No More Learning

[with conviction] Tavy: I wouldn't for worlds destroy your
illusions. I can neither take you nor let you go. I can see exactly what
will suit you. You must be a sentimental old bachelor for my sake.

OCTAVIUS. [desperately] Ann: I'll kill myself.

ANN. Oh no you won't: that wouldn't be kind. You won't have a bad time.
You will be very nice to women; and you will go a good deal to the
opera. A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London
if he has a comfortable income.

OCTAVIUS. [considerably cooled, but believing that he is only recovering
his self-control] I know you mean to be kind, Ann. Jack has persuaded
you that cynicism is a good tonic for me. [He rises with quiet dignity].

ANN. [studying him slyly] You see, I'm disillusionizing you already.
That's what I dread.

OCTAVIUS. You do not dread disillusionizing Jack.

ANN. [her face lighting up with mischievous ecstasy--whispering] I
can't: he has no illusions about me. I shall surprise Jack the other
way. Getting over an unfavorable impression is ever so much easier than
living up to an ideal. Oh, I shall enrapture Jack sometimes!

OCTAVIUS. [resuming the calm phase of despair, and beginning to enjoy
his broken heart and delicate attitude without knowing it] I don't doubt
that. You will enrapture him always. And he--the fool! --thinks you would
make him wretched.

ANN. Yes: that's the difficulty, so far.

OCTAVIUS. [heroically] Shall I tell him that you love?

ANN. [quickly] Oh no: he'd run away again.

OCTAVIUS. [shocked] Ann: would you marry an unwilling man?

ANN. What a queer creature you are, Tavy! There's no such thing as a
willing man when you really go for him. [She laughs naughtily]. I'm
shocking you, I suppose. But you know you are really getting a sort of
satisfaction already in being out of danger yourself.

OCTAVIUS [startled] Satisfaction! [Reproachfully] You say that to me!

ANN. Well, if it were really agony, would you ask for more of it?

OCTAVIUS. Have I asked for more of it?

ANN. You have offered to tell Jack that I love him. That's
self-sacrifice, I suppose; but there must be some satisfaction in it.
Perhaps it's because you're a poet. You are like the bird that presses
its breast against the sharp thorn to make itself sing.

OCTAVIUS. It's quite simple. I love you; and I want you to be happy. You
don't love me; so I can't make you happy myself; but I can help another
man to do it.

ANN. Yes: it seems quite simple. But I doubt if we ever know why we do
things. The only really simple thing is to go straight for what you want
and grab it. I suppose I don't love you, Tavy; but sometimes I feel
as if I should like to make a man of you somehow. You are very foolish
about women.

OCTAVIUS. [almost coldly] I am content to be what I am in that respect.

ANN. Then you must keep away from them, and only dream about them. I
wouldn't marry you for worlds, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS. I have no hope, Ann: I accept my ill luck. But I don't think
you quite know how much it hurts.

ANN. You are so softhearted! It's queer that you should be so different
from Violet. Violet's as hard as nails.

OCTAVIUS. Oh no. I am sure Violet is thoroughly womanly at heart.

ANN. [with some impatience] Why do you say that? Is it unwomanly to be
thoughtful and businesslike and sensible? Do you want Violet to be an
idiot--or something worse, like me?

OCTAVIUS. Something worse--like you! What do you mean, Ann?

ANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect
for Violet. She gets her own way always.

OCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you.

ANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing--without having to
make people sentimental about her.

OCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental
about Violet, I think, pretty as she is.

ANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them.

OCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on
men's instincts in that way.

ANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven
help the woman who marries you!

OCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say
that? Don't torment me. I don't understand.

ANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men?

OCTAVIUS. Do you think I could marry such a woman--I, who have known and
loved you?

ANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise. So
that's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive me, and
that the subject is closed.

OCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And if
the wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed.

ANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear. [She pats his check;
has an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of distaste which
prevents her; finally runs away through the garden and into the villa].

Octavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on his arms
and sobbing softly. Mrs Whitefield, who has been pottering round the
Granada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her hand, comes
in through the gate and sees him.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [running to him and lifting his head] What's the matter,
Tavy? Are you ill?

OCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [still holding his head, anxiously] But you're crying.
Is it about Violet's marriage?

OCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet?

MRS WHITEFIELD. [restoring the head to its owner] I met Roebuck and that
awful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not ill? What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS. [affectionately] It's nothing--only a man's broken heart.
Doesn't that sound ridiculous?

MRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything to
you?

OCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't think for a moment that I
blame you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [startled] For what?

OCTAVIUS. [pressing her hand consolingly] For nothing. I said I didn't
blame you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. But I haven't done anything. What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS. [smiling sadly] Can't you guess? I daresay you are right to
prefer Jack to me as a husband for Ann; but I love Ann; and it hurts
rather. [He rises and moves away from her towards the middle of the
lawn].

MRS WHITEFIELD. [following him hastily] Does Ann say that I want her to
marry Jack?

OCTAVIUS. Yes: she has told me.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [thoughtfully] Then I'm very sorry for you, Tavy. It's
only her way of saying SHE wants to marry Jack. Little she cares what I
say or what I want!

OCTAVIUS. But she would not say it unless she believed it. Surely you
don't suspect Ann of--of DECEIT! !

MRS WHITEFIELD. Well, never mind, Tavy. I don't know which is best for a
young man: to know too little, like you, or too much, like Jack.

Tanner returns.

TANNER. Well, I've disposed of old Malone. I've introduced him to
Mendoza, Limited; and left the two brigands together to talk it out.
Hullo, Tavy! anything wrong?

OCTAVIUS. I must go wash my face, I see. [To Mrs Whitefield] Tell him
what you wish. [To Tanner] You may take it from me, Jack, that Ann
approves of it.

TANNER. [puzzled by his manner] Approves of what?

OCTAVIUS. Of what Mrs Whitefield wishes. [He goes his way with sad
dignity to the villa].

TANNER. [to Mrs Whitefield] This is very mysterious. What is it you
wish? It shall be done, whatever it is.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [with snivelling gratitude] Thank you, Jack. [She sits
down. Tanner brings the other chair from the table and sits close to her
with his elbows on his knees, giving her his whole attention].
I don't
know why it is that other people's children are so nice to me, and that
my own have so little consideration for me. It's no wonder I don't seem
able to care for Ann and Rhoda as I do for you and Tavy and Violet. It's
a very queer world. It used to be so straightforward and simple; and
now nobody seems to think and feel as they ought. Nothing has been right
since that speech that Professor Tyndall made at Belfast.

TANNER. Yes: life is more complicated than we used to think. But what am
I to do for you?

MRS WHITEFIELD. That's just what I want to tell you. Of course you'll
marry Ann whether I like it myself or not--

TANNER. [starting] It seems to me that I shall presently be married to
Ann whether I like it myself or not.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [peacefully] Oh, very likely you will: you know what she
is when she has set her mind on anything. But don't put it on me: that's
all I ask. Tavy has just let out that she's been saying that I am making
her marry you; and the poor boy is breaking his heart about it; for he
is in love with her himself, though what he sees in her so wonderful,
goodness knows: I don't. It's no use telling Tavy that Ann puts things
into people's heads by telling them that I want them when the thought of
them never crossed my mind. It only sets Tavy against me. But you know
better than that. So if you marry her, don't put the blame on me.

TANNER. [emphatically] I haven't the slightest intention of marrying
her.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [slyly] She'd suit you better than Tavy. She'd meet her
match in you, Jack. I'd like to see her meet her match.

TANNER. No man is a match for a woman, except with a poker and a pair of
hobnailed boots. Not always even then. Anyhow, I can't take the poker to
her. I should be a mere slave.

MRS WHITEFIELD. No: she's afraid of you. At all events, you would tell
her the truth about herself. She wouldn't be able to slip out of it as
she does with me.

TANNER. Everybody would call me a brute if I told Ann the truth about
herself in terms of her own moral code. To begin with, Ann says things
that are not strictly true.

MRS WHITEFIELD. I'm glad somebody sees she is not an angel.

TANNER. In short--to put it as a husband would put it when exasperated
to the point of speaking out--she is a liar. And since she has plunged
Tavy head over ears in love with her without any intention of marrying
him, she is a coquette, according to the standard definition of
a coquette as a woman who rouses passions she has no intention of
gratifying. And as she has now reduced you to the point of being willing
to sacrifice me at the altar for the mere satisfaction of getting me to
call her a liar to her face, I may conclude that she is a bully as
well. She can't bully men as she bullies women; so she habitually
and unscrupulously uses her personal fascination to make men give her
whatever she wants. That makes her almost something for which I know no
polite name.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [in mild expostulation] Well, you can't expect
perfection, Jack.

TANNER. I don't. But what annoys me is that Ann does. I know perfectly
well that all this about her being a liar and a bully and a coquette and
so forth is a trumped-up moral indictment which might be brought against
anybody. We all lie; we all bully as much as we dare; we all bid for
admiration without the least intention of earning it; we all get as much
rent as we can out of our powers of fascination. If Ann would admit this
I shouldn't quarrel with her. But she won't. If she has children she'll
take advantage of their telling lies to amuse herself by whacking them.
If another woman makes eyes at me, she'll refuse to know a coquette. She
will do just what she likes herself whilst insisting on everybody else
doing what the conventional code prescribes. In short, I can stand
everything except her confounded hypocrisy. That's what beats me.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [carried away by the relief of hearing her own opinion
so eloquently expressed] Oh, she is a hypocrite. She is: she is. Isn't
she?

TANNER. Then why do you want to marry me to her?

MRS WHITEFIELD. [querulously] There now! put it on me, of course. I
never thought of it until Tavy told me she said I did. But, you know,
I'm very fond of Tavy: he's a sort of son to me; and I don't want him to
be trampled on and made wretched.

TANNER. Whereas I don't matter, I suppose.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Oh, you are different, somehow: you are able to take
care of yourself. You'd serve her out. And anyhow, she must marry
somebody.

TANNER. Aha! there speaks the life instinct. You detest her; but you
feel that you must get her married.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [rising, shocked] Do you mean that I detest my own
daughter! Surely you don't believe me to be so wicked and unnatural as
that, merely because I see her faults.

TANNER. [cynically] You love her, then?

MRS WHITEFIELD. Why, of course I do. What queer things you say, Jack! We
can't help loving our own blood relations.

TANNER. Well, perhaps it saves unpleasantness to say so. But for my
part, I suspect that the tables of consanguinity have a natural basis in
a natural repugnance [he rises].

MRS WHITEFIELD. You shouldn't say things like that, Jack. I hope you
won't tell Ann that I have been speaking to you. I only wanted to
set myself right with you and Tavy. I couldn't sit mumchance and have
everything put on me.

TANNER. [politely] Quite so.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [dissatisfied] And now I've only made matters worse.
Tavy's angry with me because I don't worship Ann. And when it's been put
into my head that Ann ought to marry you, what can I say except that it
would serve her right?

TANNER. Thank you.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Now don't be silly and twist what I say into something I
don't mean. I ought to have fair play--

Ann comes from the villa, followed presently by Violet, who is dressed
for driving.

ANN. [coming to her mother's right hand with threatening suavity] Well,
mamma darling, you seem to be having a delightful chat with Jack. We can
hear you all over the place.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [appalled] Have you overheard--

TANNER. Never fear: Ann is only--well, we were discussing that habit of
hers just now. She hasn't heard a word.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [stoutly] I don't care whether she has or not: I have a
right to say what I please.

VIOLET. [arriving on the lawn and coming between Mrs Whitefield and
Tanner] I've come to say goodbye. I'm off for my honeymoon.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [crying] Oh don't say that, Violet. And no wedding, no
breakfast, no clothes, nor anything.

VIOLET. [petting her] It won't be for long.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Don't let him take you to America. Promise me that you
won't.

VIOLET. [very decidedly] I should think not, indeed. Don't cry, dear:
I'm only going to the hotel.

MRS WHITEFIELD. But going in that dress, with your luggage, makes one
realize--[she chokes, and then breaks out again] How I wish you were my
daughter, Violet!

VIOLET. [soothing her] There, there: so I am. Ann will be jealous.

MRS WHITEFIELD. Ann doesn't care a bit for me.

ANN. Fie, mother! Come, now: you mustn't cry any more: you know Violet
doesn't like it [Mrs Whitefzeld dries her eyes, and subsides].

VIOLET. Goodbye, Jack.

TANNER. Goodbye, Violet.

VIOLET. The sooner you get married too, the better. You will be much
less misunderstood.

TANNER. [restively] I quite expect to get married in the course of the
afternoon. You all seem to have set your minds on it.

VIOLET. You might do worse. [To Mrs Whitefield: putting her arm round
her] Let me take you to the hotel with me: the drive will do you good.
Come in and get a wrap. [She takes her towards the villa].

MRS WHITEFIELD. [as they go up through the garden] I don't know what I
shall do when you are gone, with no one but Ann in the house; and she
always occupied with the men! It's not to be expected that your husband
will care to be bothered with an old woman like me. Oh, you needn't
tell me: politeness is all very well; but I know what people think--[She
talks herself and Violet out of sight and hearing].

Ann, musing on Violet's opportune advice, approaches Tanner; examines
him humorously for a moment from toe to top; and finally delivers her
opinion.

ANN. Violet is quite right. You ought to get married.

TANNER. [explosively] Ann: I will not marry you. Do you hear? I won't,
won't, won't, won't, WON'T marry you.

ANN. [placidly] Well, nobody axd you, sir she said, sir she said, sir
she said. So that's settled.

TANNER. Yes, nobody has asked me; but everybody treats the thing as
settled. It's in the air. When we meet, the others go away on absurd
pretexts to leave us alone together. Ramsden no longer scowls at me: his
eye beams, as if he were already giving you away to me in church. Tavy
refers me to your mother and gives me his blessing. Straker openly
treats you as his future employer: it was he who first told me of it.

ANN. Was that why you ran away?

TANNER. Yes, only to be stopped by a lovesick brigand and run down like
a truant schoolboy.

ANN. Well, if you don't want to be married, you needn't be [she turns
away from him and sits down, much at her ease].

TANNER. [following her] Does any man want to be hanged? Yet men let
themselves be hanged without a struggle for life, though they could at
least give the chaplain a black eye. We do the world's will, not our
own. I have a frightful feeling that I shall let myself be married
because it is the world's will that you should have a husband.

ANN. I daresay I shall, someday.

TANNER. But why me--me of all men? Marriage is to me apostasy,
profanation of the sanctuary of my soul, violation of my manhood,
sale of my birthright, shameful surrender, ignominious capitulation,
acceptance of defeat. I shall decay like a thing that has served its
purpose and is done with; I shall change from a man with a future to
a man with a past; I shall see in the greasy eyes of all the other
husbands their relief at the arrival of a new prisoner to share their
ignominy. The young men will scorn me as one who has sold out: to the
young women I, who have always been an enigma and a possibility,
shall be merely somebody else's property--and damaged goods at that: a
secondhand man at best.

ANN. Well, your wife can put on a cap and make herself ugly to keep you
in countenance, like my grandmother.

TANNER. So that she may make her triumph more insolent by publicly
throwing away the bait the moment the trap snaps on the victim!