No More Learning

Don't take one of them until I've seen it. One never knows what
may be wrong with these places.

MALONE. I won't. I'll do nothing without consulting you, never fear.

VIOLET. [politely, but without a ray of gratitude] Thanks: that will
be much the best way. [She goes calmly back to the villa, escorted
obsequiously by Malone to the upper end of the garden].

TANNER. [drawing Ramsden's attention to Malone's cringing attitude as he
takes leave of Violet] And that poor devil is a billionaire! one of the
master spirits of the age! Led on a string like a pug dog by the first
girl who takes the trouble to despise him. I wonder will it ever come to
that with me. [He comes down to the lawn. ]

RAMSDEN. [following him] The sooner the better for you.

MALONE. [clapping his hands as he returns through the garden] That'll be
a grand woman for Hector. I wouldn't exchange her for ten duchesses. [He
descends to the lawn and comes between Tanner and Ramsden].

RAMSDEN. [very civil to the billionaire] It's an unexpected pleasure to
find you in this corner of the world, Mr Malone. Have you come to buy up
the Alhambra?

MALONE. Well, I don't say I mightn't. I think I could do better with it
than the Spanish government. But that's not what I came about. To tell
you the truth, about a month ago I overheard a deal between two men over
a bundle of shares. They differed about the price: they were young and
greedy, and didn't know that if the shares were worth what was bid for
them they must be worth what was asked, the margin being too small to
be of any account, you see. To amuse meself, I cut in and bought the
shares. Well, to this day I haven't found out what the business is. The
office is in this town; and the name is Mendoza, Limited. Now whether
Mendoza's a mine, or a steamboat line, or a bank, or a patent article--

TANNER. He's a man. I know him: his principles are thoroughly
commercial. Let us take you round the town in our motor, Mr Malone, and
call on him on the way.

MALONE. If you'll be so kind, yes. And may I ask who--

TANNER. Mr Roebuck Ramsden, a very old friend of your daughter-in-law.

MALONE. Happy to meet you, Mr Ramsden.

RAMSDEN. Thank you. Mr Tanner is also one of our circle.

MALONE. Glad to know you also, Mr Tanner.

TANNER. Thanks. [Malone and Ramsden go out very amicably through the
little gate. Tanner calls to Octavius, who is wandering in the garden
with Ann] Tavy! [Tavy comes to the steps, Tanner whispers loudly to
him] Violet has married a financier of brigands. [Tanner hurries away
to overtake Malone and Ramsden. Ann strolls to the steps with an idle
impulse to torment Octavius].

ANN. Won't you go with them, Tavy?

OCTAVIUS. [tears suddenly flushing his eyes] You cut me to the heart,
Ann, by wanting me to go [he comes down on the lawn to hide his face
from her. She follows him caressingly].

ANN. Poor Ricky Ticky Tavy! Poor heart!

OCTAVIUS. It belongs to you, Ann. Forgive me: I must speak of it. I love
you. You know I love you.

ANN. What's the good, Tavy? You know that my mother is determined that I
shall marry Jack.

OCTAVIUS. [amazed] Jack!

ANN. It seems absurd, doesn't it?

OCTAVIUS. [with growing resentment] Do you mean to say that Jack has
been playing with me all this time? That he has been urging me not to
marry you because he intends to marry you himself?

ANN. [alarmed] No no: you mustn't lead him to believe that I said that:
I don't for a moment think that Jack knows his own mind. But it's clear
from my father's will that he wished me to marry Jack. And my mother is
set on it.

OCTAVIUS. But you are not bound to sacrifice yourself always to the
wishes of your parents.

ANN. My father loved me. My mother loves me. Surely their wishes are a
better guide than my own selfishness.

OCTAVIUS. Oh, I know how unselfish you are, Ann. But believe me--though
I know I am speaking in my own interest--there is another side to this
question. Is it fair to Jack to marry him if you do not love him? Is
it fair to destroy my happiness as well as your own if you can bring
yourself to love me?

ANN. [looking at him with a faint impulse of pity] Tavy, my dear, you
are a nice creature--a good boy.

OCTAVIUS. [humiliated] Is that all?

ANN. [mischievously in spite of her pity] That's a great deal, I assure
you. You would always worship the ground I trod on, wouldn't you?

OCTAVIUS. I do. It sounds ridiculous; but it's no exaggeration. I do;
and I always shall.

ANN. Always is a long word, Tavy. You see, I shall have to live up
always to your idea of my divinity; and I don't think I could do that if
we were married. But if I marry Jack, you'll never be disillusioned--at
least not until I grow too old.

OCTAVIUS. I too shall grow old, Ann. And when I am eighty, one white
hair of the woman I love will make me tremble more than the thickest
gold tress from the most beautiful young head.

ANN. [quite touched] Oh, that's poetry, Tavy, real poetry. It gives
me that strange sudden sense of an echo from a former existence which
always seems to me such a striking proof that we have immortal souls.

OCTAVIUS. Do you believe that is true?

ANN. Tavy, if it is to become true you must lose me as well as love me.

OCTAVIUS. Oh! [he hastily sits down at the little table and covers his
face with his hands].

ANN. [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.