Man and Superman: Act II

Act II

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

THE LEGS. Aha! I got him.

TANNER. All right now?

THE LEGS. All right now.

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

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

THE CHAUFFEUR. Had enough of it, eh?

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

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

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

THE CHAUFFEUR. What are you afraid of?

TANNER. The police, and breaking my neck.

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

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

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

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

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

TANNER. Perhaps they're here already.

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

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

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

TANNER. Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STRAKER. Sherbrooke Road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TANNER. That's a very momentous social phenomenon.

OCTAVIUS. What is?

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

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

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

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

TANNER. Brute enough! What do you mean?

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

TANNER. Done what, you maudlin idiot?

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

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

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

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

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

TANNER. Hm! Did she say anything else?

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

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

OCTAVIUS. Her sense of duty is so devout, so perfect, so--

TANNER. Yes: I know. Go on.

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

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

OCTAVIUS. That answer won't satisfy her.

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

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

TANNER. You know very well that she is as free to choose as you. She
does not think so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTAVIUS. You think I shall tire of her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTAVIUS. Are there no winners in the Times?

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

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

TANNER. How many killed?

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

TANNER. Tavy: do you remember my uncle James?

OCTAVIUS. Yes. Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTAVIUS. What's the matter?

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

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

OCTAVIUS. [recovering himself] Does she give any reason?

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

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

TANNER. [staring at him] In short, you agree with Ann.

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

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

OCTAVIUS. Ann doesn't say that, Jack.

TANNER. What else does she mean?

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

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

TANNER. What do you say now, Tavy.

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

ANN. What do you mean?

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

ANN. Of course.

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

ANN. Rhoda has written to you!

TANNER. With full particulars.

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

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

Octavius beams.

TANNER. Ay: tighten the coils. You love her, Tavy, don't you?

OCTAVIUS. She knows I do.

ANN. Hush. For shame, Tavy!

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

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

OCTAVIUS. I fly, dearest Ann [he kisses her hand].

ANN. [tenderly] Ricky Ticky Tavy!

He looks at her with an eloquent blush, and runs off.

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

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

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

ANN. I know you are incapable of behaving badly.

TANNER. Then why did you lie to her?

ANN. I had to.

TANNER. Had to!

ANN. Mother made me.

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

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

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

ANN. I love my mother, Jack.

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

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

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

ANN. You talk so well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TANNER. [aghast] You'll come!!!

ANN. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TANNER. But--

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

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

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

Ramsden strolls over to inspect the motor car. Octavius joins Hector.

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

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

RAMSDEN. I should think it very likely indeed.

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

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

TANNER. Abyss beneath abyss of perfidy!

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

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

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

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

OCTAVIUS. Violet!

General constraint.

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

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

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

Continued embarrassment.

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

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

OCTAVIUS. It's not that, Malone--at least not altogether.

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

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

HECTOR. [thunderstruck] You don't tell me so!

TANNER. We do. In confidence.

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

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

TANNER. We don't know who he is.

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

They become more embarrassed than ever.

OCTAVIUS. You must think this very strange.

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

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

OCTAVIUS. [sympathetically] I hope this is not a disappointment to you.

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

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

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

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

TANNER. [sardonically] Ha!

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

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

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

OCTAVIUS. [with conviction] So it does.

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

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

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

HECTOR. [gratefully] You're a good fellow, Robinson, Thank you.

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

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

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

Violet comes down the avenue to Hector.

VIOLET. Are they looking?

HECTOR. No.

She kisses him.

VIOLET. Have you been telling lies for my sake?

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

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

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

VIOLET. I wish your father were not so unreasonable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HECTOR. All right, all right, I--

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

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

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

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

VIOLET. The beast! I hate Jack Tanner.

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

VIOLET. How jolly!

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

Tanner returns with Straker, who goes to his car.

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

HECTOR. [eagerly--forgetting himself] Let's come, Vi.

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

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

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

TANNER. About this trip, Straker.

STRAKER. [preoccupied with the car] Yes?

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

STRAKER. So I gather.

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

STRAKER. Yes.

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

STRAKER. [looking round at him] Evidently.

TANNER. "Evidently!" Your grandfather would have simply winked.

STRAKER. My grandfather would have touched his at.

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

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

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

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

TANNER. Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

STRAKER. Cause she's arter summun else.

TANNER. Bosh! who else?

STRAKER. You.

TANNER. Me!!!

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

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

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

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

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

TANNER. [momentously] Henry Straker: the moment of your life has
arrived.

STRAKER. What d'y'mean?

TANNER. That record to Biskra.

STRAKER. [eagerly] Yes?

TANNER. Break it.

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

TANNER. I do.

STRAKER. When?

TANNER. Now. Is that machine ready to start?

STRAKER. [quailing] But you can't--

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

STRAKER. Garn! you're kiddin.

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

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

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