No More Learning

They tremble when we are in danger, and weep
when we die; but the tears are not for us, but for a father wasted, a
son's breeding thrown away. They accuse us of treating them as a mere
means to our pleasure; but how can so feeble and transient a folly as
a man's selfish pleasure enslave a woman as the whole purpose of Nature
embodied in a woman can enslave a man?

OCTAVIUS. What matter, if the slavery makes us happy?

TANNER. No matter at all if you have no purpose of your own, and are,
like most men, a mere breadwinner. But you, Tavy, are an artist: that
is, you have a purpose as absorbing and as unscrupulous as a woman's
purpose.

OCTAVIUS. Not unscrupulous.

TANNER. Quite unscrupulous. The true artist will let his wife starve,
his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at
seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half
vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to
study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their
inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest
creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see
visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades
women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means
them to do it for his. He steals the mother's milk and blackens it to
make printer's ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He
pretends to spare her the pangs of childbearing so that he may have
for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her
children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a
bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a bloodsucker, a
hypocrite and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if
only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint
a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder
philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist's work is to show us
ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of
ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as
surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he
is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and
as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so
treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man
and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue
between them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist
cant, they love one another.

OCTAVIUS. Even if it were so--and I don't admit it for a moment--it is
out of the deadliest struggles that we get the noblest characters.

TANNER. Remember that the next time you meet a grizzly bear or a Bengal
tiger, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS. I meant where there is love, Jack.

TANNER. Oh, the tiger will love you. There is no love sincerer than the
love of food. I think Ann loves you that way: she patted your cheek as
if it were a nicely underdone chop.

OCTAVIUS. You know, Jack, I should have to run away from you if I did
not make it a fixed rule not to mind anything you say. You come out with
perfectly revolting things sometimes.

Ramsden returns, followed by Ann. They come in quickly, with their
former leisurely air of decorous grief changed to one of genuine
concern, and, on Ramsden's part, of worry. He comes between the two men,
intending to address Octavius, but pulls himself up abruptly as he sees
Tanner.

RAMSDEN. I hardly expected to find you still here, Mr Tanner.

TANNER. Am I in the way? Good morning, fellow guardian [he goes towards
the door].

ANN. Stop, Jack. Granny: he must know, sooner or later.

RAMSDEN. Octavius: I have a very serious piece of news for you. It is of
the most private and delicate nature--of the most painful nature too, I
am sorry to say. Do you wish Mr Tanner to be present whilst I explain?

OCTAVIUS. [turning pale] I have no secrets from Jack.

RAMSDEN. Before you decide that finally, let me say that the news
concerns your sister, and that it is terrible news.

OCTAVIUS. Violet! What has happened? Is she--dead?

RAMSDEN. I am not sure that it is not even worse than that.

OCTAVIUS. Is she badly hurt? Has there been an accident?

RAMSDEN. No: nothing of that sort.

TANNER. Ann: will you have the common humanity to tell us what the
matter is?

ANN. [half whispering] I can't. Violet has done something dreadful. We
shall have to get her away somewhere. [She flutters to the writing
table and sits in Ramsden's chair, leaving the three men to fight it out
between them].

OCTAVIUS. [enlightened] Is that what you meant, Mr Ramsden?

RAMSDEN. Yes. [Octavius sinks upon a chair, crushed]. I am afraid there
is no doubt that Violet did not really go to Eastbourne three weeks ago
when we thought she was with the Parry Whitefields. And she called on a
strange doctor yesterday with a wedding ring on her finger. Mrs. Parry
Whitefield met her there by chance; and so the whole thing came out.

OCTAVIUS. [rising with his fists clenched] Who is the scoundrel?

ANN. She won't tell us.

OCTAVIUS. [collapsing upon his chair again] What a frightful thing!

TANNER. [with angry sarcasm] Dreadful. Appalling. Worse than death, as
Ramsden says. [He comes to Octavius]. What would you not give, Tavy, to
turn it into a railway accident, with all her bones broken or something
equally respectable and deserving of sympathy?

OCTAVIUS. Don't be brutal, Jack.

TANNER. Brutal! Good Heavens, man, what are you crying for? Here is
a woman whom we all supposed to be making bad water color sketches,
practising Grieg and Brahms, gadding about to concerts and parties,
wasting her life and her money. We suddenly learn that she has turned
from these sillinesses to the fulfilment of her highest purpose and
greatest function--to increase, multiply and replenish the earth. And
instead of admiring her courage and rejoicing in her instinct; instead
of crowning the completed womanhood and raising the triumphal strain of
"Unto us a child is born: unto us a son is given," here you are--you who
have been as merry as Brigs in your mourning for the dead--all pulling
long faces and looking as ashamed and disgraced as if the girl had
committed the vilest of crimes.

RAMSDEN. [roaring with rage] I will not have these abominations uttered
in my house [he smites the writing table with his fist].

TANNER. Look here: if you insult me again I'll take you at your word and
leave your house. Ann: where is Violet now?

ANN. Why? Are you going to her?

TANNER. Of course I am going to her. She wants help; she wants money;
she wants respect and congratulation. She wants every chance for her
child. She does not seem likely to get it from you: she shall from me.
Where is she?

ANN. Don't be so headstrong, Jack. She's upstairs.

TANNER. What! Under Ramsden's sacred roof! Go and do your miserable
duty, Ramsden. Hunt her out into the street. Cleanse your threshold from
her contamination. Vindicate the purity of your English home. I'll go
for a cab.

ANN. [alarmed] Oh, Granny, you mustn't do that.

OCTAVIUS. [broken-heartedly, rising] I'll take her away, Mr Ramsden. She
had no right to come to your house.

RAMSDEN. [indignantly] But I am only too anxious to help her. [turning
on Tanner] How dare you, sir, impute such monstrous intentions to me?
I protest against it. I am ready to put down my last penny to save her
from being driven to run to you for protection.

TANNER. [subsiding] It's all right, then. He's not going to act up to
his principles. It's agreed that we all stand by Violet.

OCTAVIUS. But who is the man? He can make reparation by marrying her;
and he shall, or he shall answer for it to me.

RAMSDEN. He shall, Octavius. There you speak like a man.

TANNER. Then you don't think him a scoundrel, after all?

OCTAVIUS. Not a scoundrel! He is a heartless scoundrel.

RAMSDEN. A damned scoundrel. I beg your pardon, Annie; but I can say no
less.

TANNER. So we are to marry your sister to a damned scoundrel by way of
reforming her character! On my soul, I think you are all mad.

ANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Of course you are quite right, Tavy; but we
don't know who he is: Violet won't tell us.

TANNER. What on earth does it matter who he is? He's done his part; and
Violet must do the rest.

RAMSDEN. [beside himself] Stuff! lunacy! There is a rascal in our midst,
a libertine, a villain worse than a murderer; and we are not to
learn who he is! In our ignorance we are to shake him by the hand; to
introduce him into our homes; to trust our daughters with him; to--to--

ANN. [coaxingly] There, Granny, don't talk so loud. It's most shocking:
we must all admit that; but if Violet won't tell us, what can we do?
Nothing. Simply nothing.

RAMSDEN. Hmph! I'm not so sure of that. If any man has paid Violet any
special attention, we can easily find that out. If there is any man of
notoriously loose principles among us--

TANNER. Ahem!

RAMSDEN. [raising his voice] Yes sir, I repeat, if there is any man of
notoriously loose principles among us--

TANNER. Or any man notoriously lacking in self-control.

RAMSDEN. [aghast] Do you dare to suggest that I am capable of such an
act?

TANNER. My dear Ramsden, this is an act of which every man is capable.
That is what comes of getting at cross purposes with Nature. The
suspicion you have just flung at me clings to us all. It's a sort of mud
that sticks to the judge's ermine or the cardinal's robe as fast as to
the rags of the tramp. Come, Tavy: don't look so bewildered: it might
have been me: it might have been Ramsden; just as it might have been
anybody. If it had, what could we do but lie and protest as Ramsden is
going to protest.

RAMSDEN. [choking] I--I--I--

TANNER. Guilt itself could not stammer more confusedly, And yet you know
perfectly well he's innocent, Tavy.

RAMSDEN. [exhausted] I am glad you admit that, sir.
I admit, myself,
that there is an element of truth in what you say, grossly as you
may distort it to gratify your malicious humor. I hope, Octavius, no
suspicion of me is possible in your mind.

OCTAVIUS. Of you! No, not for a moment.

TANNER. [drily] I think he suspects me just a little.

OCTAVIUS. Jack: you couldn't--you wouldn't--

TANNER. Why not?

OCTAVIUS. [appalled] Why not!

TANNER. Oh, well, I'll tell you why not. First, you would feel bound
to quarrel with me. Second, Violet doesn't like me. Third, if I had
the honor of being the father of Violet's child, I should boast of it
instead of denying it. So be easy: our Friendship is not in danger.

OCTAVIUS. I should have put away the suspicion with horror if only you
would think and feel naturally about it. I beg your pardon.

TANNER. MY pardon! nonsense! And now let's sit down and have a family
council. [He sits down. The rest follow his example, more or less under
protest]. Violet is going to do the State a service; consequently she
must be packed abroad like a criminal until it's over. What's happening
upstairs?

ANN. Violet is in the housekeeper's room--by herself, of course.

TANNER. Why not in the drawingroom?

ANN. Don't be absurd, Jack. Miss Ramsden is in the drawingroom with my
mother, considering what to do.

TANNER. Oh! the housekeeper's room is the penitentiary, I suppose; and
the prisoner is waiting to be brought before her judges. The old cats!

ANN. Oh, Jack!

RAMSDEN. You are at present a guest beneath the roof of one of the old
cats, sir. My sister is the mistress of this house.

TANNER. She would put me in the housekeeper's room, too, if she dared,
Ramsden. However, I withdraw cats. Cats would have more sense. Ann: as
your guardian, I order you to go to Violet at once and be particularly
kind to her.

ANN. I have seen her, Jack. And I am sorry to say I am afraid she is
going to be rather obstinate about going abroad. I think Tavy ought to
speak to her about it.

OCTAVIUS. How can I speak to her about such a thing [he breaks down]?

ANN. Don't break down, Ricky. Try to bear it for all our sakes.

RAMSDEN. Life is not all plays and poems, Octavius. Come! face it like a
man.

TANNER. [chafing again] Poor dear brother! Poor dear friends of the
family! Poor dear Tabbies and Grimalkins. Poor dear everybody except the
woman who is going to risk her life to create another life! Tavy: don't
you be a selfish ass. Away with you and talk to Violet; and bring her
down here if she cares to come. [Octavius rises]. Tell her we'll stand
by her.

RAMSDEN. [rising] No, sir--

TANNER. [rising also and interrupting him] Oh, we understand: it's
against your conscience; but still you'll do it.

OCTAVIUS. I assure you all, on my word, I never meant to be selfish.
It's so hard to know what to do when one wishes earnestly to do right.

TANNER. My dear Tavy, your pious English habit of regarding the world
as a moral gymnasium built expressly to strengthen your character in,
occasionally leads you to think about your own confounded principles
when you should be thinking about other people's necessities. The need
of the present hour is a happy mother and a healthy baby. Bend your
energies on that; and you will see your way clearly enough.

Octavius, much perplexed, goes out.

RAMSDEN. [facing Tanner impressively] And Morality, sir? What is to
become of that?

TANNER. Meaning a weeping Magdalen and an innocent child branded with
her shame. Not in our circle, thank you. Morality can go to its father
the devil.

RAMSDEN. I thought so, sir. Morality sent to the devil to please our
libertines, male and female. That is to be the future of England, is it?

TANNER. Oh, England will survive your disapproval. Meanwhile, I
understand that you agree with me as to the practical course we are to
take?

RAMSDEN. Not in your spirit sir. Not for your reasons.

TANNER. You can explain that if anybody calls you to account, here or
hereafter. [He turns away, and plants himself in front of Mr Herbert
Spencer, at whom he stares gloomily].

ANN. [rising and coming to Ramsden] Granny: hadn't you better go up to
the drawingroom and tell them what we intend to do?

RAMSDEN. [looking pointedly at Tanner] I hardly like to leave you alone
with this gentleman. Will you not come with me?

ANN. Miss Ramsden would not like to speak about it before me, Granny. I
ought not to be present.

RAMSDEN. You are right: I should have thought of that. You are a good
girl, Annie.

He pats her on the shoulder. She looks up at him with beaming eyes and
he goes out, much moved. Having disposed of him, she looks at Tanner.
His back being turned to her, she gives a moment's attention to her
personal appearance, then softly goes to him and speaks almost into his
ear.

ANN. Jack [he turns with a start]: are you glad that you are my
guardian? You don't mind being made responsible for me, I hope.

TANNER. The latest addition to your collection of scapegoats, eh?

ANN. Oh, that stupid old joke of yours about me! Do please drop it. Why
do you say things that you know must pain me? I do my best to please
you, Jack: I suppose I may tell you so now that you are my guardian. You
will make me so unhappy if you refuse to be friends with me.

TANNER. [studying her as gloomily as he studied the dust] You need not
go begging for my regard. How unreal our moral judgments are! You seem
to me to have absolutely no conscience--only hypocrisy; and you can't
see the difference--yet there is a sort of fascination about you. I
always attend to you, somehow. I should miss you if I lost you.

ANN. [tranquilly slipping her arm into his and walking about with him]
But isn't that only natural, Jack? We have known each other since we
were children. Do you remember?

TANNER. [abruptly breaking loose] Stop! I remember EVERYTHING.

ANN. Oh, I daresay we were often very silly; but--

TANNER. I won't have it, Ann. I am no more that schoolboy now than I
am the dotard of ninety I shall grow into if I live long enough. It is
over: let me forget it.

ANN. Wasn't it a happy time? [She attempts to take his arm again].

TANNER. Sit down and behave yourself. [He makes her sit down in the
chair next the writing table]. No doubt it was a happy time for you. You
were a good girl and never compromised yourself. And yet the wickedest
child that ever was slapped could hardly have had a better time. I can
understand the success with which you bullied the other girls: your
virtue imposed on them. But tell me this: did you ever know a good boy?

ANN. Of course. All boys are foolish sometimes; but Tavy was always a
really good boy.

TANNER. [struck by this] Yes: you're right. For some reason you never
tempted Tavy.

ANN. Tempted! Jack!

TANNER. Yes, my dear Lady Mephistopheles, tempted. You were insatiably
curious as to what a boy might be capable of, and diabolically clever at
getting through his guard and surprising his inmost secrets.

ANN. What nonsense! All because you used to tell me long stories of the
wicked things you had done--silly boys tricks! And you call such things
inmost secrets: Boys' secrets are just like men's; and you know what
they are!

TANNER. [obstinately] No I don't. What are they, pray?

ANN. Why, the things they tell everybody, of course.

TANNER. Now I swear I told you things I told no one else. You lured me
into a compact by which we were to have no secrets from one another. We
were to tell one another everything, I didn't notice that you never told
me anything.

ANN. You didn't want to talk about me, Jack. You wanted to talk about
yourself.

TANNER. Ah, true, horribly true. But what a devil of a child you must
have been to know that weakness and to play on it for the satisfaction
of your own curiosity! I wanted to brag to you, to make myself
interesting. And I found myself doing all sorts of mischievous things
simply to have something to tell you about. I fought with boys I didn't
hate; I lied about things I might just as well have told the truth
about; I stole things I didn't want; I kissed little girls I didn't care
for. It was all bravado: passionless and therefore unreal.

ANN. I never told of you, Jack.

TANNER. No; but if you had wanted to stop me you would have told of me.
You wanted me to go on.

ANN. [flashing out] Oh, that's not true: it's NOT true, Jack. I never
wanted you to do those dull, disappointing, brutal, stupid, vulgar
things.