was the incorporation of Whig principles 
 of individual liberty. 
 
 Shakespear and the British Public 
 
 I have rejected Mr Harris's view that Shakespear died 
 broken-hearted of "the pangs of love despised." I have 
 given my reasons for believing that Shakespear died game, 
 and indeed in a state of levity which would have been con- 
 sidered unbecoming in a bishop. But Mr Harris's evi- 
 dence does prove that Shakespear had a grievance and a 
 very serious one. He might have been jilted by ten dark 
 ladies and been none the worse for it; but his treatment 
 by the British Public was another matter. The idolatry 
 which exasperated Ben Jonson was by no means a popular 
 movement; and, like all such idolatries, it was excited by 
 the magic of Shakespear's art rather than by his views. 
 
138 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 He was launched on liis career as a successful playwright 
 by the Henry VI trilogy, a work of no originality, depth, 
 or subtlety except the originality, depth, and subtlety of 
 the feelings and fancies of the common people. But 
 Shakespear was not satisfied with this. What is the use 
 of being Shakespear it you are not allowed to express any 
 notions but those of Autolycus? Shakespear did not see 
 the world as Autolycus did: he saw it, if not exactly as 
 Ibsen did (for it was not quite the same world), at least 
 with much of Ibsen's power of penetrating its illusions and 
 idolatries, and with aU Swift's horror of its cruelty and 
 uncleanliness. 
 
 Now it happens to some men with these powers that 
 they are forced to impose their fullest exercise on the 
 world because they cannot produce popular work. Take 
 Wagner and Ibsen for instance! Their earlier works are 
 no doubt much cheaper than their later ones; still, they 
 were not popular when they were written. The alterna- 
 tive of doing popular work was never really open to them: 
 had they stooped they would have picked up less than 
 they snatched from above the people's heads. But Handel 
 and Shakespear were not held to their best in this way. 
 They could turn out anything they were asked for, and 
 even heap up the measure. They reviled the British 
 Public, and never forgave it for ignoring their best work 
 and admiring their splendid commonplaces; but they 
 produced the commonplaces all the same, and made them 
 sound magnificent by mere brute faculty for their art. 
 When Shakespear was forced to write popular plays to 
 save his theatre from ruin, he did it mutinously, calling the 
 plays "As You Like It," and " Much Ado About Nothing." 
 All the same, he did it so well that to this day these two 
 genial vulgarities are the main Shakespearian stock-in- 
 trade of our theatres. Later on Burbage's power and pop- 
 ularity as an actor enabled Shakespear to free himself from 
 the tyranny of the box oflSce, and to express himself more 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 139 
 
 freely in plays consisting largely of monologue to be 
 spoken by a great actor from whom the public would stand 
 a good deal. The history of Shakespear's tragedies has 
 thus been the history of a long line of famous actors, from 
 Burbage and Betterton to Forbes Robertson; and the 
 man of whom we are told that "when he would have said 
 that Richard died, and cried A horse! A horse! he Bur- 
 bage cried" was the father of nine generations of Shake- 
 spearian playgoers, all speaking of Garrick's Richard, and 
 Kean's Othello, and Irving's Shylock, and Forbes Robert- 
 son's Hamlet without knowing or caring how much these 
 had to do with Shakespear's Richard and Othello and so 
 forth. And the plays which were written without great 
 and predominant parts, such as Troilus and Cressida, All's 
 Well That Ends Well, and Measure for Measure, have 
 dropped on our stage as dead as the second part of Goethe's 
 Faust or Ibsen's Emperor or Galilean. 
 
 Here, then, Shakespear had a real grievance; and though 
 it is a sentimental exaggeration to describe him as a 
 broken-hearted man in the face of the passages of reckless 
 jollity and serenely happy poetry in his latest plays, yet 
 the discovery that his most serious work could reach suc- 
 cess only when carried on the back of a very fascinating 
 actor who was enormously overcharging his part, and that 
 the serious plays which did not contain parts big enough 
 to hold the overcharge were left on the shelf, amply ac- 
 counts for the evident fact that Shakespear did not end 
 his life in a glow of enthusiastic satisfaction with mankind 
 and with the theatre, which is all that Mr Harris can 
 allege in support of his broken-heart theory. But even 
 if Shakespear had had no failures, it was not possible for a 
 man of his powers to observe the political and moral con- 
 duct of his contemporaries without perceiving that they 
 were incapable of dealing with the problems raised by their 
 own civilization, and that their attempts to carry out the 
 codes of law and to practise the religions offered to them 
 
140 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 by great prophets and law-givers were and still are so 
 foolish that we now call for The Superman, virtually a 
 new species, to rescue the world from mismanagement. 
 This is the real sorrow of great men; and in the face of it 
 the notion that when a great man speaks bitterly or looks 
 melancholy he must be troubled by a disappointment in 
 love seems to me sentimental trifling. 
 
 If I have carried the reader with me thus far, he will 
 find that trivial as this little play of mine is, its sketch of 
 Shakespear is more complete than its levity suggests. 
 Alas! its appeal for a National Theatre as a monument to 
 Shakespear failed to touch the very stupid people who 
 cannot see that a National Theatre is worth having for 
 the sake of the National Soul. I had unfortunately repre- 
 sented Shakespear as treasuring and using (as I do myself) 
 the jewels of unconsciously musical speech which common 
 people utter and throw away every day; and this was 
 taken as a disparagement of Shakespear's "originality." 
 Why was I born with such contemporaries? Why is 
 Shakespear made ridiculous by such a posterity? 
 
 8®" The Dark Lady of The Sonnets was first performed 
 at the Haymarket Theatre, on the afternoon of Thursday, the 
 Z4:th November 1910, by Mona Limerick as the Dark Lady, 
 Suzanne Sheldon as Queen Elizabeth, Granville Barker as 
 Shakespear, and Hugh Tabberer as the Warder. 
 
THE DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS 
 
 Fin de siicle 15-1600. Midsummer night on the terrace 
 of the Palace at Whitehall, overlooking the Thames. The 
 Palace clock chimes four quarters and strikes eleven. 
 
 A Beefeater on guard. A Cloaked Man approaches. 
 
 The Beefeatek. Stand. Who goes there? Give the 
 word. 
 
 The Man. Marry! I cannot. I have clean forgotten it. 
 
 The Beefeater. Then cannot you pass here. What 
 is your business? Who are you? Are you a true man? 
 
 The Man. Far from it. Master Warder. I am not the 
 same man two days together: sometimes Adam, some- 
 times Benvolio, and anon the Ghost. 
 
 The Beefeateh [recoiling] A ghost! Angels and min- 
 isters of grace defend us! 
 
 The Man. Well said. Master Warder. With your 
 leave I will set that down in writing; for I have a very 
 poor and unhappy brain for remembrance. [He takes out 
 his tablets and writes], Methinks this is a good scene, with 
 you on your lonely watch, and I approaching like a ghost 
 in the moonlight. Stare not so amazedly at me; but mark 
 what I say. I keep tryst here to-night with a dark lady. 
 She promised to bribe the warder. I gave her the where- 
 withal: four tickets for the Globe Theatre. 
 
 The Beefeater. Plague on her! She gave me two 
 only. 
 
 The Man {detaching a tablet] My friend: present this 
 141 
 
142 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 tablet, and you will be welcomed at any time when the 
 plays of Will Shakespear are in hand. Bring your wife. 
 Bring your friends. Bring the whole garrison. There is 
 ever plenty of room. 
 
 The Beefeater. I care not for these new-fangled 
 plays. No man can understand a word of them. They 
 are all talk. Will you not give me a pass for The Spanish 
 Tragedy? 
 
 The Man. To see The Spanish Tragedy one pays, my 
 friend. Here are the means. [He gives him a piece of^^qld]. 
 
 The Beefeatek [overwhelmed] Gold! Oh, sir, you are a 
 better paymaster than your dark lady. 
 
 The Man. Women are thrifty, my friend. 
 
 The Beefeateh. Tis so, sir. And you have to con- 
 sider that the most open handed of us must een cheapen 
 that which we buy every day. This lady has to make a 
 present to a warder nigh every night of her life. 
 
 The Man [turning pale] I'll not believe it. 
 
 The Beefeater. Now you, sir, I dare be sworn, do not 
 have an adventure like this twice in the year. 
 
 The Man. Villain: wouldst tell me that my dark lady 
 hath ever done thus before? that she maketh occasions 
 to meet other men? 
 
 The Beefeater. Now the Lord bless your innocence, 
 sir, do you think you are the only pretty man in the world? 
 A merry lady, sir: a warm bit of stuff . Goto: I'll not see 
 her pass a deceit on a gentleman that hath given me the 
 first piece of gold I ever handled. 
 
 The Man. Master Warder: is it not a strange thing 
 that we, knowing that all women are false, should be 
 amazed to find our own particular drab no better than the 
 rest? 
 
 The Beefeater. Not. all, sir. Decent bodies, many 
 of them. 
 
 The Man [intolerantly] No. All false. All. If thou 
 deny it, thou liest. 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 143 
 
 _ The Beefeateb. You judge too much by the Court, 
 sir. There, indeed, you may say of frailty that its name is 
 woman. 
 
 The Man [pulling out his tablets again] Prithee say that 
 again: that about frailty: the strain of music. 
 
 The Beefeateb. "What strain of music, sir.? I'm no 
 musician, God knows. 
 
 The Man. There is music in your soul: many of your 
 degree have it very notably. [Writing] "Frailty: thy 
 name is woman ! " [Repeating it affectionately] " Thy name 
 is woman." 
 
 The Beefeateb. Well, sir, it is but four words. Are 
 you a snapper-up of such unconsidered trifles? 
 
 The Man [eagerly] Snapper-up of — [he gasps] Oh! 
 Immortal phrase! [He writes it down]. This man is a 
 greater than I. 
 
 The Beefeateb. You have my lord Pembroke's trick, 
 sir. 
 
 The Man. Like enough: he is my near friend. But 
 what call you his trick? 
 
 The Beefeateb. Making sonnets by moonlight. And 
 to the same lady too. 
 
 The Man. No! 
 
 The Beefeateb. Last night he stood here on your 
 errand, and in your shoes. 
 
 The Man. Thou, too, Brutus ! And I called him friend ! 
 
 The Beefeateb. Tis ever so, sir. 
 
 The Man. Tis ever so. Twas ever so. [lie turns 
 away, overcome]. Two Gentlemen of Verona! Judas! 
 Judas ! ! 
 
 The Beefeateb. Is he so bad as that, sir? 
 
 The Man [recovering 'his charity and self-possession] 
 Bad? Oh no. Human, Master Warder, human. We call 
 one another names when we are ofifended, as children do. 
 That is all. 
 
 The Beefeateb. Ay, sir: words, words, words. Mere 
 
144 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 wind, sir. We fill our bellies with the east wind, sir, as the 
 Scripture hath it. You cannot feed capons so. 
 
 The Man. A good cadence. By your leave [He makes 
 a note of it]. 
 
 The Beefeatbk. What manner of thing is a cadence, 
 sir? I have not heard of it. 
 
 The Man.^ A thing to rule the world with, friend. 
 
 The Beefeater. You speak strangely, sir: no offence. 
 But, an't like you, you are a very civil gentleman; and a 
 poor man feels drawn to you, you being, as twere, willing 
 to share your thought with him. 
 
 The Man. Tis my trade. But alas! the world for the 
 most part will none of my thoughts. 
 
 Lamplight streams from the palace door as it opens from 
 within. 
 
 The Beefeateb. Here comes your lady, sir. I'll to 
 t'other end of my ward. You may een take your time about 
 your business: I shall not return too suddenly unless my 
 sergeant comes prowling round. Tis a fell sergeant, sir: 
 strict in his arrest. Go'd'en, sir; and good luck! [He goes]. 
 
 The Man. "Strict in his arrest"! "Fell sergeant"! 
 [As if tasting a ripe plum] 0-o-o-h! [He makes a note of 
 them]. 
 
 A Cloaked Lady gropes her way from the palace and wan- 
 ders along the terrace, walking in her sleep. 
 
 The Lady [rubbing her hands as if washing them] Out, 
 damned spot. You will mar all with these cosmetics. God 
 made you one face; and you make yourself another. 
 Think of your grave, woman, not ever of being. beautified. 
 All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this Tudor hand. 
 
 The Man. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! "Beauti- 
 fied"! "Beautified"! a poem in a single word. Can this 
 be my Mary? [To the Lady] Why do you speak in a 
 strange voice, and utter poetry for the first time? Are you 
 ailing? You walk like the dead. Mary! Mary! 
 
 The Ladt [echoing him] Mary! Mary! Who would 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 145 
 
 have thought that woman to have had so much blood in 
 her! Is it my fault that my counsellors put deeds of blood 
 on me? Si&L-If-you were women -you- would- have more 
 w^t-tt^aB-to-stain-the.flp€a^50 foully._Hoid not up her head 
 ^Ofr.-the hair-is false. I tell you yet again, Mary's buried: 
 she cannot come out of her grave^ I fear her not: these 
 cats that dare jump into thrones though they be fit only 
 for men's laps must be put away. Whats done cannot be 
 undone. Out, I say. Fie! a queen, and freckled! 
 
 Tn-E MxN [shaking her arm] Mary, I say: art asleep? 
 
 The Lady wakes; starts; and nearly faints. He catches 
 her on his arm. 
 
 The Ladt. Where am I? What art thou? 
 
 The Man. I cry your mercy. I have mistook your 
 person all this while. Methought you were my Mary: my 
 mistress. 
 
 The Ladt [outraged] Profane fellow: how do you dare? 
 
 The Man. Be not wroth with me, lady. My mistress is 
 a marvellous proper woman. But she does not speak so 
 well as you. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! That was 
 well said : spoken with good accent and excellent discretion. 
 
 The Ladt. Have I been in speech with you here? 
 
 The Man. Why, yes, fair lady. Have you forgot it? 
 
 The Ladt. I have walked in my sleep. 
 
 The Man. Walk ever in your sleep, fair one; for then 
 your words drop like honey. 
 
 The Ladt [with cold majesty] Know you to whom you 
 speak, sir, that you dare express yourself so saucily? 
 
 The Man [unabashed] Not I, not care neither. You 
 are some lady of the Court, belike. To me there are but 
 two sorts of women : those with excellent voices, sweet and 
 low, and cackling hens that cannot make me dream. Your 
 voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge me not a 
 short hour of its music. 
 
 The Ladt. Sir: you are overbold. Season your admi- 
 ration for a while with — 
 
146 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 The Man [holding up his hand to stop her] " Season your 
 admiration for a while — " 
 
 The Lady. Fellow: do you dare mimic me to my face? 
 
 The Man. Tis music. Can you not hear? ■W-ben a 
 g^ed- musician sings- a song, do you-ntjt -siag-it and-«ing-it 
 again till you iave caught and fixedits perfect melody? 
 " Season your admiration for a while " : God! the history 
 of man's heart is in that one word admiration. Admira^ 
 tion! [Taking up his tablets] What was it? "Suspend your 
 admiration for a space — " 
 
 The Lady. A very vile jingle of esses. I said " Season 
 your — 
 
 The Man [hastily] Season: ay, season, season, season. 
 Plague on my memory, my wretched memory! I must een 
 write it down. [He begins to write, but stops, his memory 
 failing him]. Yet tell me which was the vile jingle? You 
 said very justly: mine own ear caught it even as my false 
 tongue said it. 
 
 The Lady. You said "for a space." I said "for a 
 while." 
 
 The Man. "For a while" [he corrects it]. Good! [Ar- 
 dently] And now be mine neither for a space nor a while, 
 but for ever. 
 
 The Lady. Odds my life! Are you by chance making 
 love to me, knave? 
 
 The Man. Nay: tis you who have made the love: I but 
 pour it out at your feet. I cannot but love a lass that sets 
 such store by an apt word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine 
 perfection of a woman — no : I have said that before some- 
 where; and the wordy garment of my love for you must be 
 fire-new — 
 
 The Lady. You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you : 
 I am more accustomed to be listened to than preached at. 
 
 The Man. The most are like that that do talk well. 
 But though you spake with the tongues of a;ngels, as in- 
 deed you do, yet know that I am the king of words — 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 147 
 
 The Lady. A king, ha! 
 
 The Man. No less. We are poor things, we men and 
 women — 
 
 The Lady. Dare you call me woman? 
 
 The Man. What nobler name can I tender you? How 
 else can I love you? "Tet you may well shrink from the 
 name: have 1 not said we are but poor things? Yet there 
 is a power that can redeem us. 
 
 The LA -B¥;-GTamercy..for your sermon, sir. I hope. I 
 know my -duty. 
 
 The Man. T hi s is, ncw^seMBOBy but the living truth. 
 
 The power I speak of is the power of immortal poesy. 'For 
 
 -fcrniW~tba1r-rile-a*4hi&.W4irldJs,„anxLworms as we aire, you 
 
 feave-btrt to invest all this vileness-with- a magical garment 
 
 •of-^wtJrds to transfigure us and uplift our souls til earth 
 
 'ftp'Sfers into a million heavens. 
 
 The Lady. You spoil your heaven with your million. 
 You are extravagant. Observe some measure in your 
 speech. , ^ 
 
 The Man. You speak now as Ben does. 
 
 The Lady. And who, pray, is Ben? 
 
 The Man. A learned bricklayer who thinks that the 
 sky is at the top of his ladder, and so takes it on him to re- 
 buke me for flying. I tell you there is no word yet coined 
 and no melody yet sung that is extravagant and majestical 
 enough for the glory that lovely words can reveal. -It is 
 heresy to deny it: have you not been taught that in the 
 beginning was the Word? that the Word was with God? 
 nay, that the Word was God? 
 
 The Lady. Beware, fellow, how you presume to speak 
 of holy things. The Queen is the head of the Church. 
 
 The Man. You are the head of my Church when you 
 speak as you did at first. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! 
 ■Can the Queen -speak thus? They say she playeth-well- 
 UBflft_±hfi-uiEgiaala-__Let Jtier play so to me ; and I'll kiss 
 her bands. Butiintil then, you are my Queen; and I'll kiss 
 
148 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 tlM>se44ps'th3t*h'§:ve"ar3pt'IilTr^ on my heart.- [He puts his 
 arms about her]. 
 
 The Lady. Unmeasured impudence ! On your life, take 
 your hands from me. 
 
 The Dark Lady conies stooping along the terrace behind 
 them Uke a running thrush. When she sees how they are 
 employed, she rises angrily to her full height, and listens 
 jealously. 
 
 "The Man [unaware of the Dark Lady] Then cease to 
 make my hands tremble with the streams of life you pour 
 through them. You hold me as the lodestar holds the iron: 
 I cannot but cling to you. We are lost, you and I: noth- 
 ing can separate us now. 
 
 The Dahk Ladt. We shall see that, false lying hound, 
 you and your filthy trull. [With two vigorous cuffs, she 
 knocks the pair asunder, sending the man, who is unlucky 
 enough to receive a righthanded blow, sprawling on the flags]. 
 Take that, both of you! 
 
 The Cloaked Lady [in towering wrath, throvnng off her 
 cloak and turning in outraged majesty on her assailant] High 
 treason ! 
 
 The Daek Lady [recognizing her and falling on her 
 knees in abject terror] Will: I am lost: I have struck the 
 Queen. 
 
 The Man [sitting up as majestically as his ignominious 
 posture allows] Woman: you have struck WILLIAM 
 SHAKESPEAR. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth [stupent] Marry, come up ! ! ! Struck 
 William Shakespear quotha! And who in the name of all 
 the sluts and jades and light-o'-loves and fly-by-nights that 
 infest this palace of mine, may William Shakespear be? 
 
 The Dahk Lady. Madam: he is but a player. Oh, I 
 could have my hand cut off — 
 
 Queen Elizabeth. Belike you will, mistress. Have 
 you bethought you that I am like to have your head cut off 
 as well? 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 149 
 
 The Dahk Lady. Will: save me. Oh, save me. 
 
 Elizabeth. Save you! A likely savior, on my royal 
 •word! I had thought this fellow at least an esquire; for I 
 had hoped that even the vilest of my ladies would not have 
 dishonored my Court by wantoning with a basebom 
 servant. 
 
 Shakespeab [indignantly scrambling to his feet] Base- 
 born! I, a Shakespear of Stratford! I, whose mother was 
 an Arden! baseborn! You forget yourself, madam. 
 
 EuzABETH Ifuriom] S'blood! do I so? I will teach 
 you — 
 
 The Dabk Lady [rising from her knees and throwing her- 
 self between them] Will: in God's name anger her no fur- 
 ther. It is death. Madam: do not listen to him. 
 
 Shakespear. Not were it een to save your life, Mary, 
 not to mention mine own, will I flatter a monarch who for- 
 gets what is due to my family. I deny not that my father 
 was brought down to be a poor bankrupt; but twas his 
 gentle blood that^was ever too generous for trade. Never 
 >did_he_jii§iJwn his debts. Tis true he paid them not; -but 
 it is an attested truth that he gave bills for them; and 
 twas those bills, in the hands of base hucksters^, Ihat were 
 his undoing. 
 
 Elizabeth [grimly] The son of your father shall learn 
 his place in the presence of the daughter of Harry the 
 Eighth. 
 
 Shakespear [swelling with intolerant importance] Name 
 not that inordinate man in the same breath with Strat- 
 ford's worthiest alderman. John Shakespear wedded but 
 once: Harry Tudor was married six times. You should 
 blush to utter his name. 
 
 The Dark Lady 1 f Will: for pity's 
 
 [ crying out together <, sake — 
 
 Elizabeth J [ Insolent dog— 
 
 Shakespear [cutting them short] How know you that 
 King Harry was indeed your father? 
 
150 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 Elizabeth ] Zounds! Now by— [she stops to 
 
 grind her teeth with rage]. 
 
 The Dark Lady She will have me whipped through 
 the streets. Oh God! Oh God! 
 
 Shakespeah. Learn to know yourself better, madam. 
 I am an honest gentleman of unquestioned parentage, and 
 have already sent in my demand for the coat-of-arms that 
 is lawfully mine. Can you say as much for yourself? 
 
 Elizabeth [almost beside herself] Another word; and I 
 begin with mine own hands the work the hangman shall 
 finish. 
 
 Shakespeah. You are no true Tudor : this baggage here 
 has as good a right to your royal seat as you. Wh n t nm iri '- 
 ta JTiH y m i m l l .lii . l .l ii ii ii i.of England? I d Jt-yTSurTenuwJiM 
 wit? your wisd om that sets at naught- the craftie^JLstates^ 
 men~ of the CE n§5aa_3 rorldj ;;7-Nor Tis the mere chance 
 that might havehappened to any milkmaid, the caprice of 
 Nature that made you the most wondrous piece of beauty 
 the age hath seen. [Elizabeth's raised fists, on the point of 
 striking him, fall to her side]. <-niat-i§_ffihgt^ali-biottght 
 aJl--inEn-to-yTrttr--feetr-afi3^7ouS3edr"yotir-tlnTiH«_Q^^ im- 
 pr^gnabferfoc^ ot y oltr pro tid hegrtTa st6nyTStand-4n a 
 seaTof desire. There, inadam, is some wholesome blunt 
 honest speaking for you. Now do your worst. 
 
 Elizabeth [toith dignity] Master Shakespear: it is well 
 for you that I am a merciful prince. I firakfi-alkrwance-for- 
 yiBlir ru§tie ignorance. Bat— reimenibei IhaL "litere are 
 
 things whM^^^h<' t?Tri-~iiJl rl grp ypt nfyt^wmly tO be Said (I 
 wijl-'fiot sq-Y t.Q a. qiiePTi;^_ffvr_voii will havpjt that I am 
 
 none) but to a virgin. 
 
 Shakespeab [bluntly] Jt4fl-Ho-iai lilt of mine th at you are 
 a virgip,-«Kida,m; albeil lis m;^ misfortune. 
 
 The Dark Lady [terrified again] In mercy, madam, hold 
 no further discourse with him. He hath ever some lewd 
 jest on his tongue. You hear how he useth me! calling me 
 baggage and the like to your Majesty's face. 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 151 
 
 Elizabeth. As for you, mistress, I have yet to demand 
 what your business is at this hour in this place, aad-fioW^ 
 you^^TOs je to be so concem ed-vitfa~a- pIayniH far t you atr i ke 
 blindly- at your 9»v«teigiL_i n your ie alaiisy_Df-Jbim. 
 
 The Dark Lady. Madam: as I live and hope for sal- 
 vation — 
 
 Shakespeak [sardonically] Ha! 
 
 The Dark Lady [angrily] — ay,^l*m"St&4ike_to_be-saved^ 
 as thp u that bolicvesl llaughL tiave "S umu black m agie-rf- 
 woids_afld_2£isss — I say, madam, as I am a living woman 
 I came here to break with him for ever. Oh, majiam, if^pii^. 
 wouldSBaew_whfl±-«aisecyua»Jist^i4«^tlusjnaiir4hat-4S-^iere 
 thaBtdaan-and-lessTrttte'gaine time: He will tie you down 
 to anatomize your very soul: he will wring tears of blood 
 from your humiliation; and then he will heal the wound 
 with flatteries that no woman can resist. 
 
 Shakespeae. Flatteries ! [Kneeling] Oh, madam, I put 
 my case at your royal feet. I confess to much. I have a 
 rude tongue: I am unmannerly: I blaspheme against the 
 holiness of anointed royalty; but oh, my royal mistress, 
 AM I a flatterer? 
 
 Elizabeth. I absolve you as to that. You are far too 
 plain a dealer to please me. [He rises gratefully]. 
 
 The Dark Lady. Madam: he is flattering you even as 
 he speaks. 
 
 EmzAB^m [a terrible flash in her eye] Ha! Is it so? 
 
 Shakespear. Madam: she is jealous; and, heaven 
 help me ! not without reason. Oh^jimi-aay-yeu-are-a^nCT- 
 cifuH trince; bm r-fcfaafrwas-cai£Lofci!rtfu?t hfi , t hidin g-^-yeur 
 r^Q^-dignity^wbeB-j!iQiifoundjiieii£re. For how can I ever 
 be content with this blacEhaired, black-eyed, black-avised 
 devil again now that I have looked upon real beauty and 
 real majesty? 
 
 The Dark Lady [wounded and desperate] He hath swore 
 to me ten times over that the day shall come in England 
 when black women, for all their foulness, shall be more 
 
152 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 thought on than fair ones. [To Shakespear, scolding at him] 
 Deny it if thou canst. Oh, he is compact of lies and scorns. 
 I am tired of being tossed up to heaven and dragged down 
 to hell at every whim that takes him.Sl am ashamed to my 
 very soul that I have abased myselfto love one that my 
 father would not have deemed fit to hold my stirrup — 
 one that will talk to all the world about me — that wUl 
 put my love and my shame into his plays and make me 
 Iplush for myself there — that will write sonnets about me 
 that no man of gentle strain would put his hand to. I am 
 all disordere^^ I know not what I am saying to your 
 Majesty: I am of all ladies most deject and wretched—^ 
 
 Shakespear. Ha! At last sorrow hath struck a note 
 of music out of thee. "Of ail~ladies most deject and 
 wretched." [He makes a note of it]. * 
 
 The Dark Lady. Madam: I implore you give me 
 leave to go. I am distracted with grief and shame. I — 
 Elizabeth. Go [The Dark Lady tries to kiss her hand]. 
 No more. Go. [The Dark Lady goes, convulsed]. You 
 have been cruel to that poor fond wretch. Master Shake- 
 spear. ^ 
 
 Shakespear. I am not cruel, madam; but you know 
 the fable of Jupiter and Semele. I could not help my 
 lightnings scorching her. 
 
 Elizabeth. You have an overweening conceit of your- 
 self, sir, that displeases your Queen. 
 
 Shakespear. Oh, madam, can I go about with the 
 modest cough of a minor poet, belittling my inspiration 
 and making the mightiest wonder of your reign a thing of 
 nought? [l have said that "not marble nor the gilded 
 monuments" of princes shall outlive" the words with 
 which I make the world glorious or foolish at my wiljT) 
 Besides, I would have you think me great enough to 
 grant me a boon. 
 
 Elizabeth. I hope it is a boon that may be asked of 
 a virgin Queen without offence, sir. I mistrust your for- 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 153 
 
 Tvardness; and I bid you remember that I do not suffer 
 persons of your degree (if I may say so without offence 
 "to your father the alderman) to presume too far. 
 
 Shakespeab. Oh, madam, I shall not forget myself 
 again; though by my life, could I make you a serving 
 wench, neither a queen nor a virgin should you be for so 
 much longer as a flash of lightning might take to cross the 
 Tiver to t,>tr Ba,iil^w4 fc But since you are a queen and will 
 none of me, nor of Philip of Spain, nor of any other mortal 
 man, I must een contain myself as best I may, and ask you 
 only for a boon of State. 
 
 Elizabeth. A boon of State already! You are becom- 
 ing a courtier like the rest of them. You lack advance- 
 ment. 
 
 Shakespear. "Lack advancement." By your Ma- 
 jesty's leave: a queenly phrase. [He is about to write it 
 -down]. 
 
 Elizabeth [striking the tablets from his hand] Your 
 tables begin to anger me, sir. I am not here to write your 
 plays for you. 
 
 Shakespeab. You are here to inspire them, madam. 
 For this, among the rest, were you ordained. But the boon 
 I crave is that you do endow a great playhouse, or, if I 
 may make bold to coin a scholarly name for it, a National 
 Theatre Jjor the better instruction and gracing of your 
 Majesty's subjects^") 
 
 Elizabeth. Why, sir, are there not theatres enow on 
 the Bankside and in Blackfriars? 
 
 Shakespeab. Madam: these are the adventures of 
 needy and desperate men that must, to save themselves 
 from perishing of want, give the sillier sort of people what 
 they best like; and what they best lik eJU jod knows, is not 
 their own betterment and instructionJas-ye-rr rVI nco by 
 ^]\ ? , f^y a m pl f; nf t^p ah a rnho n , wTiioh m ust needs r nm peL 
 
 meiL to freq uent them . AhoughJiLey be open to all wi thout 
 
 •~4:haxg&r) Only when there is a matter of a murder, or a 
 
154 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 plot, or a pretty youth in petticoats, or some naughty tale 
 of wantonness, will your subjects pay the great cost of 
 aood players and their finery, with a little profit to boot. 
 'T^ prove this I will tell you that I have written two noble 
 ^nd excellent plays setting forth the advancement of 
 women of high nature and fruitful industry even as your 
 Majesty is: the one a skilful physician, the other a sister 
 devoted to good works. I have also stole from a book of 
 idle wanton tales two of the most damnable foolishnesses 
 in the world, in the one of which a woman goeth in man's 
 attire and maketh impudent love to her swain, who pleas- 
 eth the groundlings by overthrowing a wrestler; whilst, 
 in the other, one of the same kidney sheweth her wit by 
 saying endless naughtinesses to a gentleman as lewd as 
 herself. I'have " writ thooo to sffve my-fr iuxid u f i'o m ' p enury, 
 yet shewing my scorn for such foUies and for them that 
 praise them by calling the one As You Like It, meaning 
 that it is not as I like it, and the other Much Ado About 
 Nothing, as it truly is. And now these two filthy pieces 
 drive their nobler fellows from the stage, where indeed I 
 cannot have my lady physician presented at all, she being 
 too honest a woman for the taste of the town.P Wt 
 TJr^i|pkly Kog y pur Majestv to gi yfi nr'^f *'^?it 
 be end owed out of tne public revenu e for the playing ^ \ 
 those^eces~df imne which no merch anfwirr 
 thai hih na iu is aun me h . gioat c i w M^fae worga-^a a with 
 the"betl6rj| T^^Sby-yew-aWt-alsu enoUUrage uniuriiluul 
 ?e the writing of play •<"T"r, Ar. n^w f|ppp;=^ j<^ 
 pTmA^-LT^^ ft wTi»1Ty tr. -fVifiio -yYVincp counsels will work little 
 good to^jQui-realfla^ — Unn tlnV w^ifj^^g pf plavs is a grea t— 
 
 mittrrj_fn]-Tning m i t ilni < tin iiiiiidi i iiiil flffprtinn s nf m ^n 
 in sucj^ snrt that whatcoovor thc^ uuti d 6tie in show onthe 
 sl rnflp, thoy will piTJieulIji bt; doiag lii cJil ' iHiiJl in tb »-worId, 
 
 whicWis but '\ ^arg"'- 'itaf/c^lQfJlta, .... yp,i If^/^w^ *\.^ 
 
 ^hiir r h t i u f; ht th r prnpi r f i r n inm <i f j iIh ju l ull Jlii 
 pe ople flnrked only to siirh n s w o re full uf aupersliliou s- 
 
The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 155 
 
 mipaclc3 a,ml bluuJji iiidil^rJumij; and so Llie Church, 
 whi ch ilir n w m juat then hrnnght into alidiU ' b^ llit 
 policx jtf- youi"iu.val fa L her . did abahdon and cliscouiite- 
 
 Iilii III (if 111 ij'lliM. 111(111 1 Ml mill llii I I 'iif 
 
 poor pliyrrn niid gieed^ m erchants that had their po cEets 
 Id liiiii Id mil iKil I1i( i^K ii I iiiii J |i iiiM[|iiiii^> 
 
 T]] prp fr.rr nriTTT iniii. 1 ym,, 'V ro joory f-^lpis-^fp thlt gOod WOrk 
 
 tha t^rour Chuixh halh aband oSed, and restore the art of 
 
 "'*■ Elizabeth. Master Shakespear: I will speak of this 
 matter to the Lord Treasurer. 
 
 Shakespear. Then am I undone, madam; for there 
 was never yet a Lord Treasurer that could find a penny for 
 anything over and above the necessary expenses of your 
 government, save for a war or a salary for his own nephew. 
 
 Elizabeth. Master Shakespear: you speak sooth; yet 
 cannot I in any wise mend it. ^T dtiirc not nffrnd-my nn- 
 dly^Ulitaas -by- making- so lew3-a place as the playhouse 
 a public charge; aftd-there .be- a thousand things to be 
 dene-in-this-LeHdoH-ef- mine before' your ptretrycan have 
 1 ts- pen n y J rom-th<»-geirerai''pttrser) I tell thee. Master Will, 
 it will be three hundred years and more before my sub- 
 jects learn that man cannot live by bread alone, buL by 
 <»v<vr-y-^w«H^ t^at t'nr riptli fT-nrti- trh<^-TrrnTrt:lrY>fT-:hose~w}Torn 
 God4Hspires,-£y that time you and I will be dust beneath 
 the feet of the horses, if indeed there be any horses then, 
 and men be still riding instead of flying. Now it may be 
 that by then your works will be dust also. 
 
 Shakespear. They will stand, madam : fear nor for that. 
 
 Elizabeth. It may prove so. But of this I am certain 
 (for I know my countrymen) that until every other coun- 
 try in the Christian world, even to barbarian Muscovy 
 and the hamlets of the boorish Germans, have its play- 
 house at the public charge, England will never adventure. 
 CAnd she will adventure then only because it is her desire 
 )to be ever in the fashion, and to do humbly and dutifully 
 
156 The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 
 
 •whatso she seetli everybody else doing. Iji-^tibe-meantiTBe- 
 yoai Jaust coiiten4-youi;selLas Jiest yovLcafl, by the plajdng-, 
 of tIj,Q8e..two pieces which you give out s,§ the most -dam;?'' 
 naife*e-Tever~writrH3ut''whieh-your countrymen^'warn-yott-, 1 
 will- swear are the^best you have ever done^^But**dii»Ht 
 will say, that if I could speak across the ages toour de- 
 ScendaHts-,' rshoulcT hear'tily ~Y^fc6mmend them to ' m&h 
 your wish; for the' Sewtti^tainstf el hath well said that^h^ 
 tbaLffiak&th* the- songs of a nation is mightier, than he that 
 maketh its laws; and the same may well be true of piiaXS" 
 amd«interltides''.-''"[rAe clock chimes the first quarter. The 
 warder returns on his round]. And now, sir, we are upon the 
 hour when it better beseems a virgin queen to be abed than 
 to converse alone with the naughtiest of her subjects. Ho 
 there! Who keeps ward on the queen's lodgings tonight? 
 
 The Wabdeb. I do, an't please your majesty. 
 
 Elizabeth. See that you keep it better in future. You 
 have let pass a most dangerous gallant even to the very 
 door of our royal chamber. Lead him forth; and bring 
 me word when he is safely locked out; for I shall scarce 
 dare disrobe until the palace gates are between us. 
 
 Shakespeae [kissing her hand] My body goes through 
 the gate into the darkness, madam; but my thoughts fol- 
 low you. 
 
 Elizabeth. How! to my bed! 
 
 Shakespeab. No, madam, to your prayers, in which I 
 beg you to remember my theatre. 
 
 Elizabeth. That is my prayer to posterity. IVjigel - 
 not your own tx3 God; and "so goodnight. Master Will. 
 
 Shakespeab. Goodnight, great Elizabeth. God save 
 the Queen! 
 
 Elizabeth. Amen. 
 
 Exeunt severally: she to her chamber: he, in custody of the 
 warder, to the gate nearest Blackfriars. 
 
 Atot, St. Lawrence, 
 S,<ith June 1910. 
 
FANNY'S FIRST PLAY 
 XXII 
 
 1911 
 
 157 
 
PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY 
 
 Fantstt's First Plat, being but a potboiler, needs no pref- 
 ace. But its lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. 
 Mere morality, or th.e substitution of custom for conscience, 
 was once accounted a shameful and cynical thing: people 
 talked of right and wrong, of honor and dishonor, of sin 
 and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of] morality 
 and immorality. The word morality, if we met it in the 
 Bible, would surprise us as much as the word telephone 
 or motor car. Nowadays we do not seem to know that 
 there is any other test of conduct except morality; and the 
 result is that the young had better have their souls awak- 
 ened by disgrace, capture by the police, and a month's 
 hard labor, than drift along from their cradles to their 
 graves doing what other people do for no other reason than 
 that other people do it, and knowing nothing of good and 
 evil, of courage and cowardice, or indeed anything but 
 how to keep hunger and concupiscence and fashionable 
 dressing within the bounds of good taste except when their 
 excesses can be concealed. Is it any wonder that I am 
 driven to offet to young people in our suburbs the desper- 
 ate advice:' Do something that will get you into trouble? 
 But please do not suppose that I defend a state of things 
 which makes such advice the best that can be given under 
 the circumstances, or that I do not know how difficult it 
 
 159 
 
160 Preface to Fanny's First Play 
 
 is to find out a way of getting into trouble that will com- 
 bine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respect 
 and reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings 
 and interests on every point except their dread of losing 
 their own respectability. But when there's a will there's 
 a way. I hate to see dead people walking about: it is un- 
 natural. And our respectable middle class people are all 
 as dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have 
 delivered on them the judgment of her God. 
 /'The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction 
 to this play under the names of Trotter, Vaughan, and 
 Gunn wiU forgive me: in fact Mr Trotter forgave me be- 
 forehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr Claude 
 King so successfully simulated his personal appearance. 
 The critics whom I did not introduce were somewhat 
 hurt, as I should have been myself under the same circum- 
 stances; but I had not room for them all; so I can only 
 apologize and assure them that I meant no disrespect. 
 
 The concealment of the authorship, if a secret de Polichi- 
 nelle can be said to involve concealment, was a necessary 
 part of the play. In so far as it was effectual, it operated 
 as a measure of relief to those critics and playgoers who 
 are so obsessed by my strained legendary reputation that 
 they approach my plays in a condition which is really one 
 of dejrangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play 
 of mine as anything but a trap baited with paradoxes, and 
 designed to compass their ethical perversion and intellec- 
 tual confusion. If it were possible, I should put forward 
 all my plays anonymously, or hire some less disturbing 
 person, as Bacon is said to have hired Shakespear, to father 
 my plays for me. 
 
 B®" Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time 
 at the Little Theatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon 
 of Wednesday, April \Qth 1911. 
 
FANNY'S FIRST PLAY 
 
 INDUCTION 
 
 The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house 
 {Florence Towers, the property of Count O'Dowda) has been 
 curtained off to form a stage for a private theatrical perform- 
 ance. A footman in grandiose Spanish livery enters before 
 the curtain, on its O.P. side. 
 
 Footman [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savo- 
 yard comes in: a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur- 
 lined overcoat. He is surprised to find nobody to receive him. 
 So is the Footman]. Oh, beg pardon, sir: I ttought the 
 Cpount was here. He was when I took up your name. He 
 must have gone through the stage into the library. This 
 iwiy, sir. [He moves toilfards the division in the middle of the 
 Icnrtains]. 
 I Savoyard. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When 
 ^oes the play begin? Half-past eight? 
 
 Footman. Nine, sir. 
 
 Savoyard. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my 
 wife at the George that it's not until nine? 
 
 Footman. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir? 
 
 Savoyard. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget. 
 1/The Footman. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The 
 Count comes in through the curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. 
 [Announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard, sir. [He withdraws]. 
 
 161 
 
162 Fanny's First Play 
 
 Count O'Dowda [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with 
 studied elegance a hundred years out of date, advancing cor- 
 dially, to shake hands loith his visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr 
 Savoyard. I suddenly recollected that all the bookcases 
 in the library were locked — in fact theyve never been 
 opened since we came from Venice — and as our literary 
 guests will probably use the library a good deal, I just 
 ran in to unlock everything. ^ 
 
 Savoyard. Oh, you mean tha^dramaticl critics. M'yes. 
 I suppose theres a smoking room? 
 
 The Count. My study is available. An old-fashioned 
 house, you understand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard.'' 
 
 Savoyahd. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his 
 host's obsolete costume, continues] I had no idea you were 
 going to appear in the piece yourself. 
 
 The Count. I am not. I wear this costume because — 
 well, perhaps I had better explain the position, if it 
 interests you. 
 
 Savoyahd. Certainly. 
 
 The Count. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a 
 stranger in your world. I am not, I hope, a modern man 
 in any sense of the word. I'm not really an Englishman: 
 my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life in Italy — in 
 Venice mostly — my very title is a foreign one: I am a 
 Count of the Holy Roman Empire. 
 
 Savoyard. Where's- that? 
 
 The Count. At present, nowhere, except as a memory 
 and an ideal. [Savoyard inclines his head respec^uUy to the 
 ideal]. .^-But I am by no means an idealogue. I am not 
 content with beautiful dreams: I want beautiful realities. 
 
 Savoyard. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there — when 
 you can get them. 
 
 The Count. Why not get them? The difficulty is not 
 that there are no beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the 
 difficulty is that so few of us know them when we see 
 them. We have inherited from the past a vast treasure of 
 
Fanny's First Play 163 
 
 beauty — of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of paint- 
 ing, of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite 
 fashions in dress, in furniture, in domestic decoration. 
 We can contemplate these treasures. We can reproduce 
 many of them. We can buy a few inimitable originals. 
 We can shut out the nineteenth century — 
 
 Savotakd [correcting him] The twentieth. 
 
 The Count. To me the century I shut out will always 
 be the nineteenth century, just as your national anthem 
 will always be God Save the Queen, no matter how many 
 kings may succeed. I found England befouled with in- 
 dustrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused 
 to live in it. You remember Byron's words: "I am sure 
 my bones would not rest in an English grave, or my clay 
 mix with the earth of that country. I believe the thought 
 would drive me mad on my deathbed could I suppose that 
 any of my friends would be base enough to convey my 
 carcase back to her soil. I would not even feed her worms 
 if I could help it." 
 ■^ Savoyabd. Did Byron say that? 
 
 The Count. He did, sir. 
 
 Savoyard. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal 
 of him at .one time. 
 
 The Count. You.' But how is that possible? You are 
 too young. 
 
 Savoyard. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a 
 job in the original production of Our Boys. 
 
 The Count. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord 
 Byron, the poet. 
 
 Savoyard. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you 
 were talking of tfes Byron. So you prefer living abroad? 
 
 The Count. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, 
 I dont live in it. I find modern houses ugly. I dont live 
 in them: I have a palace on the grand canal. I find 
 modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them, except, of 
 course, in the street. My ears are offended by the Cock- 
 
164 Fanny's First Play 
 
 ney twang: I keep out of hearing of it and speak and 
 listen to Italian. I find Beethoven's music coarse and 
 restless, and Wagner's senseless and detestable. I do not 
 listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to Pergolesi, to 
 Gluck and Mozart. Nothing simpler, sir. 
 
 Savotahd. It's all right when you can afford it. 
 
 The Count. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you 
 are a man with a sense of beauty you can make an earthly 
 paradise for yourself in Venice on £1500 a year, whilst our 
 wretched vulgar industrial millionaires are spending 
 twenty thousand on the amusements of billiard markers. 
 I assure you I am a poor man according to modern ideas. 
 But I have never had anything less than the very best 
 that life has produced. It is my good fortune to have a 
 beautiful and lovable daughter; and that girl, sir, has 
 never seen an ugly sight or heard an ugly sound that I 
 could spare her; and she has certainly never worn an ugly 
 dress or tasted coarse food or bad wine in her life. §te 
 has^ lived in a palace; and her perambulator was a gondola. 
 iRow^ybuEiow^He^ort' of 'people we are, Mr Sav^xird. 
 You can imagine how we feel here. 
 
 Savoyard. Rather out of it, eh? 
 
 The Count. Out of it, sir! Out of what? 
 
 Savoyard. Well, out of everything. 
 
 The Count. Out of soot and fog and mud and east 
 wind; out of vulgarity and ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, 
 superstition and stupidity. Out of all this, and in the 
 sunshine, in the enchanted region of which great artists 
 alone have had the secret, in the sacred footsteps of Byron, 
 of Shelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and Ruskin. Dont 
 you envy me, Mr Savoyard? 
 
 Savoyard. Some of us must live in England, you know, 
 just to keep the place going. Besides — though, mind you, 
 I dont say it isnt all right from the high art point of view 
 and all that — three weeks of it would drive me melancholy 
 mad. However, I'm glad you told me, because it explains 
 
Fanny's First Play 165 
 
 why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in 
 England. I hope, by the way, that everything has given 
 satisfaction to your daughter. 
 
 The Count. She seems quite satisfied. She tells me 
 that the actors you sent down are perfectly suited to their 
 parts, and very nice people to work with. I understand 
 she had some difficulties at the first rehearsals with the 
 gentleman you call the producer, because he hadnt read 
 the play; but "the moment he found out what it was all 
 about everything went smoothly. 
 
 Savotabd. Havnt you seen the rehearsals? 
 
 The Count. Oh no. I havnt been allowed even to meet 
 any of the company. All I can tell you is that the hero is 
 a Frenchman [Savoyard is rather scandalised] : I asked her 
 not to have an English hero. That is all I know. [Rue- 
 fully] I havnt been consulted even about the costumes, 
 though there, I think, I could have been some use. 
 
 Savoyard [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes. 
 
 The Count [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! 
 Do you mean to say it is a modern play? 
 
 Savoyard. I dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it 
 to Billy Burjoyce — the producer, you know — and left it to 
 him to select the company and so on. But I should have 
 had to order the costumes if there had been any. There 
 wernt. 
 
 The Count [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I 
 understand. She has taken the costumes into her own 
 hands. . She is an expert in beautiful costumes. I venture 
 to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are about to 
 see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. 
 The heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a 
 dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, 
 and the valet who hoodwinks the father and brings about 
 the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but perfectly taste- 
 ful Punchinello or .Mascarille or Sganarelle. ^ 3 ' 
 
 Savoyard. I see. That makes three men; and the 
 
166 Fanny's First Play 
 
 clown and policeman will make five. Thats why you 
 wanted five men in the company. 
 
 The Count. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that 
 vulgar, ugly, silly, senseless, malicious and destructive 
 thing, the harlequinade of a nineteenth century English 
 Christmas pantomime ! What was it after all but a stupid 
 attempt to imitate the success made by the genuis of 
 Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not 
 know of the existence of such a thing. I refer to the grace- 
 ful and charming fantasies of the Italian and French 
 stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. 
 
 Savoyard. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harle- 
 quinades are rot. Theyve been dropped at all smart 
 theatres. But from what Billy Burjoyce told me I got 
 the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, 
 and had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been 
 away in Venice all the time. 
 
 The Count. Oh, she has not been. I should have 
 explained that two years ago my daughter left me to com- 
 plete her education at Cambridge. Cambridge was my 
 own University; and though of course there were no 
 women there in my time, I felt confident that if the at- 
 mosphere of the eighteenth century still existed any- 
 where in England, it would be at Cambridge. About 
 three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I 
 wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of 
 course I said yes; and she then astonished and delighted 
 me by telling me that she had written a play, and that the 
 present she wanted was a private peirformance of it with 
 real actors and real critics. 
 
 Savoyabd. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was 
 easy enough to engage a company for a private perform- 
 ance: it's done often enough. But the notion of having 
 critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it. They 
 dont expect private engagements; and so they have no 
 agents. Besides, I didnt know what to offer them.' I 
 
Fanny's First Play 167 
 
 knew that they were cheaper than actors, because they 
 get long engagements: forty years sometimes; but thats 
 no rule for a smgle job. Then theres such a lot of them- 
 on first nights they run away with all your stalls: you 
 cant find a decent place for your own mother. It would 
 have cost a fortune to bring the lot. 
 
 The Count. Of course I never dreamt of having them 
 all. Only a few first-rate representative men. 
 
 Savoyard. Just so. All you want is a few sample 
 opinions. Out of a hundred notices you wont find more 
 than four at the outside that say anything different. Well, 
 Ive got just the right four for you. And what do you 
 think it has cost me? 
 
 The Count [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess. 
 
 Savoyard. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give 
 Flawner Bannal ten. He wouldnt come for less; and he 
 asked fifty. I had to give it, because if we hadnt had him 
 we might just as well have had nobody at all. 
 
 The Count. But what about the others, if Mr Flan- 
 nel — 
 
 Savoyard [shocked] Flawner Bannal. 
 
 The Count. — ^if Mr Bannal got the whole ten.' 
 
 Savoyard. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class 
 sort of thing, the first man I went for was Trotter. 
 
 The Count. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have 
 secured Mr Trotter. I have read his Playful Impressions. 
 
 Savoyard. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. 
 Hes not exactly what I call approachable; and he was a 
 bit stand-off at first. But when I explained and told him 
 your daughter — 
 
 The Count [interrupting in alarm] You did not say 
 thatjthe playjwas by her, I hope? 
 
 Savoyard. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just 
 said your daughter has asked for a real play with a real 
 author and a real critic and all the rest of it. The moment 
 I mentioned the daughter I had him. He has a daughter 
 
168 Fanny's First Play 
 
 of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! OfiFered to come 
 just to please her! Quite human. I was surprised. 
 
 The Count. Extremely kind of him. 
 
 Savoyard. Then I went to Vaughan, because he doesy 
 music as well as the drama: and you said you thought 
 there would be music. I told him Trotter would feel 
 lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. Then I 
 thought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that 
 go for the newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. 
 So I nailed Gilbert Gunn. The four will give you a repre- 
 sentative team. By the way [looking at his watch] theyll 
 be here presently. 
 
 The Count. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could 
 you give me any hints about them that would help me to 
 make a little conversation with them? I anj, as you said, 
 rather out of it in England; and I might unwittingly say 
 something tactless. 
 
 Savoyard. Well, let me see. As you dont like English 
 people, I dont know that youU get on with Trotter, be- 
 cause hes thoroughly English: never happy except when 
 hes in Paris, and speaks French so unnecessarily well that 
 everybody there spots him as an Englishman the moment 
 he opens his mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends 
 to turn up his nose at the theatre and says people make 
 too much fuss about art [the Count is extremely indig- 
 nant]. But thats only his modesty, because art is his own 
 line, you understand. Mind you dont chafi him about 
 Aristotle. 
 
 The Count. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle? 
 
 Savoyard. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recog- 
 nized ways of chaffing him. However, youU get on with 
 him all right: hes a man of the world and a man of sense. 
 The one youll have to be careful about is Vaughan. 
 
 The Count. In what way, may I ask? 
 
 Savoyard. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and 
 if you joke with him he'll think youre insulting him on 
 
Fanny's First Play 169 
 
 purpose. Mind: it's not that he doesnt see a joke: he 
 does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene makes him sore 
 all over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches into the 
 play for all hes worth. 
 
 The Count. But surely that is a very serious defect in 
 a man of his profession? 
 
 Savoyard. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is 
 honest, and dont care a brass farthing what he says, or 
 whether it pleases anybody or not; and you must have 
 one man of that sort to say the things that nobody else 
 will say. 
 
 The Count. It seems to me to carry the principle of 
 division of labor too far, this keeping of the honesty and 
 the other qualities in separate compartments. What is 
 Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask? 
 
 Savoyard. Gunn is one of the intellectuals. 
 
 The Count. But arnt they all intellectuals? ^ 
 
 Savoyard. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be 
 careful what you say about that: I shouldnt like anyone 
 to call me an Intellectual: I dont think any Englishman 
 would! They dont count really, you know; but still it's 
 rather the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the young 
 intellectuals : he writes plays himself. Hes useful because 
 he pitches into the older intellectuals who are standing in 
 his way. But you may take it from me that none of these 
 chaps really matter. Flawner Bannal's your man. Bannal 
 really represents the British playgoer. When he likes a 
 thing, you may take your oath there are a hundred thou- 
 sand people in London thatll like it if they can only be 
 got to know about it. Besides, Bannal's knowledge of the 
 theatre is an inside knowledge. We know him; and he 
 knows us. He knows the ropes: he knows his way about: 
 he knows what hes talking about. 
 
 The Count [vrith a little sigh] Age and experience, I 
 suppose? 
 
 Savoyard. Age! "I should put him at twenty at the 
 
170 Fanny's First Play 
 
 very outside, myself. It's not an old man's job after all, 
 is it? Bannal may not ride the literary higli horse like 
 Trotter and the rest; but I'd take his opinion before any 
 other in London. Hes the man in the street; and thats 
 what you want. 
 
 The Count. I am almost sorry you didnt give the 
 gentleman his full terms. I should not have grudged the 
 fifty guineas for a sound opinion. He may feel shabbily 
 treated. 
 
 Savoyard. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his ask- 
 ing fifty. After all, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly 
 good business for him to earn ten guineas: hes done the 
 same job often enough for half a quid, I expect. 
 
 Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, 
 excited and nervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchron- 
 ous with her father's. 
 
 Fanny. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one 
 of them has a cocked hat and sword like a — {she notices 
 Savoyard] Oh, I beg your pardon. 
 
 The Count. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my 
 dear. 
 
 Fanny [shaking hands] How do you do? 
 
 Savoyard. Pleased to meet you. Miss O'Dowda. The 
 cocked hat is all right. Trotter is a member of the new 
 Academic Committee. He induced them to go in for a 
 uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him to 
 wear it. 
 
 The Footman [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, 
 Mr Gunn, Mr Flawner Bannal. [The four critics enter. 
 Trotter wears a diplomatic dress, with sword and three- 
 cornered hat. His age is about 50. Vaughan is 40. Gunn 
 is 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike the others. 
 They can he classed at sight as professional men: Bannal is 
 obviously one of those unemployables of the business class who 
 manage to pick up a living by a sort of courage which gives 
 him cheerfulness, conviviality, and bounce, and is helped out 
 
Fanny's First Play 171 
 
 -positively by a slight turn for writing, and negatively by a 
 comfortable ignorance and lack of intuition which hides from 
 him all the dangers and disgraces that keep men of finer per- 
 ception in check. The Count approaches them hospitably]. 
 
 Savotabd. Count O'Dowda, gentlemen. Mr Trotter. 
 
 Trotter [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the 
 pleasure of meeting a confrere? 
 
 The Count. No, sir: I have no right to my costume 
 except the right of a lover of the arts to dress myself 
 handsomely. You are most welcome, Mr Trotter. 
 [Trotter bows in the French manner]. 
 
 Savoyard. Mr Vaughan. 
 
 The Count. How do you do, Mr Vaughan? 
 
 Vaughan. Quite well, thanks. 
 
 Savoyard. Mr Gunn. 
 
 The Count. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr 
 Gunn. 
 
 Gunn. Very pleased. 
 
 Savoyard. Mr Flawner Bannal. 
 
 The Count. Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal. 
 
 Bannal. Dont mention it. 
 
 The Count. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. 
 We are very greatly indebted to you, gentlemen, for so 
 kindly indulging her whim. [The dressing bell sounds. The 
 Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The dressing bell, gentle- 
 men. As our play begins at nine, I have had to put for- 
 ward the dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your 
 rooms? [He goes out, followed by all the men, except Trotter, 
 who, going last, is detained by Fanny]. 
 
 Fanny. Mr Trotter: I want to say something to you 
 about this play. 
 
 Trotter. No : thats forbidden. You must not attempt 
 
 to souffler the critic. 
 
 Fanny. Oh, I would not for the world try to mfluence 
 your opinion. 
 
 Trotter. But you do: you are influencing me very 
 
172 Fanny's First Play 
 
 shockingly. You invite me to this charming house, where 
 I'm about to enjoy a charming dinner. And just before 
 the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming young lady to 
 be talked to about the play. How can you expect me to 
 be impartial? God forbid that I should set up to be a 
 judge, or do more than record an impression; but my im- 
 pressions can be influenced; and in- this case youre in- 
 fluencing them shamelessly all the time. 
 
 Fannt. Dont make me more nervous than I am al- 
 ready, Mr Trotter. If you knew how I feel ! 
 
 Tkottek. Naturally : your first party : your first appear- 
 ance in England as hostess. But youre doing it beauti- 
 fully. Dont be afraid. Every nuance is perfect. 
 
 Fannt. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter. But 
 that isnt whats the matter. The truth is, this play is 
 going to give my father a dreadful shock. 
 
 Teottee. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. 
 Half the young ladies in London spend their evenings 
 making their fathers take them to plays that are not fit 
 for elderly people to see. 
 
 Fannt. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant under- 
 stand what it means to Papa. Youre not so innocent as 
 he is. 
 
 Teottee [remonstrating] My dear young lady — 
 
 Fannt. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who 
 reads your articles knows youre as innocent as a lamb. 
 
 Teotter. What! 
 
 Fannt. Yes, Mr Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life 
 since I came to England; and I assure you that to me youre 
 a mere baby: a dear, good, well-meaning, delightful, witty, 
 charming baby; but still just a wee lamb in a world of 
 wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my father's time. 
 
 Teottee. Well, I must say! 
 
 Fannt. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the 
 Cambridge Fabian Society. 
 
 Teottee. Classifications? I dont understand. 
 
Fanny's First Play 173 
 
 Fanny. We classify our aunts into different sorts. 
 And one of the sorts is the "I must says." 
 
 Thotter. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute 
 "Blame my cats!" No: I substitute "Blame my kittens!" 
 Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I say again in the teeth 
 of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens. Imper- 
 tinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess 
 what is on your conscience. This play to which you have 
 lured me is one of those in which members of Fabian 
 Societies instruct their grandmothers in the art of milking 
 ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your father. Well, 
 I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall 
 recommend him to smack you soundly and pack you off 
 to bed. 
 
 Fanny. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, 
 Mr Trotter; but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much 
 more conscious of what you really are than you are your- 
 self, because weve discussed you thoroughly at Cambridge; 
 and youve never discussed yourself, have you? 
 
 Trotteb. I 
 
 Fanny. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good 
 Trottering at me. 
 
 Trotter. Trottering ! 
 
 Fanny. Thats what we call it at Cambridge. 
 
 Trotter. If it were not so obviously a stage cliche, I 
 should say Damn Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. 
 And now let me warn you. If youre going to be a charming 
 healthy young English girl, you may coax me. If youre 
 going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I'll 
 treat you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man. 
 
 Fanny [adoringly] But how few men are your intel- 
 lectual equals, Mr Trotter! 
 " Trotter. I'm getting the worst of this. 
 
 Fanny. Oh no. Why do you say that? 
 
 Trotter. May^I remind you that the dinner-bell will 
 ring presently? 
 
174 Fanny's First Play 
 
 Fanny. What does it matter? We're both ready. I 
 havnt told you yet what I want you to do for me. 
 
 Trotter. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to 
 do it, except out of pure magnanimity. What is it? 
 
 Fanny. I dont mind this play shocking my father mor- 
 ally. It's good for him to be shocked morally. It's all 
 that the young can do for the old, to shock them and keep 
 them up to date. But I know that this play will shock 
 him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral consid- 
 eration could make a breach between us : he would forgive 
 me for anything of that kind sooner or later; but he never 
 gives way on a point of art. I darent let him know that 
 I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if he heard 
 three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for ever. Now what 
 I want you to do is this. If hes very angry — if he hates 
 the play, because it's a modern play — will you tell him 
 that it's not my fault; that its style and construction, and 
 so forth, are considered the very highest art nowadays; 
 that the author wrote it in the proper way for repertory 
 theatres of the most superior kind — you know the kind 
 of plays I mean? 
 
 Trotter [emphatiealli/] I think I know the sort of 
 entertainments you mean. But please do not beg a 
 vital question by calling them plays. I dont pretend to 
 be an authority; but I have at least established the fact 
 that these productions, whatever else they may be, are 
 certainly not plays. 
 
 Fanny. The authors dont say they are. 
 
 Trotter [warrrdy] I am aware that one author, who is, 
 I blush to say, a personal friend of mine, resorts freely to 
 the dastardly subterfuge of calling them conversations, 
 discussions, and so forth, with the express object of evad- 
 ing criticism. But I'm not to be disarmed by such tricks. 
 I say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you wiU. Exhibi- 
 tions of character, perhaps : especially t^e character of the 
 author. Fictions, possibly, though a little decent reti- 
 
Fanny's First Play 175 
 
 cence as to introducing actual persons, and thus violating 
 the sanctity of private life, might not be amiss. But plays, 
 no. I say NO. Not plays. If you will not concede this 
 point I cant continue oui^ conversation. I take this se- 
 riously. It's a matter of principle. I must ask you. Miss 
 O'Dowda, before we go a step further. Do you or do you 
 not claim that these works are plays? 
 
 Fanny. I assure you I dont. 
 
 Tbotteh. Not in any sense of the word? 
 
 Fanny. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays. 
 
 Tbotteh [disappointed] That last remark destroys all 
 the value of your admission. You admire these — these 
 theatrical nondescripts? You enjoy them? 
 
 Fanny. Dont you? 
 
 Tbotteh. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? 
 Do you suppose I prefer popular melodramas? Have I 
 not written most appreciative notices of them? But 
 I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I cant con- 
 sent to remain in this house another minute if anything 
 remotely resembling them is to be foisted on me as a 
 play. • 
 
 Fanny. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only 
 want you to tell my father that plays are not plays now- 
 adays — ^not in your sense of the word. 
 
 Tbotteh. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the 
 word ! You believe that my criticism is merely a personal 
 impression; that — 
 
 Fanny. You always said it was. 
 
 Tkotteb. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had 
 been classically educated — 
 
 Fanny. But I have. 
 
 Thottbh. Pooh ! Cambridge ! If you had been educated 
 at Oxford, you would know that the definition of a play 
 has been settled exactly and scientifically for two thousand 
 two hundred and sixty years. When I say that these en- 
 tertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense of 
 
176 Fanny's First Play 
 
 tte word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the 
 immortal Stagirite. 
 
 Fanny. Who is the Stagirite? 
 
 Tbotteh [shocked] You dent know who the Stagirite 
 was? 
 
 Fanny. Sorry. Never heard of him. 
 
 Teotteb. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my 
 dear young lady, I'm delighted to find theres something 
 you don't know; and I shant spoil you by dispelling an 
 ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly becoming to your 
 age and sex. So we'll leave it at that. 
 
 Fanny. But you will promise to tell my father that lots 
 of people write plays just like this one — that I havnt 
 selected it out of mere heartlessness? 
 
 Tbotter. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to 
 your father about the play until Ive seen the play. But 
 I'll tell you what I shall say to him about you. I shall 
 say that youre a very foolish young lady; that youve 
 got into a very questionable set; and that the sooner he 
 takes you away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, 
 the better. 
 
 Fanny. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a 
 heavy father. In Cambridge we regard you as a bel esprit, 
 a wit, an Irresponsible, a Parisian Immoralist, tris chic. 
 
 Tkotteb. I ! 
 
 Fanny. Theres quite a Trotter set. 
 
 Tbotteb. Well, upon my word! 
 
 Fanny. They go in for adventures and call you Axamis. 
 
 Teotteb. They wouldnt dare! 
 
 Fanny. You always make such delicious fun of the 
 serious people. Your insouciance — 
 
 Tbotteb [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not 
 a proper language for a young girl. Great heavens! how 
 is it possible that a few innocent pleasantries should be so 
 frightfully misunderstood? Ive tried all my life to be sin- 
 cere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. Ive lived 
 
Fanny's First Play 177 
 
 a blameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in the face 
 of ridicule and insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre 
 of Immoralism! of Modern Minxism! a trifler with the most 
 sacred subjects! a Nietzschean ! ! perhaps a Shavian !! ! 
 
 Fanny. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, 
 Mr Trotter? 
 
 Teotteb. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare 
 you ask me such a question? 
 
 Fanny. Then why dont you play for it? 
 
 Thotteb. I do play for it — short, of course, of making 
 myself ridiculous. 
 
 Fanny. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the 
 sake of a good cause! Oh, Mr Trotter. Thats vieux jeu. 
 
 Trotter [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not 
 allow it. 
 
 Fanny. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out 
 of date. The Cambridge Fabian Society — 
 
 Trotter. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society 
 to me. 
 
 Fanny. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without 
 making yourself ridiculous." 
 
 Trotter. Skate! What has that to do with it? 
 
 Fanny. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is 
 slippery." , . 
 
 Trotter. Ice of life indeed! You should be eatmg 
 penny ices and- enjoying yourself. I wont hear another 
 word. 
 
 The Count returns. 
 
 The Count. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my 
 dear. Have you been detaining Mr Trotter all this time? 
 
 Trotter. I'm so sorry. I must have just a httle brush 
 up: I — [He hurries out]. 
 
 The Count. My dear, you should be in the drawmg- 
 room. You should not have kept him here. _ 
 
 Fanny. I know. Dont scold me: I had somethmg im- 
 portant to say to him. 
 
178 Fanny's First Play 
 
 The Count. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner. 
 
 Fanny. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go oS well. 
 
 The Count. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along. 
 
 Fanny. Just one thing, papa, whUst we're alone. Who 
 was the Stagirite? 
 
 The Count. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you 
 dont know.' 
 
 Fanny. Havnt the least notion. 
 
 The Count. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, 
 dont mention him to Mr Trotter. 
 
 They go to the dining-room. 
 
THE PLAY 
 ACT I 
 
 In the dining-room, of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly 
 lady sits at breakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is 
 at the end of the oblong dining-table furthest from the fire. 
 There is an empty chair at the other end. The fireplace is 
 behind this chair; and the door is next the fireplace, between 
 it and the corner. An arm-chair stands beside the coal- 
 scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the sideboard, par- 
 allel to the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly dining- 
 room chairs, ranged against the walls, and including a baby 
 rocking-chair on the lady's side of the room. The lady is a 
 placid person. Her husband, Mr Robin Gilbey, not at all 
 placid, bursts violently into the room with a letter in his hand. 
 
 GiLBET [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This 
 is a b — 
 
 Mbs Gilbey [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please. 
 Whatever it is, bad language wont make it better. 
 
 GiLBET [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. 
 Take your boy's part against me. [He flings himself into 
 the empty chair opposite her]. 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. When he does anything right, hes your 
 son. When he does anything wrong hes mine. Have you 
 any news of him? 
 
 Gilbey. Ive a good mind not to tell you. 
 179 
 
180 Fanny's First Play Act I 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. 
 Thats a comfort, at all events. 
 
 Gilbet. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at 
 the bottom of the river for all you care. [Too agitated to 
 sit quietly, he rises and paces the room distractedly]. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Then what have you got in your hand? 
 
 Gilbet. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. 
 From New York. Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning 
 fiercely on her] Thats a nice thing, isnt it? 
 
 Mhs Gilbet. What for? 
 
 Gilbet [flinging away towards his chair] How do 7 know 
 what for? 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. What does he say? 
 
 Gilbet [sitting down and grumhlingly adjusting his spec- 
 tacles] This is what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The 
 news about Bobby had to follow me across the Atlantic: 
 it did not reach me until to-day. I am afraid he is incor- 
 rigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels that this 
 last escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think, 
 myself, that Bobby ought to be made to feel that such 
 scrapes involve a certain degree of reprobation." "As 
 you may imagine"! And we know no more about it than 
 the babe unborn. 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. What else does he say? 
 
 Gilbet. "I think my brother must have been just a 
 little to blame himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, 
 with due and impressive formality, forgive Bobby later 
 on; but for the present I think.it had better be understood 
 that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer on visit- 
 ing terms. As ever, yours sincerely." [His agitation mas- 
 ters him again] Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a 
 man in his position! This is what your son has brought 
 on me. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. 
 He as good as tells you hes only letting on to be ofiFended 
 for Bobby's good. 
 
Act I Fanny's First Play 181 
 
 GiLBET. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and 
 hang it up over the mantelpiece as a testimonial. 
 
 Mhs Gilbet. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to 
 be thankful to know that the boy is alive after his dis- 
 appearing like that for nearly a week. 
 
 Gilbet. Nearly a week! A_fortBight»__you_mean. 
 Wheres your feelings, woman? It was fourteen days 
 yesterday. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if 
 the boy was in prison. 
 
 Gilbet. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got 
 on my nerves so, that I'd believe even that. 
 
 Mks Gilbet. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get 
 into a scrape like any other lad; but he'd never do any- 
 thing low. 
 
 Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. 
 Be is a rather low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good 
 appearance and -address; and iron self-command. 
 
 Jtjggins [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes 
 to see Mr Bobby's parents, sir. 
 
 Gilbet [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's 
 parent. I disown him. 
 
 Juggins. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey]. 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. You mustnt mind what your master 
 says. Juggins: he doesnt mean it. [She takes the card and 
 reads U]. Well, I never! 
 
 Gilbet. Whats up now? 
 
 Mrs Gilbet [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling 
 Dora." Just like that— in brackets. What sort of per- 
 son, Juggins? 
 
 Gilbet. Whats her address? 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. The West Circular Road. Is that a 
 respectable address. Juggins? 
 
 Juggins. A great many most respectable people live 
 in the West Circular Road, madam; but the address is 
 not a guarantee of respectability. 
 
182 Fanny's First Play Act I 
 
 GiLBET. So it's come to that with him, has it? 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How 
 do you know? [To Juggins] Is she a lady. Juggins? 
 You know what I mean. 
 
 Juggins. In the sense in which you are using the word, 
 no, madam. 
 
 Mes Gilbey. I'd better try what I can get out of 
 her. [To Juggins] Shew her up. You dont mind, do 
 you, Rob? 
 
 Gilbey. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me 
 alone with her. [He rises and plants himself on the hearth- 
 rug]. ' 
 
 Juggins goes out. 
 
 Mbs Gilbey. I wonder what she wants, Rob? 
 
 Gilbey. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a 
 \ farthing. A nice thing, everybody seeing her on our 
 ■^doorstep ! If it wasnt that she may tell us something about 
 the lad, I'd have Juggins put the hussy into the street. 
 
 Juggins [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He 
 waits for express orders before placing a chair for this 
 visitor]. 
 
 Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious 
 disposition, very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. 
 She is so affable and confidential that it is very difficult to keep 
 her at a distance by any process short of flinging her out of the 
 house. 
 
 Doha [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into 
 the middle of the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of 
 Bobby's. He told me all about you once, in a moment of 
 confidence. Of course he never let on who he was at the 
 police court. 
 
 Gilbey. Police court! 
 
 Mbs Gilbey [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Teh — ! 
 Juggins: a chair. 
 
 DoBA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Jug- 
 gins approvingly as he places a chair for her between the 
 
Act I Fanny's First Play 183 
 
 table and the sideboard] But lies the right sort: I can see 
 that. [Buttonholing him] You wont let on downstairs, 
 old man, will you? 
 
 _ Jttggins. The family can rely on my absolute discre- 
 tion. [Be withdraws]. 
 
 Doha [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youU 
 say to me: you know I really have no right to come here; 
 but then what was I to do? You know Holy Joe, Bobby's 
 tutor, dont you? But of course you do. 
 
 GiLBET [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the 
 brother of Monsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are 
 speaking. 
 
 Dora {wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont 
 tell me that old geezer has a brother a Monsignor! And 
 youre Catholics! And I never knew it, though Ive known 
 Bobby ever so long! But of course the last thing you find 
 out about a person is their religion, isnt it? L- 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. We're not Catholics. But when the 
 Samuelses got an Archdeacon's son to form their boy's, 
 mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby ought to have a chance , 
 too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr Gilbey con- 
 sulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother 
 of his that was more sinned against than sinning. 
 
 Gilbet [on tenterhooks] She dont want to hear about 
 that, Maria. [To Dora] Whats your business? 
 
 Doha. I'm afraid it was all my fault. 
 
 Gilbey. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. 
 I dont know what has happened to the boy: hes been 
 lost these fourteen days — 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. A fortnight, Rob. 
 
 Gilbet. — and not a word have we heard of him since. 
 
 Mes Gilbet. Dont fuss, Rob. 
 
 Gilbet [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You 
 dont care what becomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely]. 
 
 Doha [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of 
 course. How thoughtless of me not to begin by telling 
 
184 Fanny's First Play Act I 
 
 you hes quite safe. Indeed hes in the safest place in the 
 world, as one may say: safe under lock and key. 
 
 GiLBEY [horrified, pitiable] Oh my — [his breath fails 
 him]. Do you mean that when he was in the police court 
 he was in the dock? Oh, Maria! Oh, great Lord! What 
 has he done? What has he got for it? [Desperate] Will 
 you tell me or will you see me go mad on my own carpet? 
 
 Doha [sweetly] Yes, old dear — 
 
 Mhs Gilbet [starting at the familiarity] Well!- 
 
 Doha [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: 
 hes all right. I came out myself this morning: there 
 was such a crowd! and a band! they thought I was a 
 sufifragette: only fancy! You see it was like this. Holy 
 Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion sprinter 
 at college. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. A what? 
 
 Dora. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred 
 yards runner in England. We were all in the old cowshed 
 that night. 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. What old cowshed? 
 
 GiLBEY [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on. 
 
 Doha. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of 
 me! It's a rather go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. 
 We call it the old cowshed. 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music 
 halls? 
 
 Dora. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: 
 fairly laps it up like a kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby 
 says to me, "Darling — " 
 
 Mrs Gilbey [placidly] Why does he call you Darling? 
 
 Dora. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of 
 name Ive got. Darling Dora, you know. Well, he says, 
 "Darling, if you can get Holy Joe to sprint a hundred yards, 
 I'll stand you that squiffer with the gold keys." 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face 
 [Gilbey clutches at his hair in his impatience]. 
 
Act I Fanny's First Play 185 
 
 Dora. Well, what would he call him? After all. Holy 
 Joe is Holy Joe; and boys will be boys. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Whats a squiffer? 
 
 Dora. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concer- 
 tina. Theres one in a shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, 
 with gold keys and Russia leather bellows; and Bobby 
 knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt afford it, poor 
 lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me. 
 
 Gilbet. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly 
 questions, I shall go out of my senses. Heres the boy in 
 gaol and me disgraced for ever; and all you care to know is 
 what a squiffer is. 
 
 Dora. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man 
 wouldnt take a penny less than £15 for it. It was a 
 presentation one. 
 
 Gilbet [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats hap- 
 pened to my son? Will you tell me that, and stop cack- 
 ling about your squiffer? 
 
 Dora. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, 
 old dear. And you neednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby 
 behaved like a perfect gentleman. Besides, it was all my 
 fault. I'll own it: I took too much champagne. I was not 
 what you might call drunk; but I was bright, and a little 
 beyond myself; and — I'll confess it — I wanted to shew 
 off before Bobby, because he was a bit taken by a woman 
 on the stage; and she was pretending to be game for" any- , 
 thing. You see youve brought Bobby up too strict; and^' 
 when he gets Ibose theres no holding him. He does' 
 enjoy life more than any lad I ever met. 
 
 Gilbet. Never you mind how hes been brought up: 
 thats my business. Tell me how hes been brought down: 
 thats yours. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob. 
 Dora. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so head- 
 strong. Well, it was a beautiful moonlight night; and we 
 couldnt get a cab on the nod; so we started to walk, very 
 
186 Fanny's First Play Act I 
 
 jolly, you know: arm in arm, and dancing along, singing 
 and all that. When we came into Jamaica Square, there 
 was a young copper on point duty at the corner. I says to 
 Bob: "Dearie boy: is it a bargain about the squiflfer if I 
 make Joe sprint for you?" "Anything you like, darling," 
 says he: "I love you." I put on my best company man- 
 ners and stepped up to the copper. "If you please, sir," 
 says I, "can you direct me to Carrickmines Square?" I 
 was so genteel, and talked so sweet, that he fell to it like a 
 bird. "I never heard of any such Square in these parts," 
 he says. "Then," says I, "what a very silly little officer 
 you must be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that 
 knocked it over his eyes, and did a bunk. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Did a what? 
 
 Doha. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he 
 sprinted faster than he ever did in college, I bet, the old 
 dear. He got clean off, too. Just as he was overtaking me 
 half-way down the square, we heard the whistle; and at 
 the sound of it he drew away like a streak of lightning; 
 and that was the last I saw of him. I was copped in the 
 Dock Road myself: rotten luck, wasn't it? I tried the 
 innocent and genteel and all the rest; but Bobby's hat 
 done me in. 
 
 Gilbet. And what happened to the boy? 
 
 Dora. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! 
 He thought the copper would see the joke, poor lamb. He 
 was arguing about it when the two that took me came 
 along to find out what the whistle was for, and brought me 
 with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before in 
 my life; but there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops 
 were very spiteful and laid it on for all they were worth: 
 drunk and disorderly and assaulting the police and all that. 
 I got fourteen days without the option, because you see — 
 well, the fact is, I'd done it before, and been warned. 
 Bobby was a first offender and had the option; but the 
 dear boy had no money left and wouldnt give you away 
 
Act I Fanny's First Play 187 
 
 by telling Ms name; and anyhow he couldnt have brought 
 himself to buy himself off and leave me there; so hes doing 
 his time. Well, it was two forty shillingses; and Ive only 
 twenty-eight shillings in the world. If I pawn my clothes 
 I shant be able to earn any more. So I cant pay the fine 
 and get him out; but if youU stand £3 I'll stand one; and 
 thatU do it. If youd like to be very kind and nice you 
 could pay the lot; but I cant deny that it was my fault; 
 so I wont press you. 
 
 GiLBBT [heart-broken] My son in gaol! 
 
 DoBA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look 
 at me after fourteen days of it; I'm all the better for 
 being kept a bit quiet. You mustnt let it prey on your 
 mind. . -" 
 
 GiLBET. The disgrace of it will kill me.' And it wiU 
 leave a mark on him to the end of his life. 
 
 Doha. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive edu- 
 cated Bobby a bit: hes not the mollycoddle he was when 
 you had him in hand. 
 
 Mhs Gilbet. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. 
 They wanted him to go in for singlestick at the Young 
 Men's Christian Association; but, of course, I couldnt 
 allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out. 
 
 Gilbet [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you. 
 
 Doha. Oh, aint we cross! 
 
 Gilbet. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a/ 
 respectable household. Youve gone and got my poor 
 innocent boy into trouble. It's the like of you thats the 
 ruin of the like of him. 
 
 DoBA. So you always say, you old dears. But you 
 know better. Bobby came to me: I didnt come to him. 
 
 Gilbet. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there 
 for him to go to.? Tell me that. You know why he went 
 to you, I suppose? 
 
 Doea [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor • 
 lad, wasnt it? 
 
188 Fanny's First Play Act I 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. 
 And we have the Knoxes to dinner every Friday. Mar- 
 garet Knox and Bobby are as good as engaged. Mr Knox 
 is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very religious; 
 but shes quite cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays. 
 So thats two evenings pleasure every week. 
 
 Gilbet [almost in tears] We done what we could for the 
 boy. Short of letting him go into temptations of all sorts, 
 he can do what he likes. What more does he want? 
 
 Doha. Well, old dear, he wants ^^y and thats about 
 the long and short of it. And I miisFsay youre not very 
 nice to me about it. Ive talked to him like a mother, 
 and tried my best to keep him straight; but I dont deny 
 I like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit 
 giddy when we're lighthearted. Him and me is a pair, 
 I'm ahs&d. 
 
 Gilbet. Dont talk foolishness, girl. How could you 
 and he be a pair, you being what you are, and he brought 
 1 up as he has been, with the example of a religious woman 
 like Mrs Knox before his eyes? I cant understand how 
 he could bring himself to be seen in the street with you. 
 [Pitying himself] I havnt deserved this. Ive done my 
 duty as a father. Ive kept him^shelteredr'' [Angry vnth 
 her] Creatures like you that take^SavSiitage of a child's 
 innocence ought to be whipped through the streets. 
 
 DoKA. Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady 
 to lose my temper; and I dont think Bobby would like me 
 to tell you what I think of you; for when I start giving 
 people a bit of my mind I sometimes use language thats 
 beneath rne. But I tell you once for all I must have this 
 money to' get Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll 
 hunt up Holy Joe. He might get it off his brother, the 
 Monsignor. 
 
 Gilbet. You mind your own concerns. My solicitor 
 will do what is right. I'll not have you paying my son's 
 fine as if you were anything to him. 
 
Act I Fanny's First Play 189 
 
 Doha. Thats right. YouU get him out today, wont 
 you? 
 
 GiLBET. It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it? 
 
 Doha. I'd like to know when theyll let him out. 
 
 GiLBET. You would, would you? Youre going to meet 
 him at the prison door. 
 
 Dora. Well, dont you think any woman would that 
 had the feelings of a lady? 
 
 GiLBET [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy 
 the lad's salvation, I suppose. How much will you take to 
 clear out and let him go? 
 
 Dora [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would 
 that do, old dear? There are others, you know. 
 
 GiLBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himseK away. 
 
 Dora. Where to? 
 
 GiLBET. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of 
 you and your like. 
 
 Dora. Then I'm afraid youU have to send him out of 
 the world, old dear. I'm sorry for you: I really am, 
 though you mightnt believe it; and I think your feelings, 
 do you real credit. But I cant give him up just to let him 
 fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I? 
 
 GiLBET [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? 
 Wheres the Government? Wheres the Church? Wheres 
 respectability and right reason? Whats the good of them 
 if I have to stand here and see you put my son in your 
 pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly out of 
 gaol as a common drunk and disorderly? Whats the 
 world coming to? 
 
 Dora. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear? 
 
 Mr Gilbey rushes from, the room, distracted. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet [unruffled] Where did you buy that white 
 lace? I want some to match a cellaret of my own; and I 
 cant get it at Perry and John's. 
 
 Dora. Knagg and Pan tie's: one and fourpence. It's 
 ^machine hand-made. 
 
190 Fanny's First Play Act I 
 
 Mes Gilbet. I never give more than one and tuppence. 
 But I suppose youre extravagant by nature. My sister 
 Martha was just like that. Pay anything she was 
 asked. 
 
 Doha. Whats tuppence to you, Mrs^obby, after all? 
 
 Mrs Gilbet [correcting her] Mrs Gilbey. 
 
 Dora. Of course, Mrs Gilbey. lam silly. 
 
 Mhs Gilbet. Bobby must have looked funny in your 
 hat. Why did you change hats with him.? 
 
 DoKA. I dont know. One does, you know. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. I never did. The things people do! I 
 cant understand them. Bobby never told me he was 
 keeping company with you. His own mother! 
 
 Dora [overcome] Excuse me: I cant help smiling. 
 
 Juggins enters. 
 
 Juggins. Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Have you ever been in a police court. 
 Juggins? 
 
 Juggins. Yes, madam. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet [rather shocked] I hope you had not been 
 exceeding. Juggins. 
 
 Juggins. Yes, madam, I had. I exceeded the legal limit. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Oh, that! Why do they give a woman a 
 fortnight for wearing a man's hat, and a man a month for 
 wearing hers? 
 
 Juggins. I didnt know that they did, madam. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. It doesnt seem justice, does it. Juggins? 
 
 Juggins. No, madam. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet [to Dora, rising] Well, good-bye. [Shaking 
 her hand] So pleased to have made your acquaintance. 
 
 Dora [standing up] Dont mention it. I'm sure it's 
 most kind of you to receive me at all. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. I must go off now and order lunch. [She 
 trots to the door]. What was it you called the concertina? 
 
 Dora. A squiffer, dear. 
 
Act I Fanny's First Play 191 
 
 Mbs Gilbet [thoughtfully] A squiffer, of course. How 
 funny! [She goes out]. 
 
 Jio^A [exploding into ecstasies of mirth] Oh my! isnt she 
 an old love? How do you keep your face straight? 
 
 Juggins. It is what I am paid for. 
 
 DoBA [confidentially] Listen here, dear boy. Your name 
 isnt Juggins. Nobody's name is Juggins. 
 
 Juggins. My orders are. Miss Delaney, that you are 
 not to be here when Mr Gilbey returns from Wormwood 
 Scrubbs. 
 
 DoBA. That means telling me to mind my own business, 
 doesnt it? Well, I'm off. Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling. 
 [She kisses her hand to him and goes]. 
 
ACT II 
 
 On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing 
 notes in her dravnng-room, at a tbriting-tabldi which stands J 
 against the wall. Anyone placed so as to see Mrs Knox's 
 left profile, toill have the door on the right and the window on 
 the left, both further away than Mrs Knox, whose back is pre- 
 sented to an obsolete upright piano at the opposite side of the 
 room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a small table 
 in the middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and 
 albums on it, and chairs near it. 
 
 Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, 
 thinner, harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey 
 being a soft stoutisk man with white hair and thin smooth 
 skin, whilst Knox has coarse black hair, and blue jaws which 
 no diligence in shaving can whiten. Mrs Knox is a plain 
 woman, dressed without regard to fashion, with thoughtful 
 eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmospKire of peace 
 and some solemnity. She is surprised to see her husband at 
 home during business hours. 
 
 Mrs Knox. What brings you home at this hour? Have 
 you heard anything? 
 
 Knox. No. Have you? 
 
 Mrs Knox. No. Whats the matter? 
 
 Knox [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has 
 found out. 
 
 Mks Knox. What makes you think that? 
 192 
 
Act II Fanny's First Play 193 
 
 Knox. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you 
 have enough to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been 
 very queer ever since it happened. I cant keep my mind 
 on business as I ought; and I was depending on him. But 
 hes worse than me. Hes not looking after anything; and 
 he keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He 
 hasnt asked us to dinner; and hes never said a word about 
 our not asking him to dinner, after all these years when 
 weve dined every week as regular as clockwork. It looks 
 to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop me socially. Well, why 
 should he do that if he hasnt heard.? 
 
 Mbs Knox. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us 
 either: thats what I cant make out. 
 
 Knox. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was 
 dowu in Cornwall with her aunt. 
 
 Mes Knox [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handker- 
 chief from the writing-table and cries a little], 
 
 Knox. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. 
 Somebody's got to tell em. 
 
 Mbs Knox [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends 
 in our not knowing what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me 
 Bobby was in Brighton for the sea air. Theres something 
 queer about that. Gilbey would never let the boy loose 
 by himself among the temptations of a gay place like 
 Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Ken- 
 sington High Street the very day she told me. 
 
 Knox. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over be- 
 tween Bobby and Margaret, and all over between us and 
 them. 
 
 Mbs Knox. It's all over between us and everybody. 
 When a girl runs away from home like that, people know 
 what to think of her and her parents. 
 
 Knox. She had a happy, respectable home — every- 
 thing — 
 
 Mbs Knox [interrupting him] Theres no use going over 
 it all again, Jo. If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she 
 
194 Fanny's First Play Act II 
 
 wont be happy anywhere. Youd better go back to the 
 shop and try to keep your mind ofP it. 
 
 Knox [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying every- 
 body knows it and is sniggering about it. I'm at peace 
 nowhere but here. It's a comfort to be with you. It's a 
 torment to be with other people. 
 
 Mhs Knox [going to him and dravoing her arm through 
 his] There, Jo, there! I'm sure I'd have you here^lways 
 if I could. But it cant be. God's work must go on from day 
 to day, no matter what comes. We must face our trouble 
 and bear it. 
 
 Knox [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] 
 Just look at the people in the street, going up and down as 
 if nothing had happened. It seems unnatural, as if they 
 all knew and didnt care. 
 
 Mhs Knox. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round 
 the house looking up at us. You shouldnt keep thinking 
 about it. 
 
 Knox. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, 
 Amelia; and I'm sure I'm glad it comforts you. But it 
 doesnt come to me that way. Ive worked hard to get a 
 position and be respectable. Ive turned many a girl out 
 of the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres 
 my own daughter gone for a fortnight without word or 
 sign, except a telegram to say shes not dead and that 
 we're not to worry about her. 
 
 Mbs Knox [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look! 
 
 Knox. Margaret! With a man! 
 
 Mrs Knox. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her : save her. 
 
 Knox [lingering] Shes shaking hands with him: shes 
 coming across to the door. 
 
 Mes Knox [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the 
 man before hes out of sight. 
 
 Knox rushes from the r'oom. Mrs Knox looks anxiously 
 and excitedly from the window. Then she throws up the 
 sash and leans out. Margaret Knox comes in, flustered and 
 
Act II Fanny's First Play 195 
 
 annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl of eighteen, with large 
 nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily resolute manner, 
 even peremptory on occasions like the present, when she is 
 annoyed. 
 
 Margaret. Mother. Mother. 
 
 Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter. 
 
 Mrs Knox [sternly] Well, miss? 
 
 Margaret. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father mak- 
 ing a scene in the street. He rushed at him and said 
 "Youre the man who took away my daughter" loud 
 enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. 
 We shall have a crowd round the house. Do do some- 
 thing to stop him. 
 
 Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer. 
 
 Margaret. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry — so 
 ashamed. Mother: this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has 
 been extremely kind to me. Monsieur Duvallet: my 
 mother. [Duvallet bows]. 
 
 Knox. A Frenchman! It only needed this. 
 
 Margaret [much annoyed] Father: do please be com- 
 monly civil to a gentleman who has been of the greatest 
 service to me. What will he think of us.? 
 
 Duvallet [debonair] But it's very natural. I under- 
 stand Mr Knox's feelings perfectly. [He speaks English 
 better than Knox, having learnt it on both sides of the Atlantic]. 
 
 Knox. If, Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apolo- 
 gize. But I want to know where my daughter has been 
 for the last fortnight. 
 
 Duvallet. She has been, I assure you, in a particu- 
 larly safe place. 
 
 Knox. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for 
 myself how safe it was. 
 
 Margaret. HoUoway Gaol. Was that safe enough? 
 
 Knox and Mrs Knox. HoUoway Gaol! 
 
 Knox. Youve joined the Suffragets! 
 
 Margaret. No. I wish I had. I could have had the 
 
196 Fanny's First Play Act II 
 
 same experience in better company. Please sit down. 
 Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits between the table and the 
 sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the other side of the 
 table. Knox remains standing in the middle of the room]. 
 
 DuvALiiET {sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An 
 adventure. Nothing. 
 
 Margaret [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the 
 police! Forty shillings or a month! , 
 
 Mrs Knox. Margaret! Who accused you of such a 
 thing? 
 
 Margaret. The policeman I assaulted. 
 
 Knox. You, mean to say that you did it! 
 
 Margaret. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. 
 I knocked two of his teeth out. 
 
 Knox. And you sit there coolly and tell me this! 
 
 Margaret. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats 
 the use of saying things like that? 
 
 Knox. My daughter in HoUoway Gaol! 
 
 Margaret. All the women in Holloway are some- 
 body's daughters. Really, father, you must make up 
 your mind to it. If you had sat in that cell for fourteen 
 days making up your mind to it, you would understand 
 that I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre try- 
 ing to persuade yourself that it cant be real. These things 
 really do happen to real people every day; and you read 
 about them in the papers and think it's all right. Well, 
 theyve happened to me: thats all. 
 
 Knox [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have hap- 
 pened to you. Dont you know that? 
 
 Margaret. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I sup- 
 pose. But they do. [Rising impatiently] And really I'd 
 rather go out and assault another policeman and go back 
 to Holloway than keep talking round and round it like 
 this. If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn me 
 out: the sooner I go the better. 
 
 Duvallet [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoi- 
 
Act II Fanny's First Play 197 
 
 selle. Your father has his position to consider. To turn L- 
 his daughter out of doors would ruin him socially. 
 
 Knox. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And 
 where did you come in, may I ask? 
 
 DuvALLET. I came in at your invitation— at your 
 amiable insistence, in fact, not at my own. But you need 
 have no anxiety on my account. I was concerned in the 
 regrettable incident which led to your daughter's incarcera- 
 tion. I got a fortnight without the option of a fine on the 
 ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the police- 
 man with my fist. I should have done so with pleasure had 
 I known; but, as it was, I struck him on the ear with my 
 boot — a magnificent moulinet, I must say — and was in- 
 formed that I had been guilty of an act of cowardice, but 
 that for the sake of the entente cordiale I should be dealt 
 with leniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used her fist, got a 
 month, but with the option of a fine. I did not know this 
 until I was released, when my first act was to pay the fine. 
 And here we are. 
 
 Mhs Knox. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo. 
 
 Knox [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some 
 money]. 
 
 DuvALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox 
 hands him two sovereigns]. If you [insist — [he pockets them] 
 Thank you. 
 
 Makgaret. I'm ever so much obliged to you. Monsieur 
 Duvallet. 
 
 Dttvallet. Can I be of any further assistance, made- 
 moiselle? 
 
 Makgaret. I think you had better leave us to fight it 
 out, if you dont mind. 
 
 Dttvallet. Perfectly. Madame [6o«»]— Mademoiselle 
 [bow] — Monsieur [bow] — [He goes out]. 
 
 Mrs Knox. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out 
 yourself. 
 
 Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit 
 
198 Fanny's First Play Act II 
 
 looking forlornly at one another toithout saying a word. Mrs 
 Knox slowly sits down. Margaret followsi her example. 
 They look at one another again. Mr Knox returns. 
 
 Knox [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. 
 [To Margaret] I leave you to your mother. I shall have 
 my own say in the matter when I hear what you have to 
 say to her. [He goes out, solemn and offended]. 
 
 Margaket [mth a bitter little laugh] Just what the 
 Suffraget said to me in Holloway. He throws the job on 
 you. 
 
 Mrs Knox [reproachfully] Margaret! 
 
 Margaret. You know it's true. 
 
 Mrs Knox. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened 
 about it, theres no use my saying anything. 
 
 Margaret. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk 
 nonsense about it. You see, it's all real to me. Ive suf- 
 fered it. Ive been shoved and bullied. Ive had my arms 
 twisted. Ive been made scream with pain in other ways. 
 Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other poor 
 wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a 
 cellar. And the only difference between me and the others 
 was that I hit back. Yes I did. And I did worse. I 
 wasnt ladylike. I cursed. I called names. I heard words 
 ■ that I didnt even know that I knew, coming out of my 
 mouth just as if somebody else had spoken them. The 
 policeman repeated them in court. The magistrate said 
 he could hardly believe it. The policeman held out his 
 hand with his two teeth in it that I knocked out. I said 
 it was all right; that I had heard myself using those words 
 quite distinctly; and that I had taken the good conduct 
 prize for three years running at school. The poor old 
 gentleman put me back for the missionary to find out who 
 I was, and to ascertain the state of my mind. I wouldnt 
 tell, of course, for your sakes at home here; and I wouldnt 
 say I was sorry, or apologize to the policeman, or com- 
 pensate him or anything of that sort. I wasnt sorry. 
 
Act II Fanny's First Play 199 
 
 The one thing that gave me any satisfaction was getting 
 in that smack on his mouth; and I said so. So the mis- 
 sionary reported that I seemed hardened and that no 
 doubt I would tell who I was after a day in prison. Then 
 I was sentenced. So now you see I'm not a bit the sort of 
 girl you thought me. I'm not a bit the sort of girl I 
 thought myself. And I dont know what sort of person you 
 really are, or what sort of person father really is. I 
 wonder what he would say or do if he had an angry brute 
 of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand and rush- 
 ing him along by the nape of his neck with the other. He 
 couldnt whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a poUce- 
 man down by a glorious kick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd 
 all fought as we two fought we'd have beaten them. 
 
 Mrs Knox. But how did it all begin? 
 
 Mabgaret. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, 
 they said. 
 
 Mbs Knox. Boat-race night ! But what had you to do 
 with the boat race? You went to the great Salvation 
 Festival at the Albert Hall with your aunt. She put you 
 into the bus that passes the door. What made you get 
 out of the bus? 
 
 Mabgaket. I dont know. The meeting got on my 
 nerves, somehow. It was the singing, I suppose: you 
 know I love singing a good swinging hymn; and I felt it 
 was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had been 
 singing so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs 
 to heaven. I wanted more music — more happiness — 
 more life. I wanted some comrade who felt as I did. I 
 felt exalted: it seemed mean to be afraid of anything: 
 after all, what could anyone do to me against my will? I 
 suppose I was a little mad: at all events, I got out of the 
 bus at Piccadilly Circus, because there was a lot of light 
 and excitement there. I walked to Leicester Square; and 
 went into a great theatre. 
 
 Mbs Knox [horrified] A theatre! 
 
200 Fanny's First Play Act II 
 
 Makgahet. Yes. Lots of other women were going in 
 alone. I had to pay five shillings. 
 
 Mbs Knox [aghast] Five shillings ! 
 
 Maegabet [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very 
 stuffy; and I didnt like the people much, because they 
 didnt seem to be enjoying themselves; but the stage was 
 splendid and the music lovely. I saw that Frenchman, 
 Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking 
 a cigarette. He seemed quite happy; and he was nice 
 and sailorlike. I went and stood beside him, hoping he 
 would speak to me. 
 
 Mrs Knox [gasps] Margaret! 
 
 Margaret [continuing] He did, just as if he had known 
 me for years. We got on together like old friends. He 
 asked me would I have some champagne; and I said it 
 would cost too much, but that I would give anything for 
 a dance. I longed to join the people on the stage and 
 dance with them: one of them was the most beautiful 
 dancer I ever saw. He told me he had come there to see 
 her, and that when it was over we could go somewhere 
 where there was dancing. So we went to a place where 
 there was a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for 
 dancing. Very few people danced: the women only wanted 
 to shew oS their dresses; but we danced and danced until 
 a lot of them joined in. We got quite reckless; and we had 
 champagne after all. I never enjoyed anything so much. 
 But at last it got spoilt by the Oxford and Cambridge 
 students up for the boat race. They got drunk; and they 
 began to smash things; and the police came in. Then it 
 was quite horrible. The students fought with the police; 
 and the police suddenly got quite brutal, and began to 
 throw everybody downstairs. They attacked the women, 
 who were not doing anything, and treated them just as 
 roughly as they had treated the students. Duvallet got 
 indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was 
 shoving a woman though she was going quietly as fast as 
 
Act II Fanny's First Play 201 
 
 she could. The- policeman flung the woman through the 
 door and then turned on Duvallet. It was then that 
 Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the 
 policeman down. And then three policemen rushed at 
 him and carried him out by the arms and legs face down- 
 wards. Two more attacked me and gave me a shove to 
 the door. That quite maddened me. I just got in one 
 good bang on the mouth of one of them. All the rest was 
 dreadful. I was rushed through the streets to the police 
 station. They kicked me with their joiees; they twisted 
 my arms; they taunted and insulted me; they called me 
 vile names; and I told them what I thought of them, and 
 provoked them to do their worst. Theres one good thing 
 about being hard hurt: it makes you sleep. I slept in 
 that filthy cell with all the other drunks sounder than I 
 should have slept at home. I cant describe how I felt next 
 morning: it was hideous; but the police were quite jolly; 
 and everybody said it was a bit of English fun, and talked 
 about last year's boat-race night when it Ijad been a great 
 deal worse. I was black and blue and §ick and wretched. 
 But the strange thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not 
 sorry. And I dont feel that I did anything wrong, really. 
 [She rises and stretches her arms with a large liberating 
 breath] Now that it's all over I'm rather proud of it; 
 though I know now that I'm not a lady; but whether thats 
 because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's 
 really a lady except when theyre treated bke ladies, I 
 dont know. [She throws herself into a corner of the sofa]. 
 
 Mhs Knox [lost in wonder] But how could you brmg 
 yourself to do it, Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only 
 want to know. How could you bring yourself to do it? 
 
 Mabgaket. I cant tell you. I dont understand it my- 
 self The prayer meeting set me free, somehow. I should 
 never have done it if it were not for the prayer meeting. 
 
 Mrs Knox [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thmg 
 as that. I know that prayer can set us free; though you 
 
202 Fanny's First Play Act I\ 
 
 could never understand me when I told you so; but it sets 
 us free for good, not for evil. 
 
 Mahgabet. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; 
 or else I was set free for evil as well as good. As father 
 says, you cant have anything both ways at once. When 
 \ I was at home and at school I was what you call good; 
 ' but I wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most 
 people would call not good. But I see no harm in what 
 I did; though I see plenty in what other people did to 
 me. 
 
 Mes Knox. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine 
 of romance. 
 
 Makgabet. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table], 
 I'm a heroine of reality, if you call me a heroine at all. 
 And reality is pretty brutal, pretty filthy, when you come 
 to grips with it. Yet it's glorious all the same. It's so 
 real and satisfactory. 
 
 Mrs Knox. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I 
 dont like your talking to me in that tone. 
 
 Mabgabet. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you 
 and Papa any the less; but I shall never get back to the old 
 way of talking again. Ive made a sort of descent into hell — 
 
 Mbs Knox. Margaret! Such a word! 
 
 Margaret. You should have heard all the words that 
 were flying round that night. You should mix a little 
 with people who dont know any other words. But when 
 I said that about a descent into hell I was not swearing. 
 I was in earnest, like a preacher. 
 
 Mrs Knox. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone 
 of voice. 
 
 Margaret. I know: the tone that shews they dont 
 mean anything real to him. They usent to mean anything 
 real to me. Now hell is as real to me as a turnip; and I 
 suppose I shall always speak of it like that. Anyhow, 
 Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is 
 worth doing but redeeming people from it. 
 
/.ctll 
 
 Fanny's First Play 203 
 
 Mrs Knox. They are redeemed already if they choose 
 to believe it. 
 
 Maegahet. Whats the use of that if they dont choose 
 to believe it.? You dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt 
 pay policemen to twist their arms. Whats the good of 
 pretending? Thats all our -xespectability is, pretending, 
 pretending, pretending. Thank heaven Ive had it knocked 
 out of me once for all! 
 
 Mks Knox [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like 
 that. I cant bear to hear you talking wickedly. I can 
 bear to hear the children of this world talking vainly and 
 foolishly in the language of this world. But when I hear 
 you justifying your wickedness in the words of grace, it's 
 too horrible: it sounds like the devil making fun of reli- 
 gion. Ive tried to bring you up to learn the happiness of 
 religion. Ive waited for you to find out that happiness is 
 within ourselves and doesnt come from outward pleasures. 
 Ive prayed oftener than you think that you might be en- 
 lightened. But if all my hopes and all my prayers are to 
 come to this, that you mix up my very words and thoughts 
 with the promptings of the devil, then I dont know what I 
 shall do: I dont indeed: itU kill me. 
 
 Mabgaket. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be 
 enlightened if you didnt want me to be enlightened. If 
 the truth were known, I suspect we all want our prayers 
 to be answered only by halves : the agreeable halves. Your 
 prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got 
 more than you bargained for in the way of enlightenment. 
 I shall never be the same again. I shall never speak in the 
 old way again. Ive been set free from this silly little hole 
 of a house and all it^ pretences. I know now that I am 
 stronger than you and Papa. I havnt found that happi- 
 ness of yours that is within yourself; but Ive found 
 strength. For good or evil I am set free; and none of the 
 things that used to hold me can hold me now. 
 
 Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense. 
 
204 Fanny's First Play Act II 
 
 Knox. How long more are you going to keep me wait- 
 ing, Amelia? Do you think I'm made of iron? Whats the 
 girl d6ne? What are we going to do? 
 
 Mes Knox. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond 
 yours. I cant even pray for her now; for I dont know 
 rightly what to pray for. 
 
 Knox. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for 
 praying? Does anybody know? Thats what we have 
 to consider now. '\Jf only we can keep it dark, I don't 
 care for anything else. ~ ^'" 
 
 Margaret. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll teU 
 everybody. It ought to be told. It must be told. 
 
 Knox. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out 
 of my house this instant. 
 
 Margaret. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and 
 turns to the door]. 
 
 Knox [throwing himself in front of it] Here ! where are 
 you going? 
 
 Mrs Knox [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll 
 go with her if she goes. 
 
 Knox. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to 
 ruin us? To let everybody know of her disgrace and 
 shame? To tear me down from the position Ive made for 
 ■ myself and you by forty years hard struggling? 
 
 Margaret. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It 
 stands between us and everything. I'll tell everybody. 
 
 Knox. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father s 
 hairs with sorrow to the grave. Theres only one thing I 
 care about in the world: to keep this dark. I'm your 
 father. I ask you here on my knees — in the dust, so tg 
 speak — not to let it out. 
 
 Margaret. I'll tell everybody. 
 
 Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and 
 cannot. Margaret stands inflexible. 
 
ACT III 
 
 Again in the Gilheys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table 
 is not laid: it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and 
 ink, an exereise-book, and school-books on it. Bobby Gilbey 
 is in the arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illus- 
 trated paper. He is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, 
 strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained and unsat- 
 isfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restric- 
 tion is what they call "bringing up." He has learnt nothing 
 from it except a habit of evading it by deceit. 
 
 He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins 
 answers the bell. 
 
 BoBBT. Juggins. 
 
 Juggins. Sir.? 
 
 Bobby [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed! 
 
 Juggins [cheerfully] Not at all, sir. 
 
 Bobby. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man. 
 
 Juggins. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays 
 me to call you sir; and as I take the money, I keep my 
 part of the bargain. 
 
 Bobby. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do 
 it? 
 
 Juggins. No, sir. 
 
 Bobby. Ive been talking to Dora about you. 
 
 Juggins. Indeed, sir.? 
 
 Bobby. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, 
 205 
 
206 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 and that you have the manners of a gentleman. I always 
 thought you hadnt any manners. Anyhow, your manners 
 are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set. 
 
 Juggins. They would be, sir. 
 
 Bobby. You dont feel disposed to be communicative 
 on the subject of Dora's notion, I suppose. 
 
 Juggins. No, sir. 
 
 Bobby [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees 
 over the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] 
 It was part of your bargain that you were to valet me a 
 bit, wasnt it? , 
 
 Juggins. Yes, sir. 
 
 Bobby. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out 
 of an engagement to a girl without getting into a row for 
 breach of promise or behaving like a regular cad? 
 
 Juggins. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement 
 without behaving like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you 
 to it. 
 
 Bobby. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry 
 me when I dont really care for her. 
 
 Juggins. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. 
 They often marry because they wish to be married women 
 and not old maids. 
 
 Bobby. Then what am I to do? 
 
 Juggins. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad. 
 
 Bobby \jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. 
 What would you do if you were in my place? 
 
 Juggins. I should tell the young lady that I found I 
 couldnt fulfil my engagement. 
 
 Bobby. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. 
 I want to give it a gentlemanly turn: to say I'm not 
 worthy of her, or something like that. 
 
 Juggins. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite 
 the contrary. 
 
 Bobby. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's 
 not exactly true? 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 207 
 
 Juggins. Not at all, sir. 
 
 Bobby. lean say that no other girl can ever be to me 
 what shes been. That would be quite true, because our 
 circumstances have been rather exceptional; and she'll 
 imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can ever be of 
 anyone else. You see. Juggins, a gentleman has to think 
 of a girl's feelings. 
 
 Juggins. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can 
 marry her. If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had 
 better not try to get credit for considerateness at the same 
 time by pretending to spare them. She wont like it. And 
 it wUl start an argument, of which you will get the worse. 
 
 Bobby. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her. 
 
 Juggins. Probably she never supposed you were, sir- 
 
 BoBBY. Oh, I say. Juggins, you are a pessimist. 
 
 Juggins [preparing to go] Anything else, sir? 
 
 Bobby [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He 
 wanders disconsolately across the room]. You generally put 
 me up to the correct way of doing things. 
 
 Juggins. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of 
 jilting. It's not correct in itself. 
 
 Bobby [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant 
 hold her to an engagement with a man whos been in quod. 
 ThatU do it. [He seats himself on the table, relieved and 
 confident]. 
 
 Juggins. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny 
 herself the romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness 
 when they take the form of doing something agreeable. 
 Shes almost sure to say that your misfortune will draw 
 her closer to you. 
 
 Bobby. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. 
 You know. Juggins, your cool simple-minded way of doing 
 it wouldnt go down in Denmark Hill. 
 
 Juggins. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to 
 make it look like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on 
 your part, or provoke her to break the engagement her- 
 
208 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 self. Both plans have been tried repeatedly, but never 
 •with success, as far as my knowledge goes. 
 
 Bobby. You have a devilish cool way of laying down 
 the law. You know, in my class you have to wrap up 
 things a bit. Denmark Hill isn't Camberwell, you know. 
 
 Juggins. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks 
 that the higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity 
 is allowed-;- and that only tramps and riff-rafif are quite \ 
 sincere. Thats a mistake. Tramps are often shameless; 
 but theyre never sincere. Swells — if I may use that con- 
 venient name for the upper classes — ^play much more with 
 their cards on the table. If you tell the young lady that 
 you want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of 
 the transaction may leave much to be desired; but itU be 
 less Camberwellian than if you say youre not worthy. 
 
 Bobby. Oh, I cant make you understand. Juggins. The 
 girl isnt a scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately. 
 
 Juggins. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a 
 born artist in that line. — Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard 
 the bell. [He goes out]. 
 
 Bobby, much perplexed, siioves his hands into his pockets, 
 and comes off the table, staring disconsolately straight before 
 him; then goes reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. 
 Juggins returns. 
 
 Juggins [announcing] Miss Knox. 
 
 Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws. 
 
 Margaret. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts 
 examination, Bobby? Youll never pass. 
 
 Bobby [rising] No: I was just writing to you. 
 
 Margaret. What about? 
 
 Bobby. Oh, nothing. At least — How are you? 
 
 Margaret [passing round the other end of the table and 
 putting down on it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse- 
 bag] Quite well, thank you. How did you enjoy Brighton? 
 
 Bobby. Brighton! I wasnt at — Oh yes, of course. 
 Oh, pretty well. Is your aunt all right? 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 209 
 
 Mabgaket. My aunt ! I suppose so. I havent seen her 
 for a month. 
 
 BoBBT. I thought you were down staying with her. 
 
 Makgaket. Oh! was that what they told you? 
 
 Bobby. Yes. Why? Werent you really? 
 
 Mabgaket. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down 
 and lets be comfortable. 
 
 She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and 
 puts his arm wearily round her waist. 
 
 Mabgabet. You neednt do that if you dont like, 
 Bobby. Suppose we get ofif duty for the day, just to see 
 what it's like. 
 
 Bobby. Off duty? What do you mean? 
 
 Mabgabet. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: 
 did you ever care one little scrap for me in that sort of 
 way? Dont funk answering: I dont care a bit for you — 
 that way. 
 
 Bobby [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your par- 
 don, I'm sure. I thought you did. 
 
 Mabgabet. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. 
 Ive owned up. You can put it all on me if you like; but 
 I dont believe you care any more than I do. 
 
 Bobby. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by 
 the pars and mars. 
 
 Mabgabet. Yes. 
 
 Bobby. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, 
 no girl can ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve 
 been brought up so much together that it feels more like 
 brother and sister than — well, than the other thing, doesnt 
 it? 
 
 Mabgabet. Just so. How did you find out the 
 difference? 
 
 Bobby [blushing] Oh, I say! 
 
 Mabgabet. I found out from a Frenchman. 
 
 Bobby. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his 
 consternation]. 
 
21p Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 ■^ Maegaeet. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? 
 You know you must have learnt it from somebody. 
 
 Bobby. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. 
 But shes been rather unfortunate. The daughter of a 
 clergyman. 
 
 Margaeet [startledl Oh, Bobby! That sort of 
 woman! 
 
 Bobby. What sort of woman? 
 
 Maegaeet. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's 
 daughter, do you, you silly boy? It's a stock joke. 
 
 Bobby. Do you mean to say you dont believe me? 
 
 Maegaeet. No: I mean to say I dont believe her. 
 
 Bobby [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the: 
 table beside her]. What do you know about her? What do 
 you know about all this sort of thing? 
 
 Maegaeet. What sort of thing, Bobby? 
 
 Bobby. Well, about life. 
 
 Maegaeet. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I 
 wasnt at my aunt's. All that time that you were in 
 Srighton, I mean. 
 
 Bobby. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better teU you: 
 youre bound to find out sooner or later. [He begins his 
 confession humbly, avoiding her gaze]. Meg: it's rather 
 awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ive been in 
 prison. 
 
 Maegaeet. You! 
 
 Bobby. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the 
 police. 
 
 Maegaeet. Do you mean to say that yo,u — oh! this is 
 a let-down for me. [She comes off the table and drops, dis- 
 consolate, into a chair at the end of it furthest from the 
 hearth]. 
 
 Bobby. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engage- 
 ment after that. I was writing to you to break it off. 
 [He also descends from the table and makes slowly for the 
 hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter. 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 211 
 
 Margaret. Oh, has everybody been in prison for 
 being drunk and assaulting the police? How long were 
 you in? 
 
 Bobby. A fortnight. 
 
 Margaret. Thats what I was in for. 
 
 BoBBT. What are you talking about? In where? 
 
 Margaret. In quod. 
 
 Bobby. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and 
 truly — 
 
 Margaret. What did you do to the copper? 
 
 Bobby. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated 
 grossly. I only laughed at him. 
 
 Margaret {jumping wp, triumphant] Ive beaten you 
 hollow. I knocked out two of his teeth. Ive got one of 
 them. He sold it to me for ten shillings. 
 
 Bobby. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you 
 I'm not rotting. [He sits down in the armchair, rather 
 sulkily]. 
 
 Margaret [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and 
 going to him] And I tell you I'm not either. Look! 
 Heres a report of it. The daily papers are no good; but 
 the Sunday papers are splendid. [She sits on the arm of the 
 chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at Eighteen. A 
 quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her 
 name" — thats me. 
 
 Bobby [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you 
 mean to say that you went on the loose out of pure 
 devilment? 
 
 Margaret. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely 
 dance. I picked up a nice man and went to have a dance 
 myself. I cant imagine anything more innocent and more 
 happy. All the bad part was done by other people: they 
 did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here we 
 are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isnt it a 
 relief? 
 
 Bobby [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same 
 
212 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 for a girl. A man may do things a woman maynt. [He 
 stands on the hearthrug with his back to the fire]. 
 
 Mabgaret. Are you scandalized, Bobby? 
 
 Bobby. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can 
 you, Meg? I never thought you were that sort of girl. 
 
 Margaret [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt 
 pretend to think that I'm a clergyman's daughter, Bobby. 
 
 Bobby. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont 
 forget the row you got into for letting out that you ad- 
 mired Juggins [she turns her back on him. quickly} — a foot- 
 man! And what about the Frenchman? 
 
 Margaret [facing him again] I know nothing about the 
 Frenchman except that hes a very nice fellow and can 
 swing his leg round like the hand of a clock and knock a 
 policeman down with it. He was in Wormwood Scrubbs 
 with you. I was in Holloway. 
 
 Bobby. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but 
 this is a bit thick, you know. 
 
 Margaret. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman 
 whos been in prison? 
 
 Bobby [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even 
 give a woman a greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she 
 were thoughtless and a bit on, perhaps, might get into a 
 scrape. Anyone who reaUy understood her character 
 could see there was no harm in it. But youre not the 
 larky sort. At least you usent to be. 
 
 Margaret. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks 
 straight up to him]. I didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did 
 it out of the very depths of my nature. I did it because 
 I'm that sort of person. I did it in one of my religious fits. 
 I'm hardened at eighteen, as they say. So what about the 
 match, now? 
 
 Bobby. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, 
 Meg. Of course it would be ridiculous for me to set up 
 to be shocked, or anything of that sort. I cant afford to 
 throw stones at anybody; and I dont pretend to. I can 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 213 
 
 understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as long as it is 
 understood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go on 
 the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connec- 
 tion with it; to— to— well, Meg, I do find that a bit 
 thick, I must say. I hope youre not in earnest when you 
 talk that way. 
 
 Margaket. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, 
 anyhow. 
 
 Bobby [huffed] I'm sorry. Miss Knox. , 
 
 Margabet. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her 
 heel and goes to the other end of the table]. I suppose you 
 wont introduce me to the clergyman's daughter. 
 
 BoBBT. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, 
 after all. [He sits down at the table, as if to resume work at 
 his boohs: a hint to her to go]. 
 
 Margaret [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; 
 and tell Juggins to shew me out. 
 
 BoBBT [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg. 
 
 Margaret [coming to the table] Then do something nice 
 to prevent us feeling mean about this afterwards. Youd 
 better kiss me. You neednt ever do it again. 
 
 Bobby. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be 
 for you. 
 
 Margaret. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what 
 you call fun, I should ask the Frenchman to kiss me — or 
 Juggins. 
 
 Bobby [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be 
 disgusting, Meg. Dont be low. 
 
 Margaret [determinedly, jireparing to use force] Now, I'll 
 make you kiss me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; 
 jndls him off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck]. 
 
 Bobby. No. Stop. Leave go, will you. 
 
 Juggins appears at the door. 
 
 Juggins. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins 
 goes out. Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the 
 other side of the room. 
 
214 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Dora [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, 
 you are a Juggins to shew me up when theres company. 
 [To Margaret and Bobby] It's all right, dear: all right, old 
 man: I'll wait in Juggins's pantry til youre disengaged. 
 
 Makgaret. Dont you know me? 
 
 Doha [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her 
 very attentively] Why, it's never No. 406! 
 
 Margaret. Yes it is. 
 
 Dora. Well, I should never have known you out of the 
 uniform. How did you get out? You were doing a month, 
 Tvernt you? 
 
 Margaret. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out 
 himself. 
 
 Dora. A real gentleman ! [Pointing to Bobby, who is star- 
 ing open-mouthed] Look at him. He cant take it in. 
 
 Bobby. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, 
 Meg. But when it comes to talking about blokes and all 
 that — well! 
 
 Margaret. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. 
 It's another barrier broken down. 
 
 BoBBT. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I 
 think [he looks at Dora and stops]. 
 
 Margaret [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, 
 Bobby? 
 
 Doba. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, 
 dearie. It does him credit: he always was a gentleman, 
 you know. 
 
 Margaret. Does him credit! To insult you like that! 
 Bobby: say that that wasnt what you meant. 
 
 Bobby. I didnt say it was. 
 
 Margaret. Well, deny that it was. 
 
 Bobby. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; 
 but I do think it's not quitjB the same thing my knowing 
 her and you knowing her. 
 
 Dora. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll 
 just trot ofiF and come back in half an hour. You 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 215 
 
 two can make it up together. I'm really not fit company 
 for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. [She turns 
 to go]. 
 
 Mabgabet. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to 
 me.'' 
 
 DoBA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between 
 a girl and a respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad 
 from settling himself. I have a conscience; though I 
 maynt be as particular as some. 
 
 Mabgabet. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; 
 and Bobby's behaving like a skunk. 
 
 BoBBT [much ruffled] Nice language that! 
 
 DoEA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean 
 things to keep up their respectability. But you cant blame 
 them for that, can you? Ive met Bobby walking with his 
 mother; and of course he cut me dead. I wont pretsnd I 
 liked it; but what could he do, poor dear? 
 
 Mabgabet. And now he wants m e to cut you dead to 
 keep him in countenance. Well, I shant: not if my whole 
 fantily were there. But I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat 
 you properly. [To Bobby, with a threatening move in his 
 direction] I'll educate you, you young beast. 
 
 Bobby [furious, meeting her half way ] Who are you call- 
 ing a young beast? 
 
 Mabgabet. You. 
 
 Doha [peacemaking] Now, dearies! 
 
 Bobby. If you dont take care, youU get your fat head 
 jolly well clouted. 
 
 Mabgabet. If you dont take care, the policeman's 
 tooth will only be the beginning of a collection. 
 
 DoBA. Now, loveys, be good. 
 
 Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue 
 at Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his pro- 
 tended countenance a box on the cheek. He hurls himself 
 her. They wrestle. 
 
 Bobby. Cat! I'll teach you. 
 
216 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Margaeet. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on 
 the table]. Now where are you? 
 
 DoBA [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one 
 another. 
 
 JuGGHNS [throtving [open the door, and announcing] Mon- 
 sieur Duvallet. 
 
 Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead 
 silence. The combatants separate by the whole width of the 
 room. Juggins withdraws. 
 
 Duvallet. I fear I derange you. 
 
 Makgaket. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: 
 Monsieur Duvallet will think I'm always fighting. 
 
 Duvallet. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland 
 wrestling. Admirable, Miss Kaox. The athletic young 
 Englishwoman is an example to all Europe. [Indicating 
 Bobbf] Your instructor, no doubt. Monsieur — [he bows]. 
 
 BoBBT [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do? 
 
 Maegaeet [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked 
 Monsieur Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell 
 you. [Introducing] Monsieur Duvallet: Miss Four hun- 
 dred and seven. Mr Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. I 
 really dont know how to explain our relationships. Bobby 
 and I are like brother and sister. 
 
 Duvallet. Perfectly. I noticed it. 
 
 Maegaeet. Bobby and Miss — Miss — 
 
 DoEA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, hewitchingly] 
 Darling Dora, to real friends. 
 
 Maegaeet. Bobby and Dora are — are — well, not 
 brother and sister. 
 
 Duvallet [with redoubled comprehension] PEEfectly. 
 
 Maegaeet. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in 
 prison. You dont mind, do you? 
 
 Duvallet. No, naturally. 7 have spent the last fort- 
 night in prison. 
 
 The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort. 
 
 Maegaeet. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison. 
 
Act ni Fanny's First Play 217 
 
 DuvALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her 
 enlargement. 
 
 Dora. Trop merei, as they say in Boulogne. No call to 
 be stiff with one another, have we? 
 
 Juggins comes in. 
 
 Juggins. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are 
 coming up the street. 
 
 DoKA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door]. 
 
 Jttggins. If you wish to leave without being seen, you 
 had better step into my pantry and leave afterwards. 
 
 DoBA. Right oh! [She bursts into song] 
 
 Hide me in the meat safe til the cop goes by. 
 Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. 
 [She goes out on tiptoe]. 
 
 Maegaket. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll 
 keep her company in the pantry. [She follows Dora]. 
 
 Bobby. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the 
 Mar here. I say. Juggins: you can give us tea in the 
 pantry, cant you.? 
 
 Juggins. Certainly, sir. 
 
 Bobby. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont 
 mind, Mr. Doovalley, do you? 
 
 Duvallbt. I shall be charmed. 
 
 Bobby. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, 
 by the way. Juggins, fetch down that concertina from 
 my room, will you? 
 
 Juggins. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him 
 to the door]. You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady 
 absolutely comme il faut? 
 
 Duvallet. Perfectly. But the other? 
 
 Juggins. The other, sir, may be both charitably and 
 accurately described in your native idiom as a daughter of 
 joy. 
 
 Duvallet. It is what I thought. These English 
 ■domestic interiors are very interesting. [He goes out, fol- 
 lowed by Juggins]. 
 
218 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their 
 accustomed places: he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end 
 of the table. 
 
 Mrs Gilbbt. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob? 
 
 GiLBET. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. 
 Dont you go looking for trouble, Maria. 
 
 Mrs Gilbey [snuffi,ng up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes 
 been here. {Gilbey rings the bell]. What are you ringing 
 for? Are you going to ask? 
 
 Gilbey. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this 
 morning he wanted to speak to me. If he likes to tell me, 
 let him; but I'm not going to ask; and dont you either. 
 [Juggins appears at the door]. You said you wanted to say 
 something to me. 
 
 Juggins. When it would be convenient to you, sir. 
 
 Gilbey. Well, what is it? 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs 
 Knox to tea. „ ^ 
 
 Gilbey. He knows that. {He sits down. Then, to Jug- 
 gins] What is it? 
 
 Juggins {advancing to the middle of the table] Would it 
 inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month's 
 notice? 
 
 Gilbey {taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied? 
 
 Juggins. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better 
 myself, I assure you. , \, . 
 
 Gilbey. Well, what do you want to leave for, thfen? 
 Do you want to worse yourself? 
 
 Juggins. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most 
 comfortable establishment; and I should be greatly dis- 
 tressed if you or Mrs Gilbey were to interpret my notice 
 as an expression of dissatisfaction. 
 
 Gilbey [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. 
 I'm an older man than you. Dont you throw out dirty 
 water til you get in fresh. Dont get too big for your boots. 
 Youre like all servants nowadays: you think youve only 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 219 
 
 to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a dozen jobs. 
 But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated 
 here. In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at 
 the door except on Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; and 
 no other manservant to interfere with you. It may be a 
 bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of adventure. 
 Take my advice: think over it. You suit me; and I'm 
 prepared to make it suit you if youre dissatisfied — in 
 reason, you know. 
 
 Juggins. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private 
 reasons — 
 
 GiLBET [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the 
 hearthrug in dudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The 
 sooner the better. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay 
 his month. 
 
 Gilbet [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his charac- 
 ter, Maria? Do you think I dont see what it is? We're 
 prison folk now. Weve been in the police court. [To Jug- 
 gins] Well, I suppose you know your own business best. 
 I take your notice: you can go when your month is up, or 
 sooner, if you like. 
 
 Juggins. Believe me, sir — 
 
 Gilbet. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I 
 dont blame you. You can go downstairs now, if youve 
 nothing else to trouble me about. 
 
 Juggins. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you 
 Ive no objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. 
 You may do six months yourself, sir, and welcome, with- 
 out a word of remonstrance from me. I'm leaving solely 
 because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, and 
 feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him 
 until he gets over it. 
 
 Gilbet. And is he to keep you all that time? or are 
 you to spend your savings in comforting him? Have some 
 sense, man: how can you afford such things? 
 
220 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Juggins. My brother can afiford to keep me, sir. The 
 truth is, he objects to my being in service. 
 
 GiLBET. Is that any reason why you should be depend- 
 ent on him? Dont do it. Juggins: pay your own way like 
 an honest lad; and dont eat your brother's bread while 
 youre able to earn your own. 
 
 Juggins. There is sound sense in that, sir. But un- 
 fortunately it is a tradition in my family that the younger 
 brothers should spunge to a considerable extent on the 
 eldest. 
 
 GiLBET. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the 
 better, my man. 
 
 Juggins. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent 
 one. 
 
 GiLBET. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin 
 to take liberties. Juggins, now that you know we're loth to 
 part with you. Your brother isnt a duke, you know. 
 
 Juggins. Unfortunately, he is, sir. 
 
 GiLBEY. 1 ^^ ^^^^^ r What ! 
 
 Mes Gilbet. / ^ I Juggins! 
 
 Juggins. Excuse me, sir: the bell. [He goes out]. 
 
 GiLBEY [overwhelmed] Maria: did you understand him 
 to say his brother was a duke? 
 
 Mbs Gilbey. Fancy his condescending! ' Perhaps if 
 youd ofPer to raise his wages and treat him as one of the 
 family, he'd stay. , , , 
 
 Gilbey. And have my own servant above me! Not me. 
 Whats the world coming to? Heres Bobby and — 
 
 Juggins [entering and announcing] Mr and Mrs Knox. 
 
 The Knoxes come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the 
 wall and places them at the table, between the host and hostess. 
 Then he withdraws. 
 
 Mrs. Gilbey [to Mrs Knox] How are you, dear? 
 
 Mbs Knox. Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr 
 Gilbey. [They shake hands; and she takes the chair nearest 
 Mrs Gilbey. Mr Knox takes the other chair]. 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 221 
 
 _ GiLBET [sitting down] I was just saying, Knox, What 
 IS the world coming to? 
 
 Knox [appealing to his rvife] What was I saying myself 
 only this morning? 
 
 Mbs Knox. This is a strange time. I was never one to 
 talk about the end of the world; but look at the things 
 that have happened! ^. 
 
 Knox. Earthquakes! 'Xi^---^t-t\. _ , -r: -y, "' ^..j, _g,. 
 
 GiLBEY. San Francisco! 
 
 Mks GiLBET. Jamaica! . >; 
 
 Knox. Martinique! 
 
 GiLBEY. Messina! 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. The plague in China! ' Q ' '' 
 
 Mrs Knox. The floods in France! r^ j^at: 
 
 Gilbey. My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs! 
 
 Knox. Margaret in HoUoway! 
 
 Gilbey. And now my footman tells me his brother's a 
 duke! ^- t^' 
 
 Knox. "l [No! 
 
 Mrs Knox. / I Whats that? 
 
 Gilbey. Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has 
 everything been respectable from the beginning of the 
 world, as you may say, to the present day; and all of a 
 sudden everything is turned upside down. 'C 
 
 Mrs Knox. It's like in the book of Revelations. 
 But I do say that unless people have happiness 
 within themselves, all the earthquakes, all the floods, 
 and all the prisons in the world cant make them really 
 happy. 
 
 Knox. It isnt alone the curious things that are happen- 
 ing, but the unnatural way people are taking them. Why, 
 theres Margaret been in prison, and she hasnt time to go P-'"-' 
 to all the invitations shes had from people that never 
 asked her before. 
 
 Gilbey. I never knew we could live without being 
 respectable. 
 
222 ^Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says 
 we're not respectable? 
 
 Gilbet. Well, it's not what I call respectable to have 
 your children in and out of gaol. 
 
 Knox. Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because 
 weve had, as it were, an accident. 
 
 Gilbet. It's no use, Knox : look it in the face. Did I 
 ever tell you my father drank? 
 
 Knox. No. But I knew it. Simmons told me< 
 
 Gilbet. Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he 
 told me your aunt was a feleptomanfae. 
 
 Mbs Knox. It wasnt true, 'Mr Gilbey. She used to 
 pick up handkerchiefs if she saw them lying about; but 
 you might trust her with untold silver. 
 
 Gilbet. My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father 
 used to say to me: Rob, he says, dont you ever have a 
 weakness. If you find one getting a hold on you, make a 
 merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil doesnt like spirits; 
 and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of the Blue 
 Ribbon Committee./I do like spirits; and I make a merit 
 of it, and I'm the King Cockatoo ot the Convivial Cocka- 
 toos. Never put yourself in tne wrong, he says. I used 
 to boast about what a good boy Bobby i was. Now I 
 swank about what a dog h^is; and it pleases people just 
 as well. What a worldll^is! T^ ><^ 
 
 Knox. It turned my blood cold at first to hear Mar- 
 garet telling people about HoUoway; but it goes down 
 better than her singing used to. 
 
 Mbs Knox. I never thought she sang right after all 
 those lessons we paid for. , *_Ai_^,_^t- 
 
 Gilbet. Lord; Knox, it was lucky you and me got let 
 in together. - 1 tell you straight, if it hadnt been for 
 Bobby's disgrace, I'd have broke up the firm. '-'x- -i> 
 
 Knox. I shouldnt have blamed you : I'd have done the 
 same only for Margaret. Too much straightlacedness 
 narrows a man's mind. Talking of that, what about those 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 
 
 hygienic corset advertisements that Vines & Jackson want 
 us to put in the window? I told Vines they werent decent 
 and we couldnt shew them in our shop. I was pretty high 
 with him. But what am I to say to him now if he comes 
 and throws this business in our teeth? 
 
 GiLBEY. Oh, put em in. We may as well go it a bit 
 
 DOW. , 
 
 Mhs Gilbey. Youve been going it quite far enough, 
 Rob. [To Mrs Knox] He wont get up in the mornings now: 
 he that was always out of bed at seven to the tick! 
 
 Mrs Knox. You hear that, Jo? [To Mrs Gilbey] Hes 
 taken to whisky and soda. A pint a week! And the beer 
 the same as before! 
 
 Knox. Oh, dont preach, old girl. 
 
 Mhs Knox [To Mrs Gilbey] Thats a new name hes got 
 for me. [to Knox] I tell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on 
 you. You may call it preaching if you like; but it's the 
 truth for all that. I say that if youve happiness within 
 yourself, you dont need to seek it outside, spending money 
 on drink and theatres and bad company, and being miser- 
 able after all. You can sit at home and be happy; and 
 you can work and be happy. If you have that in you, the 
 spirit will set you free to do what you want and guide you 
 to do right. But if you havent got it, then youd best be 
 respectable and stick to the ways that are marked ou,t for 
 you; for youve nothing else to keep you straight. 
 
 Knox [angrily] And is a man never to have a bit of fun? 
 See whats come of it with your daughter! She was to be 
 content with your happiness that youre always talking 
 about; and how did the spirit guide her? To a month's 
 hard for being drunk and assaulting the police. Did / ever 
 assault the police? 
 
 Mrs Knox. You wouldnt have the courage. I dont 
 blame the girl. -v ' <- • «^. 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. "1 Oh, Maria! What are you saying? 
 
 Gilbey. J What! And you so pious! 
 
224 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Mbs Knox. She went where the spirit guided her. And 
 what harm there was in it she knew nothing about. 
 
 GiLBET. Oh, come, Mrs Knox! Girls are not so inno- 
 cent as all that. ■ i • • ...,ra^<cfA^AZ*^'^£<^^ 
 
 Mrs Knox. I dent say she was ignorant. But I do say 
 that she didnt know what we know: I mean the way 
 certain temptations get a sudden hold that no goodness 
 nor self-control is any use against. She was saved from 
 that, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no 
 earthly protection that did that. But dont think, you 
 two men, that youll be protected if you make what she 
 did an excuse to go and do as youd like to do if it wasnt 
 for fear of losing your characters. The spirit wont guide 
 you, because it isnt in you; and it never had been: not 
 in either of you. 
 
 GiLBET [with ironic humility] I'm sure I'm obliged to 
 you for your good opinion, Mrs Knox. i '^^-^ ^^- "'-<^ 
 
 Mhs Knox. Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that 
 youre better than my man here. Hes a bitter hard 
 heathen, is my Jo, God help me ! [She begins to cry quietly]. 
 
 Knox. Now, dont take on like that, Amelia. You 
 know I always give in to you- that you were right about 
 religion. But one of us had to think of other things, or 
 we'd have starved, we and the child. 
 
 Mrs Knox. How do you know youd have starved? All 
 the other things might have been added unto you. 
 
 GiLBET. Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a 
 sinner. I know better. I'm sure youd be 'the first to be , 
 sorry if anything was to happen to him. - ' > - ' ■• coitT 
 
 Knox [bitterly to his unfe] Youve always had some 
 grudge against me; and nobody but yourself can under- 
 stand what it is. 
 
 Mbs Knox. I wanted a man who had that happiness 
 within himself. You made me think you had it; but it 
 was nothing but being in love with me. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. And do you blame him for that? 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 225 
 
 Mrs Knox. I blame nobody. But let him not think he 
 can walk by his own light. I tell him that if he gives up 
 being respectable he'll go right down to the bottom of the 
 hill. He has no powers inside himself to keep him steady; 
 so let him cling to the powers outside him. 
 
 Knox [rising angrily] Who wants to give up being re- 
 spectable? All this for a pint of whisky that lasted a 
 week ! How long would it have lasted Simmons, I wonder? 
 
 Mrs Knox [gently] Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I wont 
 plague you about it. [He sits down]. You never did 
 understand; and you never will. Hardly anybody under- 
 stands: even Margaret didnt til she went to prison. She 
 does now; and I shall have a companion in the house after 
 all these lonely years. 
 
 Knox [beginning to cry] I did all I could to make you 
 happy. I never said a harsh word to you. 
 
 GiLBET [rising indignantly] What right have you to 
 treat a man like that? an honest respectable husband? as 
 if he were dirt under your feet? 
 
 Knox. Let her alone, Gilbey. [Gilbey sits down, but 
 mutinously]. 
 
 Mhs Knox. Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and 
 if it wasnt what I wanted, that wasnt your fault. But I'd 
 rather have you as you were than since you took to 
 whisky and soda. 
 
 Knox. I dont want any whisky and soda. I'll take the 
 pledge if you like. 
 
 Mrs Knox. No: you shall have your beer because you 
 like it. The whisky was only brag. And if you and me 
 are to remain friends, Mr Gilbey, youU get up to-morrow 
 morning at seven. 
 
 Gii^BEY [defiantly] Damme if I will ! There! 
 
 Mrs Knox [with gentle pity] How do you know, Mr 
 Gilbey, what youU do to-morrow morning? 
 
 Gilbey. Why shouldnt I knqw? Are we children not 
 to be let do what we like, and our own sons and daughters 
 
226 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 kicking their heels all over the place? [To Knox] I was 
 never one to interfere between man and wife, Knox; but 
 if Maria started ordering me aboutflike that — 
 
 Mbs Gilbey. Now dont be naughty, Rob. You know 
 you mustnt set yourself up against religion? 
 
 GiLBET. Whps setting himself up against religion? 
 
 Mrs Knox. It doesnt matter whether you set yourself 
 up against it or not, Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against 
 you, youU have to go the appointed way: it's no use 
 quarrelling about it with me that am as great a sinner as 
 yourself. 
 
 GiLBET. Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner? 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. Now, Rob, you know we are pU sinners. 
 What else is religion? i^^ 
 
 Gilbet. I say nothing against religion. I suppose we're 
 all sinners, in a manlner of speafii'&g; but I dont like to 
 have it thrown at me as if I'd really done anything. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob. 
 
 Gilbet. Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good. 
 Would g,nybody like it? ' 
 
 Mrs Knox. Dont take ofifence where none is meant, 
 Mr Gilbey. Talk about something else. No good ever 
 comes of arguing about such things among the like of us. 
 
 Knox. The like of us! Are you throwing it in our 
 teeth that your people were in the wholesale and thought 
 Knox and Gilbey wasnt good enough for you? 
 
 Mrs Knox. No, Jo: you know I'm not. What better 
 were my people than yours, for all their pride? But Ive 
 noticed it all my life: we're ignorant. We dont really 
 know whats right and whats wrong. We're all right as 
 long as things go on the way they always did. We bring 
 our children up just as we were brought up; and we go to 
 church or chapel just as our parentsl^id; and we say what 
 everybody says; and it goes on all right until something 
 out of the way happens: theres a family quarrel, or one of 
 the children goes wrong, or a father takes to drink, or an 
 
'Act III Fanny's First Play 237 
 
 aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing some- 
 thing we never thought we'd want to do. And then you 
 know what happens: complaints and quarrels and hufi 
 and offence and bad language and bad temper and regular 
 bewilderment as if Satan possessed us all. We find out 
 then that with all our respectability and piety, weve no 
 real religion and no way of telling right from wrong. Weve 
 nothing but our habits; and when theyre upset, where are 
 we? Just like Peter in the storm trying to walk on the 
 water and finding he couldnt. 
 
 Mhs Gilbet [piously] Aye! He found out, didnt he? 
 
 GiLBET [reverently] I never denied that youve a great 
 intellect, Mrs Knox — -^ 
 
 Mbs Knox. Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you be- 
 gin talking about my intellect. Give us some tea, Maria. 
 Ive said my say; and Im sure I beg the company's pardon 
 for being so long about it, and so disagreeable. 
 
 Mhs Gilbet. Ring, Rob. [Gilbey rings]. Stop. Juggins 
 will think we're ringing for him. 
 
 Gilbet [appalled] It's too late. I rang before I thought 
 of it. 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. Step down and apologize, Rob. 
 
 Knox. Is it him that you said was brother to a — 
 
 Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes 
 the tray to Mrs. Gilhey, 
 
 Gilbet. I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins. 
 I wasnt thinking when I rang. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet [trying to take the tray from him] Let me. 
 Juggins. 
 
 Juggins. Please sit down, madam. Allow me to dis- 
 charge my duties just as usual, sir. I assure you that is 
 the correct thing. [They sit down, ill at ease, whilst he 
 places the tray on the table. He then goes out for the curate]. 
 
 Knox [lowering his voice] Is this all right, Gilbey? 
 Anybody may be the son of a duke, you know. Is he 
 legitimate? 
 
228 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 GiLBET. Good lord! I never thought of that. 
 
 Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with.^ 
 suspicion. 
 
 GiLBET [whispering to Knox] You ask him. 
 
 Knox [to Juggins] Just a word with you, my man.' "Was 
 your mother married to your father? 
 
 JiTGGiNS. I believe so, sir. I cant say from personal 
 knowledge. It was before my time. 
 
 GiLBET. Well, but look Ijere you know — [he hesitates]. 
 
 Juggins. Yes, sir? * 
 
 Knox. I know whatU clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to 
 me. [To Juggins] Was your mother the duchess? 
 
 Juggins. Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. 
 [To Mrs Gilbey] Tha,t is the milk, madam. [She has mis- 
 taken the jugs]. This is the water. 
 
 They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment. 
 
 Mbs Knox. What did I tell you? Heres something out 
 of the common happening with a servant; and we none 
 of us know how to behave. 
 
 Juggins. It's quite simple, madam. I'm a footman, 
 and should be treated as a footman. [He proceeds calmly 
 with his duties, handing round cups of tea as Jjlrs Knox fills 
 them]. 
 
 Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the 
 company. 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. Whats that noise? Is Master Bobby at 
 home? I heard his laugh. 
 
 Mbs Knox. I'm sure I heard Margaret's. 
 
 Gilbey. Not a bit of it. It was that woman. 
 
 Juggins. I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse 
 the liberty; but I'm entertaining a small party to tea in 
 my pantry. ; "" 
 
 Mbs Gilbet. But youre not entertaining Master 
 Bobby? 
 
 Juggins. Yes, madam. 
 
 Gilbet. Who's with him? 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 229 
 
 Juggins. Miss Knox, sir. 
 
 GiLBET. Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone 
 
 Juggins. Only a French marine officer, sir, and— er— 
 Miss Delaney. [He places Gilhey's tea on the table before 
 him\. The lady that called about Master Bobby, sir. 
 
 Knox. Do you mean to say theyre having a party all 
 to themselves downstairs, and we having a party up here 
 and knowing nothing about it? 
 
 Juggins. Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of enter- 
 taining in the pantry for Master Bobby, sir. 
 
 GiLBET. Well, this is a nice state of things! 
 
 Knox. Whats the meaning of it? What do they do it 
 for? 
 
 Juggins. To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Enjoy themselves! Did lever anybody 
 hear of such a thing? 
 
 GiLBET. Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry! 
 
 Knox. Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a foot- 
 man — [Suddenly realizing that the footman is offering him 
 cake] She doesnt know about — about His Grace, you know. 
 
 Mrs Gilbet. Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr Juggins? 
 
 Juggins. The other lady suspects me, madam. They 
 call me Rudolph, or the Long Los^ Heir. '' ' ' ' 
 
 Mbs GllijET. It's a much nicer name than Juggins. I 
 think I'll call you by it, if you dont mind. 
 
 Juggins. Not at all, madam. 
 
 Roars of merriment from below. 
 
 Gilbet. Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right 
 have they to make a noise like that? 
 
 Juggins. I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But 
 the French gentleman always sets them off again. 
 
 Knox. Do you mean to tell me that my daughter 
 laughs at a Frenchman's jokes? 
 
 Gilbet. We all know what French jokes are. 
 
 Juggins. Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this 
 
230 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 afternoon has all been because the Frenchman said that 
 the cat had whooping coiigh. 
 
 Mes Gilbey [laughing heartily] Well, I never! 
 
 GiLBET. Dont be a fool, 'Maria. Look here, Knox: we 
 cant let this go on. People cant be allowed to behave like 
 this. 
 
 Knox. Just what I say. 
 
 A concertina adds its music to the revelry. 
 
 Mbs Gilbey [excited] Thats the squiffer. Hes bought 
 it for her. 
 
 Gilbey. Well, of all the scandalous — [Redoubled laughter 
 from below]. 
 
 Knox. I'll put a stop to this. [He goes out to the landing 
 and shouts] Margaret! [Sudden dead silence]. Margaret, 
 I say! 
 
 Makgabet's Voice. Yes, father. Shall we all come up? 
 We're dying to. 
 
 Knox. Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behav- 
 ing like wild Indians. 
 
 Doha's Voice [screaming] Oh! oh! oh! Dont, Bobby. 
 Now — oh! [In headlong flight she dashes into and right 
 across the room, breathless, and slightly abashed by the com- 
 pany]. I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey, for coming in like 
 that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby, he pre- 
 tends it's a cat biting my ankles ; and I just must scream. 
 
 Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently 
 in high spirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the 
 hearthrug, and presently slips down into the arm-chair. 
 
 Mabgaeet. How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? [She posts 
 herself behind her mother]. 
 
 Duvallet comes in behaving hirhself perfectly. Knox fol- 
 lows. 
 
 Mahgabet. Oh — let me introduce. My friend Lieu- 
 tenant DuvaUet. Mrs Gilbey. Mr Gilbey. [Duvallet bows 
 and sits down on Mr Knox's l^t. Juggins placing a chair for 
 him]. 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 231 
 
 Doha. Now, Bobby: introduce me: theres a dear. 
 
 Bobby [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his 
 spirits] Miss Delaney: Mr and Mrs Knox. [Knox, as he 
 resumes his seat, acknowledges the introduction suspiciously. 
 Mrs Knox bows gravely, looking keenly at Dora and taking 
 her measure without prejudice]. 
 
 Doha. Pleased to meet you. [Juggins places the baby 
 rocking-chair for her on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs 
 Knox]. Thank you. [She sits and turns to Mrs Gilbey] 
 Bobby's given me the squiffer. [To the company generally] 
 Do you know what theyve been doing downstairs? [She 
 goes off into ecstasies of mirth]. Youd never guess. Theyve 
 been trying to teach me table manners. The Lieutenant 
 and JR.udolph say I'm a regular pig. I'm sure I never knew 
 there was anything wrong with me. But live and learn 
 [to Gilbey] eh, old dear? 
 
 Jtjggins. Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. [He 
 retires to the end of the sideboard nearest the door]. 
 
 Dora. Oh get out! I must call a man something. He 
 doesnt mind: do you, Charlie? 
 
 Iks GiiiBET. His name isnt Charlie. 
 
 Dora. Excuse me. I caU everybody Charlie. 
 
 Juggins. You mustnt. 
 
 Dora. Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold 
 my tongue altogether; and then how sorry youd be! 
 Lord, how I do run on! Dont mind me, Mrs Gilbey. 
 
 Knox. What I want to know is, whats to be the end of 
 this? It's not for me to interfere between you and your 
 son, Gilbey: he knows his own intentions best, no doubt, 
 and perhaps has told them to you. But Ive my daughter 
 to look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a clear 
 understanding about her. No good is ever done by beating 
 about the bush. I ask Lieutenant— well, I dont speak 
 _ French; and I cant pronounce the name — 
 
 Margaret. Mr Duvallet, father. 
 
 Knox. I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are. 
 
 
232 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Mabgaeet. Oh father: how can you? 
 
 DuvALLET. I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not 
 enough to understand. Intentions? How? 
 
 Mabgaret. He wants to know will you marry me. 
 
 Mes GiLBET. I What a thing to say! 
 
 Knox. \ Silence, miss. 
 
 Doha. J Well, thats straight, aint it? 
 
 DuvALLET. But I am married already. I have two 
 daughters. 
 
 Knox [rising, virtuously indignant] You sit there after 
 carrying on with my daughter, and tell me cooUy youre 
 married. 
 
 Mabgabet. Papa: you really must not tell people that 
 they sit there. {He sits down again sulkily]. 
 
 DuvALLET. Pardon. Carrying on? What does that 
 mean? 
 
 Mabgaeet. It means — 
 
 Knox [violently] Hold your tongue, you shameless 
 young hussy. Dont you dare say what it means. 
 
 DuvALLET [shrugging his shoulders] What does it mean, 
 Rudolph? 
 
 Mbs Knox. If it's not proper for her to say, it's not 
 proper for a man to say, either. Mr Doovalley: youre a 
 married man with daughters. Would you let them go 
 about with a stranger, as you are to us, without wanting 
 to know whether he intended to behave honorably? 
 
 Dtjvallet. Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. 
 That is very difiPerent./ It would not be correct for a French 
 girl to go about alone and speak to men as English and 
 American girls do. That is why I so immensely admire the 
 English people. You are so free — so unprejudiced — your 
 women are so brave and frank — their minds are so — how 
 do you say? — wholesome. I intend to have my daughters 
 educated in England. Nowhere else in the world but in 
 England could I have met at a Variety Theatre a charming 
 young lady of perfect respectability, and enjoyed a dance 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 233 
 
 with her at a public dancing saloon. And where else are 
 women trained to box and knock out the teeth of policemen 
 as a protest against injustice and violence? [Rising, with 
 immense Slan] Your daughter, madam, is superb. Your 
 country is a model to the rest of Europe. If you were a 
 Frenchman, stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and the tyr- 
 anny of the family and the home, you would understand 
 how an enlightened Frenchman admires and envies your 
 freedom, your broadmindedness, and the fact that home 
 life can hardly be said to exist in England. You have 
 made an end of the despotism of the parent; the family 
 council is unknown to you; everywhere in these islands one 
 can enjoy the exhilarating, the soul-liberating spectacle 
 of men quarrelling with their brothers, defying their fathers, 
 refusing to speak to their mothers. In France we are not 
 men: we are only sons — grown-up children. Here one is 
 a human being — an end in himselj^^Oh, Mrs Knox, if 
 only your military genius were equal to your moral genius 
 — if that conquest of Europe by France which inaugurated 
 the new age after the Revolution had only been an English 
 conquest, how much more enlightened the world would 
 have been now! We, alas, can only fight. France is un- 
 conquerable. We impose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, 
 our obsolete institutions, our insufferable pedantry on the 
 world by brute force — by that stupid quality of military 
 heroism which shews how little we have evolved from the 
 savage: nay, from the beast. We can charge like bulls; 
 we can spring on our foes like gamecocks; when we are 
 overpowered by reason, we can die fighting like rats. 
 And we are foolish enough to be proud of it ! Why should 
 we he? Does the bull progress? Can you civilize the 
 gamecock? Is there any future for the rat? We cant 
 even fight intelligently : when we lose battles, it is because 
 we have not sense enough to know when we are beaten. 
 At Waterloo, had we known when we were beaten, we 
 should have retreated; tried another plan; and won the 
 
234 Fanny's First Play Act HE 
 
 battle. But no: we were too pigheaded to admit that 
 there is anything impossible to a Frenchman: we were 
 quite satisfied when our Marshals had six horses shot under 
 them, and our stupid old grognards died fighting rather 
 than surrender like reasonable beings. Think of your 
 great Wellington: think of his inspiring words, when the 
 lady asked him whether British soldiers ever ran away. 
 "All soldiers run away, madam," he said; "but if there are 
 supports for them to fall back on it does not matter." 
 Think of your illustrious Nelson, always beaten on land, 
 always victorious at sea, where his men could not run 
 away. You are not dazzled and misled by false ideals of 
 patriotic enthusiasm: your honest and sensible statesmen 
 demand for England a two-power standard, even a three- 
 power standard, frankly admitting that it is wise to fight 
 three to one : whilst we, fools and braggarts as we are, de- 
 clare that every Frenchman is a host in himseK, and that 
 when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is 
 guilty of an act of cowardice comparable to that of the 
 man who strikes a woman. It is foUy: it is nonsense: a 
 Frenchman is not really stronger than a German, than an 
 Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if all Frenchwomen 
 were like your daughter — if all Frenchmen had the good 
 sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the 
 calm judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the 
 foresight and true courage, which are so natural to you as 
 an Englishman that you are hardly conscious of possessing 
 them, France would become the greatest nation in the world. 
 
 Mahgabet. Three cheers for old England ! [She shakes 
 hands with him warmly]. 
 
 BoBBT. Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us. 
 
 Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with 
 enthusiasm, kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his 
 chair, wiping his perspiring brow. 
 
 GiLBET. Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you 
 make anything out of it, Knox? 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 235 
 
 Knox. The long and short of it seems to be that he cant 
 lawfully marry my daughter, as he ought after going to 
 prison with her. 
 
 Doha. I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any 
 satisfaction. 
 
 GiLBET. No you dont. Not if I know it. 
 
 Mrs Knox. He ought to, Mr Gilbey. 
 
 GiLBET. Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I 
 want np more of it. Would you invite them to your house 
 if he married her? 
 
 Mrs Knox. He ought to marry her whether or no. 
 
 BoBBT. I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox. 
 
 Gilbey. Hold your tongue. Mind your own business. 
 
 BoBBT [wildly] If I'm not let marry her, I'll do some- 
 thing downright disgraceful. I'll enlist as a soldier. 
 
 Juggins. That is not a disgrace, sir. 
 
 Bobby. Not for you, perhaps. But youre only a foot- 
 man. I'm a gentleman. 
 
 Mrs Gilbey. Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr 
 Rudolph, Bobby. For shame! 
 
 Juggins [coming forward to the middle of the table] It is not 
 gentlemanly to regard the service of your country as 
 disgraceful. It is gentlemanly to marry the lady you make 
 love to. 
 
 Gilbey [aghast] My boy is to marry this woman and 
 be a social outcast! 
 
 Juggins. Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably 
 condemned by respectable society to spend the rest of their 
 days in precisely the sort of company they seem to like 
 best and be most at home in. 
 
 Knox. And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter? 
 Juggins. Your daughter, sir, will probably marry who- 
 ever she makes up her mind to marry. She is a lady of 
 very determined character. 
 
 Knox. Yes: if he'd have her with her character gone. 
 But who would? Youre the brother of a duke. Would — 
 
236 Fanny's First Play Act III 
 
 Bobby. 1 f Whats that? 
 
 Mabgahet. Juggins a duke? 
 
 DuvALLET. CommentI 
 
 DoBA. J [ What did I tell you? 
 
 Knox. Yes: the brother of a duke: thats what he is. 
 [To Juggins] Well, would you marry her? 
 
 Juggins. I was about to propose that solution of your 
 problem, Mr Knox. 
 
 Mbs GiLBET. 1 fWelllnever! 
 
 Knox. ■ ■ D'ye mean it? 
 
 Mbs Knox. J I Marry Margaret! 
 
 Juggins [continuing] As an idle younger son, unable to 
 support myself, or even to remain in the Guards in com- 
 petition with the grandsons of American millionaires, I 
 could not have aspired to Miss Knox's hand. But as a 
 sober, honest, and industrious domestic servant, who has, 
 I trust, given satisfaction to his employer [he bows to Mr 
 Gilhey] I feel I am a man with a character. It is for Miss 
 Knox to decide. 
 
 Maegaeet. I got into a frightful row once for admiring 
 you, Rudolph. 
 
 Juggins. I should have got into an equally frightful 
 row myself. Miss, had I betrayed my admiration for you. 
 I looked forward to those weekly dinners. 
 
 Mes Knox. But why did a gentleman Like you stoop to 
 be a footman? 
 
 DoEA. He stooped to conquer. 
 
 Maegabet. Shut up, Dora: I want to hear. 
 
 Juggins. I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will under- 
 stand. I once insulted a servant — rashly; for he was a 
 sincere Christian. He rebuked me for trifling with a girl 
 of his own class. I told him to remember what he was, 
 and to whom he was speaking. He said God would re- 
 member. I discharged him on the spot. 
 
 GiLBET. Very properly. t : a- ^. .^^ ,.. , .^ ^ ^ CCi'^-T" 
 
 Knox. What righthad he to mention such a thingtoyou? 
 
Act III Fanny's First Play 237 
 
 Mes Gilbbt. What are servants coming to? 
 
 Mbs Knox. Did it come true, what he said? 
 
 Juggins. It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled 
 for months. Then I gave in. I apprenticed myself to an 
 old butler of ours who kept a hotel. He taught me my 
 present business, and got me a place as footman with 
 Mr Gilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able 
 to look him in the face. 
 
 Mas Knox. Margaret: it's not on account of the duke: 
 dukes are vanities. But take my advice and take hi m. 
 
 Margabet [slipping her arm through his] I have loved 
 Juggins since the first day I beheld him. I felt instinc- 
 tively he had been in the Guards. May he walk out with 
 me, Mr Gilbey? 
 
 Knox. Dont be vulgar, girl. Remember your new posi- 
 tion. [To Juggins] I suppose youre serious about this, 
 Mr— Mr Rudolph? 
 
 Juggins. I propose, with your permission, to begin 
 keeping company this afternoon, U Mrs Gilbey can spare 
 me. ^A>fJ,» •.-*.«. ^. '.'"- ,|i!>--6s.'.,<.. ( >_. 
 
 Gilbey [in a gust of envy, to Bobby] Itll be long enough 
 before youll marry the sister of a duke, you young good.- 
 for-nothing. -^ J^ • ' ' " / "X-^ '"'~ 
 
 Dora. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph wHl teach me 
 high-class manners. I call it quite a happy ending: dont 
 you, lieutenant? 
 
 Duvallet. In France it would be impossible. But 
 here — ah! [kissing his hand] la belle Angleterre! 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries 
 to the 4 critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats. 
 
 The Count. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I im- 
 plore you to witlilibld your opinion. I am not strong 
 enougli to bear it. I could never have believed it. Is this 
 a play? Is this in any' sense of the word, Arl? Is it 
 agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human 
 being? Is it delicate? Do such people really exist? Ex- 
 cuse me, gentlemen: I speak from a wounded heart. 
 There are private reasons for my discomposure. This 
 play implies' obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches and men- 
 aces to all of us who are parents. <-. ^ ^j^-v^.^- 
 
 Thottek. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, 
 the thing has amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as 
 impertinence. " ' Y'- ' ' " <J^M.'-<.Kjfc\ 
 
 The Count. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the 
 pococurantist. [Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three sylla- 
 bles in his throat, making a noise like a pheasant]. You see 
 hundreds of plays every year. But to me, who have never 
 seen anything of this kind before, the effect of this play 
 is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been what people call 
 an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit. [Vaughan 
 is shocked]. Love beautifies every romance and justifies 
 every audacity. [Bannal assents gravely]. But there are 
 reticences which everybody should respect. There are 
 
 238 
 
Fanny's First Play 239 
 
 decencies too subtle to be put into wdrds, without wtich 
 human society would be unbearable. People could not 
 talk to one another as those people talk. No child could 
 speak to its parent — no girl could speak to a youth — no 
 human creature could tear down the veils — [Appealing to 
 Vaughan, who is on his left flank, with Ounn between them] 
 Could they, sir.? 
 
 Vaughan. Well, I dont see that. 
 
 The Count. You dont see it! dont feel it! [To Gunn] 
 Sir: I appeal to you. 
 
 GtTNN [toith studied weariness] It seems to me the most 
 ordinary sort of old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel. 
 
 The Count [turning to Trotter, who is on his right, be- 
 tween him and Bannal] Mr Trotter: will you tell me that 
 you are not amazed, outraged, revolted, wounded in your 
 deepest and holiest feelings by every word of this play, 
 every tone, every implication; that you did not sit there 
 shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might 
 come next? 
 
 Tkotter. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could 
 turn out that kind of thing by the yard. 
 
 The Count. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, 
 never to return. I must believe what you tell me. I per- 
 ceive that you are not agitated, not surprised, not con- 
 cerned; that my own horror (yes, gentlemen, horror — 
 horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to you, 
 ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little 
 younger than myself. Sir: if young people spoke to me 
 like that, I should die of shame: I could not face it. I 
 must go back. The world has passed me by and left me. 
 Accept the apologies of an elderly and no doubt ridiculous 
 admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was still 
 some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in 
 family life. But I promised my daughter your opinion; 
 and I must keep my word. Gentlemen: you are the 
 choice and master spirits of this age: you walk through 
 
240 Fanny's First Play 
 
 it without bewilderment and face its strange products 
 without dismay. Pray deliver your verdict. Mr Bannal: 
 you know that it is the custom at a Court Martial for the 
 'youngest officer present to deliver his judgment first; so 
 that he may not be influenced by the authority of his 
 elders. You are the youngest. What is your opinion of 
 the play.' , j 
 
 Bannal. Well, whos it by? V-' ^* * «u,..:^ 
 
 The Count. That is a secret for the present. 
 .Bannal. You dont expect me to know what to say 
 about a play when I dfint laiojvjwjiaihe-^aithor is, do you? 
 
 The Count. Why notT' 
 
 Bannal. Why not! Why not! ! Suppose you had to 
 write about a play by Pinero and one by Jones! Would 
 you say exactly the same thing about them? 
 
 The Count. I presume not. 
 
 Bannal. Then how could you write about them until 
 you knew which was Pinero and which was Jones? Be- 
 sides, what sort of play is this? thats what I want to know. 
 Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or a m^lodram'Sj,? 
 Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying stuff? 
 
 GuNN. Cant you teinfom seeing it? ito^. h^ 
 
 Bannal. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to 
 know how to take it? Is it serious, orj§'.it^sjBoof? If the 
 author knows what his play is, lethim tell us what it is. 
 If he doesnt, he cant complain if I dont know either. I'm 
 not the author. 
 
 The Count. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats 
 a simple question. 
 
 Bannal. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a 
 good' author, it's a goq^ play, naturally. That stands to 
 reason. Who is the author? Tell me that; and I'll place 
 the play for you to a hair's breadth. , , ' 
 
 The Count. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the 
 author's name. The author desires that the play should 
 be judged on its merits. 
 
 .1^-^' 
 
Fanny's First Play 241 
 
 Bannal. But what merits can it have except the 
 author's merits? Who would you say it's by, Gunn? I' 
 
 GuNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a 
 rotten old-fashioned domestic melodrama acted by the 
 usual stage puppets. The hero's a naval lieutenant. All 
 melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants?/ The heroine 
 gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into 
 trouble, thered be no drama)^nd plays, for sympathy all 
 the time as hard as she can. ^ler good old pious mother 
 turns on her cruel father when hes going to put her out of 
 the house, and says she'll go too. Then theres the comic 
 relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic shopkeeper's 
 wife, the comic footman who turns out to be a duke in 
 disguise, and the young scapegrace who gives the author 
 his excuse for dragging in a fast young woman. All as old 
 and stale as a fried fish shop on a winter morning. 
 
 The Count. But — 
 
 Gunn [interrupting him] I know what youre going to 
 say. Count. Youre going to say that the whole thing 
 seems to you. to be quite new and unusual and original. 
 The'iiaval lieutenant is a Frenchman who cracks up the 
 English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old 
 Shaw touch. The characters are second-rate middle class, 
 instead of being dukes and millionaires. The heroine gets 
 kicked through the mud: real mud. Theres no glot. All> 
 the old stage conventions and puppets withoutthe^ old ' 
 ingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble air of 
 intellectual pretentiousness kept up all through to per- 
 suade you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's 
 because hes too clever to stoop to anything so common- 
 place. And you three experienced men have sat through 
 all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why, the play 
 bears the author's signature in every line. 
 
 Bannal. Who? 
 
 Gunn. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey 
 is straight out of The Madras House. 
 
242 Fanny's First Play 
 
 Bannal. Poor old Barker! 
 
 Vaughan. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the differ- 
 ence in style? 
 
 Bannal. No. 
 
 Vaughan [contemptuously] Do you know what style is? 
 
 Bannal. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform 
 style. But it's not my style — since you ask me. 
 
 Vaughan. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that 
 play. To begin with, it's intensely disagreeable. There- 
 fore it's not by Barrie, in spite of the footman, who's 
 cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He was an earl, 
 you may remember. You notice, too, the author's offen- 
 sive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in 
 them when you come to examine them, just to set all the 
 fools in the house giggling. Then what does it all come to? 
 An attempt to expose the supposed hypocrisy of the Puri- 
 tan middle class in England: people just as good as the 
 author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable improper 
 female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if 
 you cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken 
 your professions: thats all X have to say. 
 
 Bannal. Why are you so dowiToirPinero? And what 
 about that touch that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's 
 long speech. I believe it's Shaw. 
 
 Gunn. Rubbish ! 
 
 Vaughan. Rot! You may put tha,ji idea out of your 
 head, Bannal. Poor a^ -this -pla;y"''is,^' theres ^the' not'&"of 
 passion in it. You feel somehow that beneath all the 
 assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she really 
 loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive 
 repeatedly proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable 
 of the note of passion. 
 
 Bannal. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. 
 Thats right. I always say' that myself. A giant brain, if 
 you ask me; but no heart. 
 
 Gunn. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval 
 
Fanny's First Play 243 
 
 psychology of heart and brain — Shakespear would have 
 called it liver and wits — is really schoolboyish. Surely 
 weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer. Even 
 such a played-out old back number asjbsen would have 
 been asBafEerof it. Heart and brain, indeed! 
 
 Vaughan. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. 
 Youre decadent. 
 
 Gttnn. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian 
 word! 
 
 Vaughan. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the 
 characters in this play were quite distinguishable from 
 one another. That proves it's not by Shaw, because all 
 Shaw's characters are himself: mere puppets stuck up to 
 spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them seem 
 different. 
 
 Bannal. There can be no doubt of that: everybody 
 knows it. But Shaw doesnt write his plays as plays. All 
 he wants to do is to insult everybody all round and set us 
 talking about him. 
 
 Tkotter [wearily] And naturally, here we are all talking 
 about him. For heaven's sake, let us change the subject. 
 
 Vaughan. Still, my articles about Shaw — 
 
 Gunn. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive 
 always told you about Shaw is — 
 
 Bannal. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chiick 
 it. If you want to know my opinion_about Shas?:=^ ,- 
 
 Tbotteb ] f No, please, we dont. 
 
 Vaughan > [yelling] ■! Shut your head, Bannal. 
 
 Gunn J [ Oh, do drop it. 
 
 The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies 
 from the centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan. 
 
 Bannal [sulkily] Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 Thotteh 1 j Shaw— 
 
 Vaughan [ [beginning again simultaneously] j Shaw — 
 
 Gunn I Shaw— 
 
244 Fanny's First Play 
 
 They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the cur- 
 tains. She is almost in tears. 
 
 Fanny [coming between Trotter and \Gunn] I'm so sorry, 
 gentlemen. And it was such a success when I read it to 
 the Cambridge Fabian Socie%! 
 
 Tbottek. Miss O'Dowda: I was about to tell these 
 gentlemen what I guessed before the curtain rose: that 
 you are the author of the play. [General amazement and 
 consternation]. 
 
 Fanny. And you all think it beastly. You hate it. 
 You think I'm a conceited idiot, and that I shall never be 
 able to write anything decent. 
 
 She is almost weeping. A wave of sympathy carries away 
 the critics. 
 
 Vaughan. No, no. Why, I was just saying that it must 
 have been written by Pinero. Didnt I, Gunn? 
 
 Faisny [enormously flattered] Really? 
 
 Tkotteb. I thought Pinero was much too popular for 
 the Cambridge Fabian Society. 
 
 Fanny. Oh yes, of course; but still — Oh, did you really 
 say that, Mr Vaughan.'' 
 
 Gunn. I owe you an apology. Miss O'Dowda. I said 
 it was by^Bark^r. 
 
 FANNY>a5mw<] Granville- Barker! Oh, you couldnt 
 really have thought it so fine as that. 
 
 Bannal. I said Bernard Shaw. 
 
 Fanny. Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard 
 Shaw. The Fabian touch, you know. 
 
 Bannal [coming to her encouragingly] A jolly good little 
 play. Miss O'Dowda. Mind: I dont say it's like one of 
 Shakespear's — Hamlet or The Lady of Lyons, you know 
 — but still, a firstrate little bit of work. [He shakes her 
 hand]. 
 
 Gunn [following Bannal's example] I also. Miss 
 O'Dowda. Capital. Charming. [He shakes hands]. 
 
 Vaughan [with maudlin solemnity] Only be true to your- 
 
Fanny's First Play 245 
 
 self. Miss O'Dowda. Keep serious. Give up making silly 
 jokes. Sustain the note of passion. And youll do great 
 things. 
 
 Fanny. You think I have a future? 
 
 Tbotteb. You have a past. Miss O'Dowda. 
 
 Fanny [looking apprehensively at her father] Sh-sh-sh! 
 
 The Cotjnt.\ A past! What do you mean, Mr Trotter.? 
 
 Tbotteb [to Fanny] You cant deceive me. That bit 
 about the police was real. Youre a Suffraget, Miss 
 O'Dowda. You were on that Deputation. 
 
 The Count. Fanny: is this true? 
 
 Fanny. It is. I did a month with Lady Constance 
 Lytton; and I'm prouder of it than I ever was of anything 
 or ever shall be again. 
 
 Tbotteb. Is that any reason why you should stuff 
 naughty plays down my throat? 
 
 Fanny. Yes: itU teach you what it feels like to be 
 forcibly fed. 
 
 The Count. She will never return to Venice. I feel 
 now as I felt when the Campanile fell. 
 
 Savoyard comes in through the curtains. 
 
 Savoyabd [to the Count] Would you mind coming to say 
 a word of congratulation to the company? Theyre rather 
 upset at having had no curtain call. 
 
 The Count. Certainly, certainly. I'm afraid Ive been 
 rather remiss. Let us go on the stage, gentlemen. 
 
 The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play 
 and the actors on the stage. The Count, Savoyard, the critics, 
 and Fanny join them, shaking hands and congratulating. 
 
 The Count. Whatever we may think of the play, 
 gentlemen, I'm sure you will agree with me that there can 
 be only one opinion about the acting. 
 
 The Ceitics. Hear, hear! [They start the applause]. 
 
 Ayot St. Lawkbncb, March 1911.