Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  REID.

  Until you realised that you could not marry your father’s secretary.

  LADY ANNE.

  Have it so, then. Why did I seek to convince you? What is it to me how vile you think me? Still it seems to me strange that after all these years, so clever a man should not be able to see that I was helpless in the hands of my relatives. What was my will against their will?

  REID.

  You made no effort to resist them. You were determined on a rich marriage.

  LADY ANNE.

  If I had married you, you would be tired of me by now. We should have been married ten years. All the romance would be faded.

  REID.

  You think so. Is that the lesson that life has taught you?

  LADY ANNE.

  You think, then, that you wouldn’t have grown tired of me? You used to say so. I still keep the verses you wrote to me. Do you remember the corner of the terrace where the sun set behind the hills? Looking down that valley, we thought that we saw our lives from end to end.

  REID.

  That illusive valley.

  LADY ANNE.

  I like the poem. It is one of the prettiest in your book. You see I have marked it REID.

  Oh, then you have read my poems?

  LADY ANNE.

  Yes, I bought the volume when it first came out I little thought I should meet John Reid again and in such circumstances.

  REID.

  Or little cared. I remember one evening, we were walking together on the terrace, we had said that we loved one another. The conversation had fallen; I was thinking of our future, and without a word of warning you said, “But this will never be.” Next time we met I noticed that your manner was wholly changed, and when your coldness forced me to ask you if you wished me to forget you, to go away, you answered, “I think it would be as well if you did.”

  LADY ANNE.

  It is as I thought You remember only what was disagreeable in me. You cannot find excuse in childish ignorance. However, you have forgotten me. How could it be otherwise? what we’re talking of is ten years ago.

  REID.

  Why do we speak of these things? (Stops and looks at her.) I have done nothing but reproach you. I really don’t know why. I’ve come here on a purely business matter. Why do we not confine ourselves to it?

  LADY ANNE.

  Perhaps it would be better if we did. The accounts are in the library. I’ll take you there at once. (She goes towards the door. Looking round.) But how pale you’re looking, and all this time I’ve not asked you to sit down.... You’re looking ill.

  REID.

  It is nothing. I’m only a little tired. I’ve been speaking in the Merton district I’d then to attend a committee meeting. I was detained longer than I expected, and had to run most of the way here.

  LADY ANNE.

  I should have noticed your tired face before. Sit down — rest yourself.

  REID.

  I’ll sit down for a few minutes — if you’re not pressed for time?

  LADY ANNE.

  I’ve nothing to do.... But I must be careful what I talk to you about You do not wish to speak of the past — let us speak of the present. You’ve made your way in the world since we last saw each other. I should like to hear how you won your success. You must have worked very hard. You must have suffered; for you’d very little, only your younger child’s portion.

  REID.

  I was poor then, I’m poor now — now, because my work leaves so little time for earning money. I suppose it was hard at first, but I went through no melodramatic struggle for existence. I could always make money with my pen.

  LADY ANNE.

  I am glad of that Then why —

  REID.

  Did I become a socialist? Oh, it was not because I could not “get on.”

  LADY ANNE.

  There must have been a reason.

  REID.

  Oh yes, there was a reason.

  LADY ANNE.

  Perhaps I shall not be able to understand your reasons? I know nothing of political economy.

  REID.

  My reason was a very simple one — so simple that I can hardly call it a reason at all — a mere human sentiment I felt I was leading a selfish life. I grew aware of the misery around me. When I came home in the morning in evening clothes and white cravat I did not dare to look the poor vagrants in the face — the poor wretches who had just risen from the cold stones and walked shivering onwards in front of the policeman.

  LADY ANNE.

  I remember one summer morning I dropped my fan as I was getting out of the carriage. One of those poor creatures picked it up and handed it to me. It was horrible.

  REID.

  I came to think more and more about the poverty and the misery that three parts of the world live in — of the injustice of what we call civilisation, and gradually —

  LADY ANNE.

  So it was not Ellen Sands who drew you into socialism?

  REID.

  No; I’ve only known her about a year. But it was her enthusiasm that strengthened me in my convictions; I might say gave me convictions, for before I met her I only felt that things were wrong in the world. I did not know that they could be remedied.

  LADY ANNE.

  And now you’re going to marry her; and henceforth you’ll live among the people. You’re going to take the final step. I wonder if you’ll be happy?

  REID.

  I shall be happy as another. Who is happy? Are you happy?

  LADY ANNE.

  I often think I’m not. I often hate my life, and wonder what is the use of all this hurry after mere amusement. But I never had any one to encourage me to think, to help me to think. (Pause.) I like to listen to you. It seems quite natural to think as you do. It is interesting to think of things.

  (Enter BARON STEINBACH.)

  STEINBACH.

  Oh, I thought you were in the library examining the books.

  REID.

  Lady Anne has been good enough to take an interest in my book. It is, I’m afraid, too easy to tempt a poet into talking of his verses.

  LADY ANNE.

  I’m quite ready.

  REID.

  But it seems a shame, Lady Anne, to fatigue you with dry account-books. If Baron Steinbach has finished his letters —

  LADY ANNE.

  The accounts will not fatigue me. Besides, this will be an opportunity to obtain an insight into my affairs, which I have neglected. It is I who should speak to you of fatigue. You’re really looking very tired and pale.

  STEINBACH.

  I wonder when Mr. Reid will tire of work for those who understand nothing of his aims and aspirations, whose ideas are limited to their pint-pots!

  REID.

  Lady Anne, time presses. If you wish me to go into the matter of these accounts, I must do so at once. If the books are in order it will not take us long to get at the results.

  LADY ANNE.

  This is the way to the library.

  (Exeunt, right.)

  STEINBACH.

  I wonder what the effect of this meeting will be — accounts and conversations about poetry. (Paces the stage!) Poetry!

  (Stops before table, takes up REID’S poems, sits down, and turns over the leaves. FOOTMAN opens the door; shows in Mr. HAMER.)

  HAMER.

  I apologise, Baron Steinbach. I do hope I am not wasting your valuable time. But I thought you might favour me with your views on the capitalistic question before I leave Arlingford.

  STEINBACH.

  My dear Mr. Hamer, what can I have to say on a subject so utterly worn out with controversy?

  HAMER.

  For the original mind no subject is worn out.

  STEIN BACH.

  You’re too complimentary. However, if you’ll put some questions, I’ll try to answer them.

  HAMER.

  You visited Lady Anne’s mine this morning; you were impressed by its gloom, its danger.... Let me remind you that
human beings are born for life-long labour in its subterranean night... How different their fate from yours! In a few weeks you’ll be back in your palace on the beautiful Italian coast I want to ask you if you think such inequality just?

  STEINBACH.

  Of course it is not just Look into Nature, examine her intentions, and you’ll find injustice at the root of every one. What can be more unjust than that one brother should never know a day’s illness, and the other brother should never know a day’s health? Why do some come into the world criminals, crazed with passion from which they cannot escape, and which lead them by certain steps to the gallows?

  HAMER.

  The socialists know very well that there will always be healthy and unhealthy, stupid and intelligent, but they think that —

  STEIN BACH.

  That some day they’ll be neither rich nor poor? But poverty and riches are merely the consequence of health and disease, stupidity and intelligence.

  HAMER.

  If it were not legal for the individual to accumulate capital there would be neither rich nor poor.

  STEINBACH.

  But it is nature and not man that is the inexorable tyrant (Getting up, holding on to and leaning over the rail of his chair.) You want me to tell you what I think of the capitalistic system. The capitalistic system is founded on thrift, on industry, and on forethought — three things which the world has agreed to call virtues. It is also founded on the lust of possession, on the pleasure of gambling, and the craving for personal superiority — three things which the world has agreed to call vices. Do you think that a system, founded on six instincts inherited from the beginning of time, can be overthrown?

  HAMER.

  Then you think that our present form of civilisation will endure for ever — that we have reached the highest attainable point?

  STEINBACH.

  New combinations will arise, but nothing will be altered. There have been a thousand reformers and not a single reformation. The misery of man is incurable.

  HAMER.

  Do you go so far as to say that life subsists on misery and vice as much as on happiness and virtue?

  STEINBACH.

  Surely. Misery and vice are antecedent to capital; they exist because Nature believes them essential in her design.

  HAMER (writing, and speaking to himself).

  Man cannot live by virtue alone.

  STEINBACH.

  Precisely; man cannot live by virtue alone. Nature and the socialist are at variance on this point, and Nature does not allow any one to contradict her. Socialism would take from life all it has of adventure and excitement; it would reduce the world to the colourless void of monastic life. It would go further than the most ferocious ascetic has yet gone; it would take from life even the excitement of religion! In the socialist monastery gambling for places in Paradise would not be allowed. (Turning to HAMER.) Have you got that?

  HAMER.

  One moment (He finishes writing and looks up.) But would you deny progress altogether? Surely the world is not as ignorant as it was? Education —

  STEINBACH.

  Education! What has it done? You’ve taught men to read, but what do they read? Are the books written to-day, when every one knows how to read, better than those that were written two thousand years ago, when few knew how to read? You have established schools for instruction in the art of painting and sculpture. Are your painting and sculpture as good as the painting and sculpture done before the world had begun to indulge in dreams of educational advantages?

  HAMER.

  You must admit that there is at least one improvement in modern over ancient life — the abolition of slavery.

  STEINBACH.

  The argument of the socialists is that the factory is the most ferocious form of slavery that the world has ever known. And I’m not sure that they are not right HAMER (getting up and closing his note-book).

  There are two more questions I should like to ask you, Baron Steinbach. You’re said to be one of the richest men in the world. The other day I saw it stated that your fortune exceeded ten millions.

  STEINBACH.

  Ten millions! When a man is known to be rich he’s credited with ten — a thousand times his real wealth. But let the amount be waived. What do you want to ask me?

  HAMER.

  I want to ask you if money is happiness?

  STEINBACH (walking up the stage).

  Oh, no. Happiness is another thing. Money, of course, means a great deal, otherwise we should not take the trouble we do to acquire it.

  But happiness is found not in money, but in work.

  HAMER.

  My last question.

  STEINBACH.

  Ask it HAMER.

  Admitting your contention that all are at liberty to acquire capital, and that capital is acquired by the intelligent and the industrious, do you not think that it is unjust that a man should be allowed to leave his money to children who have not worked for it, and are perhaps neither intelligent nor industrious?

  STEINBACH (coming down the stage).

  Are you married?

  HAMER.

  No, not yet.

  STEINBACH.

  When you are, and have children, believe me you’ll not question the law of inheritance.

  HAMER

  I understand. The family is the rock on which socialism goes to pieces. Thank you very much, Baron Steinbach. Your views, I’m sure, will be read with great interest I will send you a copy of the paper. I suppose that this address will find you. But that reminds me: you remember the interesting details you were kind enough to supply me with regarding the romantic attachment of Lady Anne and John Reid in early life?

  STEINBACH.

  I hope you’ve not referred to that in your paper.

  HAMER.

  Well, you remember I asked you if the facts were known?

  STEINBACH.

  I said that the story was not one that could be discussed in a public print It will injure Reid’s position.

  HAMER.

  It may do that; but, you see, it was a really interesting item of news, and things are so dull at present. I think you’ll find that I’ve treated the subject delicately. I do hope Lady Anne will not be annoyed.

  STEINBACH.

  She certainly will be annoyed. I’m afraid you cannot come here again.

  HAMER.

  I’m sure I should be sorry to think that — but it’s too late now. (Preparing to go?)

  STEINBACH.

  Has your article appeared?

  HAMER.

  No, but I’m afraid it is too late to withdraw it. It will probably go into to-morrow’s or Wednesday’s paper. I’ll send it to you, and I hope you’ll tell Lady Anne that —

  STEINBACH.

  I’ll tell her what you say — that things were dull But I doubt if she’ll be able to see the matter in that light HAMER.

  Thank you for your very interesting views — most interesting, I’m sure. Thank you again, and good morning. — (Exit.)

  STEINBACH (returning from the door).

  I thought that he would not be able to resist the temptation. I think that his article will bring this ridiculous flirtation to an end. (Goes to door at back. As he lays his hand on the handle, enter LADY ANNE and REID.)

  STEINBACH.

  Ah, so you’ve finished with the books. I hope they’ve convinced you —

  REID.

  Of the impracticability of our demands? Quite.

  STEINBACH.

  I’m glad of that It says much for your open-mindedness.

  LADY ANNE.

  Mr. Reid will advise the discontinuation of the strike?

  REID.

  I shall report the result of my examination of your books — the figures speak for themselves.

  STEINBACH.

  This is a serious refutation of your ideas.

  (Enter FOOTMAN.)

  FOOTMAN (approaching BARON STEINBACH).

  Mr. Hamer has come back, sir, and w
ishes to know if he can have a word with you.

  LADY ANNE.

  Will you see him in the morning-room, Baron Steinbach? Mr. Reid and —

  REID.

  But my business is quite finished. Pray do not let me —

  LADY ANNE.

  Mr. Reid, I hope you are not going yet We’ve still —

  STEINBACH.

  Will you excuse me? One has never quite done with an interviewer. I’ll see you later on, Lady Anne. — (Exit.)

  REID.

  I see that Baron Steinbach is an intimate friend of yours.

  LADY ANNE.

  I’ve known him a long while, and when all this trouble came I wrote asking him to help me. He came at once.

  REID.

  Was it love of you or hatred of us that brought him to Arlingford, I wonder?

  LADY ANNE.

  It is difficult to say why men do things. But you see that I preferred to accept your help to his.

  REID.

  I daresay he advised you against me — against this course. I remember you told me he did LADY ANNE.

  He doubts your power to assist me. He says you’ll be opposed; he thinks you’ll not be able to overcome this opposition.

  REID.

  What opposition? That of that thick-headed fellow the secretary of the committee, and a few fanatics? He’s mistaken. I’ve a hold over the men that they haven’t Ellen knows them all; they’re her friends, she visits them in their homes; but when it comes to a pinch it is I whom they obey.

  LADY ANNE.

  I wonder how that is? You’re so different — you haven’t a thought, not a sympathy in common.

  REID.

  I beg your pardon. At heart I was always of the people. They care little for poetry, it is true. But their sturdy fighting manhood is common ground where hearts — and fists too! — may meet The other day I took off my coat and gave a fellow a hiding. You should have heard them cheer me. My popularity is ten times what it was. I can do what I like with them.

  LADY ANNE.

  You gave the fellow a thrashing. Tell me about it REID.

  It was about the right to trade away the stores that had been obtained with the tickets — something about the tickets, something about drink. They must accept your last offer. Let me see, the percentage is — I’ve forgotten. My memory’s gone. (Sinks into a chair.)

  LADY ANNE.

  Oh, what is this? (Supports his head with her arm.) He’s fainted; he’s seriously ill (Runs for scent, wets her pocket handkerchief and bathes his face. He begins to revive.) He has only fainted. John, speak to me. Are you better? Lie still. No, no. Let me bathe your temples.