Act III



    In the library after lunch. It is not much of a
    library, its literary equipment consisting of a
    single fixed shelf stocked with old paper-covered
    novels, broken backed, coffee stained, torn and
    thumbed, and a couple of little hanging shelves
    with a few gift books on them, the rest of the
    wall space being occupied by trophies of war and
    the chase. But it is a most comfortable
    sitting-room. A row of three large windows in the
    front of the house shew a mountain panorama, which
    is just now seen in one of its softest aspects in
    the mellowing afternoon light. In the left hand
    corner, a square earthenware stove, a perfect
    tower of colored pottery, rises nearly to the
    ceiling and guarantees plenty of warmth. The
    ottoman in the middle is a circular bank of
    decorated cushions, and the window seats are well
    upholstered divans. Little Turkish tables, one of
    them with an elaborate hookah on it, and a screen
    to match them, complete the handsome effect of the
    furnishing. There is one object, however, which is
    hopelessly out of keeping with its surroundings.
    This is a small kitchen table, much the worse for
    wear, fitted as a writing table with an old
    canister full of pens, an eggcup filled with ink,
    and a deplorable scrap of severely used pink
    blotting paper.

    At the side of this table, which stands on the
    right, Bluntschli is hard at work, with a couple
    of maps before him, writing orders. At the head of
    it sits Sergius, who is also supposed to be at
    work, but who is actually gnawing the feather of a
    pen, and contemplating Bluntschli's quick, sure,
    businesslike progress with a mixture of envious
    irritation at his own incapacity, and awestruck
    wonder at an ability which seems to him almost
    miraculous, though its prosaic character forbids
    him to esteem it. The major is comfortably
    established on the ottoman, with a newspaper in
    his hand and the tube of the hookah within his
    reach. Catherine sits at the stove, with her back
    to them, embroidering. Raina, reclining on the
    divan under the left hand window, is gazing in a
    daydream out at the Balkan landscape, with a
    neglected novel in her lap.

    The door is on the left. The button of the
    electric bell is between the door and the
    fireplace.

PETKOFF (looking up from his paper to watch how they are
getting on at the table). Are you sure I can't help you in any
way, Bluntschli?

BLUNTSCHLI (without interrupting his writing or looking up).
Quite sure, thank you. Saranoff and I will manage it.

SERGIUS (grimly). Yes: we'll manage it. He finds out what to
do; draws up the orders; and I sign 'em. Division of labour,
Major. (Bluntschli passes him a paper.) Another one? Thank you.
(He plants the papers squarely before him; sets his chair
carefully parallel to them; and signs with the air of a man
resolutely performing a difficult and dangerous feat.) This hand
is more accustomed to the sword than to the pen.

PETKOFF. It's very good of you, Bluntschli, it is indeed, to let
yourself be put upon in this way. Now are you quite sure I can
do nothing?

CATHERINE (in a low, warning tone). You can stop interrupting,
Paul.

PETKOFF (starting and looking round at her). Eh? Oh! Quite
right, my love, quite right. (He takes his newspaper up, but
lets it drop again.) Ah, you haven't been campaigning,
Catherine: you don't know how pleasant it is for us to sit here,
after a good lunch, with nothing to do but enjoy ourselves.
There's only one thing I want to make me thoroughly comfortable.

CATHERINE. What is that?

PETKOFF. My old coat. I'm not at home in this one: I feel as if
I were on parade.

CATHERINE. My dear Paul, how absurd you are about that old coat!
It must be hanging in the blue closet where you left it.

PETKOFF. My dear Catherine, I tell you I've looked there. Am I
to believe my own eyes or not? (Catherine quietly rises and
presses the button of the electric bell by the fireplace.) What
are you shewing off that bell for? (She looks at him majestically,
and silently resumes her chair and her needlework.) My dear: if
you think the obstinacy of your sex can make a coat out of two
old dressing gowns of Raina's, your waterproof, and my
mackintosh, you're mistaken. That's exactly what the blue closet
contains at present. (Nicola presents himself.)

CATHERINE (unmoved by Petkoff's sally). Nicola: go to the blue
closet and bring your master's old coat here--the braided one he
usually wears in the house.

NICOLA. Yes, madam. (Nicola goes out.)

PETKOFF. Catherine.

CATHERINE. Yes, Paul?

PETKOFF. I bet you any piece of jewellery you like to order from
Sophia against a week's housekeeping money, that the coat isn't
there.

CATHERINE. Done, Paul.

PETKOFF (excited by the prospect of a gamble). Come: here's an
opportunity for some sport. Who'll bet on it? Bluntschli: I'll
give you six to one.

BLUNTSCHLI (imperturbably). It would be robbing you, Major.
Madame is sure to be right. (Without looking up, he passes
another batch of papers to Sergius.)

SERGIUS (also excited). Bravo, Switzerland! Major: I bet my
best charger against an Arab mare for Raina that Nicola finds
the coat in the blue closet.

PETKOFF (eagerly). Your best char--

CATHERINE (hastily interrupting him). Don't be foolish, Paul.
An Arabian mare will cost you 50,000 levas.

RAINA (suddenly coming out of her picturesque revery). Really,
mother, if you are going to take the jewellery, I don't see why
you should grudge me my Arab.

   (Nicola comes back with the coat and brings it
    to Petkoff, who can hardly believe his eyes.)

CATHERINE. Where was it, Nicola?

NICOLA. Hanging in the blue closet, madam.

PETKOFF. Well, I am d--

CATHERINE (stopping him). Paul!

PETKOFF. I could have sworn it wasn't there. Age is beginning to
tell on me. I'm getting hallucinations. (To Nicola.) Here: help
me to change. Excuse me, Bluntschli. (He begins changing coats,
Nicola acting as valet.) Remember: I didn't take that bet of
yours, Sergius. You'd better give Raina that Arab steed
yourself, since you've roused her expectations. Eh, Raina? (He
looks round at her; but she is again rapt in the landscape. With
a little gush of paternal affection and pride, he points her out
to them and says) She's dreaming, as usual.

SERGIUS. Assuredly she shall not be the loser.

PETKOFF. So much the better for her. I shan't come off so cheap,
I expect. (The change is now complete. Nicola goes out with the
discarded coat.) Ah, now I feel at home at last. (He sits down
and takes his newspaper with a grunt of relief.)

BLUNTSCHLI (to Sergius, handing a paper). That's the last
order.

PETKOFF (jumping up). What! finished?

BLUNTSCHLI. Finished. (Petkoff goes beside Sergius; looks
curiously over his left shoulder as he signs; and says with
childlike envy) Haven't you anything for me to sign?

BLUNTSCHLI. Not necessary. His signature will do.

PETKOFF. Ah, well, I think we've done a thundering good day's
work. (He goes away from the table.) Can I do anything more?

BLUNTSCHLI. You had better both see the fellows that are to take
these. (To Sergius.) Pack them off at once; and shew them that
I've marked on the orders the time they should hand them in by.
Tell them that if they stop to drink or tell stories--if they're
five minutes late, they'll have the skin taken off their backs.

SERGIUS (rising indignantly). I'll say so. And if one of them
is man enough to spit in my face for insulting him, I'll buy his
discharge and give him a pension. (He strides out, his humanity
deeply outraged.)

BLUNTSCHLI (confidentially). Just see that he talks to them
properly, Major, will you?

PETKOFF (officiously). Quite right, Bluntschli, quite right.
I'll see to it. (He goes to the door importantly, but hesitates
on the threshold.) By the bye, Catherine, you may as well come,
too. They'll be far more frightened of you than of me.

CATHERINE (putting down her embroidery). I daresay I had
better. You will only splutter at them. (She goes out, Petkoff
holding the door for her and following her.)

BLUNTSCHLI. What a country! They make cannons out of cherry
trees; and the officers send for their wives to keep discipline!
(He begins to fold and docket the papers. Raina, who has risen
from the divan, strolls down the room with her hands clasped
behind her, and looks mischievously at him.)

RAINA. You look ever so much nicer than when we last met. (He
looks up, surprised.) What have you done to yourself?

BLUNTSCHLI. Washed; brushed; good night's sleep and breakfast.
That's all.

RAINA. Did you get back safely that morning?

BLUNTSCHLI. Quite, thanks.

RAINA. Were they angry with you for running away from Sergius's
charge?

BLUNTSCHLI. No, they were glad; because they'd all just run away
themselves.

RAINA (going to the table, and leaning over it towards him). It
must have made a lovely story for them--all that about me and my
room.

BLUNTSCHLI. Capital story. But I only told it to one of them--a
particular friend.

RAINA. On whose discretion you could absolutely rely?

BLUNTSCHLI. Absolutely.

RAINA. Hm! He told it all to my father and Sergius the day you
exchanged the prisoners. (She turns away and strolls carelessly
across to the other side of the room.)

BLUNTSCHLI (deeply concerned and half incredulous). No! you
don't mean that, do you?

RAINA (turning, with sudden earnestness). I do indeed. But they
don't know that it was in this house that you hid. If Sergius
knew, he would challenge you and kill you in a duel.

BLUNTSCHLI. Bless me! then don't tell him.

RAINA (full of reproach for his levity). Can you realize what
it is to me to deceive him? I want to be quite perfect with
Sergius--no meanness, no smallness, no deceit. My relation to
him is the one really beautiful and noble part of my life. I
hope you can understand that.

BLUNTSCHLI (sceptically). You mean that you wouldn't like him
to find out that the story about the ice pudding was
a--a--a--You know.

RAINA (wincing). Ah, don't talk of it in that flippant way. I
lied: I know it. But I did it to save your life. He would have
killed you. That was the second time I ever uttered a falsehood.
(Bluntschli rises quickly and looks doubtfully and somewhat
severely at her.) Do you remember the first time?

BLUNTSCHLI. I! No. Was I present?

RAINA. Yes; and I told the officer who was searching for you
that you were not present.

BLUNTSCHLI. True. I should have remembered it.

RAINA (greatly encouraged). Ah, it is natural that you should
forget it first. It cost you nothing: it cost me a lie!--a lie!!
(She sits down on the ottoman, looking straight before her with
her hands clasped on her knee. Bluntschli, quite touched, goes
to the ottoman with a particularly reassuring and considerate
air, and sits down beside her.)

BLUNTSCHLI. My dear young lady, don't let this worry you.
Remember: I'm a soldier. Now what are the two things that happen
to a soldier so often that he comes to think nothing of them?
One is hearing people tell lies (Raina recoils): the other is
getting his life saved in all sorts of ways by all sorts of
people.

RAINA (rising in indignant protest). And so he becomes a
creature incapable of faith and of gratitude.

BLUNTSCHLI (making a wry face). Do you like gratitude? I don't.
If pity is akin to love, gratitude is akin to the other thing.

RAINA. Gratitude! (Turning on him.) If you are incapable of
gratitude you are incapable of any noble sentiment. Even animals
are grateful. Oh, I see now exactly what you think of me! You
were not surprised to hear me lie. To you it was something I
probably did every day--every hour. That is how men think of
women. (She walks up the room melodramatically.)

BLUNTSCHLI (dubiously). There's reason in everything. You said
you'd told only two lies in your whole life. Dear young lady:
isn't that rather a short allowance? I'm quite a straightforward
man myself; but it wouldn't last me a whole morning.

RAINA (staring haughtily at him). Do you know, sir, that you
are insulting me?

BLUNTSCHLI. I can't help it. When you get into that noble
attitude and speak in that thrilling voice, I admire you; but I
find it impossible to believe a single word you say.

RAINA (superbly). Captain Bluntschli!

BLUNTSCHLI (unmoved). Yes?

RAINA (coming a little towards him, as if she could not believe
her senses). Do you mean what you said just now? Do you know
what you said just now?

BLUNTSCHLI. I do.

RAINA (gasping). I! I!!! (She points to herself incredulously,
meaning "I, Raina Petkoff, tell lies!" He meets her gaze
unflinchingly. She suddenly sits down beside him, and adds, with
a complete change of manner from the heroic to the familiar) How
did you find me out?

BLUNTSCHLI (promptly). Instinct, dear young lady. Instinct, and
experience of the world.

RAINA (wonderingly). Do you know, you are the first man I ever
met who did not take me seriously?

BLUNTSCHLI. You mean, don't you, that I am the first man that
has ever taken you quite seriously?

RAINA. Yes, I suppose I do mean that. (Cosily, quite at her ease
with him.) How strange it is to be talked to in such a way! You
know, I've always gone on like that--I mean the noble attitude
and the thrilling voice. I did it when I was a tiny child to my
nurse. She believed in it. I do it before my parents. They
believe in it. I do it before Sergius. He believes in it.

BLUNTSCHLI. Yes: he's a little in that line himself, isn't he?

RAINA (startled). Do you think so?

BLUNTSCHLI. You know him better than I do.

RAINA. I wonder--I wonder is he? If I thought that--!
(Discouraged.) Ah, well, what does it matter? I suppose, now
that you've found me out, you despise me.

BLUNTSCHLI (warmly, rising). No, my dear young lady, no, no, no
a thousand times. It's part of your youth--part of your charm.
I'm like all the rest of them--the nurse--your
parents--Sergius: I'm your infatuated admirer.

RAINA (pleased). Really?

BLUNTSCHLI (slapping his breast smartly with his hand, German
fashion). Hand aufs Herz! Really and truly.

RAINA (very happy). But what did you think of me for giving you
my portrait?

BLUNTSCHLI (astonished). Your portrait! You never gave me your
portrait.

RAINA (quickly). Do you mean to say you never got it?

BLUNTSCHLI. No. (He sits down beside her, with renewed interest,
and says, with some complacency.) When did you send it to me?

RAINA (indignantly). I did not send it to you. (She turns her
head away, and adds, reluctantly.) It was in the pocket of that
coat.

BLUNTSCHLI (pursing his lips and rounding his eyes). Oh-o-oh! I
never found it. It must be there still.

RAINA (springing up). There still!--for my father to find the
first time he puts his hand in his pocket! Oh, how could you be
so stupid?

BLUNTSCHLI (rising also). It doesn't matter: it's only a
photograph: how can he tell who it was intended for? Tell him he
put it there himself.

RAINA (impatiently). Yes, that is so clever--so clever! What
shall I do?

BLUNTSCHLI. Ah, I see. You wrote something on it. That was rash!

RAINA (annoyed almost to tears). Oh, to have done such a thing
for you, who care no more--except to laugh at me--oh! Are you
sure nobody has touched it?

BLUNTSCHLI. Well, I can't be quite sure. You see I couldn't
carry it about with me all the time: one can't take much luggage
on active service.

RAINA. What did you do with it?

BLUNTSCHLI. When I got through to Peerot I had to put it in safe
keeping somehow. I thought of the railway cloak room; but that's
the surest place to get looted in modern warfare. So I pawned
it.

RAINA. Pawned it!!!

BLUNTSCHLI. I know it doesn't sound nice; but it was much the
safest plan. I redeemed it the day before yesterday. Heaven only
knows whether the pawnbroker cleared out the pockets or not.

RAINA (furious--throwing the words right into his face). You
have a low, shopkeeping mind. You think of things that would
never come into a gentleman's head.

BLUNTSCHLI (phlegmatically). That's the Swiss national
character, dear lady.

RAINA. Oh, I wish I had never met you. (She flounces away and
sits at the window fuming.)

   (Louka comes in with a heap of letters and
    telegrams on her salver, and crosses, with her
    bold, free gait, to the table. Her left sleeve is
    looped up to the shoulder with a brooch, shewing
    her naked arm, with a broad gilt bracelet covering
    the bruise.)

LOUKA (to Bluntschli). For you. (She empties the salver
recklessly on the table.) The messenger is waiting. (She is
determined not to be civil to a Servian, even if she must bring
him his letters.)

BLUNTSCHLI (to Raina). Will you excuse me: the last postal
delivery that reached me was three weeks ago. These are the
subsequent accumulations. Four telegrams--a week old. (He opens
one.) Oho! Bad news!

RAINA (rising and advancing a little remorsefully). Bad news?

BLUNTSCHLI. My father's dead. (He looks at the telegram with his
lips pursed, musing on the unexpected change in his
arrangements.)

RAINA. Oh, how very sad!

BLUNTSCHLI. Yes: I shall have to start for home in an hour. He
has left a lot of big hotels behind him to be looked after.
(Takes up a heavy letter in a long blue envelope.) Here's a
whacking letter from the family solicitor. (He pulls out the
enclosures and glances over them.) Great Heavens! Seventy! Two
hundred! (In a crescendo of dismay.) Four hundred! Four
thousand!! Nine thousand six hundred!!! What on earth shall I do
with them all?

RAINA (timidly). Nine thousand hotels?

BLUNTSCHLI. Hotels! Nonsense. If you only knew!--oh, it's too
ridiculous! Excuse me: I must give my fellow orders about
starting. (He leaves the room hastily, with the documents in his
hand.)

LOUKA (tauntingly). He has not much heart, that Swiss, though
he is so fond of the Servians. He has not a word of grief for
his poor father.

RAINA (bitterly). Grief!--a man who has been doing nothing but
killing people for years! What does he care? What does any
soldier care? (She goes to the door, evidently restraining her
tears with difficulty.)

LOUKA. Major Saranoff has been fighting, too; and he has plenty
of heart left. (Raina, at the door, looks haughtily at her and
goes out.) Aha! I thought you wouldn't get much feeling out of
your soldier. (She is following Raina when Nicola enters with an
armful of logs for the fire.)

NICOLA (grinning amorously at her). I've been trying all the
afternoon to get a minute alone with you, my girl. (His
countenance changes as he notices her arm.) Why, what fashion is
that of wearing your sleeve, child?

LOUKA (proudly). My own fashion.

NICOLA. Indeed! If the mistress catches you, she'll talk to you.
(He throws the logs down on the ottoman, and sits comfortably
beside them.)

LOUKA. Is that any reason why you should take it on yourself to
talk to me?

NICOLA. Come: don't be so contrary with me. I've some good news
for you. (He takes out some paper money. Louka, with an eager
gleam in her eyes, comes close to look at it.) See, a twenty
leva bill! Sergius gave me that out of pure swagger. A fool and
his money are soon parted. There's ten levas more. The Swiss
gave me that for backing up the mistress's and Raina's lies
about him. He's no fool, he isn't. You should have heard old
Catherine downstairs as polite as you please to me, telling me
not to mind the Major being a little impatient; for they knew
what a good servant I was--after making a fool and a liar of me
before them all! The twenty will go to our savings; and you
shall have the ten to spend if you'll only talk to me so as to
remind me I'm a human being. I get tired of being a servant
occasionally.

LOUKA (scornfully). Yes: sell your manhood for thirty levas,
and buy me for ten! Keep your money. You were born to be a
servant. I was not. When you set up your shop you will only be
everybody's servant instead of somebody's servant.

NICOLA (picking up his logs, and going to the stove). Ah, wait
till you see. We shall have our evenings to ourselves; and I
shall be master in my own house, I promise you. (He throws the
logs down and kneels at the stove.)

LOUKA. You shall never be master in mine. (She sits down on
Sergius's chair.)

NICOLA (turning, still on his knees, and squatting down rather
forlornly, on his calves, daunted by her implacable disdain).
You have a great ambition in you, Louka. Remember: if any luck
comes to you, it was I that made a woman of you.

LOUKA. You!

NICOLA (with dogged self-assertion). Yes, me. Who was it made
you give up wearing a couple of pounds of false black hair on
your head and reddening your lips and cheeks like any other
Bulgarian girl? I did. Who taught you to trim your nails, and
keep your hands clean, and be dainty about yourself, like a fine
Russian lady? Me! do you hear that? me! (She tosses her head
defiantly; and he rises, ill-humoredly, adding more coolly) I've
often thought that if Raina were out of the way, and you just a
little less of a fool and Sergius just a little more of one, you
might come to be one of my grandest customers, instead of only
being my wife and costing me money.

LOUKA. I believe you would rather be my servant than my husband.
You would make more out of me. Oh, I know that soul of yours.

NICOLA (going up close to her for greater emphasis). Never you
mind my soul; but just listen to my advice. If you want to be a
lady, your present behaviour to me won't do at all, unless when
we're alone. It's too sharp and imprudent; and impudence is a
sort of familiarity: it shews affection for me. And don't you
try being high and mighty with me either. You're like all
country girls: you think it's genteel to treat a servant the way
I treat a stable-boy. That's only your ignorance; and don't you
forget it. And don't be so ready to defy everybody. Act as if
you expected to have your own way, not as if you expected to be
ordered about. The way to get on as a lady is the same as the
way to get on as a servant: you've got to know your place;
that's the secret of it. And you may depend on me to know my
place if you get promoted. Think over it, my girl. I'll stand by
you: one servant should always stand by another.

LOUKA (rising impatiently). Oh, I must behave in my own way.
You take all the courage out of me with your cold-blooded
wisdom. Go and put those logs on the fire: that's the sort of
thing you understand. (Before Nicola can retort, Sergius comes
in. He checks himself a moment on seeing Louka; then goes to the
stove.)

SERGIUS (to Nicola). I am not in the way of your work, I hope.

NICOLA (in a smooth, elderly manner). Oh, no, sir, thank you
kindly. I was only speaking to this foolish girl about her habit
of running up here to the library whenever she gets a chance, to
look at the books. That's the worst of her education, sir: it
gives her habits above her station. (To Louka.) Make that table
tidy, Louka, for the Major. (He goes out sedately.)

    (Louka, without looking at Sergius, begins to
     arrange the papers on the table. He crosses slowly
     to her, and studies the arrangement of her sleeve
     reflectively.)

SERGIUS. Let me see: is there a mark there? (He turns up the
bracelet and sees the bruise made by his grasp. She stands
motionless, not looking at him: fascinated, but on her guard.)
Ffff! Does it hurt?

LOUKA. Yes.

SERGIUS. Shall I cure it?

LOUKA (instantly withdrawing herself proudly, but still not
looking at him). No. You cannot cure it now.

SERGIUS (masterfully). Quite sure? (He makes a movement as if
to take her in his arms.)

LOUKA. Don't trifle with me, please. An officer should not
trifle with a servant.

SERGIUS (touching the arm with a merciless stroke of his
forefinger). That was no trifle, Louka.

LOUKA. No. (Looking at him for the first time.) Are you sorry?

SERGIUS (with measured emphasis, folding his arms). I am never
sorry.

LOUKA (wistfully). I wish I could believe a man could be so
unlike a woman as that. I wonder are you really a brave man?

SERGIUS (unaffectedly, relaxing his attitude). Yes: I am a
brave man. My heart jumped like a woman's at the first shot; but
in the charge I found that I was brave. Yes: that at least is
real about me.

LOUKA. Did you find in the charge that the men whose fathers are
poor like mine were any less brave than the men who are rich
like you?

SERGIUS (with bitter levity.) Not a bit. They all slashed and
cursed and yelled like heroes. Psha! the courage to rage and
kill is cheap. I have an English bull terrier who has as much of
that sort of courage as the whole Bulgarian nation, and the
whole Russian nation at its back. But he lets my groom thrash
him, all the same. That's your soldier all over! No, Louka, your
poor men can cut throats; but they are afraid of their officers;
they put up with insults and blows; they stand by and see one
another punished like children---aye, and help to do it when
they are ordered. And the officers!---well (with a short, bitter
laugh) I am an officer. Oh, (fervently) give me the man who will
defy to the death any power on earth or in heaven that sets
itself up against his own will and conscience: he alone is the
brave man.

LOUKA. How easy it is to talk! Men never seem to me to grow up:
they all have schoolboy's ideas. You don't know what true
courage is.

SERGIUS (ironically). Indeed! I am willing to be instructed.

LOUKA. Look at me! how much am I allowed to have my own will? I
have to get your room ready for you--to sweep and dust, to fetch
and carry. How could that degrade me if it did not degrade you
to have it done for you? But (with subdued passion) if I were
Empress of Russia, above everyone in the world, then--ah, then,
though according to you I could shew no courage at all; you
should see, you should see.

SERGIUS. What would you do, most noble Empress?

LOUKA. I would marry the man I loved, which no other queen in
Europe has the courage to do. If I loved you, though you would
be as far beneath me as I am beneath you, I would dare to be the
equal of my inferior. Would you dare as much if you loved me?
No: if you felt the beginnings of love for me you would not let
it grow. You dare not: you would marry a rich man's daughter
because you would be afraid of what other people would say of
you.

SERGIUS (carried away). You lie: it is not so, by all the
stars! If I loved you, and I were the Czar himself, I would set
you on the throne by my side. You know that I love another
woman, a woman as high above you as heaven is above earth. And
you are jealous of her.

LOUKA. I have no reason to be. She will never marry you now. The
man I told you of has come back. She will marry the Swiss.

SERGIUS (recoiling). The Swiss!

LOUKA. A man worth ten of you. Then you can come to me; and I
will refuse you. You are not good enough for me. (She turns to
the door.)

SERGIUS (springing after her and catching her fiercely in his
arms). I will kill the Swiss; and afterwards I will do as I
please with you.

LOUKA (in his arms, passive and steadfast). The Swiss will kill
you, perhaps. He has beaten you in love. He may beat you in war.

SERGIUS (tormentedly). Do you think I believe that she--she!
whose worst thoughts are higher than your best ones, is capable
of trifling with another man behind my back?

LOUKA. Do you think she would believe the Swiss if he told her
now that I am in your arms?

SERGIUS (releasing her in despair). Damnation! Oh, damnation!
Mockery, mockery everywhere: everything I think is mocked by
everything I do. (He strikes himself frantically on the breast.)
Coward, liar, fool! Shall I kill myself like a man, or live and
pretend to laugh at myself? (She again turns to go.) Louka! (She
stops near the door.) Remember: you belong to me.

LOUKA (quietly). What does that mean--an insult?

SERGIUS (commandingly). It means that you love me, and that I
have had you here in my arms, and will perhaps have you there
again. Whether that is an insult I neither know nor care: take
it as you please. But (vehemently) I will not be a coward and a
trifler. If I choose to love you, I dare marry you, in spite of
all Bulgaria. If these hands ever touch you again, they shall
touch my affianced bride.

LOUKA. We shall see whether you dare keep your word. But take
care. I will not wait long.

SERGIUS (again folding his arms and standing motionless in the
middle of the room). Yes, we shall see. And you shall wait my
pleasure.

   (Bluntschli, much preoccupied, with his papers
    still in his hand, enters, leaving the door open
    for Louka to go out. He goes across to the table,
    glancing at her as he passes. Sergius, without
    altering his resolute attitude, watches him
    steadily. Louka goes out, leaving the door open.)

BLUNTSCHLI (absently, sitting at the table as before, and
putting down his papers). That's a remarkable looking young
woman.

SERGIUS (gravely, without moving). Captain Bluntschli.

BLUNTSCHLI. Eh?

SERGIUS. You have deceived me. You are my rival. I brook no
rivals. At six o'clock I shall be in the drilling-ground on the
Klissoura road, alone, on horseback, with my sabre. Do you
understand?

BLUNTSCHLI (staring, but sitting quite at his ease). Oh, thank
you: that's a cavalry man's proposal. I'm in the artillery; and
I have the choice of weapons. If I go, I shall take a machine
gun. And there shall be no mistake about the cartridges this
time.

SERGIUS (flushing, but with deadly coldness). Take care, sir.
It is not our custom in Bulgaria to allow invitations of that
kind to be trifled with.

BLUNTSCHLI (warmly). Pooh! don't talk to me about Bulgaria. You
don't know what fighting is. But have it your own way. Bring
your sabre along. I'll meet you.

SERGIUS (fiercely delighted to find his opponent a man of
spirit). Well said, Switzer. Shall I lend you my best horse?

BLUNTSCHLI. No: damn your horse!---thank you all the same, my
dear fellow. (Raina comes in, and hears the next sentence.) I
shall fight you on foot. Horseback's too dangerous: I don't want
to kill you if I can help it.

RAINA (hurrying forward anxiously). I have heard what Captain
Bluntschli said, Sergius. You are going to fight. Why? (Sergius
turns away in silence, and goes to the stove, where he stands
watching her as she continues, to Bluntschli) What about?

BLUNTSCHLI. I don't know: he hasn't told me. Better not
interfere, dear young lady. No harm will be done: I've often
acted as sword instructor. He won't be able to touch me; and
I'll not hurt him. It will save explanations. In the morning I
shall be off home; and you'll never see me or hear of me again.
You and he will then make it up and live happily ever after.

RAINA (turning away deeply hurt, almost with a sob in her
voice). I never said I wanted to see you again.

SERGIUS (striding forward). Ha! That is a confession.

RAINA (haughtily). What do you mean?

SERGIUS. You love that man!

RAINA (scandalized). Sergius!

SERGIUS. You allow him to make love to you behind my back, just
as you accept me as your affianced husband behind his.
Bluntschli: you knew our relations; and you deceived me. It is
for that that I call you to account, not for having received
favours that I never enjoyed.

BLUNTSCHLI (jumping up indignantly). Stuff! Rubbish! I have
received no favours. Why, the young lady doesn't even know
whether I'm married or not.

RAINA (forgetting herself). Oh! (Collapsing on the ottoman.)
Are you?

SERGIUS. You see the young lady's concern, Captain Bluntschli.
Denial is useless. You have enjoyed the privilege of being
received in her own room, late at night--

BLUNTSCHLI (interrupting him pepperily). Yes; you blockhead!
She received me with a pistol at her head. Your cavalry were at
my heels. I'd have blown out her brains if she'd uttered a cry.

SERGIUS (taken aback). Bluntschli! Raina: is this true?

RAINA (rising in wrathful majesty). Oh, how dare you, how dare
you?

BLUNTSCHLI. Apologize, man, apologize! (He resumes his seat at
the table.)

SERGIUS (with the old measured emphasis, folding his arms). I
never apologize.

RAINA (passionately). This is the doing of that friend of
yours, Captain Bluntschli. It is he who is spreading this
horrible story about me. (She walks about excitedly.)

BLUNTSCHLI. No: he's dead--burnt alive.

RAINA (stopping, shocked). Burnt alive!

BLUNTSCHLI. Shot in the hip in a wood yard. Couldn't drag
himself out. Your fellows' shells set the timber on fire and
burnt him, with half a dozen other poor devils in the same
predicament.

RAINA. How horrible!

SERGIUS. And how ridiculous! Oh, war! war! the dream of patriots
and heroes! A fraud, Bluntschli, a hollow sham, like love.

RAINA (outraged). Like love! You say that before me.

BLUNTSCHLI. Come, Saranoff: that matter is explained.

SERGIUS. A hollow sham, I say. Would you have come back here if
nothing had passed between you, except at the muzzle of your
pistol? Raina is mistaken about our friend who was burnt. He was
not my informant.

RAINA. Who then? (Suddenly guessing the truth.) Ah, Louka! my
maid, my servant! You were with her this morning all that time
after---after---Oh, what sort of god is this I have been
worshipping! (He meets her gaze with sardonic enjoyment of her
disenchantment. Angered all the more, she goes closer to him,
and says, in a lower, intenser tone) Do you know that I looked
out of the window as I went upstairs, to have another sight of
my hero; and I saw something that I did not understand then. I
know now that you were making love to her.

SERGIUS (with grim humor). You saw that?

RAINA. Only too well. (She turns away, and throws herself on the
divan under the centre window, quite overcome.)

SERGIUS (cynically). Raina: our romance is shattered. Life's a
farce.

BLUNTSCHLI (to Raina, goodhumoredly). You see: he's found
himself out now.

SERGIUS. Bluntschli: I have allowed you to call me a blockhead.
You may now call me a coward as well. I refuse to fight you. Do
you know why?

BLUNTSCHLI. No; but it doesn't matter. I didn't ask the reason
when you cried on; and I don't ask the reason now that you cry
off. I'm a professional soldier. I fight when I have to, and am
very glad to get out of it when I haven't to. You're only an
amateur: you think fighting's an amusement.

SERGIUS. You shall hear the reason all the same, my
professional. The reason is that it takes two men--real men--men
of heart, blood and honor--to make a genuine combat. I could no
more fight with you than I could make love to an ugly woman.
You've no magnetism: you're not a man, you're a machine.

BLUNTSCHLI (apologetically). Quite true, quite true. I always
was that sort of chap. I'm very sorry. But now that you've found
that life isn't a farce, but something quite sensible and
serious, what further obstacle is there to your happiness?

RAINA (riling). You are very solicitous about my happiness and
his. Do you forget his new love--Louka? It is not you that he
must fight now, but his rival, Nicola.

SERGIUS. Rival!! (Striking his forehead.)

RAINA. Did you not know that they are engaged?

SERGIUS. Nicola! Are fresh abysses opening! Nicola!!

RAINA (sarcastically). A shocking sacrifice, isn't it? Such
beauty, such intellect, such modesty, wasted on a middle-aged
servant man! Really, Sergius, you cannot stand by and allow such
a thing. It would be unworthy of your chivalry.

SERGIUS (losing all self-control). Viper! Viper! (He rushes to
and fro, raging.)

BLUNTSCHLI. Look here, Saranoff; you're getting the worst of
this.

RAINA (getting angrier). Do you realize what he has done,
Captain Bluntschli? He has set this girl as a spy on us; and her
reward is that he makes love to her.

SERGIUS. False! Monstrous!

RAINA. Monstrous! (Confronting him.) Do you deny that she told
you about Captain Bluntschli being in my room?

SERGIUS. No; but--

RAINA (interrupting). Do you deny that you were making love to
her when she told you?

SERGIUS. No; but I tell you--

RAINA (cutting him short contemptuously). It is unnecessary to
tell us anything more. That is quite enough for us. (She turns
her back on him and sweeps majestically back to the window.)

BLUNTSCHLI (quietly, as Sergius, in an agony of mortification,
rinks on the ottoman, clutching his averted head between his
fists). I told you you were getting the worst of it, Saranoff.

SERGIUS. Tiger cat!

RAINA (running excitedly to Bluntschli). You hear this man
calling me names, Captain Bluntschli?

BLUNTSCHLI. What else can he do, dear lady? He must defend
himself somehow. Come (very persuasively), don't quarrel. What
good does it do? (Raina, with a gasp, sits down on the ottoman,
and after a vain effort to look vexedly at Bluntschli, she falls
a victim to her sense of humor, and is attacked with a
disposition to laugh.)

SERGIUS. Engaged to Nicola! (He rises.) Ha! ha! (Going to the
stove and standing with his back to it.) Ah, well, Bluntschli,
you are right to take this huge imposture of a world coolly.

RAINA (to Bluntschli with an intuitive guess at his state of
mind). I daresay you think us a couple of grown up babies, don't
you?

SERGIUS (grinning a little). He does, he does. Swiss
civilization nursetending Bulgarian barbarism, eh?

BLUNTSCHLI (blushing). Not at all, I assure you. I'm only very
glad to get you two quieted. There now, let's be pleasant and
talk it over in a friendly way. Where is this other young lady?

RAINA. Listening at the door, probably.

SERGIUS (shivering as if a bullet had struck him, and speaking
with quiet but deep indignation). I will prove that that, at
least, is a calumny. (He goes with dignity to the door and opens
it. A yell of fury bursts from him as he looks out. He darts
into the passage, and returns dragging in Louka, whom he flings
against the table, R., as he cries) Judge her, Bluntschli--you,
the moderate, cautious man: judge the eavesdropper.

    (Louka stands her ground, proud and silent.)

BLUNTSCHLI (shaking his head). I mustn't judge her. I once
listened myself outside a tent when there was a mutiny brewing.
It's all a question of the degree of provocation. My life was at
stake.

LOUKA. My love was at stake. (Sergius flinches, ashamed of her
in spite of himself.) I am not ashamed.

RAINA (contemptuously). Your love! Your curiosity, you mean.

LOUKA (facing her and retorting her contempt with interest). My
love, stronger than anything you can feel, even for your
chocolate cream soldier.

SERGIUS (with quick suspicion--to Louka). What does that mean?

LOUKA (fiercely). It means--

SERGIUS (interrupting her slightingly). Oh, I remember, the ice
pudding. A paltry taunt, girl.

    (Major Petkoff enters, in his shirtsleeves.)

PETKOFF. Excuse my shirtsleeves, gentlemen. Raina: somebody has
been wearing that coat of mine: I'll swear it--somebody with
bigger shoulders than mine. It's all burst open at the back.
Your mother is mending it. I wish she'd make haste. I shall
catch cold. (He looks more attentively at them.) Is anything the
matter?

RAINA. No. (She sits down at the stove with a tranquil air.)

SERGIUS. Oh, no! (He sits down at the end of the table, as at
first.)

BLUNTSCHLI (who is already seated). Nothing, nothing.

PETKOFF (sitting down on the ottoman in his old place). That's
all right. (He notices Louka.) Anything the matter, Louka?

LOUKA. No, sir.

PETKOFF (genially). That's all right. (He sneezes.) Go and ask
your mistress for my coat, like a good girl, will you? (She
turns to obey; but Nicola enters with the coat; and she makes a
pretence of having business in the room by taking the little
table with the hookah away to the wall near the windows.)

RAINA (rising quickly, as she sees the coat on Nicola's arm).
Here it is, papa. Give it to me, Nicola; and do you put some
more wood on the fire. (She takes the coat, and brings it to the
Major, who stands up to put it on. Nicola attends to the fire.)

PETKOFF (to Raina, teasing her affectionately). Aha! Going to
be very good to poor old papa just for one day after his return
from the wars, eh?

RAINA (with solemn reproach). Ah, how can you say that to me,
father?

PETKOFF. Well, well, only a joke, little one. Come, give me a
kiss. (She kisses him.) Now give me the coat.

RAINA. Now, I am going to put it on for you. Turn your back. (He
turns his back and feels behind him with his arms for the
sleeves. She dexterously takes the photograph from the pocket
and throws it on the table before Bluntschli, who covers it with
a sheet of paper under the very nose of Sergius, who looks on
amazed, with his suspicions roused in the highest degree. She
then helps Petkoff on with his coat.) There, dear! Now are you
comfortable?

PETKOFF. Quite, little love. Thanks. (He sits down; and Raina
returns to her seat near the stove.) Oh, by the bye, I've found
something funny. What's the meaning of this? (He put his hand
into the picked pocket.) Eh? Hallo! (He tries the other pocket.)
Well, I could have sworn--(Much puzzled, he tries the breast
pocket.) I wonder--(Tries the original pocket.) Where can
it--(A light flashes on him; he rises, exclaiming) Your mother's
taken it.

RAINA (very red). Taken what?

PETKOFF. Your photograph, with the inscription: "Raina, to her
Chocolate Cream Soldier--a souvenir." Now you know there's
something more in this than meets the eye; and I'm going to find
it out. (Shouting) Nicola!

NICOLA (dropping a log, and turning). Sir!

PETKOFF. Did you spoil any pastry of Miss Raina's this morning?

NICOLA. You heard Miss Raina say that I did, sir.

PETKOFF. I know that, you idiot. Was it true?

NICOLA. I am sure Miss Raina is incapable of saying anything
that is not true, sir.

PETKOFF. Are you? Then I'm not. (Turning to the others.) Come:
do you think I don't see it all? (Goes to Sergius, and slaps him
on the shoulder.) Sergius: you're the chocolate cream soldier,
aren't you?

SERGIUS (starting up). I! a chocolate cream soldier! Certainly
not.

PETKOFF. Not! (He looks at them. They are all very serious and
very conscious.) Do you mean to tell me that Raina sends
photographic souvenirs to other men?

SERGIUS (enigmatically). The world is not such an innocent
place as we used to think, Petkoff.

BLUNTSCHLI (rising). It's all right, Major. I'm the chocolate
cream soldier. (Petkoff and Sergius are equally astonished.) The
gracious young lady saved my life by giving me chocolate creams
when I was starving--shall I ever forget their flavour! My late
friend Stolz told you the story at Peerot. I was the fugitive.

PETKOFF. You! (He gasps.) Sergius: do you remember how those two
women went on this morning when we mentioned it? (Sergius smiles
cynically. Petkoff confronts Raina severely.) You're a nice young
woman, aren't you?

RAINA (bitterly). Major Saranoff has changed his mind. And when
I wrote that on the photograph, I did not know that Captain
Bluntschli was married.

BLUNTSCHLI (much startled protesting vehemently). I'm not
married.

RAINA (with deep reproach). You said you were.

BLUNTSCHLI. I did not. I positively did not. I never was married
in my life.

PETKOFF (exasperated). Raina: will you kindly inform me, if I
am not asking too much, which gentleman you are engaged to?

RAINA. To neither of them. This young lady (introducing Louka,
who faces them all proudly) is the object of Major Saranoff's
affections at present.

PETKOFF. Louka! Are you mad, Sergius? Why, this girl's engaged
to Nicola.

NICOLA (coming forward ). I beg your pardon, sir. There is a
mistake. Louka is not engaged to me.

PETKOFF. Not engaged to you, you scoundrel! Why, you had
twenty-five levas from me on the day of your betrothal; and she
had that gilt bracelet from Miss Raina.

NICOLA (with cool unction). We gave it out so, sir. But it was
only to give Louka protection. She had a soul above her station;
and I have been no more than her confidential servant. I intend,
as you know, sir, to set up a shop later on in Sofea; and I look
forward to her custom and recommendation should she marry into
the nobility. (He goes out with impressive discretion, leaving
them all staring after him.)

PETKOFF (breaking the silence). Well, I am---hm!

SERGIUS. This is either the finest heroism or the most crawling
baseness. Which is it, Bluntschli?

BLUNTSCHLI. Never mind whether it's heroism or baseness.
Nicola's the ablest man I've met in Bulgaria. I'll make him
manager of a hotel if he can speak French and German.

LOUKA (suddenly breaking out at Sergius). I have been insulted
by everyone here. You set them the example. You owe me an
apology. (Sergius immediately, like a repeating clock of which
the spring has been touched, begins to fold his arms.)

BLUNTSCHLI (before he can speak). It's no use. He never
apologizes.

LOUKA. Not to you, his equal and his enemy. To me, his poor
servant, he will not refuse to apologize.

SERGIUS (approvingly). You are right. (He bends his knee in his
grandest manner.) Forgive me!

LOUKA. I forgive you. (She timidly gives him her hand, which he
kisses.) That touch makes me your affianced wife.

SERGIUS (springing up). Ah, I forgot that!

LOUKA (coldly). You can withdraw if you like.

SERGIUS. Withdraw! Never! You belong to me! (He puts his arm
about her and draws her to him.) (Catherine comes in and finds
Louka in Sergius's arms, and all the rest gazing at them in
bewildered astonishment.)

CATHERINE. What does this mean? (Sergius releases Louka.)

PETKOFF. Well, my dear, it appears that Sergius is going to
marry Louka instead of Raina. (She is about to break out
indignantly at him: he stops her by exclaiming testily.) Don't
blame me: I've nothing to do with it. (He retreats to the
stove.)

CATHERINE. Marry Louka! Sergius: you are bound by your word to
us!

SERGIUS (folding his arms). Nothing binds me.

BLUNTSCHLI (much pleased by this piece of common sense).
Saranoff: your hand. My congratulations. These heroics of yours
have their practical side after all. (To Louka.) Gracious young
lady: the best wishes of a good Republican! (He kisses her hand,
to Raina's great disgust.)

CATHERINE (threateningly). Louka: you have been telling
stories.

LOUKA. I have done Raina no harm.

CATHERINE (haughtily). Raina! (Raina is equally indignant at
the liberty.)

LOUKA. I have a right to call her Raina: she calls me Louka. I
told Major Saranoff she would never marry him if the Swiss
gentleman came back.

BLUNTSCHLI (surprised). Hallo!

LOUKA (turning to Raina). I thought you were fonder of him than
of Sergius. You know best whether I was right.

BLUNTSCHLI. What nonsense! I assure you, my dear Major, my dear
Madame, the gracious young lady simply saved my life, nothing
else. She never cared two straws for me. Why, bless my heart and
soul, look at the young lady and look at me. She, rich, young,
beautiful, with her imagination full of fairy princes and noble
natures and cavalry charges and goodness knows what! And I, a
common-place Swiss soldier who hardly knows what a decent life
is after fifteen years of barracks and battles--a vagabond--a
man who has spoiled all his chances in life through an incurably
romantic disposition--a man--

SERGIUS (starting as if a needle had pricked him and
interrupting Bluntschli in incredulous amazement). Excuse me,
Bluntschli: what did you say had spoiled your chances in life?

BLUNTSCHLI (promptly). An incurably romantic disposition. I ran
away from home twice when I was a boy. I went into the army
instead of into my father's business. I climbed the balcony of
this house when a man of sense would have dived into the nearest
cellar. I came sneaking back here to have another look at the
young lady when any other man of my age would have sent the coat
back--

PETKOFF. My coat!

BLUNTSCHLI.--Yes: that's the coat I mean--would have sent it
back and gone quietly home. Do you suppose I am the sort of
fellow a young girl falls in love with? Why, look at our ages!
I'm thirty-four: I don't suppose the young lady is much over
seventeen. (This estimate produces a marked sensation, all the
rest turning and staring at one another. He proceeds
innocently.) All that adventure which was life or death to me,
was only a schoolgirl's game to her--chocolate creams and hide
and seek. Here's the proof! (He takes the photograph from the
table.) Now, I ask you, would a woman who took the affair
seriously have sent me this and written on it: "Raina, to her
chocolate cream soldier--a souvenir"? (He exhibits the
photograph triumphantly, as if it settled the matter beyond all
possibility of refutation.)

PETKOFF. That's what I was looking for. How the deuce did it get
there?

BLUNTSCHLI (to Raina complacently). I have put everything
right, I hope, gracious young lady!

RAINA (in uncontrollable vexation). I quite agree with your
account of yourself. You are a romantic idiot. (Bluntschli is
unspeakably taken aback.) Next time I hope you will know the
difference between a schoolgirl of seventeen and a woman of
twenty-three.

BLUNTSCHLI (stupefied). Twenty-three! (She snaps the photograph
contemptuously from his hand; tears it across; and throws the
pieces at his feet.)

SERGIUS (with grim enjoyment of Bluntschli's discomfiture).
Bluntschli: my one last belief is gone. Your sagacity is a
fraud, like all the other things. You have less sense than even
I have.

BLUNTSCHLI (overwhelmed). Twenty-three! Twenty-three!! (He
considers.) Hm! (Swiftly making up his mind.) In that case,
Major Petkoff, I beg to propose formally to become a suitor for
your daughter's hand, in place of Major Saranoff retired.

RAINA. You dare!

BLUNTSCHLI. If you were twenty-three when you said those things
to me this afternoon, I shall take them seriously.

CATHERINE (loftily polite). I doubt, sir, whether you quite
realize either my daughter's position or that of Major Sergius
Saranoff, whose place you propose to take. The Petkoffs and the
Saranoffs are known as the richest and most important families
in the country. Our position is almost historical: we can go
back for nearly twenty years.

PETKOFF. Oh, never mind that, Catherine. (To Bluntschli.) We
should be most happy, Bluntschli, if it were only a question of
your position; but hang it, you know, Raina is accustomed to a
very comfortable establishment. Sergius keeps twenty horses.

BLUNTSCHLI. But what on earth is the use of twenty horses? Why,
it's a circus.

CATHERINE (severely). My daughter, sir, is accustomed to a
first-rate stable.

RAINA. Hush, mother, you're making me ridiculous.

BLUNTSCHLI. Oh, well, if it comes to a question of an
establishment, here goes! (He goes impetuously to the table and
seizes the papers in the blue envelope.) How many horses did you
say?

SERGIUS. Twenty, noble Switzer!

BLUNTSCHLI. I have two hundred horses. (They are amazed.) How
many carriages?

SERGIUS. Three.

BLUNTSCHLI. I have seventy. Twenty-four of them will hold twelve
inside, besides two on the box, without counting the driver and
conductor. How many tablecloths have you?

SERGIUS. How the deuce do I know?

BLUNTSCHLI. Have you four thousand?

SERGIUS. NO.

BLUNTSCHLI. I have. I have nine thousand six hundred pairs of
sheets and blankets, with two thousand four hundred eider-down
quilts. I have ten thousand knives and forks, and the same
quantity of dessert spoons. I have six hundred servants. I have
six palatial establishments, besides two livery stables, a tea
garden and a private house. I have four medals for distinguished
services; I have the rank of an officer and the standing of a
gentleman; and I have three native languages. Show me any man in
Bulgaria that can offer as much.

PETKOFF (with childish awe). Are you Emperor of Switzerland?

BLUNTSCHLI. My rank is the highest known in Switzerland: I'm a
free citizen.

CATHERINE. Then Captain Bluntschli, since you are my daughter's
choice, I shall not stand in the way of her happiness. (Petkoff
is about to speak.) That is Major Petkoff's feeling also.

PETKOFF. Oh, I shall be only too glad. Two hundred horses! Whew!

SERGIUS. What says the lady?

RAINA (pretending to sulk). The lady says that he can keep his
tablecloths and his omnibuses. I am not here to be sold to the
highest bidder.

BLUNTSCHLI. I won't take that answer. I appealed to you as a
fugitive, a beggar, and a starving man. You accepted me. You
gave me your hand to kiss, your bed to sleep in, and your roof
to shelter me--

RAINA (interrupting him). I did not give them to the Emperor of
Switzerland!

BLUNTSCHLI. That's just what I say. (He catches her hand quickly
and looks her straight in the face as he adds, with confident
mastery) Now tell us who you did give them to.

RAINA (succumbing with a shy smile). To my chocolate cream
soldier!

BLUNTSCHLI (with a boyish laugh of delight). That'll do. Thank
you. (Looks at his watch and suddenly becomes businesslike.)
Time's up, Major. You've managed those regiments so well that
you are sure to be asked to get rid of some of the Infantry of
the Teemok division. Send them home by way of Lom Palanka.
Saranoff: don't get married until I come back: I shall be here
punctually at five in the evening on Tuesday fortnight. Gracious
ladies--good evening. (He makes them a military bow, and goes.)

SERGIUS. What a man! What a man!

Augustus Does His Bit



The Mayor's parlor in the Town Hall of Little Pifflington. Lord
Augustus Highcastle, a distinguished member of the governing
class, in the uniform of a colonel, and very well preserved at
forty-five, is comfortably seated at a writing-table with his
heels on it, reading The Morning Post. The door faces him, a
little to his left, at the other side of the room. The window is
behind him. In the fireplace, a gas stove. On the table a bell
button and a telephone. Portraits of past Mayors, in robes and
gold chains, adorn the walls. An elderly clerk with a short white
beard and whiskers, and a very red nose, shuffles in.

AUGUSTUS [hastily putting aside his paper and replacing his feet
on the floor]. Hullo! Who are you?

THE CLERK. The staff [a slight impediment in his speech adds to
the impression of incompetence produced by his age and
appearance].

AUGUSTUS. You the staff! What do you mean, man?

THE CLERK. What I say. There ain't anybody else.

AUGUSTUS. Tush! Where are the others?

THE CLERK. At the front.

AUGUSTUS. Quite right. Most proper. Why aren't you at the front?

THE CLERK. Over age. Fifty-seven.

AUGUSTUS. But you can still do your bit. Many an older man is in
the G.R.'s, or volunteering for home defence.

THE CLERK. I have volunteered.

AUGUSTUS. Then why are you not in uniform?

THE CLERK. They said they wouldn't have me if I was given away
with a pound of tea. Told me to go home and not be an old silly.
[A sense of unbearable wrong, till now only smouldering in him,
bursts into flame.] Young Bill Knight, that I took with me, got
two and sevenpence. I got nothing. Is it justice? This country is
going to the dogs, if you ask me.

AUGUSTUS [rising indignantly]. I do not ask you, sir; and I will
not allow you to say such things in my presence. Our statesmen
are the greatest known to history. Our generals are invincible.
Our army is the admiration of the world. [Furiously.] How dare
you tell me that the country is going to the dogs!

THE CLERK. Why did they give young Bill Knight two and
sevenpence, and not give me even my tram fare? Do you call that
being great statesmen? As good as robbing me, I call it.

AUGUSTUS. That's enough. Leave the room. [He sits down and takes
up his pen, settling himself to work. The clerk shuffles to the
door. Augustus adds, with cold politeness] Send me the Secretary.

THE CLERK. I'M the Secretary. I can't leave the room and send
myself to you at the same time, can I?

AUGUSTUS, Don't be insolent. Where is the gentleman I have been
corresponding with: Mr Horatio Floyd Beamish?

THE CLERK [returning and bowing]. Here. Me.

AUGUSTUS. You! Ridiculous. What right have you to call yourself
by a pretentious name of that sort?

THE CLERK. You may drop the Horatio Floyd. Beamish is good enough
for me.

AUGUSTUS. Is there nobody else to take my instructions?

THE CLERK. It's me or nobody. And for two pins I'd chuck it.
Don't you drive me too far. Old uns like me is up in the world
now.

AUGUSTUS. If we were not at war, I should discharge you on the
spot for disrespectful behavior. But England is in danger; and I
cannot think of my personal dignity at such a moment. [Shouting
at him.] Don't you think of yours, either, worm that you are; or
I'll have you arrested under the Defence of the Realm Act, double
quick.

THE CLERK. What do I care about the realm? They done me out of
two and seven--

AUGUSTUS. Oh, damn your two and seven! Did you receive my
letters?

THE CLERK. Yes.

AUGUSTUS. I addressed a meeting here last night--went straight to
the platform from the train. I wrote to you that I should expect
you to be present and report yourself. Why did you not do so?

THE CLERK. The police wouldn't let me on the platform.

AUGUSTUS. Did you tell them who you were?

THE CLERK. They knew who I was. That's why they wouldn't let me
up.

AUGUSTUS. This is too silly for anything. This town wants waking
up. I made the best recruiting speech I ever made in my life; and
not a man joined.

THE CLERK. What did you expect? You told them our gallant fellows
is falling at the rate of a thousand a day in the big push. Dying
for Little Pifflington, you says. Come and take their places, you
says. That ain't the way to recruit.

AUGUSTUS. But I expressly told them their widows would have
pensions.

THE CLERK. I heard you. Would have been all right if it had been
the widows you wanted to get round.

AUGUSTUS [rising angrily]. This town is inhabited by dastards. I
say it with a full sense of responsibility, DASTARDS! They call
themselves Englishmen; and they are afraid to fight.

THE CLERK. Afraid to fight! You should see them on a Saturday
night.

AUGUSTUS. Yes, they fight one another; but they won't fight the
Germans.

THE CLERK. They got grudges again one another: how can they have
grudges again the Huns that they never saw? They've no
imagination: that's what it is. Bring the Huns here; and they'll
quarrel with them fast enough.

AUGUSTUS [returning to his seat with a grunt of disgust]. Mf!
They'll have them here if they're not careful. [Seated.] Have you
carried out my orders about the war saving?

THE CLERK. Yes.

AUGUSTUS. The allowance of petrol has been reduced by three
quarters?

THE CLERK. It has.

AUGUSTUS. And you have told the motor-car people to come here and
arrange to start munition work now that their motor business is
stopped?

THE CLERK. It ain't stopped. They're busier than ever.

AUGUSTUS. Busy at what?

THE CLERK. Making small cars.

AUGUSTUS. NEW cars!

THE CLERK. The old cars only do twelve miles to the gallon.
Everybody has to have a car that will do thirty-five now.

AUGUSTUS. Can't they take the train?

THE CLERK. There ain't no trains now. They've tore up the rails
and sent them to the front.

AUGUSTUS. Psha!

THE CLERK. Well, we have to get about somehow.

AUGUSTUS. This is perfectly monstrous. Not in the least what I
intended.

THE CLERK. Hell--

AUGUSTUS. Sir!

THE CLERK [explaining]. Hell, they says, is paved with good
intentions.

AUGUSTUS [springing to his feet]. Do you mean to insinuate that
hell is paved with MY good intentions--with the good intentions
of His Majesty's Government?

THE CLERK. I don't mean to insinuate anything until the Defence
of the Realm Act is repealed. It ain't safe.

AUGUSTUS. They told me that this town had set an example to all
England in the matter of economy. I came down here to promise the
Mayor a knighthood for his exertions.

THE CLERK. The Mayor! Where do I come in?

AUGUSTUS. You don't come in. You go out. This is a fool of a
place. I'm greatly disappointed. Deeply disappointed. [Flinging
himself back into his chair.] Disgusted.

THE CLERK. What more can we do? We've shut up everything. The
picture gallery is shut. The museum is shut. The theatres and
picture shows is shut: I haven't seen a movie picture for six
months.

AUGUSTUS. Man, man: do you want to see picture shows when the Hun
is at the gate?

THE CLERK [mournfully]. I don't now, though it drove me
melancholy mad at first. I was on the point of taking a pennorth
of rat poison--

AUGUSTUS. Why didn't you?

THE CLERK. Because a friend advised me to take to drink instead.
That saved my life, though it makes me very poor company in the
mornings, as [hiccuping] perhaps you've noticed.

AUGUSTUS. Well, upon my soul! You are not ashamed to stand there
and confess yourself a disgusting drunkard.

THE CLERK. Well, what of it? We're at war now; and everything's
changed. Besides, I should lose my job here if I stood drinking
at the bar. I'm a respectable man and must buy my drink and take
it home with me. And they won't serve me with less than a quart.
If you'd told me before the war that I could get through a quart
of whisky in a day, I shouldn't have believed you. That's the
good of war: it brings out powers in a man that he never
suspected himself capable of. You said so yourself in your speech
last night.

AUGUSTUS. I did not know that I was talking to an imbecile. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. There must be an end of this
drunken slacking. I'm going to establish a new order of things
here. I shall come down every morning before breakfast until
things are properly in train. Have a cup of coffee and two rolls
for me here every morning at half-past ten.

THE CLERK. You can't have no rolls. The only baker that baked
rolls was a Hun; and he's been interned.

AUGUSTUS. Quite right, too. And was there no Englishman to take
his place?

THE CLERK. There was. But he was caught spying; and they took him
up to London and shot him.

AUGUSTUS. Shot an Englishman!

THE CLERK. Well, it stands to reason if the Germans wanted to spy
they wouldn't employ a German that everybody would suspect, don't
it?

AUGUSTUS [rising again]. Do you mean to say, you scoundrel, that
an Englishman is capable of selling his country to the enemy for
gold?

THE CLERK. Not as a general thing I wouldn't say it; but there's
men here would sell their own mothers for two coppers if they got
the chance.

AUGUSTUS. Beamish, it's an ill bird that fouls its own nest.

THE CLERK. It wasn't me that let Little Pifflington get foul. I
don't belong to the governing classes. I only tell you why you
can't have no rolls.

AUGUSTUS [intensely irritated]. Can you tell me where I can find
an intelligent being to take my orders?

THE CLERK. One of the street sweepers used to teach in the school
until it was shut up for the sake of economy. Will he do?

AUGUSTUS. What! You mean to tell me that when the lives of the
gallant fellows in our trenches, and the fate of the British
Empire, depend on our keeping up the supply of shells, you are
wasting money on sweeping the streets?

THE CLERK. We have to. We dropped it for a while; but the infant
death rate went up something frightful.

AUGUSTUS. What matters the death rate of Little Pifflington in a
moment like this? Think of our gallant soldiers, not of your
squalling infants.

THE CLERK. If you want soldiers you must have children. You can't
buy em in boxes, like toy soldiers.

AUGUSTUS. Beamish, the long and the short of it is, you are no
patriot. Go downstairs to your office; and have that gas stove
taken away and replaced by an ordinary grate. The Board of Trade
has urged on me the necessity for economizing gas.

THE CLERK. Our orders from the Minister of Munitions is to use
gas instead of coal, because it saves material. Which is it to
be?

AUGUSTUS [bawling furiously at him]. Both! Don't criticize your
orders: obey them. Yours not to reason why: yours but to do and
die. That's war. [Cooling down.] Have you anything else to say?

THE CLERK. Yes: I want a rise.

AUGUSTUS [reeling against the table in his horror]. A rise!
Horatio Floyd Beamish, do you know that we are at war?

THE CLERK [feebly ironical]. I have noticed something about it in
the papers. Heard you mention it once or twice, now I come to
think of it.

AUGUSTUS. Our gallant fellows are dying in the trenches; and you
want a rise!

THE CLERK. What are they dying for? To keep me alive, ain't it?
Well, what's the good of that if I'm dead of hunger by the time
they come back?

AUGUSTUS. Everybody else is making sacrifices without a thought
of self; and you--

THE CLERK. Not half, they ain't. Where's the baker's sacrifice?
Where's the coal merchant's? Where's the butcher's? Charging me
double: that's how they sacrifice themselves. Well, I want to
sacrifice myself that way too. Just double next Saturday: double
and not a penny less; or no secretary for you [he stiffens
himself shakily, and makes resolutely for the door.]

AUGUSTUS [looking after him contemptuously]. Go, miserable
pro-German.

THE CLERK [rushing back and facing him]. Who are you calling a
pro-German?

AUGUSTUS. Another word, and I charge you under the Act with
discouraging me. Go.

The clerk blenches and goes out, cowed.

The telephone rings.

AUGUSTUS [taking up the telephone receiver. Hallo. Yes: who are
you?...oh, Blueloo, is it?...Yes: there's nobody in the room:
fire away. What?...A spy!...A woman!...Yes: brought it down with
me. Do you suppose I'm such a fool as to let it out of my hands?
Why, it gives a list of all our anti-aircraft emplacements from
Ramsgate to Skegness. The Germans would give a million for it--
what?... But how could she possibly know about it? I haven't
mentioned it to a soul, except, of course, dear Lucy...Oh, Toto
and Lady Popham and that lot: they don't count: they're all
right. I mean that I haven't mentioned it to any Germans....
Pooh! Don't you be nervous, old chap. I know you think me a fool;
but I'm not such a fool as all that. If she tries to get it out
of me I'll have her in the Tower before you ring up again. [The
clerk returns.] Sh-sh! Somebody's just come in: ring off.
Goodbye. [He hangs up the receiver.]

THE CLERK. Are you engaged? [His manner is strangely softened.]

AUGUSTUS. What business is that of yours? However, if you will
take the trouble to read the society papers for this week, you
will see that I am engaged to the Honorable Lucy Popham, youngest
daughter of--

THE CLERK. That ain't what I mean. Can you see a female?

AUGUSTUS. Of course I can see a female as easily as a male. Do
you suppose I'm blind?

THE CLERK. You don't seem to follow me, somehow. There's a female
downstairs: what you might call a lady. She wants to know can you
see her if I let her up.

AUGUSTUS. Oh, you mean am I disengaged. Tell the lady I have just
received news of the greatest importance which will occupy my
entire attention for the rest of the day, and that she must write
for an appointment.

THE CLERK. I'll ask her to explain her business to me. I ain't
above talking to a handsome young female when I get the chance
[going].

AUGUSTUS. Stop. Does she seem to be a person of consequence?

THE CLERK. A regular marchioness, if you ask me.

AUGUSTUS. Hm! Beautiful, did you say?

THE CLERK. A human chrysanthemum, sir, believe me.

AUGUSTUS. It will be extremely inconvenient for me to see her;
but the country is in danger; and we must not consider our own
comfort. Think how our gallant fellows are suffering in the
trenches! Show her up. [The clerk makes for the door, whistling
the latest popular ballad]. Stop whistling instantly, sir. This
is not a casino.

CLERK. Ain't it? You just wait till you see her. [He goes out.]

Augustus produces a mirror, a comb, and a pot of moustache pomade
from the drawer of the writing-table, and sits down before the
mirror to put some touches to his toilet.

The clerk returns, devotedly ushering a very attractive lady,
brilliantly dressed. She has a dainty wallet hanging from her
wrist. Augustus hastily covers up his toilet apparatus with The
Morning Post, and rises in an attitude of pompous condescension.

THE CLERK [to Augustus]. Here she is. [To the lady.] May I offer
you a chair, lady? [He places a chair at the writing-table
opposite Augustus, and steals out on tiptoe.]

AUGUSTUS. Be seated, madam.

THE LADY [sitting down]. Are you Lord Augustus Highcastle?

AUGUSTUS [sitting also]. Madam, I am.

TAE LADY [with awe]. The great Lord Augustus?

AUGUSTUS. I should not dream of describing myself so, Madam; but
no doubt I have impressed my countrymen--and [bowing gallantly]
may I say my countrywomen--as having some exceptional claims to
their consideration.

THE LADY [emotionally]. What a beautiful voice you have!

AUGUSTUS. What you hear, madam, is the voice of my country, which
now takes a sweet and noble tone even in the harsh mouth of high
officialism.

THE LADY. Please go on. You express yourself so wonderfully!

AUGUSTUS. It would be strange indeed if, after sitting on
thirty-seven Royal Commissions, mostly as chairman, I had not
mastered the art of public expression. Even the Radical papers
have paid me the high compliment of declaring that I am never
more impressive than when I have nothing to say.

THE LADY. I never read the Radical papers. All I can tell you is
that what we women admire in you is not the politician, but the
man of action, the heroic warrior, the beau sabreur.

AUGUSTUS [gloomily]. Madam, I beg! Please! My military exploits
are not a pleasant subject, unhappily.

THE LADY. Oh, I know I know. How shamefully you have been
treated! what ingratitude! But the country is with you. The women
are with you. Oh, do you think all our hearts did not throb and
all our nerves thrill when we heard how, when you were ordered to
occupy that terrible quarry in Hulluch, and you swept into it at
the head of your men like a sea-god riding on a tidal wave, you
suddenly sprang over the top shouting "To Berlin! Forward!";
dashed at the German army single-handed; and were cut off and
made prisoner by the Huns.

AUGUSTUS. Yes, madam; and what was my reward? They said I
had disobeyed orders, and sent me home. Have they forgotten
Nelson in the Baltic? Has any British battle ever been won except
by a bold initiative? I say nothing of professional jealousy, it
exists in the army as elsewhere; but it is a bitter thought to me
that the recognition denied me by my country--or rather by the
Radical cabal in the Cabinet which pursues my family with
rancorous class hatred--that this recognition, I say, came to me
at the hands of an enemy--of a rank Prussian.

THE LADY. You don't say so!

AUGUSTUS. How else should I be here instead of starving to death
in Ruhleben? Yes, madam: the Colonel of the Pomeranian regiment
which captured me, after learning what I had done, and conversing
for an hour with me on European politics and military strategy,
declared that nothing would induce him to deprive my country of
my services, and set me free. I offered, of course, to procure
the release in exchange of a German officer of equal quality; but
he would not hear of it. He was kind enough to say he could not
believe that a German officer answering to that description
existed. [With emotion.] I had my first taste of the ingratitude
of my own country as I made my way back to our lines. A shot from
our front trench struck me in the head. I still carry the
flattened projectile as a trophy [he throws it on the table; the
noise it makes testifies to its weight]. Had it penetrated to the
brain I might never have sat on another Royal Commission.
Fortunately we have strong heads, we Highcastles. Nothing has
ever penetrated to our brains.

THE LADY. How thrilling! How simple! And how tragic! But you will
forgive England? Remember: England! Forgive her.

AUGUSTUS [with gloomy magnanimity]. It will make no difference
whatever to my services to my country. Though she slay me, yet
will I, if not exactly trust in her, at least take my part in her
government. I am ever at my country's call. Whether it be the
embassy in a leading European capital, a governor-generalship in
the tropics, or my humble mission here to make Little Pifflington
do its bit, I am always ready for the sacrifice. Whilst England
remains England, wherever there is a public job to be done you
will find a Highcastle sticking to it. And now, madam, enough of
my tragic personal history. You have called on business. What can
I do for you?

THE LADY. You have relatives at the Foreign Office, have you not?

AUGUSTUS [haughtily]. Madam, the Foreign Office is staffed by my
relatives exclusively.

THE LADY. Has the Foreign Office warned you that you are being
pursued by a female spy who is determined to obtain possession of
a certain list of gun emplacements?

AUGUSTUS [interrupting her somewhat loftily]. All that is
perfectly well known to this department, madam.

THE LADY [surprised and rather indignant]. Is it? Who told you?
Was it one of your German brothers-in-law?

AUGUSTUS [injured, remonstrating]. I have only three German
brothers-in-law, madam. Really, from your tone, one would suppose
that I had several. Pardon my sensitiveness on that subject; but
reports are continually being circulated that I have been shot as
a traitor in the courtyard of the Ritz Hotel simply because I
have German brothers-in-law. [With feeling.] If you had a German
brother-in-law, madam, you would know that nothing else in the
world produces so strong an anti-German feeling. Life affords no
keener pleasure than finding a brother-in-law's name in the
German casualty list.

THE LADY. Nobody knows that better than I. Wait until you hear
what I have come to tell you: you will understand me as no one
else could. Listen. This spy, this woman--

AUGUSTUS [all attention]. Yes?

THE LADY. She is a German. A Hun.

AUGUSTUS. Yes, yes. She would be. Continue.

THE LADY. She is my sister-in-law.

AUGUSTUS [deferentially]. I see you are well connected, madam.
Proceed.

THE LADY. Need I add that she is my bitterest enemy?

AUGUSTUS. May I--[he proffers his hand. They shake, fervently.
>From this moment onward Augustus becomes more and more
confidential, gallant, and charming.]

THE LADY. Quite so. Well, she is an intimate friend of your
brother at the War Office, Hungerford Highcastle, Blueloo as you
call him, I don't know why.

AUGUSTUS [explaining]. He was originally called The Singing
Oyster, because he sang drawing-room ballads with such an
extraordinary absence of expression. He was then called the Blue
Point for a season or two. Finally he became Blueloo.

THE LADY. Oh, indeed: I didn't know. Well, Blueloo is simply
infatuated with my sister-in-law; and he has rashly let out to
her that this list is in your possession. He forgot himself
because he was in a towering rage at its being entrusted to you:
his language was terrible. He ordered all the guns to be shifted
at once.

AUGUSTUS. What on earth did he do that for?

THE LADY. I can't imagine. But this I know. She made a bet with
him that she would come down here and obtain possession of that
list and get clean away into the street with it. He took the bet
on condition that she brought it straight back to him at the War
Office.

AUGUSTUS. Good heavens! And you mean to tell me that Blueloo was
such a dolt as to believe that she could succeed? Does he take me
for a fool?

THE LADY. Oh, impossible! He is jealous of your intellect. The
bet is an insult to you: don't you feel that? After what you have
done for our country--

AUGUSTUS. Oh, never mind that. It is the idiocy of the thing I
look at. He'll lose his bet; and serve him right!

THE LADY. You feel sure you will be able to resist the siren? I
warn you, she is very fascinating.

AUGUSTUS. You need have no fear, madam. I hope she will come and
try it on. Fascination is a game that two can play at. For
centuries the younger sons of the Highcastles have had nothing to
do but fascinate attractive females when they were not sitting on
Royal Commissions or on duty at Knightsbridge barracks. By Gad,
madam, if the siren comes here she will meet her match.

THE LADY. I feel that. But if she fails to seduce you--

AUGUSTUS [blushing]. Madam!

THE LADY [continuing]--from your allegiance--

AUGUSTUS. Oh, that!

THE LADY. --she will resort to fraud, to force, to anything. She
will burgle your office: she will have you attacked and garotted
at night in the street.

AUGUSTUS. Pooh! I'm not afraid.

THE LADY. Oh, your courage will only tempt you into danger. She
may get the list after all. It is true that the guns are moved.
But she would win her bet.

AUGUSTUS [cautiously]. You did not say that the guns were moved.
You said that Blueloo had ordered them to be moved.

THE LADY. Well, that is the same thing, isn't it?

AUGUSTUS. Not quite--at the War Office. No doubt those guns WILL
be moved: possibly even before the end of the war.

THE LADY. Then you think they are there still! But if the German
War Office gets the list--and she will copy it before she gives
it back to Blueloo, you may depend on it--all is lost.

AUGUSTUS [lazily]. Well, I should not go as far as that.
[Lowering his voice.] Will you swear to me not to repeat what I
am going to say to you; for if the British public knew that I had
said it, I should be at once hounded down as a pro-German.

THE LADY. I will be silent as the grave. I swear it.

AUGUSTUS [again taking it easily]. Well, our people have for some
reason made up their minds that the German War Office is
everything that our War Office is not--that it carries
promptitude, efficiency, and organization to a pitch of
completeness and perfection that must be, in my opinion,
destructive to the happiness of the staff. My own view--which you
are pledged, remember, not to betray--is that the German War
Office is no better than any other War Office. I found that
opinion on my observation of the characters of my
brothers-in-law: one of whom, by the way, is on the German
general staff. I am not at all sure that this list of gun
emplacements would receive the smallest attention. You see, there
are always so many more important things to be attended to.
Family matters, and so on, you understand.

THE LADY. Still, if a question were asked in the House of
Commons--

AUGUSTUS. The great advantage of being at war, madam, is that
nobody takes the slightest notice of the House of Commons. No
doubt it is sometimes necessary for a Minister to soothe the more
seditious members of that assembly by giving a pledge or two; but
the War Office takes no notice of such things.

THE LADY [staring at him]. Then you think this list of gun
emplacements doesn't matter!!

AUGUSTUS. By no means, madam. It matters very much indeed. If
this spy were to obtain possession of the list, Blueloo would
tell the story at every dinner-table in London; and--

THE LADY. And you might lose your post. Of course.

AUGUSTUS [amazed and indignant]. I lose my post! What are you
dreaming about, madam? How could I possibly be spared? There are
hardly Highcastles enough at present to fill half the posts
created by this war. No: Blueloo would not go that far. He is at
least a gentleman. But I should be chaffed; and, frankly, I don't
like being chaffed.

THE LADY. Of course not. Who does? It would never do. Oh never,
never.

AUGUSTUS. I'm glad you see it in that light. And now, as a
measure of security, I shall put that list in my pocket. [He
begins searching vainly from drawer to drawer in the
writing-table.] Where on earth--? What the dickens did I--?
That's very odd: I--Where the deuce--? I thought I had put it in
the--Oh, here it is! No: this is Lucy's last letter.

THE LADY [elegiacally]. Lucy's Last Letter! What a title for a
picture play!

AUGUSTUS [delighted]. Yes: it is, isn't it? Lucy appeals to the
imagination like no other woman. By the way [handing over the
letter], I wonder could you read it for me? Lucy is a darling
girl; but I really can't read her writing. In London I get the
office typist to decipher it and make me a typed copy; but here
there is nobody.

THE LADY [puzzling over it]. It is really almost illegible. I
think the beginning is meant for "Dearest Gus."

AUGUSTUS [eagerly]. Yes: that is what she usually calls me.
Please go on.

THE LADY [trying to decipher it]. "What a"--"what a"--oh yes:
"what a forgetful old"--something--"you are!" I can't make out
the word.

AUGUSTUS [greatly interested]. Is it blighter? That is a favorite
expression of hers.

THE LADY. I think so. At all events it begins with a B.
[Reading.] "What a forgetful old"--[she is interrupted by a knock
at the door.]

AUGUSTUS [impatiently]. Come in. [The clerk enters, clean shaven
and in khaki, with an official paper and an envelope in his
hand.] What is this ridiculous mummery sir?

THE CLERK [coming to the table and exhibiting his uniform to
both]. They've passed me. The recruiting officer come for me.
I've had my two and seven.

AUGUSTUS [rising wrathfully]. I shall not permit it. What do they
mean by taking my office staff? Good God! they will be taking our
hunt servants next. [Confronting the clerk.] What did the man
mean? What did he say?

THE CLERK. He said that now you was on the job we'd want another
million men, and he was going to take the old-age pensioners or
anyone he could get.

AUGUSTUS. And did you dare to knock at my door and interrupt my
business with this lady to repeat this man's ineptitudes?

THE CLERK. No. I come because the waiter from the hotel brought
this paper. You left it on the coffeeroom breakfast-table this
morning.

THE LADY [intercepting it]. It is the list. Good heavens!

THE CLERK [proffering the envelope]. He says he thinks this is
the envelope belonging to it.

THE LADY [snatching the envelope also]. Yes! Addressed to you,
Lord Augustus! [Augustus comes back to the table to look at it.]
Oh, how imprudent! Everybody would guess its importance with your
name on it. Fortunately I have some letters of my own here
[opening her wallet.] Why not hide it in one of my envelopes?
then no one will dream that the enclosure is of any political
value. [Taking out a letter, she crosses the room towards the
window, whispering to Augustus as she passes him.] Get rid of
that man.

AUGUSTUS [haughtily approaching the clerk, who humorously makes a
paralytic attempt to stand at attention]. Have you any further
business here, pray?

THE CLERK. Am I to give the waiter anything; or will you do it
yourself?

AUGUSTUS. Which waiter is it? The English one?

THE CLERK. No: the one that calls hisself a Swiss. Shouldn't
wonder if he'd made a copy of that paper.

AUGUSTUS. Keep your impertinent surmises to yourself, sir.
Remember that you are in the army now; and let me have no more of
your civilian insubordination. Attention! Left turn! Quick march!

THE CLERK [stolidly]. I dunno what you mean.

AUGUSTUS. Go to the guard-room and report yourself for disobeying
orders. Now do you know what I mean?

THE CLERK. Now look here. I ain't going to argue with you--

AUGUSTUS. Nor I with you. Out with you.

He seizes the clerk: and rushes him through the door. The moment
the lady is left alone, she snatches a sheet of official paper
from the stationery rack: folds it so that it resembles the list;
compares the two to see that they look exactly alike: whips the
list into her wallet: and substitutes the facsimile for it. Then
she listens for the return of Augustus. A crash is heard, as of
the clerk falling downstairs.

Augustus returns and is about to close the door when the voice of
the clerk is heard from below.

THE CLERK. I'll have the law of you for this, I will.

AUGUSTUS [shouting down to him]. There's no more law for you, you
scoundrel. You're a soldier now. [He shuts the door and comes to
the lady.] Thank heaven, the war has given us the upper hand of
these fellows at last. Excuse my violence; but discipline is
absolutely necessary in dealing with the lower middle classes.

THE LADY. Serve the insolent creature right! Look I have found
you a beautiful envelope for the list, an unmistakable lady's
envelope. [She puts the sham list into her envelope and hands it
to him.]

AUGUSTUS. Excellent. Really very clever of you. [Slyly.] Come:
would you like to have a peep at the list [beginning to take the
blank paper from the envelope]?

THE LADY [on the brink of detection]. No no. Oh, please, no.

AUGUSTUS. Why? It won't bite you [drawing it out further.]

THE LADY [snatching at his hand]. Stop. Remember: if there should
be an inquiry, you must be able to swear that you never showed
that list to a mortal soul.

AUGUSTUS. Oh, that is a mere form. If you are really curious--

THE LADY. I am not. I couldn't bear to look at it. One of my
dearest friends was blown to pieces by an aircraft gun; and since
then I have never been able to think of one without horror.

AUGUSTUS. You mean it was a real gun, and actually went off. How
sad! how sad! [He pushes the sham list back into the envelope,
and pockets it.]

THE LADY. Ah! [Great sigh of relief]. And now, Lord Augustus, I
have taken up too much of your valuable time. Goodbye.

AUGUSTUS. What! Must you go?

THE LADY. You are so busy.

AUGUSTUS. Yes; but not before lunch, you know. I never can do
much before lunch. And I'm no good at all in the afternoon. From
five to six is my real working time. Must you really go?

THE LADY. I must, really. I have done my business very
satisfactorily. Thank you ever so much [she proffers her hand].

AUGUSTUS [shaking it affectionately as he leads her to the door,
but fast pressing the bell button with his left hand]. Goodbye.
Goodbye. So sorry to lose you. Kind of you to come; but there was
no real danger. You see, my dear little lady, all this talk about
war saving, and secrecy, and keeping the blinds down at night,
and so forth, is all very well; but unless it's carried out with
intelligence, believe me, you may waste a pound to save a penny;
you may let out all sorts of secrets to the enemy; you may guide
the Zeppelins right on to your own chimneys. That's where the
ability of the governing class comes in. Shall the fellow call a
taxi for you?

THE LADY. No, thanks: I prefer walking. Goodbye. Again, many,
many thanks.

She goes out. Augustus returns to the writing-table smiling, and
takes another look at himself in the mirror. The clerk returns,
with his head bandaged, carrying a poker.

THE CLERK. What did you ring for? [Augustus hastily drops the
mirror]. Don't you come nigh me or I'll split your head with this
poker, thick as it is.

AUGUSTUS. It does not seem to me an exceptionally thick poker. I
rang for you to show the lady out.

THE CLERK. She's gone. She run out like a rabbit. I ask myself
why was she in such a hurry?

THE LADY'S VOICE [from the street]. Lord Augustus. Lord Augustus.

THE CLERK. She's calling you.

AUGUSTUS [running to the window and throwing it up]. What is it?
Won't you come up?

THE LADY. Is the clerk there?

AUGUSTUS. Yes. Do you want him?

THE LADY. Yes.

AUGUSTUS. The lady wants you at the window.

THE CLERK [rushing to the window and putting down the poker].
Yes, ma'am? Here I am, ma'am. What is it, ma'am?

THE LADY. I want you to witness that I got clean away into the
street. I am coming up now.

The two men stare at one another.

THE CLERK. Wants me to witness that she got clean away into the
street!

AUGUSTUS. What on earth does she mean?

The lady returns.

THE LADY. May I use your telephone?

AUGUSTUS. Certainly. Certainly. [Taking the receiver down.] What
number shall I get you?

THE LADY. The War Office, please.

AUGUSTUS. The War Office!?

THE LADY. If you will be so good.

AUGUSTUS. But--Oh, very well. [Into the receiver.] Hallo. This is
the Town Hall Recruiting Office. Give me Colonel Bogey, sharp.

A pause.

THE CLERK [breaking the painful silence]. I don't think I'm
awake. This is a dream of a movie picture, this is.

AUGUSTUS [his ear at the receiver]. Shut up, will you? [Into the
telephone.] What?...[To the lady.] Whom do you want to get on to?

THE LADY. Blueloo.

AUGUSTUS [into the telephone]. Put me through to Lord Hungerford
Highcastle...I'm his brother, idiot...That you, Blueloo? Lady
here at Little Pifflington wants to speak to you. Hold the line.
[To the lady.] Now, madam [he hands her the receiver].

THE LADY [sitting down in Augustus's chair to speak into the
telephone]. Is that Blueloo?...Do you recognize my voice?...I've
won our bet....

AUGUSTUS. Your bet!

THE LADY [into the telephone]. Yes: I have the list in my wallet
....

AUGUSTUS. Nothing of the kind, madam. I have it here in my
pocket. [He takes the envelope from his pocket: draws out the
paper: and unfolds it.]

THE LADY [continuing]. Yes: I got clean into the street with it.
I have a witness. I could have got to London with it. Augustus
won't deny it....

AUGUSTUS [contemplating the blank paper]. There's nothing written
on this. Where is the list of guns?

THE LADY [continuing]. Oh, it was quite easy. I said I was my
sister-in-law and that I was a Hun. He lapped it up like a kitten
....

AUGUSTUS. You don't mean to say that--

THE LADY [continuing]. I got hold of the list for a moment and
changed it for a piece of paper out of his stationery rack: it
was quite easy [she laughs: and it is clear that Blueloo is
laughing too].

AUGUSTUS. What!

THE CLERK [laughing slowly and laboriously, with intense
enjoyment]. Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Ha! [Augustus rushes at him; he
snatches up the poker and stands on guard.] No you don't.

THE LADY [still at the telephone, waving her disengaged hand
behind her impatiently at them to stop making a noise]. Sh-sh-sh-
sh-sh!!! [Augustus, with a shrug, goes up the middle of the room.
The lady resumes her conversation with the telephone.] What?...Oh
yes: I'm coming up by the 1.35: why not have tea with me at
Rumpelmeister's?...Rum-pel-meister's. You know: they call it
Robinson's now...Right. Ta ta. [She hangs up the receiver, and is
passing round the table on her way towards the door when she is
confronted by Augustus.]

AUGUSTUS. Madam, I consider your conduct most unpatriotic. You
make bets and abuse the confidence of the hardworked officials
who are doing their bit for their country whilst our gallant
fellows are perishing in the trenches--

THE LADY. Oh, the gallant fellows are not all in the trenches,
Augustus. Some of them have come home for a few days' hard-earned
leave; and I am sure you won't grudge them a little fun at your
expense.

THE CLERK. Hear! hear!

AUGUSTUS [amiably]. Ah, well! For my country's sake--!

Back To Methuselah

A Metabiological Pentateuch



Contents


The Infidel Half Century
  The Dawn of Darwinism
  The Advent of the Neo-Darwinians
  Political Inadequacy of the Human Animal
  Cowardice of the Irreligious
  Is there any Hope in Education?
  Homeopathic Education
  The Diabolical Efficiency of Technical Education
  Flimsiness of Civilization
  Creative Evolution
  Voluntary Longevity
  The Early Evolutionists
  The Advent of the Neo-Lamarckians
  How Acquirements are Inherited
  The Miracle of Condensed Recapitulation
  Heredity an Old Story
  Discovery Anticipated by Divination
  Corrected Dates for the Discovery of Evolution
  Defying the Lightning: a Frustrated Experiment
  In Quest of the First Cause
  Paley's Watch
  The Irresistible Cry of Order, Order!
  The Moment and the Man
  The Brink of the Bottomless Pit
  Why Darwin Converted the Crowd
  How we Rushed Down a Steep Place
  Darwinism not Finally Refutable
  Three Blind Mice
  The Greatest of These is Self-Control
  A Sample of Lamarcko-Shavian Invective
  The Humanitarians and the Problem of Evil
  How One Touch of Darwin makes the Whole World Kin
  Why Darwin Pleased the Socialists
  Darwin and Karl Marx
  Why Darwin pleased the Profiteers also
  The Poetry and Purity of Materialism
  The Viceroys of the King of Kings
  Political Opportunism in Excelsis
  The Betrayal of Western Civilization
  Circumstantial Selection in Finance
  The Homeopathic Reaction against Darwinism
  Religion and Romance
  The Danger of Reaction
  A Touchstone for Dogma
  What to do with the Legends
  A Lesson from Science to the Churches
  The Religious Art of the Twentieth Century
  The Artist-Prophets
  Evolution in the Theatre
  My Own Part in the Matter
In the Beginning: B.C. 4004 (In the Garden of Eden)
The Gospel of the Brothers Barnabas: Present Day
The Thing Happens: A.D. 2170
Tragedy of an Elderly Gentleman: A.D. 3000
As Far as Thought Can Reach: A.D. 31,920

The Infidel Half Century


The Dawn Of Darwinism

One day early in the eighteen hundred and sixties, I, being then a
small boy, was with my nurse, buying something in the shop of a petty
newsagent, bookseller, and stationer in Camden Street, Dublin, when
there entered an elderly man, weighty and solemn, who advanced to the
counter, and said pompously, 'Have you the works of the celebrated
Buffoon?'

My own works were at that time unwritten, or it is possible that the
shop assistant might have misunderstood me so far as to produce a copy
of Man and Superman. As it was, she knew quite well what he wanted; for
this was before the Education Act of 1870 had produced shop assistants
who know how to read and know nothing else. The celebrated Buffoon was
not a humorist, but the famous naturalist Buffon. Every literate child
at that time knew Buffon's Natural History as well as Esop's Fables. And
no living child had heard the name that has since obliterated Buffon's
in the popular consciousness: the name of Darwin.

Ten years elapsed. The celebrated Buffoon was forgotten; I had doubled
my years and my length; and I had discarded the religion of my
forefathers. One day the richest and consequently most dogmatic of my
uncles came into a restaurant where I was dining, and found himself,
much against his will, in conversation with the most questionable of his
nephews. By way of making myself agreeable, I spoke of modern thought
and Darwin. He said, 'Oh, thats the fellow who wants to make out that we
all have tails like monkeys.' I tried to explain that what Darwin had
insisted on in this connection was that some monkeys have no tails.
But my uncle was as impervious to what Darwin really said as any
Neo-Darwinian nowadays. He died impenitent, and did not mention me in
his will.


Twenty years elapsed. If my uncle had been alive, he would have known
all about Darwin, and known it all wrong. In spite of the efforts of
Grant Allen to set him right, he would have accepted Darwin as the
discoverer of Evolution, of Heredity, and of modification of species by
Selection. For the pre-Darwinian age had come to be regarded as a Dark
Age in which men still believed that the book of Genesis was a standard
scientific treatise, and that the only additions to it were Galileo's
demonstration of Leonardo da Vinci's simple remark that the earth is
a moon of the sun, Newton's theory of gravitation, Sir Humphry Davy's
invention of the safety-lamp, the discovery of electricity, the
application of steam to industrial purposes, and the penny post. It was
just the same in other subjects. Thus Nietzsche, by the two or three who
had come across his writings, was supposed to have been the first man
to whom it occurred that mere morality and legality and urbanity lead
nowhere, as if Bunyan had never written Badman. Schopenhauer was
credited with inventing the distinction between the Covenant of Grace
and the Covenant of Works which troubled Cromwell on his deathbed.
People talked as if there had been no dramatic or descriptive music
before Wagner; no impressionist painting before Whistler; whilst as to
myself, I was finding that the surest way to produce an effect of daring
innovation and originality was to revive the ancient attraction of long
rhetorical speeches; to stick closely to the methods of Molière; and to
lift characters bodily out of the pages of Charles Dickens.

The Advent Of The Neo-Darwinians


This particular sort of ignorance does not always or often matter. But
in Darwin's case it did matter. If Darwin had really led the world at
one bound from the book of Genesis to Heredity, to Modification of
Species by Selection, and to Evolution, he would have been a philosopher
and a prophet as well as an eminent professional naturalist, with
geology as a hobby. The delusion that he had actually achieved this
feat did no harm at first, because if people's views are sound, about
evolution or anything else, it does not make two straws difference
whether they call the revealer of their views Tom or Dick. But later on
such apparently negligible errors have awkward consequences. Darwin was
given an imposing reputation as not only an Evolutionist, but as _the_
Evolutionist, with the immense majority who never read his books.
The few who never read any others were led by them to concentrate
exclusively on Circumstantial Selection as the explanation of all the
transformations and adaptations which were the evidence for Evolution.
And they presently found themselves so cut off by this specialization
from the majority who knew Darwin only by his spurious reputation, that
they were obliged to distinguish themselves, not as Darwinians, but as
Neo-Darwinians.

Before ten more years had elapsed, the Neo-Darwinians were practically
running current Science. It was 1906; I was fifty; I published my own
view of evolution in a play called Man and Superman; and I found that
most people were unable to understand how I could be an Evolutionist
and not a Neo-Darwinian, or why I habitually derided Neo-Darwinism as
a ghastly idiocy, and would fall on its professors slaughterously in
public discussions. It was in the hope of making me clear the matter up
that the Fabian Society, which was then organizing a series of lectures
on Prophets of the Nineteenth Century, asked me to deliver a lecture
on the prophet Darwin. I did so; and scraps of that lecture, which was
never published, variegate these pages.

Political Inadequacy Of The Human Animal


Ten more years elapsed. Neo-Darwinism in politics had produced a
European catastrophe of a magnitude so appalling, and a scope so
unpredictable, that as I write these lines in 1920, it is still far from
certain whether our civilization will survive it. The circumstances
of this catastrophe, the boyish cinema-fed romanticism which made it
possible to impose it on the people as a crusade, and especially the
ignorance and errors of the victors of Western Europe when its violent
phase had passed and the time for reconstruction arrived, confirmed a
doubt which had grown steadily in my mind during my forty years public
work as a Socialist: namely, whether the human animal, as he exists at
present, is capable of solving the social problems raised by his own
aggregation, or, as he calls it, his civilization.

Cowardice Of The Irreligious


Another observation I had made was that goodnatured unambitious men are
cowards when they have no religion. They are dominated and exploited not
only by greedy and often half-witted and half-alive weaklings who will
do anything for cigars, champagne, motor cars, and the more childish and
selfish uses of money, but by able and sound administrators who can do
nothing else with them than dominate and exploit them. Government and
exploitation become synonymous under such circumstances; and the world
is finally ruled by the childish, the brigands, and the blackguards.
Those who refuse to stand in with them are persecuted and occasionally
executed when they give any trouble to the exploiters. They fall into
poverty when they lack lucrative specific talents. At the present moment
one half of Europe, having knocked the other half down, is trying to
kick it to death, and may succeed: a procedure which is, logically,
sound Neo-Darwinism. And the goodnatured majority are looking on
in helpless horror, or allowing themselves to be persuaded by the
newspapers of their exploiters that the kicking is not only a sound
commercial investment, but an act of divine justice of which they are
the ardent instruments.

But if Man is really incapable of organizing a big civilization, and
cannot organize even a village or a tribe any too well, what is the use
of giving him a religion? A religion may make him hunger and thirst for
righteousness; but will it endow him with the practical capacity to
satisfy that appetite? Good intentions do not carry with them a grain of
political science, which is a very complicated one. The most devoted and
indefatigable, the most able and disinterested students of this science
in England, as far as I know, are my friends Sidney and Beatrice Webb.
It has taken them forty years of preliminary work, in the course of
which they have published several treatises comparable to Adam Smith's
Wealth of Nations, to formulate a political constitution adequate to
existing needs. If this is the measure of what can be done in a
lifetime by extraordinary ability, keen natural aptitude, exceptional
opportunities, and freedom from the preoccupations of bread-winning,
what are we to expect from the parliament man to whom political science
is as remote and distasteful as the differential calculus, and to whom
such an elementary but vital point as the law of economic rent is a
_pons asinorum_ never to be approached, much less crossed? Or from the
common voter who is mostly so hard at work all day earning a living that
he cannot keep awake for five minutes over a book?

Is There Any Hope In Education?


The usual answer is that we must educate our masters: that is,
ourselves. We must teach citizenship and political science at school.
But must we? There is no must about it, the hard fact being that we must
_not_ teach political science or citizenship at school. The schoolmaster
who attempted it would soon find himself penniless in the streets
without pupils, if not in the dock pleading to a pompously worded
indictment for sedition against the exploiters. Our schools teach the
morality of feudalism corrupted by commercialism, and hold up the
military conqueror, the robber baron, and the profiteer, as models of
the illustrious and the successful. In vain do the prophets who see
through this imposture preach and teach a better gospel: the individuals
whom they convert are doomed to pass away in a few years; and the new
generations are dragged back in the schools to the morality of the
fifteenth century, and think themselves Liberal when they are defending
the ideas of Henry VII, and gentlemanly when they are opposing to them
the ideas of Richard III. Thus the educated man is a greater nuisance
than the uneducated one: indeed it is the inefficiency and sham of the
educational side of our schools (to which, except under compulsion,
children would not be sent by their parents at all if they did not act
as prisons in which the immature are kept from worrying the mature) that
save us from being dashed on the rocks of false doctrine instead of
drifting down the midstream of mere ignorance. There is no way out
through the schoolmaster.

Homeopathic Education


In truth, mankind cannot be saved from without, by schoolmasters or any
other sort of masters: it can only be lamed and enslaved by them. It is
said that if you wash a cat it will never again wash itself. This may or
may not be true: what is certain is that if you teach a man anything he
will never learn it; and if you cure him of a disease he will be unable
to cure himself the next time it attacks him. Therefore, if you want
to see a cat clean, you throw a bucket of mud over it, when it will
immediately take extraordinary pains to lick the mud off, and finally be
cleaner than it was before. In the same way doctors who are up-to-date
(BURGE-LUBIN per cent of all the registered practitioners, and 20 per
cent of the unregistered ones), when they want to rid you of a disease
or a symptom, inoculate you with that disease or give you a drug that
produces that symptom, in order to provoke you to resist it as the mud
provokes the cat to wash itself.

Now an acute person will ask me why, if this be so, our false education
does not provoke our scholars to find out the truth. My answer is that
it sometimes does. Voltaire was a pupil of the Jesuits; Samuel Butler
was the pupil of a hopelessly conventional and erroneous country parson.
But then Voltaire was Voltaire, and Butler was Butler: that is, their
minds were so abnormally strong that they could throw off the doses of
poison that paralyse ordinary minds. When the doctors inoculate you and
the homeopathists dose you, they give you an infinitesimally attenuated
dose. If they gave you the virus at full strength it would overcome your
resistance and produce its direct effect. The doses of false doctrine
given at public schools and universities are so big that they overwhelm
the resistance that a tiny dose would provoke. The normal student is
corrupted beyond redemption, and will drive the genius who resists out
of the country if he can. Byron and Shelley had to fly to Italy, whilst
Castlereagh and Eldon ruled the roost at home. Rousseau was hunted from
frontier to frontier; Karl Marx starved in exile in a Soho lodging;
Ruskin's articles were refused by the magazines (he was too rich to be
otherwise persecuted); whilst mindless forgotten nonentities governed
the land; sent men to the prison or the gallows for blasphemy and
sedition (meaning the truth about Church and State); and sedulously
stored up the social disease and corruption which explode from time to
time in gigantic boils that have to be lanced by a million bayonets.
This is the result of allopathic education. Homeopathic education has
not yet been officially tried, and would obviously be a delicate
matter if it were. A body of schoolmasters inciting their pupils to
infinitesimal peccadilloes with the object of provoking them to exclaim,
'Get thee behind me, Satan,' or telling them white lies about history
for the sake of being contradicted, insulted, and refuted, would
certainly do less harm than our present educational allopaths do; but
then nobody will advocate homeopathic education. Allopathy has produced
the poisonous illusion that it enlightens instead of darkening. The
suggestion may, however, explain why, whilst most people's minds succumb
to inculcation and environment, a few react vigorously: honest and
decent people coming from thievish slums, and sceptics and realists from
country parsonages.

The Diabolical Efficiency Of Technical Education


But meanwhile--and here comes the horror of it--our technical
instruction is honest and efficient. The public schoolboy who is
carefully blinded, duped, and corrupted as to the nature of a society
based on profiteering, and is taught to honor parasitic idleness and
luxury, learns to shoot and ride and keep fit with all the assistance
and guidance that can be procured for him by the most anxiously sincere
desire that he may do these things well, and if possible superlatively
well. In the army he learns to fly; to drop bombs; to use machine-guns
to the utmost of his capacity. The discovery of high explosives is
rewarded and dignified: instruction in the manufacture of the weapons,
battleships, submarines, and land batteries by which they are applied
destructively, is quite genuine: the instructors know their business,
and really mean the learners to succeed. The result is that powers
of destruction that could hardly without uneasiness be entrusted to
infinite wisdom and infinite benevolence are placed in the hands of
romantic schoolboy patriots who, however generous by nature, are by
education ignoramuses, dupes, snobs, and sportsmen to whom fighting is a
religion and killing an accomplishment; whilst political power, useless
under such circumstances except to militarist imperialists in chronic
terror of invasion and subjugation, pompous tufthunting fools,
commercial adventurers to whom the organization by the nation of its own
industrial services would mean checkmate, financial parasites on the
money market, and stupid people who cling to the status quo merely
because they are used to it, is obtained by heredity, by simple
purchase, by keeping newspapers and pretending that they are organs of
public opinion, by the wiles of seductive women, and by prostituting
ambitious talent to the service of the profiteers, who call the tune
because, having secured all the spare plunder, they alone can afford
to pay the piper. Neither the rulers nor the ruled understand high
politics. They do not even know that there is such a branch of knowledge
as political science; but between them they can coerce and enslave
with the deadliest efficiency, even to the wiping out of civilization,
because their education as slayers has been honestly and thoroughly
carried out. Essentially the rulers are all defectives; and there is
nothing worse than government by defectives who wield irresistible
powers of physical coercion. The commonplace sound people submit, and
compel the rest to submit, because they have been taught to do so as
an article of religion and a point of honor. Those in whom natural
enlightenment has reacted against artificial education submit because
they are compelled; but they would resist, and finally resist
effectively, if they were not cowards. And they are cowards because they
have neither an officially accredited and established religion nor a
generally recognized point of honor, and are all at sixes and sevens
with their various private speculations, sending their children perforce
to the schools where they will be corrupted for want of any other
schools. The rulers are equally intimidated by the immense extension
and cheapening of the means of slaughter and destruction. The British
Government is more afraid of Ireland now that submarines, bombs, and
poison gas are cheap and easily made than it was of the German Empire
before the war; consequently the old British custom which maintained a
balance of power through command of the sea is intensified into a terror
that sees security in nothing short of absolute military mastery of the
entire globe: that is, in an impossibility that will yet seem possible
in detail to soldiers and to parochial and insular patriotic civilians.