Masters of the Theatre

by Delphi Classics

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. Yo
u 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 a
ll 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.