No More Learning

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].




ACT III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ANARCHIST. [rising] A point of order, Mendoza--

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

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

MENDOZA. Order, order.

THE OTHERS [shouting] Order, order. Sit down. Chair! Shut up.

The Anarchist is suppressed.

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

THE MAJORITY. [shouting assent] Hear, hear! So we are. Right.

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

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

THE SOCIAL-DEMOCRATS. Hear, hear!

MENDOZA. But I am well aware that the ordinary man--even the ordinary
brigand, who can scarcely be called an ordinary man [Hear, hear!