No More Learning

We seem to have made fools
of ourselves; but really it was you who made fools of us.

VIOLET. It was no business of yours, Jack, in any case.

TANNER. No business of mine! Why, Ramsden as good as accused me of being
the unknown gentleman.

Ramsden makes a frantic demonstration; but Violet's cool keen anger
extinguishes it.

VIOLET. You! Oh, how infamous! how abominable! How disgracefully you
have all been talking about me! If my husband knew it he would never let
me speak to any of you again. [To Ramsden] I think you might have spared
me, at least.

RAMSDEN. But I assure you I never--at least it is a monstrous perversion
of something I said that--

MISS RAMSDEN. You needn't apologize, Roebuck. She brought it all on
herself. It is for her to apologize for having deceived us.

VIOLET. I can make allowances for you, Miss Ramsden: you cannot
understand how I feel on this subject though I should have expected
rather better taste from people of greater experience. However, I quite
feel that you have all placed yourselves in a very painful position;
and the most truly considerate thing for me to do is to go at once. Good
morning.

She goes, leaving them staring.

Miss RAMSDEN. Well, I must say--!

RAMSDEN. [plaintively] I don't think she is quite fair to us.

TANNER. You must cower before the wedding ring like the rest of us,
Ramsden. The cup of our ignominy is full.




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.