JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND 
 AND MAJOR BARBARA 
 
JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND 
 AND MAJOR BARBARA • BY 
 BERNARD SHAW 
 
 BRENTANO'S • NEW YORK 
 MCMVni 
 
Copyright, 1907, hy G. Bernard Shaw 
 
 i:£NRY MOSSE STEPHEK* 
 
 Pebsswobk bt 
 Teb Univbbsitt Pees3, Cambridqb, U. 8. A. 
 
•J 
 
 PREFACE FOR POLITICIANS 
 
 John Bull's Other Island was written in 1904 at the 
 request of Mr. William Butler Yeats, as a patriotic con- 
 tribution to the repertory of the Irish Literary Theatre. 
 Like most people who have asked me to write plays, ISIr. 
 Yeats got rather more than he bargained for. The play 
 was at that time beyond the resources of the new Abbey 
 Theatre, which the Irish enterprise owed to the public 
 spirit of Miss A. E. F. Horniman (an Englishwoman, 
 of course), who, twelve years ago, played an irqportant 
 part in the history of the modern English stage as well 
 as in my own personal destiny by providing the neces- 
 sary capital for that memorable season at the Avenue 
 Theatre which forced my Arms and The Man and Mr. 
 Yeats's Land of Heart's Desire on the recalcitrant Lon- 
 don playgoer, and gave a third Irish playwright. Dr. 
 John Todhunter, an opportunity which the commercial 
 theatres could not have afforded him. 
 
 There was another reason for changing the destina- 
 tion of John Bull's Other Island. It was uncongenial 
 to the whole spirit of the neo-Gaelic movement, which 
 is bent on creating a new Ireland after its own ideal, 
 whereas my play is a very uncompromising presentment 
 of the real old Ireland. The neit thing that happened 
 was the production of the play in London at the Court 
 Theatre by Messrs. Vedrenne and Barker, and its im- 
 mediate and enormous popularity with delighted and 
 flattered English audiences. This constituted it a suc- 
 cessful commercial play, and made it imnecessary to 
 resort to the special machinery or tax the special re- 
 sources of the Irish Literary Theatre for its production. 
 
 13708 
 
vi John Bull's Other Island 
 
 How Tom Broadbent Took It. 
 
 Now I have a good deal more to say about the rela- 
 tions between the Irish and the English than will be 
 found in my play. Writing the play for an Irish audi- 
 ence, I thought it would be good for them to be shewn 
 very clearly that the loudest laugh they could raise at 
 the expense of the absurdest Englishman was not really 
 a laugh on their side; that he would succeed where they 
 would fail; that he could inspire strong affection and 
 loyalty in an Irishman who knew the world and was 
 moved only to dislike, mistrust, irajDatience and even 
 exasperation by his own countrymen; that his power of 
 taking himself seriously, and his insensibility to any- 
 thing funny in danger and destruction, was the first 
 condition of economy and concentration of force, sus- 
 tained purpose, and rational conduct. But the need for 
 this lesson in Ireland is the measure of its demoralizing 
 superfluousness in England. English audiences very 
 naturall}' swallowed it eagerly and smacked their lips 
 over it, laughing all the more heartily because they felt 
 that they were taking a caricature of tliemselves with 
 the most tolerant and largeminded goodhumor. They 
 were perfectly willing to allow me to represent Tom 
 Broadbent as infatuated in politics, hypnotized by his 
 newspaper-leader-writers and parliamentary orators into 
 an utter paralysis of his common sense, without moral 
 delicacy or social tact, provided I made him cheerful, 
 robust, goodnatured, free from envy, and above all, a 
 successful muddler-through in business and love. Not 
 only did no English critic allow that the success in busi- 
 ness of Messrs. English Broadbent and Irish Doyle 
 might possibly have been due to some extent to Doyle, 
 but one writer actually dwelt with much feeling on the 
 pathos of Doyle's failure as an engineer (a circumstance 
 not mentioned nor suggested in my play) in contrast 
 
Preface for Politicians vii 
 
 with Broadbent's solid success. No doubt, when the play- 
 is performed in Ireland, the Dublin critics will regard 
 it as self-evident that without Doyle Broadbent would 
 have become bankrupt in six months. I should say, 
 myself, that the combination was probably much more 
 effective than either of the partners would have been 
 alone. I am persuaded further — without pretending to 
 know more about it than anyone else — that Broadbent's 
 special contribution was simply the strength, self-satis- 
 faction, social confidence and cheerful bumptiousness 
 that money, comfort, and good feeding bring to all 
 healthy people; and that Doyle's special contribution 
 was the freedom from illusion, the power of facing 
 facts, the nervous industry, the sharpened wits, the sen- 
 sitive pride of the imaginative man who has fought his 
 way up through social persecution and poverty. I do 
 not say that the confidence of the Englishman in Broad- 
 bent is not for the moment justified. The virtues of 
 the English soil are not less real because they consist 
 of coal and iron, not of metaphysical sources of charac- 
 ter. The virtues of Broadbent are not less real because 
 they are the virtues of the money that coal and iron 
 has produced. But as the mineral virtues are being dis- 
 covered and developed in other soils, their derivative 
 virtues are appearing so rapidly in other nations that 
 Broadbent's relative advantage is vanishing. In truth 
 I am afraid (the misgiving is natural to a by-this-time 
 slightly elderly playwright) that Broadbent is out of 
 date. The successful Englishman of today, when he 
 is not a transplanted Scotchman or Irishman, often turns 
 out on investigation to be, if not an American, an Italian, 
 or a Jew, at least to be depending on the brains, the 
 nervous energy, and the freedom from romantic illusions 
 (often called cynicism) of such foreigners for the man- 
 agement of his sources of income. At all events I am 
 persuaded that a modern nation that is satisfied with 
 Broadbent is in a dream. Much as I like him, I object 
 
viii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 to be governed by him, or entangled in his political 
 destiny. I therefore propose to give him a piece of my 
 mind here, as an Irishman, full of an instinctive pity 
 for those of my fellow-creatures who are only English. 
 
 What Is an Irishman? 
 
 When I say that I am an Irishman I mean that I was 
 born in Ireland, and that my native language is the 
 English of Swift and not the unspeakable jargon of the 
 mid-XIX. century London newspapers. My extraction 
 is the extraction of most Englishmen: that is, I have no 
 trace in me of the commercially imported North Spanish 
 strain which passes for aboriginal Irish: I am a genuine 
 typical Irishman of the Danish, Norman, Cromwellian, 
 and (of course) Scotch invasions, I am violently and 
 arrogantly Protestant by family tradition; but let no 
 English Government therefore count on my allegiance: 
 I am English enough to be an inveterate Republican and 
 Home Ruler. It is true that one of my grandfathers 
 was an Orangeman; but then his sister was an abbess; 
 and his uncle, I am proud to say, was hanged as a rebel. 
 "When I look round me on the hybrid cosmopolitans, 
 slum poisoned or square pampered, who call themselves 
 Englishmen today, and see them bullied by the Irish 
 Protestant garrison as no Bengalee now lets himself be 
 bullied by an Englishman; when I see the Irishman 
 everywhere standing clearheaded, sane, hardily callous 
 to the boyish sentimentalities, susceptibilities, and credu- 
 lities that make the Englishman the dupe of every char- 
 latan and the idolater of every numskull, I perceive that 
 Ireland is the only spot on earth which still produces 
 the ideal Englishman of history. Blackguard, bully, 
 drunkard, liar, foul-mouth, flatterer, beggar, backbiter, 
 venal functionary, corrupt judge, envious friend, vin- 
 dictive opponent, imparalleled political traitor: all these 
 your Irishman may easily be, just as he may be a gen- 
 
Preface for Politicians ix 
 
 tleman (a species extinct in England^ and nobody a 
 penny the worse) ; but he is never quite the hysterical, 
 nonsense-crammed, fact-proof, truth-terrified, unbal- 
 lasted sport of all the bogey panics and all the silly 
 enthusiasms that now calls itself " God's Englishman." 
 England cannot do without its Irish and its Scots today, 
 because it cannot do without at least a little sanity. 
 
 The Protestant Garrison. 
 
 The more Protestant an Irishman is — the more Eng- 
 lish he is, if it flatters you to have it put that way, the 
 more intolerable he finds it to be ruled by English in- 
 stead of Irish folly. A " loyal " Irishman is an abhor- 
 rent phenomenon, because it is an unnatural one. No 
 doubt English rule is vigorously exploited in the inter- 
 ests of the property, power, and promotion of the Irish 
 classes as against the Irish masses. Our delicacy is 
 part of a keen sense of reality which makes us a very 
 practical, and even, on occasion, a very coarse people. 
 The Irish soldier takes the King's shilling and drinks 
 the King's health; and the Irish squire takes the title 
 deeds of the English settlement and rises uncovered 
 to the strains of the English national anthem. But do 
 not mistake this cupboard loyalty for anything deeper. 
 It gains a broad base from the normal attachment of 
 every reasonable man to the established government as 
 long as it is bearable; for we all, after a certain age, 
 prefer peace to revolutioij and order to chaos, other 
 things being equal. Such considerations produce loyal 
 Irishmen as they produce loyal Poles and Fins, loyal 
 Hindoos, loyal Filipinos, and faithful slaves. But there 
 is nothing more in it than that. If there is an entire 
 lack of gall in the feeling of the Irish gentry towards 
 the English, it is because the Englishman is always 
 gaping admiringly at the Irishman as at some clever 
 child prodigy. He overrates him with a generosity born 
 
X John Bull's Other Island 
 
 of a traditional conviction of his own superiority in the 
 deeper aspects of human character. As the Irish gentle- 
 man, tracing his pedigree to the conquest or one of the 
 invasions, is equally convinced that if this superiority 
 really exists, he is the genuine true blue heir to it, and 
 as he is easily able to hold his own in all the superficial 
 social accomplishments, he finds English society agree- 
 able, and English houses very comfortable, Irish estab- 
 lishments being generally straitened by an attempt to 
 keep a park and a stable on an income which would not 
 justify an Englishman in venturing upon a wholly de- 
 tached villa. 
 
 Our Temperaments Contrasted. 
 
 But however pleasant the relations between the 
 Protestant garrison and the English gentry may be, 
 they are always essentially of the nature of an entente 
 cordiale between foreigners. Personally I like English- 
 men much better than Irishmen (no doubt because they 
 make more of me) just as many Englishmen like French- 
 men better than Englishmen, and never go on board a 
 Peninsular and Oriental steamer when one of the ships 
 of the jNIessageries JNIaritimes is available. But I never 
 think of an Englishman as my countryman. I should 
 as soon think of applying that term to a German. And 
 the Englishman has the same feeling. When a French- 
 man fails to make the distinction, we both feel a certain 
 disparagement involved in the misapprehension. Mac- 
 aulay, seeing that the Irish had in Swift an author 
 worth stealing, tried to annex him by contending that 
 he must be classed as an Englishman because he was 
 not an aboriginal Celt. He might as well have refused 
 the name of Briton to Addison because he did not stain 
 himself blue and attach scythes to the poles of his sedan 
 chair. In spite of all such trifling with facts, the actual 
 distinction between the idolatrous Englishman and the 
 
Preface for Politicians xi 
 
 fact-facing Irishman, of the same extraction though they 
 be, remains to explode those two hollowest of fictions, 
 the Irish and English " races." There is no Irish race 
 any more than there is an English race or a Yankee race. 
 There is an Irish climate, which will stamp an immigrant 
 more deeply and durably in two years, apparently, than 
 the English climate will in two hundred. It is rein- 
 forced by an artificial economic climate which does some 
 of the work attributed to the natural geographic one; 
 but the geographic climate is eternal and irresistible, 
 making a mankind and a womankind that Kent, Middle- 
 sex, and East Anglia cannot produce and do not want to 
 imitate. 
 
 How can I sketch the broad lines of the contrast as 
 they strike me .'' Roughly I should say that the English- 
 man is wholly at the mercy of his imagination, having 
 no sense of reality to check it. The Irishman, with a 
 far subtler and more fastidious imagination, has one eye 
 always on things as they are. If you compare Moore's 
 visionary Minstrel Boy with Mr. Rudyard Kipling's 
 quasi-realistic Soldiers Three, you may yawn over Moore 
 or gush over him, but you will not suspect him of having 
 had any illusions about the contemporary British pri- 
 vate; whilst as to Mr. Kipling, you will see that he has 
 not, and unless he settles in Ireland for a few years 
 will always remain constitutionally and congenitally in- 
 capable of having, the faintest inkling of the reality 
 which he idolizes as Tommy Atkins. Perhaps you have 
 never thought of illustrating the contrast between Eng- 
 lish and Irish by Moore and j\Ir. Kipling, or even by 
 Parnell and Gladstone. Sir Boyle Roche and Shakespear 
 may seem more to your point. Let me find you a more 
 dramatic instance. Think of the famous meeting be- 
 tween the Duke of Wellington, that intensely Irish 
 Irishman, and Nelson, that intensely English English- 
 man. Wellington's contemptuous disgust at Nelson's 
 theatricality as a professed hero, patriot, and rhapsode, 
 
xii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 a theatric.ility wliich in an Irishman would have been an 
 insufferably vulgar affectation, was quite natural and 
 inevitable. Wellington's formula for that kind of thing 
 was a well known Irish one: "Sir: dont be a damned 
 fool." It is the formula of all Irishmen for all English- 
 men to this day. It is the formula of Larry Doyle for 
 Tom Broadbent in my play, in spite of Doyle's affection 
 for Tom. Nelson's genius, instead of producing intel- 
 lectual keenness and scrupulousness, produced mere de- 
 lirium. He was drunk with glory, exalted by his fervent 
 faith in the sound British patriotism of the Almighty, 
 nerved by the vulgarest anti-foreign prejudice, and ap- 
 parently unchastened by any reflections on the fact that 
 he had never had to fight a technically capable and 
 properly equipped enemy except on land, where he had 
 never been successful. Compare Wellington, who had 
 to fight Napoleon's armies. Napoleon's marshals, and 
 finally Napoleon himself, without one moment of illusion 
 as to the human material he had to command, without 
 one gush of the " Kiss me, Hardy " emotion which 
 enabled Nelson to idolize his crews and his staff, with- 
 out forgetting even in his dreams that the normal British 
 officer of that time was an incapable amateur (as he 
 still is) and the normal British soldier a never-do-well 
 (he is now a depressed and respectable young man). 
 No wonder Wellington became an accomplished comedian 
 in the art of anti-climax, scandalizing the unfortunate 
 Croker, responding to the demand for glorious senti- 
 ments by the most disenchanting touches of realism, 
 and, generally, pricking the English windbag at its most 
 explosive crises of distention. Nelson, intensely nervous 
 and theatrical, made an enormous fuss about victories so 
 cheap that he would have deserved shooting if he had 
 lost them, and, not content with lavishing splendid fight- 
 ing on helpless adversaries like the heroic De. Brueys 
 or Villeneuve (who had not even the illusion of heroism 
 when he went like a lamb to the slaughter), got himself 
 
Preface for Politicians xiii 
 
 killed by his passion for exposing himself to death in 
 that sublime defiance of it which was perhaps the su- 
 preme tribute of the exquisite coward to the King of 
 Terrors (for, believe me, you cannot be a hero without 
 being a coward: supersense cuts both ways), the result 
 being a tremendous effect on the gallery. Wellington, 
 most capable of captains, was neither a hero nor a 
 patriot: perhaps not even a coward; and had it not been 
 for the Nelsonic anecdotes invented for him — " Up 
 guards, and at em " and so forth — and the fact that 
 the antagonist with whom he finally closed was such a 
 master of theatrical effect that Wellington could not 
 fight him without getting into his limelight, nor over- 
 throw him (most unfortunately for us all) without draw- 
 ing the eyes of the whole world to the catastrophe, the 
 Iron Duke would have been almost forgotten by this 
 time. Now that contrast is English against Irish all 
 over, and is the more delicious because the real Irishman 
 in it is the Englishman of tradition, whilst the real 
 Englishman is the traditional theatrical foreigner. 
 
 The value of the illustration lies in the fact that both 
 Nelson and Wellington were both in the highest degree 
 efficient, and both in the highest degree incompatible 
 with one another on any other footing than one of inde- 
 pendence. The government of Nelson by Wellington 
 or of Wellington by Nelson is felt at once to be a dis- 
 honorable outrage to the governed and a finally impos- 
 sible task for the governor. 
 
 I daresay some Englishmen will now try to steal 
 Wellington as ]Macaulay tried to steal Swift. And he 
 may plead with some truth that though it seems impos- 
 sible that any other country than England could produce 
 a hero so utterly devoid of common sense, intellectual 
 delicacy, and international chivalry as Nelson, it may be 
 contended that Wellington was rather an eighteenth cen- 
 tury aristocratic type, than a specifically Irish type. 
 George IV. and Byron, contrasted with Gladstone, seem 
 
xiv John Bull's Other Island 
 
 Irish in respect of a certain humorous blackguardism, 
 and a power of appreciating art and sentiment without 
 being duped by them into mistaking romantic figments 
 for realities. But faithlessness and the need for carry- 
 ing off the worthlessness and impotence that accompany 
 it, produce in all nations a gay, sceptical, amusing, blas- 
 pheming, witty fashion which suits the flexibility of the 
 Irish mind very well; and the contrast between this 
 fashion and the energetic infatuations that have enabled 
 intellectually ridiculous men, without wit or humor, to 
 go on crusades and make successful revolutions, must 
 not be confused with the contrast between the English 
 and Irish idiosyncrasies. The Irishman makes a dis- 
 tinction which the Englishman is too lazy intellectually 
 (the intellectual laziness and slovenliness of the English 
 is almost beyond belief) to make. The Englishman, 
 impressed with the dissoluteness of the faithless wits of 
 the Restoration and the Regency, and with the victories 
 of the wilful zealots of the patriotic, religious, and revo- 
 lutionary wars, jumps to the conclusion that wilfulness 
 is the main thing. In this he is right. But he overdoes 
 his jump so far as to conclude also that stupidity and 
 wrong-headedness are better guarantees of efficiency and 
 trustworthiness than intellectual vivacity, which he mis- 
 trusts as a common symptom of worthlessness, vice and 
 instability. Now in this he is most dangerously wrong. 
 WTiether the Irishman grasps the truth as firmly as the 
 Englishman may be open to question; but he is certainly 
 comparatively free from the error. That affectionate 
 and admiring love of sentimental stupidity for its own 
 sake, both in men and women, which shines so steadily 
 through the novels of Thackeray, would hardly be pos- 
 sible in the works of an Irish novelist. Even Dickens, 
 though too vital a genius and too severely educated in 
 the school of shabby-genteel poverty to have any doubt 
 of the national danger of fatheadedness in high places, 
 evidently assumes rather too hastily the superiority of 
 
of dH^s M^BWB^, 
 
 E T 
 
 CI " 
 
 betfbftjff 
 
xvi John Bull's Other Island 
 
 in Ireland. The odds against which our leaders have 
 to fight would be too heavy for the fourth-rate English- 
 men whose leadership consists for the most part in mark- 
 ing time ostentatiously vmtil they are violently shoved, 
 and then stumbling blindly forward (or backward) 
 wherever the shove sends them. We cannot crush Eng- 
 land as a Pickford's van might crush a perambulator. 
 We are the perambulator and England the Pickford. 
 We must study her and our real weaknesses and real 
 strength ; we must practise upon her slow conscience and 
 her quick terrors; we must deal in ideas and political 
 principles since we cannot deal in bayonets; we must 
 outwit, outwork, outstay her; we must embarrass, bully, 
 even conspire and assassinate when nothing else will 
 move her, if we are not all to be driven deeper and 
 deeper into the shame and misery of our servitude. Our 
 leaders must be not only determined enough, but clever 
 enough to do this. We have no illusions as to the exist- 
 ence of any mysterious Irish pluck, Irish honesty, Irish 
 bias on the part of Providence, or sterling Irish solidity 
 of character, that will enable an Irish blockhead to hold 
 his own against England. Blockheads are of no use to 
 us: we were compelled to follow a supercilious, unpopu- 
 lar, tongue-tied, aristocratic Protestant ParneU, although 
 there was no lack among us of fluent imbeciles, with 
 majestic presences and oceans of dignity and sentiment, 
 to promote into his place could they have done his work 
 for us. It is obviously convenient that Mr. Redmond 
 should be a better speaker and rhetorician than Parnell; 
 but if he began to use his powers to make himself agree- 
 able instead of making himself reckoned with by the 
 enemy; if he set to work to manufacture and support 
 English shams and hypocrisies instead of exposing and 
 denouncing them; if he constituted himself the per- 
 manent apologist of doing nothing, and, when the people 
 insisted on his doing something, only rouse<l himself to 
 discover how to pretend to do it without really changing 
 
Preface for Politicians xvii 
 
 anj'thing, he would lose his leadership as certainly as an 
 English politician would, by the same course, attain a 
 permanent place on the front bencli. In short, our cir- 
 cumstances place a premium on political ability whilst 
 the circumstances of England discount it; and the qual- 
 ity of the supply naturally follows the demand. If you 
 miss in my writings that hero-worship of dotards and 
 duffers which is planting England with statues of disas- 
 trous statesmen and absurd generals, the explanation is 
 simply that I am an Irishman and you an Englishman. 
 
 Irish Protestantism Really Protestant. 
 
 Wlien I repeat that I am an Irish Protestant, I come 
 to a part of the relation between England and Ireland 
 that you will never understand unless I insist on ex- 
 plaining it to you with that Irish insistence on intel- 
 lectual clarity to which my English critics are so in- 
 tensely recalcitrant. 
 
 First, let me tell you that in Ireland Protestantism is 
 really Protestant. It is true that there is an Irish 
 Protestant Church (disestablished some 35 years ago) 
 in spite of the fact that a Protestant Church is, fimda- 
 mentally, a contradiction in terms. But this means only 
 that the Protestants use the word Church to denote their 
 secular organization, without troubling themselves about 
 the metaphysical sense of Christ's famous pun, " Upon 
 this rock I will build my church." The Church of Eng- 
 land, which is a reformed Anglican Catholic Anti- 
 Protestant Church, is quite another affair. An Anglican 
 is acutely conscious that he is not a Wesleyan ; and many 
 Anglican clergymen do not hesitate to teach that all 
 Methodists incur damnation. In Ireland all that the 
 member of the Irish Protestant Church knows is that 
 he is not a Roman Catholic. The decorations of even 
 the " lowest " English Church seem to him to be ex- 
 
xviii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 travagantiy Ritualistic and Popish, I myself entered 
 the Irish Church by baptism, a ceremony performed by 
 my uncle in " his own church." But I was sent, with 
 many boys of my own denomination, to a Wesleyan 
 school where the Wesleyan catechism was taught with- 
 out the least protest on the part of the parents, although 
 there was so little presumption in favor of kny boy there 
 being a Wesleyan that if all the Church boys had been 
 withdrawn at any moment, the school would have become 
 bankrupt. And this was by no means analogous to the 
 case of those working class members of the Church of 
 England in London, who send their daughters to Roman 
 Catholic schools rather than to the public elementary 
 schools. They do so for the definite reason that the 
 nuns teach girls good manners and sweetness of speech, 
 which have no place in the County Council curriculum. 
 But in Ireland the Church parent sends his son to a 
 Wesleyan school (if it is convenient and socially eligible) 
 because he is indifferent to the form of Protestantism, 
 provided it is Protestantism. There is also in Ireland 
 a characteristically Protestant refusal to take ceremonies 
 and even sacraments very seriously except by way of 
 strenuous objection to them when they are conducted 
 with candles or incense. For example, I was never con- 
 firmed, although the ceremony was perhaps specially 
 needed in my case as the failure of my appointed god- 
 father to appear at the font led to his responsibilities 
 being assumed on the spot, at my uncle's order, by the 
 sexton. And my case was a very common one, even 
 among people quite untouched by modern scepticisms. 
 Apart from the weekly churchgoing, which holds its own 
 as a respectable habit, the initiations are perfunctory, the 
 omissions regarded as negligible. The distinction be- 
 tween churchman and dissenter, which in England is a 
 class distinction, a political distinction, and even occa- 
 sionally a religious distinction, does not exist. Nobody 
 is surprised in Ireland to find that the squire who is the 
 
Preface for Politicians xix 
 
 local pillar of the formerly established Church is also a 
 Plymouth Brother, and, except on certain special or 
 fashionable occasions, attends the Methodist meeting- 
 house. The parson has no priestly character and no 
 priestly influence: the High Church curate of course 
 exists and has his vogue among religious epicures of the 
 other sex; but the general attitude of his congregation 
 towards him is that of Dr. Clifford. The clause in the 
 Apostles' creed professing belief in a Catholic Church 
 is a standing puzzle to Protestant children; and when 
 they grow up they dismiss it from their minds more 
 often than they solve it, because they really are not 
 Catholics but Protestants to the extremest practicable 
 degree of individualism. It is true that they talk of 
 church and chapel with all the Anglican contempt for 
 chapel; but in Ireland the chapel means the Roman 
 Catholic church, for which the Irish Protestant reserves 
 all the class rancor, the political hostility, the religious 
 bigotry, and the bad blood generally that in England 
 separates the Establishment from the non-conforming 
 Protestant organizations. When a vulgar Irish Protes- 
 tant speaks of a " Papist " he feels exactly as a vulgar 
 Anglican vicar does when he speaks of a Dissenter. And 
 when the vicar is Anglican enough to call himself a 
 Catholic priest, wear a cassock, and bless his flock with 
 two fingers, he becomes horrifically incomprehensible to 
 the Irish Protestant Churchipan, who, on his part, puz- 
 zles the Anglican by regarding a Methodist as tolerantly 
 as an Irishman who likes grog regards an Irishman who 
 prefers punch. 
 
 A Fundamental Anomaly. 
 
 Now nothing can be more anomalous, and at bottom 
 impossible, than a Conservative Protestant party stand- 
 ing for the established order against a revolutionary 
 
XX John Bull's Other Island 
 
 Catholic party. The Protestant is theoretically an 
 anarchist as far as anarchism is practicable in human 
 society: that is, lie is an individualist, a freethinker, a 
 self-heli^er, a Whig, a Liberal, a mistruster and vilifier 
 of the State, a rebel. The Catholic is theoretically a 
 Collectivist, a self-abnegator, a Tory, a Conservative, a 
 supporter of Church and State one and undivisible. an 
 obeyer. This would be a statement of fact as well as 
 of theory if men were Protestants and Catholics by tem- 
 perament and adult choice instead of by family tradi- 
 tion. The peasant who supposed that Wordsworth's son 
 would carry on the business now the old gentleman was 
 gone was not a whit more foolish than we who laugh 
 at his ignorance of the nature of poetry whilst we take 
 it as a matter of course that a son should " carry on " 
 his father's religion. Hence, owing to our family sys- 
 tem, the Catholic Churches are recruited daily at the 
 font by temperamental Protestants, and the Protestant 
 organizations by temperamental Catholics, with conse- 
 quences most disconcerting to those who expect history 
 to be deducible from the religious professions of the 
 men who make it. 
 
 iPtill, though the Roman Catholic Church may occa- 
 sionally catch such Tartars as Luther and Voltaire, or 
 the Protestant organizations as Newman and Manning, 
 the general run of mankind takes its impress from the 
 atmosphere in which it is brought up. In Ireland the 
 Roman Catholic peasant cannot escape the religious at- 
 mosphere of his Church. Except when he breaks out 
 like a naughty child he is docile; he is reverent; he is 
 content to regard knowledge as something not his busi- 
 ness; he is a child before his Church, and accepts it as 
 the highest authority in science and philosophy. He 
 speaks of himself as a son of the Church, calling his 
 priest father instead of brother or Mister. To rebel 
 politically, he must break away from parish tutelage and 
 follow a Protestant leader on national questions. His 
 
Preface for Politicians xxi 
 
 Church naturally fosters his submissiveness. The Brit- 
 ish Government and the Vatican may differ very vehe- 
 mently as to whose subject the Irishman is to be; but 
 they are quite agreed as to the propriety of his being a 
 subject. Of the two, the British Government allows 
 him more liberty, giving him as complete a democratic 
 control of local government as his means will enable him 
 to use, and a voice in the election of a formidable minor- 
 ity in the House of Commons, besides allowing him to 
 read and learn what he likes — except when it makes a 
 tufthunting onslaught on a seditious newspaper. But 
 if he dared to claim a voice in the selection of his parish 
 priest, or a representative at the Vatican, he would be 
 denounced from the altar as an almost inconceivable 
 blasphemer; and his educational opportunities are so 
 restricted by his Church that he is heavily handicapped 
 in every walk of life that requires any literacy. It is 
 the aim of his priest to make him and keep him a sub- 
 missive Conservative; and nothing but gross economic 
 oppression and religious persecution could have pro- 
 duced the strange phenomenon of a revolutionary move- 
 ment not only tolerated by the Clericals, but, up to a 
 certain point, even encouraged by them. If there is 
 such a thing as political science, with natural laws like 
 any other science, it is certain that only the most violent 
 external force could effect and maintain this unnatural 
 combination of political revolution with Papal reaction, 
 and of hardy individualism and independence with 
 despotism and subjugation. 
 
 That violent external force is the clumsy thumb of 
 English rule. If you would be good enough, ladies and 
 gentlemen of England, to take your thumb away -and 
 leave us free to do something else than bite it, the un- 
 naturally combined elements in Irish politics would fly 
 asunder and recombine according to their proper na- 
 ture with results entirely satisfactory to real Protes- 
 tantism, 
 
xxii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 The Nature of Political Hatred. 
 
 Just reconsider the Home Rule question in the light 
 of that very English characteristic of the Irish people, 
 their political hatred of priests. Do not be distracted 
 by the shriek of indignant denial from the Catholic 
 papers and from those who have witnessed the charming 
 relations between tlie Irish peasantry and their spiritual 
 fathers. I am perfectly aware that the Irish love their 
 priests as de^^otedly as the French loved them before 
 the Revolution or as the Italians loved them before they 
 imprisoned the Pope in the Vatican. They love their 
 landlords too: many an Irish gentleman has found in 
 his nurse a foster-mother more interested in him than 
 his actual mother. They love the English, as every 
 Englishman who travels in Ireland can testify. Please 
 do not sup23ose that I speak satirically: the world is 
 full of authentic examples of the concurrence of human 
 kindliness with political rancor. Slaves and schoolboys 
 often love their masters; Napoleon and his soldiers 
 made desiderate efforts to save from drowning the 
 Russian soldiers under whom they had broken the ice 
 with their cannon; even the relations between noncon- 
 formist peasants and country parsons in England are 
 not invariably unkindly; in the southern States of 
 America planters are often traditionally fond of negroes 
 and kind to them, with substantial returns in humble 
 affection; soldiers and sailors often admire and cheer 
 their officers sincerely and heartily; nowhere is actual 
 personal intercourse found compatible for long with the 
 intolerable friction of hatred and malice. But people 
 who persist in pleading these amiabilities as political 
 factors must be summarily bimdled out of the room when 
 questions of State are to be discussed. Just as an Irish- 
 man may have English friends whom he may prefer to 
 any Irishman of his acquaintance, and be kind, hospi- 
 table, and serviceable in his intercourse with English- 
 
Preface for Politicians xxiii 
 
 men, whilst being perfectly prepared to make the 
 Shannon run red with English blood if Irish freedom 
 could be obtained at that price; so an Irish Catholic may 
 like his priest as a man and revere him as a confessor 
 and spiritual pastor whilst being implacably determined 
 to seize the first opportunity of throwing off his yoke. 
 This is political hatred: the only hatred that civilization 
 allows to be mortal hatred. 
 
 The Revolt Against the Priest. 
 
 Realize, then, that the popular party in Ireland is 
 seething with rebellion agamst the tyranny of the 
 Church. Imagine the feelings of an English farmer if 
 the parson refused to marry him for less than £20, and 
 if he had virtually no other way of getting married! 
 Imagine the Church Rates revived in the form of an 
 unofficial Income Tax scientifically adjusted to your tax- 
 able capacity by an intimate knowledge of your affairs 
 verified in the confessional ! Imagine being one of a 
 peasantry reputed the poorest in the world, under the 
 thumb of a priesthood reputed the richest in the world! 
 Imagine a Catholic middle class continually defeated in 
 the struggle of professional, official, and fashionable life 
 by the superior education of its Protestant competitors, 
 and yet forbidden by its priests to resort to the only 
 efficient universities in the country ! Imagine trying to 
 get a modern education in a seminary of priests, where 
 every modern book worth reading is on the index, and 
 the earth is still regarded, not perhaps as absolutely flat, 
 yet as being far from so spherical as Protestants allege! 
 Imagine being forbidden to read this preface because 
 it proclaims your own grievance ! And imagine being 
 bound to submit to all this because the popular side must 
 hold together at all costs in the face of the Protestant 
 enemy ! That is, roughly, the predicament of Roman 
 Catholic Ireland. 
 
xxiv John Bull's Other Island 
 
 Protestant Loyalty: A Forecast. 
 
 Now let us have a look at Protestant Ireland. I have 
 already said that a " loyal " Irishman is an abhorrent 
 phenomenon, because he is an unnatural one. In Ire- 
 land it is not " loyalty " to drink the English king's 
 health and stand uncovered to the English national an- 
 them: it is simply exploitation of English rule in the 
 interests of the property, power, and promotion of the 
 Irish classes as against the Irish masses. From any 
 other point of view it is cowardice and dishonor. I have 
 known a Protestant go to Dublin Castle to be sworn in 
 as a special constable^ quite resolved to take the baton 
 and break the heads of a patriotic faction just then 
 upsetting the peace of the town, yet back out at the last 
 moment because he could not bring himself to swallow 
 the oath of allegiance tendered with the baton. There 
 is no such thing as genuine loyalty in Ireland. There 
 is a separation of the Irish people into two hostile camps : 
 one Protestant, gentlemanly, and oligarchical; the other 
 Roman Catholic, popular, and democratic. The oligarchy 
 governs Ireland as a bureaucracy deriving authority from 
 the king of England. It cannot cast him off without 
 casting off its OAvn ascendancy. Therefore it naturally 
 exploits him sedulously, drinking his health, waving his 
 flag, playing his anthem, and using the foolish word 
 " traitor " freely in its cups. But let the English Gov- 
 ernment make a step towards the democratic party, and 
 the Protestant garrison revolts at once, not with tears 
 and prayers and anguish of soul and years of trembling 
 reluctance, as the parliamentarians of the XVII century 
 revolted against Charles I, but with acrid promptitude 
 and strident threatenings. ^\^len England finally aban- 
 dons the garrison by yielding to the demand for Home 
 Rule, the Protestants will not go under, nor will they 
 waste much time in sulking over their betrayal, and com- 
 paring their fate with that of Gordon left by Gladstone 
 
Preface for Politicians xxv 
 
 to perish on the spears of heathen fanatics. They can- 
 not afford to retire into an Irish Faubourg St. Germain. 
 They will take an energetic part in the national govern- 
 ment, which will be sorely in need of parliamentary and 
 official forces independent of Rome. They will get not 
 only the Protestant votes, but the votes of Catholics in 
 that spirit of toleration which is everywhere extended to 
 heresies that happen to be politically serviceable to the 
 orthodox. They will not relax their determination to 
 hold every inch of the government of Ireland that they 
 can grasp; but as that government will then be a na- 
 tional Irish government instead of as now an English 
 government, their determination will make them the van- 
 guard of Irish Nationalism and Democracy as against 
 Romanism and Sacerdotalism, leaving English Unionists 
 grieved and shocked at their discovery of the true value 
 of an Irish Protestant's loyalty. 
 
 But there will be no open break in the tradition of the 
 party. The Protestants will still be the party of Union, 
 which will then mean, not the Repeal of Home Rule, 
 but the maintenance of the Federal Union of English- 
 speaking commonwealths, now theatrically called the 
 Empire. They will pull down the Union Jack without 
 the smallest scruple; but they know the value of the 
 Channel Fleet, and will cling closer than brothers to 
 that and any other Imperial asset that can be exploited 
 for the protection of Ireland against foreign aggression 
 or the sharing of expenses with the British taxpayer. 
 They know that the Irish coast is for the English in- 
 vasion-scaremonger the heel of Achilles, and that they 
 can use this to make him pay for the boot. 
 
 Protestant Pugnacity. 
 
 If any Englishman feels incredulous as to this view 
 of Protestantism as an essentially Nationalist force in 
 Ireland, let him ask himself which leader he, if he were 
 
xxvi John Bull's Other Island 
 
 an Irishman, would rather have back from the grave to 
 fight England: the Catholic Daniel O'Connell or the 
 Protestant Parnell. O'Connell organized the Nationalist 
 movement only to draw its teeth, to break its determina- 
 tion, and to declare that Repeal of the Union was not 
 worth the shedding of a drop of blood. He died in 
 the bosom of his Church, not in the bosom of his country. 
 The Protestant leaders, from Lord Edward Fitzgerald 
 to Parnell, have never divided their devotion. If any; 
 Englishman thinks that they would have been more 
 sparing of blood than the English themselves are, if 
 cnl}' so cheap a fluid could have purchased the honor of 
 Ireland, he greatly mistakes the Irish Protestant temper. 
 The notion that Ireland is the only country in the world 
 not worth shedding a drop of blood for is not a Protes- 
 tant one, and certainly not countenanced by English 
 practice. It was hardly reasonable to ask Parnell to 
 shed blood quant, stiff, in Egypt to put an end to the 
 misgovernment of the Khedive and replace him by Lord 
 Cromer for the sake of the English bondholders, and 
 then to expect him to become a Tolstoyan or an O'Con- 
 nellite in regard to his own country. With a wholly 
 Protestant Ireland at his back he might have bullied 
 England into conceding Home Rule; for the insensi- 
 bility of the English governing classes to philosophical, 
 moral, social considerations — in short, to any considera- 
 tions which require a little intellectual exertion and 
 sympathetic alertness — is tempered, as we Irish well 
 know, hj an absurd susceptibility to intimidation. 
 
 For let me halt a moment here to impress on you, O 
 English reader, that no fact has been more deeply 
 stamped into us than that we can do nothing with an 
 English Government unless we frighten it, any more 
 than you can yourself. When power and riches are 
 thrown haphazard into children's cradles as they are in 
 England, you get a governing class without industry, 
 character, courage, or real experience; and under such 
 
Preface for Politicians xxvii 
 
 circumstances reforms are produced only by catastrophes 
 followed by panics in which " something must be done." 
 Thus it costs a cholera epidemic to achieve a Public 
 Health Act, a Crimean War to reform the Civil Service, 
 and a gunpowder plot to disestablish the Irish Church. 
 It was by the light, not of reason, but of the moon, that 
 the need for paying serio-us attention to the Irish land 
 question was seen in England. It cost the American 
 War of Independence and the Irish Volunteer movement 
 to obtain the Irish parliament of 1782, the constitution 
 of which far overshot the nationalist mark of today in 
 the matter of indeiDcndence. 
 
 It is vain to plead that this is human nature and not 
 class weakness. The Japanese have proved that it is 
 possible to conduct social and political changes intelli- 
 gently and providentially instead of drifting along help- 
 lessly until public disasters compel a terrified and in- 
 considerate rearrangement. Innumerable experiments in 
 local government have shewn that when men are neither 
 too poor to be honest nor too_ rich to understand and 
 share the needs of the people — as in New Zealand, for 
 example — they can govern much more providently than 
 our little circle of aristocrats and plutocrats. 
 
 The Just Englishman. 
 
 English Unionists, when asked what they have to say 
 in defence of their rule of subject peoples, often reply 
 that the Englishman is just, leaving us divided between 
 our derision of so monstrously inhuman a pretension, 
 and our impatience with so gross a confusion of the 
 mutually exclusive functions of judge and legislator. 
 For there is only one condition on which a man can do 
 justice between two litigants, and that is that he shall 
 have no interest in common with either of them, whereas 
 it is only by having every interest in common with both 
 of them that he can govern them tolerably. The indis- 
 
xxviii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 pensable preliminary to Democracy is the representation 
 of every interest: the indispensable preliminary to 
 justice is the elimination of every interest. When we 
 want an arbitrator or an umpire, we turn to a stranger: 
 when we want a government, a stranger is the one person 
 we will not endure. The Englishman in India, for 
 example, stands, a very statue of justice, between two 
 natives. He says, in eifect, " I am impartial in your 
 religious disputes, because I believe in neither of your 
 religions. I am imj^artial in your conflicts of custom 
 and sentiment, because your customs and sentiments are 
 different from, and abj'smally inferior to, my own. 
 Finally, I am impartial as to your interests, because they 
 are both equally opposed to mine, which is to keep you 
 both equally powerless against me in order that I may 
 extract money from you to pay salaries and pensions to 
 myself and my fellow Englishmen as judges and rulers 
 over you. In return for which you get the inestimable 
 benefit of a government that does absolute justice as 
 between Indian and Indian, being wholly preoccupied 
 with the maintenance of absolute injustice as between 
 India and England. 
 
 It will be observed that no Englishman, without mak- 
 ing himself ridiculous, could pretend to be perfectly just 
 or disinterested in English affairs, or would tolerate a 
 proposal to establish the Indian or Irish system in Great 
 Britain. Yet if the justice of the Englishman is suffi- 
 cient to ensure the welfare of India or Ireland, it ought 
 to suflSce equally for England. But the English are wise 
 enough to refuse to trust to English justice themselves, 
 preferring democracy. They can hardly blame the Irish 
 for taking the same view. 
 
 In short, dear English reader, the Irish Protestant 
 stands outside that English Mutual Admiration Society 
 which you call the Union or the Empire. You may buy 
 a common and not ineffective variety of Irish Protestant 
 by delegating your powers to him and in effect making 
 
Preface for Politicians xxix 
 
 him the oppressor and you his sorely bullied and both- 
 ered catspaw and military maintainer; but if you offer 
 him nothing for his loyalty except the natural superior- 
 ity of the English character, you will — well, try the 
 experiment, and see what will happen ! You would have 
 a ten-times better chance with the Roman Catholic; for 
 he has been saturated from his youth up with the Im- 
 perial idea of foreign rule by a spiritually superior 
 international power, and is trained to submission and 
 abnegation of his private judgment. A Roman Catholic 
 garrison would take its orders from England and let 
 her rule Ireland if England were Roman Catholic. The 
 Protestant garrison simply seizes on the English power; 
 uses it for its o^vn purposes; and occasionally orders the 
 English Government to remove an Irish secretary who 
 has dared to apply English ideas to the affairs of the 
 garrison. Whereupon the English Government abjectly 
 removes him, and implores him, as a gentleman and a 
 loyal Englishman, not to reproach it in the face of the 
 Nationalist enemy. 
 
 Such incidents naturally do not shake the sturdy con- 
 viction of the Irish Protestant that he is more than a 
 match for any English Government in determination and 
 intelligence. Here, no doubt, he flatters himself; for 
 his advantage is not really an advantage of character, 
 but of comjDarative directness of interest, concentration 
 of force on one narrow issue, simplicity of aim, with 
 freedom from the scruples and responsibilities of world- 
 politics. The business is Irish business, not English; 
 and he is Irish. And his object, which is simply to 
 secure the dominance of his own caste and creed behind 
 the power of England, is simj^ler and clearer than the 
 confused aims of English Cabinets struggling ineptly 
 with the burdens of empire, and biassed by the pressure 
 of capital anywhere rather than in Ireland. He has no 
 responsibility, no interest, no status outside his own 
 country and his own movement, which means that he 
 
XXX John Bull's Other Island 
 
 has no conscience in dealing with England; whereas 
 England, having a very uneasy conscience, and many 
 hindering and hampering responsibilities and interests 
 in dealing with him, gets bullied and driven by him, and 
 finally learns sympathy with Nationalist aims by her 
 experience of the tyranny of the Orange party. 
 
 Irish Catholicism Forecast. 
 
 Let us suppose that the establishment of a national 
 government were to annihilate the oligarchic party by 
 absorbing the Protestant garrison and making it a Prot- 
 estant National Guard. The Roman Catholic laity, now 
 a cipher, would organize itself; and a revolt against 
 Rome and against the priesthood would ensue. The 
 Roman Catholic Church would become the official Irish 
 Church. The Irish parliament would insist on a voice 
 in the promotion of churchmen; fees and contributions 
 would be regulated; blackmail would be resisted; sweat- 
 ing in conventual factories and workshops would be 
 stopped; and the ban would be taken off the universities. 
 In a word, the Roman Catholic Church, against which 
 Dublin Castle is powerless, would meet the one force 
 on earth that can cope with it victoriously. That force 
 is Democracy, a thing far more Catholic than itself. 
 Until that force is let loose against it, the Protestant 
 garrison can do nothing to the priesthood except con- 
 solidate it and drive the people to rally round it in 
 defence of their altars against the foreigner and the 
 heretic. AMien it is let loose, the Catholic laity will 
 make as short work of sacerdotal tyranny in Ireland as 
 it has done in France and Italy. And in doing so it 
 will be forced to face the old problem of the relations 
 of Church and State. A Roman Catholic party must 
 submit to Rome: an anti-clerical Catholic party must of 
 necessity become an Irish Catholic party. The Holy 
 Roman Empire, like the other Empires, has no future 
 
Preface for Politicians xxxi 
 
 except as a Federation of national Catholic Churches; 
 for Christianity can no more escape Democracy than 
 Democracy can escape Socialism. It is noteworthy in 
 this connection that the Anglican Catholics have played 
 and are playing a notable part in the Socialist movement 
 in England in opposition to the individualist Secularists 
 of the urban proletariat; but they are quit of the pre- 
 liminary dead lift that awaits the Irish Catholic. Their 
 Church has thrown off the yoke of Rome, and is safely 
 and permanently Anglicized. But the Catholic Church 
 in Ireland is still Roman. Home Rule will herald the 
 day when the Vatican will go the way of Dublin Castle, 
 and the island of the saints assume the headship of her 
 own Church. It may seem incredible that long after 
 the last Orangeman shall lay down his challc for ever, 
 the familiar scrawl on every blank wall in the north of 
 Ireland " To hell with the Pope ! " may reappear in the 
 south, traced by the hands of Catholics who shall have 
 forgotten the traditional counter legend, " To hell with 
 King William ! " (of glorious, pious and immortal mem- 
 ory) ; but it may happen so. " The island of the saints " 
 is no idle phrase. Religious genius is one of our national 
 products; and Ireland is no bad rock to build a Church 
 on. Holy and beautiful is the soul of Catholic Ireland: 
 her prayers are lovelier than the teeth and claws of 
 Protestantism, but not so effective in dealing with the 
 English. 
 
 English Voltaireanism. 
 
 Let me familiarize the situation by shewing how 
 closely it reproduces the English situation in its essen- 
 tials. In England, as in France, the struggle between 
 the priesthood and the laity has produced a vast body of 
 Voltaireans. But the essential identity of the French 
 and English movements has been obscured by the ig- 
 norance of the ordinary Englishman, who, instead of 
 
xxxii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 knowing the distinctive tenets of his ehurch or sect, 
 vaguely believes them to be the eternal truth as opposed 
 to the damnable error of all the other denominations. 
 He thinks of Voltaire as a French " infidel/' instead of 
 as the chamjiion of the laity against the official theocracy 
 of the State Church. The Nonconformist leaders of our 
 Free Churches are all Voltaireans. The warery of the 
 Passive Resisters is Voltaire's warcry, " Ecrasez I'in- 
 fame." No account need be taken of the technical dif- 
 ference between Voltaire's " infame " and Dr. Clifford's. 
 One was the unreformed Roman Church of France: the 
 other is the reformed Anglican Church ; but in both cases 
 the attack has been on a priestly tyranny and a profes- 
 sional monopoly. Voltaire convinced the Genevan minis- 
 ters that he was the philosophic champion of their 
 Protestant, Individualistic, Democratic Deism against 
 the State Church of Roman Catholic France; and his 
 heroic energy and beneficence as a philanthropist, which 
 now only makes the list of achievements on his monu- 
 ment at Ferney the most impressive epitaph in Europe, 
 then made the most earnest of the Lutheran ministers 
 glad to claim a common inspiration with him. Unfor- 
 tunately Voltaire had an irrepressible sense of humor. 
 He joked about Habakkuk; and jokes about Habakkuk 
 smelt too strongly of brimstone to be tolerated by Prot- 
 estants to whom the Bible was not a literature but a 
 fetish and a talisman. And so Voltaire, in spite of the 
 church he "erected to God," became in England the 
 bogey-atheist of three generations of English igno- 
 ramuses, instead of the legitimate successor of Martin 
 Luther and John Knox. 
 
 Nowadays, however, Voltaire's jokes are either for- 
 gotten or else fall flat on a world which no longer 
 venerates Habakkuk; and his true position is becoming 
 apparent. The fact that Voltaire was a Roman Catholic 
 layman, educated at a Jesuit college, is the conclusive 
 reply to the shallow people who imagine that Ireland 
 
Preface for Politicians xxxiii 
 
 delivered up to the Irish democracy — that is, to the 
 Catholic laity — would be delivered up to the tyranny 
 of the priesthood. 
 
 Suppose ! 
 
 Suppose, now, that the conquest of France by Henry 
 V of England had endured, and that France in the 
 XVIII century had been governed by an English viceroy 
 through a Hugenot bureaucracy and a judicial bench 
 appointed on the understanding that loyalty for them 
 meant loyalty to England, and patriotism a willingness 
 to die in defence of the English conquest and of the 
 English Church, would not Voltaire in that case have 
 been the meanest of traitors and self-seekers if he had 
 played the game of England by joining in its campaign 
 against his own and his country's Church? The energy 
 he threw into the defence of Calais and Sirven would 
 have been thrown into the defence of the Frenchmen 
 whom the English would have called " rebels " ; and he 
 would have been forced to identify the cause of freedom 
 and democracy with the cause of " I'infame." The 
 French revolution would have been a revolution against 
 England and English rule instead of against aristocracy 
 and ecclesiasticism ; and all the intellectual and spiritual 
 forces in France, from Turgot to De Tocqueville, would 
 have been burnt up in mere anti-Anglicism and national- 
 ist dithyrambs instead of contributing to political science 
 and broadening the thought of the world. 
 
 "What would have happened in France is what has hap- 
 pened in Ireland; and that is why it is only the small- 
 minded Irish, incapable of conceiving what religious 
 freedom means to a country, who do not loathe English 
 rule. For in Ireland England is nothing but the Pope's 
 policeman. She imagines she is holding the Vatican 
 cardinals at bay when she is really strangling the Vol- 
 taires, the Foxes and Penns, the Cliffords, Hortons, 
 
xxxiv John Bull's Other Island 
 
 Campbells, Walters, and Silvester Homes, who are to 
 be found among the Roman Catholic laity as plentifully 
 as among the Anglican Catholic laity in England. She 
 gets nothing out of Ireland but infinite trouble, infinite 
 confusion and hindrance in her own legislation, a hatred 
 that circulates through the whole world and poisons it 
 against her, a reproach that makes her professions of 
 sympathy with Finland and Macedonia ridiculous and 
 hypocritical, whilst the priest takes all the spoils, in 
 money, in power, in pride, and in popularity. 
 
 Ireland's Real Grievance. 
 
 But it is not the spoils that matter. It is the waste, 
 the sterilization, the perversion of fruitful brain power 
 into flatulent protest against unnecessary evil, the use of 
 our very entrails to tie our own hands and seal our own 
 lips in the name of our honor and patriotism. As far as 
 money or comfort is concerned, the average Irishman 
 has a more tolerable life — especially now that the popu- 
 lation is so scanty — than the average Englishman. It is 
 true that in Ireland the poor man is robbed and starved 
 and oppressed under judicial forms which confer the 
 imposing title of justice on a crude system of bludgeon- 
 ing and perjury. But so is the Englishman. The Eng- 
 lishman, more docile, less dangerous, too lazy intellectu- 
 ally to use such political and legal poAver as lies within 
 his reach, suffers more and makes less fuss about it 
 than the Irishman. But at least he has nobody to blame 
 but himself and his fellow countrymen. He does not 
 doubt that if an eifective majority of the English people 
 made up their minds to alter the Constitution, as the 
 majority of the Irish people have made up their minds 
 to obtain Home Rule, they could alter it without having 
 to fight an overwhelmingly powerful and rich neighbor- 
 ing nation, and fight, too, with ropes round their necks. 
 He can attack any institution in his country without 
 
Preface for Politicians xxxv 
 
 betrcaying it to foreign vengeance and foreign oppres- 
 sion. True, his landlord may turn him out of his cottage 
 I'f he goes to a Methodist chapel instead of to the parish 
 church. His customers may stop their orders if he votes 
 Liberal instead of Conservative. English ladies and 
 gentlemen who would perish sooner than shoot a fox 
 do these things without the smallest sense of indecency 
 and dishonor. But they cannot muzzle his intellectual 
 leaders. The English philosopher, the English author, 
 the English orator can attack every abuse and expose 
 every superstition without strengthening the hands of 
 any common enemy. In Ireland every such attack, every 
 such exposure, is a service to England and a stab to 
 Ireland. If you expose the tyranny and rapacity of the 
 Church, it is an argument in favor of Protestant ascend- 
 ency. If you denounce the nepotism and jobbery of the 
 new local authorities, you are demonstrating the unfit- 
 ness of the Irish to govern themselves, and the superior- 
 ity of the old oligarchical grand juries. 
 
 And there is the same pressure on the other side. The 
 Protestant must stand by the garrison at all costs: the 
 Unionist must wink at every bureaucratic abuse, connive 
 at every tyranny, magnify every official blockhead, be- 
 cause their exposure would be a victory for the National- 
 ist enemy. Every Irishman is in Lancelot's position: his 
 honor rooted in dishonor stands; and faith unfaithful 
 keeps him falsely true. 
 
 The Curse of Nationalism. 
 
 It is hardly possible for an Englishman to understand 
 all that this implies. A conquered nation is like a man 
 with cancer: he can think of nothing else, and is forced 
 to place himself, to the exclusion of all better company, 
 in the hands of quacks who profess to treat or cure 
 cancer. The windbags of the two rival platforms are 
 the most insufferable of all windbags. It requires neither 
 
xxxvi John Bull's Other Island 
 
 knowledge, character, conscience, diligence in public 
 affairs, nor any virtue, private or communal, to thump 
 the Nationalist or Orange tub: nay, it puts a premium 
 on the rancor or callousness that has given rise to the 
 proverb that if you put an Irishman on a spit you can 
 always get another Irishman to baste him. Jingo oratory 
 in England is sickening enough to serious people: indeed 
 one evening's mafficking in London produced a deter- 
 mined call for the police. Well, in Ireland all political 
 oratory is Jingo oratory; and all political demonstrations 
 are maffickings. English rule is such an intolerable 
 abomination that no other subject can reach the people. 
 Nationalism stands between Ireland and the light of the 
 world- Nobody in Ireland of any intelligence likes 
 ' Nationalism any more than a man with a broken arm 
 likes having it set. A healthy nation is as unconscious 
 of its nationality as a healthy man of his bones. But if 
 you break a nation's nationality it will think of nothing 
 else but getting it set again. It will listen to no re- 
 former, to no philosopher, to no preacher, until the de- 
 mand of the Nationalist is granted. It will attend to 
 no business, however vital, except the business of unifica- 
 tion and liberation. 
 
 That is why everything is in abeyance in Ireland 
 pending the achievement of Home Rule. The great 
 movements of the human spirit which sweep in waves 
 over Europe are stopped on the Irish coast by the Eng- 
 lish guns of the Pigeon House Fort. Only a quaint 
 little offshoot of English pre-Raphaelitism called the 
 Gaelic movement has got a footing by using Nationalism 
 as a stalking-horse, and popularizing itself as an attack 
 on the native language of the Irish people, which is 
 most fortunately also the native language of half the 
 world, including England. Every election is fought on 
 nationalist grounds; every appointment is made on na- 
 tionalist grounds; every judge is a partisan in the nation- 
 alist conflict; every speech is a dreary recapitulation of 
 
Preface for Politicians xxxvii 
 
 nationalist twaddle; every lecture is a corruption of 
 history to flatter nationalism or defame it; every school 
 is a recruiting station; every church is a barrack; and 
 every Irishman is unspeakably tired of the whole miser- 
 able business, which nevertheless is, and perforce must 
 remain his first business until Home Rule makes an end ;. 
 of it, and sweeps the nationalist and the garrison hack Jj 
 together into the dustbin. 
 
 There is indeed no greater curse to a nation than a 
 nationalist movement, which is only the agonizing symp- 
 tom of a suppressed natural function. Conquered 
 nations lose their place in the world's march because 
 they can do nothing but strive to get rid of their 
 nationalist movements by recovering their national lib- 
 erty. All demonstrations of the virtues of a foreign 
 government, though often conclusive, are as useless as 
 demonstrations of the superiority of artificial teeth, glass 
 eyes, silver windpipes, and patent wooden legs to the 
 natural products. Like Democracy, national self-gov- 
 ernment is not for the good of the people : it is for the 
 satisfaction of the people. One Antonine emperor, one 
 St. Louis, one Richelieu, may be worth ten democracies 
 in point of what is called good government; but there 
 is no satisfaction for the people in them. To deprive 
 a dyspeptic of his dinner and hand it over to a man who 
 can digest it better is a highly logical proceeding; but it 
 is not a sensible one. To take the government of Ireland 
 away from the Irish and hand it over to the English 
 on the groimd that they can govern better would be a 
 precisely parallel case if the English had managed their 
 own affairs so well as to place their superior faculty 
 for governing beyond question. But as the English are 
 avowed muddlers — rather proud of it, in fact — even the 
 logic of that case against Home Rule is not complete. 
 Read Mr. Charles Booth's account of London, Mr. 
 Rowntree's account of York, and the latest official report 
 on Dundee; and then pretend, if you can, that English- 
 
xxxviii John Bulls Other Island 
 
 men and Scotchmen have not more cause to hand over 
 their affairs to an Irish parliament than to clamor for 
 another nation's cities to devastate and another peojjle's 
 business to mismanage. 
 
 A Natural Right. 
 
 The question is not one of logic at all, but of natural 
 right. English universities have for some time past en- 
 couraged an extremely foolish academic exercise which 
 consists in disproving the existence of natural rights on 
 the groimd that they cannot be deduced from the princi- 
 ples of any known political system. If they could, they 
 would not be natural rights but acquired ones. Acquired 
 rights are deduced from political constitutions; but po- 
 litical constitutions are deduced from natural rights. 
 "VVlien a man insists on certain liberties without the 
 slightest regard to demonstrations that they are not for 
 his own good, nor for the public good, nor moral, nor 
 reasonable, nor decent, nor compatible with the existing 
 constitution of society, then he is said to claim a natural 
 right to that liberty. When, for instance, he insists, in 
 spite of the irrefutable demonstrations of many able 
 pessimists, from the author of the book of Ecclesiastes 
 to Schopenhauer, that life is an evil, on living, he is 
 asserting a natural right to live. When he insists on a 
 vote in order that his country may be governed according 
 to his ignorance instead of the wisdom of the Privy 
 Council, he is asserting a natural right to self-govern- 
 ment. When he insists on guiding himself at 21 by his 
 own inexperience and folly and immaturity instead of 
 by the experience and sagacity of his father, or the well 
 stored mind of his grandmother, he is asserting a natural 
 right to independence. Even if Home Rule were as 
 unhealthy as an Englishman's eating, as intemperate as 
 his drinking, as filthy as his smoking, as licentious as 
 his domesticity, as corrupt as his elections, as murder- 
 
Preface for Politicians xxxix 
 
 ously greedy as his commerce, as cruel as his prisons, 
 and as merciless as his streets, Ireland's claim to self- 
 government would still be as good as England's. King 
 James the First proved so cleverly and conclusively that 
 the satisfaction of natural rights was incompatible with 
 good government that his courtiers called him Solomon. 
 We, more enlightened, call him Fool, solely because we 
 have learnt that nations insist on being governed by their 
 own consent — or, as they put it, by themselves and for 
 themselves — and that they will finally upset a good 
 government which denies them this even if the alter- 
 native be a bad government which at least creates and 
 maintains an illusion of democracy. America, as far as 
 one can ascertain, is much worse governed, and has a 
 much more disgraceful political historj'^ than England 
 imder Charles I ; but the American Republic is the stabler 
 government because it starts from a formal concession 
 of natural rights, and keeps up an illusion of safeguard- 
 ing them b}^ an elaborate machinery of democratic elec- 
 tion. And the final reason why Ireland must have Home 
 Rule is that she has a natural right to it. 
 
 A Warning. 
 
 Finally, some words of warning to both nations. Ire- 
 land has been deliberately ruined again and again by 
 England. Unable to compete with us industrially, she 
 has destroyed our industries by the brute force of pro- 
 hibitive taxation. She was perfectly right. That brute 
 force was a more honorable weapon than the poverty 
 which we used to undersell her. We lived with and as 
 our pigs, and let loose our wares in the Englishman's 
 market at prices which he could compete with only by 
 living like a pig himself. Having the alternative of 
 stopping our industry altogether, he very naturally and 
 properly availed himself of it. We should have done 
 the same in his place. To bear malice against him on 
 
xl John BuU's Other Island 
 
 that score is to poison our blood and weaken our con- 
 stitutions with unintelligent rancor. In wrecking all 
 the industries that were based on the poverty of our 
 peojDle England did us an enormous service. In omitting 
 to do the same on her own soil, she did herself a wrong 
 that has rotted her almost to the marrow, I hope that 
 when Home Rule is at last achieved, one of our first 
 legislative acts will be to fortify the subsistence of our 
 people behind the bulwark of a standard wage, and 
 impose crushing import duties on every English trade 
 that flourishes in the slum and fattens on the starvation 
 of our unfortunate neighbors. 
 
 Down with the Soldier ! 
 
 Now for England's share of warning. Let her look 
 to her Empire; for unless she makes it such a Federa- 
 tion for civil strength and defence that all free peoples 
 will cling to it voluntarily, it will inevitably become a 
 military tyranny to prevent them from abandoning it; 
 and such a tyranny will drain the English taxpayer of 
 his money more effectually than its worst cruelties can 
 ever drain its victims of their liberty. A political scheme 
 that cannot be carried out except by soldiers will not be 
 a permanent one. The soldier is an anachronism of 
 which we must get rid. Among people who are proof 
 against the suggestions of romantic fiction there can no 
 longer be any question of the fact that military service 
 produces moral imbecility, ferocity, and cowardice, and 
 that the defence of nations must be undertaken by the 
 civil enterprise of men enjoying all the rights and liber- 
 ties of citizenship, and trained by the exacting discipline 
 of democratic freedom and responsibility. For perma- 
 nent work the soldier is worse than useless: such effi- 
 ciency as he has is the result of dehumanization and 
 disablement. His whole training tends to make him a 
 weakling. He has the easiest of lives : he has no freedom 
 
Preface for Politicians xli 
 
 and no responsibility. He is politically and socially a 
 child^ with rations instead of rights, treated like a child, 
 punished like a child, dressed prettily and washed and 
 combed like a child, excused for outbreaks of naughti- 
 ness like a child, forbidden to marry like a child, and 
 called Tommy like a child. He has no real work to 
 keep him from going mad except housemaid's work: all 
 the rest is forced exercise, in the form of endless re- 
 hearsals for a destructive and terrifying performance 
 which may never come off, and which, when it does 
 come off, is not like the rehearsals. His officer has not 
 even housekeeper's work to keep him sane. The work 
 of organizing and commanding bodies of men, which 
 builds up the character and resource of the large class 
 of civilians who live by it, only demoralizes the military 
 officer, because his orders, however disastrous or of- 
 fensive, must be obeyed without regard to consequences: 
 for instance, if he calls his men dogs, and perverts a 
 musketry drill order to make them kneel to him as an 
 act of personal humiliation, and thereby provokes a 
 mutiny among men not yet thoroughly broken in to the 
 abjectness of the military condition, he is not, as might 
 be expected, shot, but, at worst, reprimanded, whilst 
 the leader of the mutiny, instead of getting the Victoria 
 Cross and a public testimonial, is condemned to five 
 years' penal servitude by Lynch Law (technically called 
 martial law) administered by a trade union of officers. 
 Compare with this the position of, for instance, our 
 railway managers or our heads of explosive factories. 
 They have to handle large bodies of men whose care- 
 lessness or insubordination may cause wholesale destruc- 
 tion of life and property; yet any of these men may 
 insult them, defy them, or assault them without special 
 penalties of any sort. The military commander dares 
 not face these conditions: he lives in perpetual terror 
 of his men, and will luidertake their command only when 
 ithey are stripped of all their civil rights, gagged, and 
 
xlii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 bound linnd and foot by a barbarous slave code. Thus 
 the officer learns to punish, but never to rule; and when 
 an emergency like the Indian Mutiny comes, he breaks 
 down; and the situation has to be saved by a few un- 
 tyi^ical officers with character enough to have retained 
 their civilian qualities in sjoite of the messroom. This, 
 unfortunately, is learnt by the public, not on the spot, 
 but from Lord Roberts fifty years later. 
 
 Since the Mutiny we have had the Crimean and South 
 African wars, the Dreyfus affair in France, the incidents 
 of the anti-militarist campaign by the Social-Democrats 
 in Germany, and now the Denshawai affair in the Nile 
 delta, all heaping on us sensational demonstrations of 
 the fact that soldiers pay the penalty of their slavery 
 and outlawry by becoming, relatively to free civilians, 
 destructive, cruel, dishonest, tyrannical, hysterical, men- 
 dacious, alarmists at home and terrorists abroad, politi- 
 cally reactionary, and professionally incapable. If it 
 were humanly possible to militarize all the humanity out 
 of a man, there would be absolutely no defence to this 
 indictment. But the military system is so idiotically 
 academic and impossible, and renders its victims so in- 
 capable of carrying it out with any thoroughness except 
 when, in an occasional hysterical outburst of terror and 
 violence, that hackneyed comedy of civil life, the weak 
 man putting his foot down, becomes the military tragedy 
 of the armed man burning, flogging and murdering in a 
 panic, that a body of soldiers and officers is in the main, 
 and under normal circumstances, much like any other 
 body of laborers and gentlemen. Many of us count 
 among our personal friends and relatives officers whose 
 amiable and honorable character seems to contradict 
 everything I have just said about the military character. 
 You have only to describe Lynch courts and acts of ter- 
 rorism to them as the work of Ribbonmen, Dacoits, 
 Moonlighters, Boxers, or — to use the general term most 
 familiar to them — " natives," and their honest and geu- 
 
Preface for Politicians xliii 
 
 erous indignation knows no bounds: they feel about 
 them like men, not like soldiers. But the moment you 
 bring the professional side of them uppermost by de- 
 scribing precisely the same proceedings to them as the 
 work of regular armies, they defend them, applaud them, 
 and are ready to take part in them as if their humanity 
 had been blown out like a candle. You find that there 
 is a blind spot on their moral retina, and that this blind 
 spot is the military spot. 
 
 The excuse, when any excuse is made, is that dis- 
 cipline is supremely important in war. Now most sol- 
 diers have no experience of war; and to assume that 
 those who have are therefore qualified to legislate for 
 it, is as absurd as to assume that a man who has been 
 run over by an omnibus is thereby qualified to draw up 
 wise regulations for tlie traffic of London. Neither our 
 military novices nor our veterans are clever enough to 
 see that in the field, discipline either keeps itself or 
 goes to pieces; for humanity under fire is a quite differ- 
 ent thing from humanity in barracks: when there is 
 danger the difficulty is never to find men who will obey^ 
 but men who can command. It is in time of peace, 
 when an army is either a police force (in which case its 
 work can be better done by a civilian constabulary) 
 or an absurdity, that discipline is difficult, because the 
 wasted life of the soldier is unnatural, except to a lazy 
 man, and his servitude galling and senseless, except to 
 a docile one. Still, the soldier is a man, and the officer 
 sometimes a gentleman in the literal sense of the word; 
 and so, what with Immanity, laziness, and docility com- 
 bined, they manage to rub along with only occasional 
 outbursts of mutiny on the one side and class rancor 
 and class cowardice on the other. 
 
 They are not even discontented; for the military and 
 naval codes simplify life for them just as it is simplified 
 for children. No soldier is asked to think for himself, 
 to judge for himself, to consult his own honor and man- 
 
xliv John Bull's Other Island 
 
 hood, to dread any consequence except the consequence 
 of punishment to his own person. The rules are plain 
 and simple; the ceremonies of respect and submission 
 are as easy and mechanical as a prayer wheel; the orders 
 are always to be obeyed thoughtlessly, however inept or 
 dishonorable they may be. As the late Laureate said 
 in the two stinging lines in which he branded the British 
 soldier with the dishonor of Esau, " theirs not to reason 
 why: theirs but to do and die." To the moral imbecile 
 and political sluggard these conditions are as congenial 
 and attractive as they are abhorrent and intolerable to 
 the William Tell temperament. Just as the most incor- 
 rigible criminal is always, we are told, the best behaved 
 convict, so the man with least conscience and initiative 
 makes the best behaved soldier, and that not wholly 
 through mere fear of punishment, but through a genuine 
 fitness for and consequent happiness in the childlike 
 military life. Such men dread freedom and responsi- 
 bility as a weak man dreads a risk or a heavy burden; 
 and the objection to the military system is that it tends 
 to produce such men by a weakening disuse of the moral 
 muscles. No doubt this weakness is just what the mili- 
 tary system aims at, its ideal soldier being, not a complete 
 man, but a docile imit of cannonfodder which can be 
 trusted to respond promptly and certainly to the external 
 stimulus of a shouted order, and is intimidated to the 
 pitch of being afraid to run away from a battle. It 
 may be doubted whether even in the Prussian heyday 
 of the system, when floggings of hundreds and even 
 thousands of lashes were matters of ordinary routine, 
 tliis detestable ideal was ever realized; but 3'our courts- 
 martial are not practical enough to take that into ac- 
 count: it is characteristic of the military mind continu- 
 ally to ignore human nature and cry for the moon 
 instead of facing modern social facts and accepting 
 modern democratic conditions. And. when I say the 
 military mind, I repeat that I am not forgetting the 
 
Preface for Politicians xlv 
 
 patent fact that the military mind and the humane mind 
 can exist in the same jjerson; so that an officer who will 
 take all the civilian risks, from city traffic to foxhmiting, 
 without uneasiness, and who will manage all the civil 
 employees on his estate and in his house and stables 
 without the aid of a ISIutiny Act, will also, in his military 
 capacity, frantically declare that he dare not walk about 
 in a foreign country unless every crime of violence 
 against an Englishman in uniform is punished by the 
 bombardment and destruction of a whole village, or the 
 wholesale flogging and execution of every native in the 
 neighborhood, and also that unless he and his fellow 
 officers have power, without the intervention of a jury, 
 to punish the slightest self-assertion or hesitation to 
 obey orders, however grossly insulting or disastrous 
 those orders maj' be, with sentences which are reserved 
 in civil life for the worst crimes, he cannot secure the 
 obedience and respect of his men, and the country will 
 accordingly lose all its colonies and deiaendencies, and 
 be helplessly conquered in the German invasion which 
 he confidently expects to occur in the course of a fort- 
 night or so. That is to say, in so far as he is an ordinary 
 gentleman he behaves sensibly and courageously; and 
 in so far as he is a military man he gives way without 
 shame to the grossest folly, cruelty and poltroonery. If 
 any other profession in the world had been stained by 
 these vices, and by false witness, forgery, swindling, 
 torture, compiilsion of men's families to attend their 
 executions, digging up and mutilation of dead enemies, 
 all wantonly added to the devastation proper to its own 
 business, as the military profession has been within re- 
 cent memory in England, France, and the United States 
 of America (to mention no other countries), it would 
 be very difficult to induce men of capacity and character 
 to enter it. And in England it is, in fact, largely de- 
 pendent for its recruits on the refuse of industrial life, 
 and for its officers on the aristocratic and plutocratic 
 
xhi John Bull's Other Island 
 
 refuse of political and diplomatic life, who join the 
 army and pay for their positions in the more or less 
 fashionable clubs which the regimental messes provide 
 them with — clubs which, by the way. occasionally figure 
 in ragging scandals as circles of extremely coarse moral 
 character. 
 
 Now in countries which are denied Home Rule: that 
 is, in which the government does not rest on the consent 
 of the people, it must rest on military coercion; and the 
 bureaucracy, however civil and legal it may be in form 
 and even in the character of its best officials, must con- 
 nive at all the atrocities of military rule, and become 
 infected in the end with the chronic panic characteristic 
 of militarism. In recent witness whereof, let me shift 
 the scene from Ireland to Egypt, and tell the story of 
 the Denshawai affair of June 1906 by way of object 
 lesson. 
 
 The Dexshawai Horror. 
 
 Denshawai is a little Egyptian village in the Nile 
 delta. Besides the dilapidated huts among the reeds by 
 the roadside, and the palm trees, there are towers of 
 unbaked brick, as unaccountable to an English villager 
 as a Kentish oast-house to an Egypti;ui. These towers 
 are pigeon houses; for the villagers keep pigeons just 
 as an English farmer keeps poultry. 
 
 Try to imagine the feelings of an English village if a 
 party of Chinese officers suddenly appeared and began 
 shooting the ducks, the geese, the hens and the turkeys, 
 and carried them off, asserting that they were wild birds, 
 as everybody in China knew, and that the jiretended 
 indignation of the farmers was a cloak for hatred of 
 the Chinese, and perhaps for a plot to overthrow the 
 religion of Confucius and establish the Church of Eng- 
 land in its place! Well, that is the British equivalent 
 of what happened at Denshawai when a party of Eng- 
 
Preface for Politicians , xlvii 
 
 lish officers went pigeon-shooting there the year before 
 last. The inhabitants complained and memorialized; but 
 they obtained no redress: the law failed them in their 
 hour of need. So one leading family of pigeon farmers, 
 Mahfouz by name, despaired of the law; and its head, 
 Hassan Mahfouz, aged 60, made up his mind not to 
 submit tamely to a repetition of the outrage. Also, Brit- 
 ish officers were ordered not to shoot pigeons in the 
 villages without the consent of the Omdeh, or head man, 
 though nothing was settled as to what might happen to 
 the Omdeh if he ventured to refuse. 
 
 Fancy the feelings of Denshawai when on the 13th 
 of June last there drove to the village four khaki-clad 
 British officers Avith guns, one of them being a shooter 
 of the year before, accompanied by one other officer on 
 horseback, and also by a dragoman and an Ombashi, or 
 police official! The oriental blood of Hassan Mahfouz 
 boiled; and he warned them that they would not be 
 allowed to shoot pigeons ; but as they did not understand 
 his language, the warning had no effect. They sent 
 their dragoman to ask the Omdeh's permission to shoot; 
 but the Omdeh was away; and all the interpreter could 
 get from the Omdeh's deputy, who knew better than to 
 dare an absolute refusal, was the pretty obvious reply 
 that they might shoot if they went far enough away 
 from the village. On the strength of this welcome, they 
 went from 100 to 300 yards away from the houses 
 (these distances were afterwards officially averaged at 
 500 yards), and began shooting the villagers' pigeons. 
 The villagers remonstrated and finally seized the gun 
 of the youngest officer. It went off in the struggle, and 
 wounded three men and the wife of one Abd-el-Xebi, 
 a young man of 25. Now the lady, though, as it turned 
 out, only temporarily disabled by a charge of pigeon 
 shot in the softest part of her person, gave herself up 
 for dead; and the feeling in the village was much as if 
 our imaginary Chinese officers, on being interfered with 
 
xlviii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 in their slaughter of turkeys, had killed an English 
 farmer's wife. Abd-el-Nebi, her husband, took the mat- 
 ter to heart, not altogether without reason, we may admit. 
 His threshing floor also caught fire somehow (the official 
 English theory is that he set it on fire as a signal for 
 revolt to the entire ]Moslem world) ; and all the lads 
 and loafers in the place were presently on the spot. 
 The other officers, seeing their friend in trouble, joined 
 him. Abd-el-Xcbi hit the supposed murderer of his wife 
 with a stick; Hassan Mahfouz used a stick also; and the 
 lads and loafers began to throw stones and bricks. Five 
 London policemen would have seen that there was noth- 
 ing to be done but fight their way out, as there is no 
 use arguing with an irritated mob, especially if you do 
 not know its language. Had the shooting party been 
 in the charge of a capable non-commissioned officer, he 
 would perhaps have got it safely off. As it was, the 
 officers tried propitiation, making their overtures in pan- 
 tomime. They gave up their guns; they offered watches 
 and money to the crowd, crying Baksheesh; and the 
 senior officer actually collared the junior and pretended 
 to arrest him for the murder of the woman. Naturally 
 they were mobbed worse than before; and what they did 
 not give to the crowd was taken from them, whether as 
 payment for the pigeons, blood money, or simple plun- 
 der was not gone into. The officers, two Irishmen and 
 three Englishmen, having made a hopeless mess of it, 
 and being now in serious danger, made for their car- 
 riages, but were dragged out of them again, one of the 
 coachmen being knocked senseless. They then " agreed 
 to run," the arrangement being that the Englishmen, 
 being the juniors, should run away to camp and bring 
 he]]) to the Irishmen. They bolted accordingly; but the 
 third, the youngest, seeing the two Irishmen hard put 
 to it, went back and stood by them. Of the two fugitives, 
 one, after a long race in the Egyptian afternoon sun, 
 got to the next village and there dropped, smitten by 
 
Preface for Politicians xlix 
 
 sunstroke, of which he died. The other ran on and met 
 a patrol, which started to the rescue. 
 
 Meanwhile, the other three officers had been taken out 
 of the hands of the lads and the loafers, of Abd-el-Nebi 
 and Hassan Mahfouz, by the elders and watchmen, and 
 saved from further injury, but not before they had been 
 severely knocked about, one of them having one of the 
 bones of his left arm broken near the wrist — simple 
 fracture of the thin end of the ulna. They were also 
 brought to the threshing floor; shewn the wounded 
 woman ; informed by gestures that they deserved to have 
 their throats cut for murdering her; and kicked (with 
 naked feet, fortunately) ; but at this point the elders 
 and constables stopped the mobbing. Finally the three 
 were sent off" to camp in their carriages ; and the incident 
 ended for that day. 
 
 No English mob, under similar provocation, would 
 have behaved any better; and few would have done as 
 little mischief. It is not many months since an old man 
 — not a foreigner and not an unbeliever — was kicked to 
 death in the streets of London because the action of a 
 park constable in turning him out of a public park ex- 
 posed him to suspicion of misconduct. At Denshawai, 
 the officers were not on duty. In their private capacity 
 as sportsmen, they committed a serious depredation on 
 a very poor village by slaughtering its stock. In an 
 English village they would .have been tolerated because 
 the farmers would have expected compensation for dam- 
 age, and the villagers coals and blankets and employ- 
 ment in country house, garden and stable, or as beaters, 
 huntsmen and the like, from them. But Denshawai had 
 no such inducements to submit to their thoughtless and 
 selfish aggression. One of them had apparently killed 
 a woman and wounded three men with his gun: in fact 
 his own comrade virtually convicted him of it before 
 the crowd by collaring him as a prisoner. In short, the 
 officers had given outrageous provocation; and the^^ had 
 
1 John Bull's Other Island 
 
 shown an amiable but disastrous want of determination 
 and judgment in dealing with the riot they provoked. 
 They should have been severely reprimanded and in- 
 formed that they had themselves to thank for what hap- 
 pened to them; and the villagers who assaulted them 
 should have been treated with leniency, and assured 
 that pigeon-shooting would not be allowed in future. 
 
 That is what should have ensued. Now for what 
 actually did ensue. 
 
 Abd-el-Xebi, in consideration of the injury to his 
 wife, was only sentenced to penal servitude for life. 
 And our clemency did not stop there. His wife was 
 not punished at all — not even charged with stealing the 
 shot which was found in her person. And lest Abd-el- 
 Nebi should feel lonely at 25 in beginning penal servi- 
 tude for the rest of his days, another yoxing man, of 20, 
 was sent to penal servitude for life with him. 
 
 No such sentimentality was shewn to Hassan Mah- 
 fouz. An Egyptian pigeon farmer who objects to Brit- 
 ish sport; threatens British officers and gentlemen when 
 they shoot his pigeons; and actually hits those officers 
 with a substantial stick, is clearly a ruffian to be made 
 an example of. Penal servitude was not enough for a 
 man of 60 who looked 70, and might not have lived to 
 suffer five years of it. So Hassan was hanged; but as 
 a special mark of consideration for his family, he was 
 hanged in full view of his own house, with his wives 
 and children and grandchildren enjoying the spectacle 
 from the roof. And lest this privilege should excite 
 jealousy in other households, three other Denshavians 
 were hanged with him. They went through the cere- 
 mony with dignity, professing their faith (" Mahometan, 
 I regret to say," Mr. Pecksniff would have said). Has- 
 san, however, " in a loud voice invoked ruin upon the 
 houses of tliose who had given evidence against him"; 
 and Darweesh was impatient and presumed to tell the 
 hangman to be quick. But then Darweesh was a bit of 
 
Preface for Politicians li 
 
 a brigand: he had been imprisoned for bearing false 
 witness; and his resistance to the British invasion is the 
 only officially recorded incident of his life which is 
 entirely to his credit. He and Abd-el-Nebi (who had 
 been imprisoned for theft) were the only disreputable 
 characters among the punished. Ages of the four 
 hanged men respectively, 60, 50, 22 and 20. 
 
 Hanging, however, is the least sensational form of 
 public execution: it lacks those elements of blood and 
 torture for which the military and bureaucratic imagina- 
 tion lusts. So, as they had room for only one man on 
 the gallows, and had to leave him hanging half an hour 
 to make sure work and give his family plenty of time 
 to watch him swinging (" slowly turning round and 
 round on himself," as the local papers described it), thus 
 having two hours to kill as well as four men, they kept 
 the entertainment going by flogging eight men with 
 fifty lashes each: eleven more than the utmost permitted 
 by the law of Moses in times which our Army of Occu- 
 pation no doubt considers barbarous. But then Moses 
 conceived his law as being what he called the law of 
 God, and not simply an instrument for the gratification 
 of his own cruelty and terror. It is unspeakably reas- 
 suring to learn from the British official reports laid be- 
 fore parliament that " due dignity was observed in 
 carrying out the executions," that " all possible human- 
 ity was shown in carrying them out," and that " the 
 arrangements were admirable, and reflect great credit 
 on all concerned." As this last testimonial apparently 
 does not refer to the victims, they are evidently officially,! 
 considered not to have been concerned in the proceedings 
 at all. Finallj', Lord Cromer certifies that the English- 
 man in charge of the proceedings is " a singularly hu- 
 mane man, and is very popular amongst the natives of 
 Egypt by reason of the great sympathy he has always 
 shown for them." It will be seen that Parliamentary 
 Papers, Nos. 3 and 4, Egypt, 1906, are not lacking in 
 
lii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 unconscious humor. The official walrus pledges himself 
 in every case for the kindliness of the official carpenter. 
 
 One man was actually let off, to the great danger of 
 the British Empire perhaps. Still, as he was an epilep- 
 tic, and had already had several fits in the court of 
 Judge Lynch, the doctor said Better not; and he escaped. 
 This was very inconvenient; for the number of floggees 
 had been made up solely to fill the time occupied by 
 the hangings at the rate of two floggings per hanging; 
 and the breakdown of the arrangement through Said 
 Suleiman Kheirallah's inconsiderate indisposition made 
 the execution of Darweesh tedious, as he was hanging 
 for fully quarter of an hour without any flogging to 
 amuse his fellow villagers and the officers and men of 
 the Inniskilling Dragoons, the military moimted police, 
 and the mounted infantry. A few spare sentences of 
 flogging should have been kept in hand to provide against 
 accidents. 
 
 In any case there was not time to flog everybody, nor 
 to flog three of the floggees enough; so these three had 
 a year's hard labor apiece in addition to their floggings. 
 Six others were not flogged at all, but were sent to penal 
 servitude for seven years each. One man got fifteen 
 years. Total for the morning's work: four hanged, two 
 to penal servitude for life, one to fifteen years penal 
 servitude, six to seven years penal servitude, three to 
 imprisonment for a year with hard labor and fifty 
 lashes, and five to fifty lashes. 
 
 Lord Cromer certifies that these proceedings were 
 " just and necessary." He also gives his reasons. It 
 appears that the boasted justice introduced into Egypt 
 by the English in 1882 was imaginary, and that the real 
 work of coping with Egyptian disorder was done by 
 Brigandage Commissions, composed of Egyptians. 
 These Commissions, when an ofi'ence was reported, 
 descended on the inculpated village; seized everybody 
 concerned; and plied them with tortures, mentionable 
 
Preface for Politicians liii 
 
 and unmentionable, until they accused everybody they 
 were expected to accuse. The accused were in turn 
 tortured until they confessed anything and everything 
 they were accused of. They were then killed, flogged, 
 or sent to penal servitude. This was the reality behind 
 the illusion that soothed us after bombarding Alexan- 
 dria. The bloodless, white-gloved native courts set up 
 to flatter our sense of imperial justice had, apparently, 
 about as much to do with the actual government of the 
 fellaheen as the annual court which awards the Dun- 
 mow flitch of bacon has to do with our divorce court. 
 Eventually a Belgian judge, who was appointed Pro- 
 cureur-General, exposed the true state of aff"airs. 
 
 Then the situation had to be faced. Order had to be 
 maintained somehow ; but the regular native courts which 
 saved the face of the British Occupation were useless 
 for the purpose; and the Brigandage Commissions were 
 so abominable and demoralizing that they made more 
 mischief than they prevented. Besides, there was Mr. 
 Wilfrid Scawen Blunt on the warpath against tyranny 
 and torture, threatening to get questions asked in par- 
 liament. A new sort of tribunal in the nature of a 
 court-martial had therefore to be invented to replace 
 the Brigandage Commissions ; but simple British military 
 courts-martial, though probably the best available form 
 of oflScial Lynch Law, were made impossible by the 
 jealousy of the "loyal" (.to England) Egyptians, who, 
 it seems, rule the Occupation and bully England exactly 
 as the " loyal " Irish rule the Garrison and bully the 
 Unionists nearer home. That kind of loyalty, not being 
 a natural product, has to be purchased; and the price 
 is an official job of some sort with a position and a 
 salary attached. Hence we got, in 1895, a tribunal con- 
 stituted in which three English officials sat with two 
 Egyptian officials, exercising practically unlimited 
 powers of punishment without a jury and without ap- 
 peal. They represent the best of our judicial and mill- 
 
liv John Bull's Other Island 
 
 tary officialism. And what that best is may be judged 
 by the sentences on the Denshawai villagers. 
 
 Lord Cromer's justification of the tribunal is prac- 
 tically that, bad as it is, the Brigandage Commissions 
 were worse. Also (lest we should propose to carry our 
 moral superiority any further), that the Egyptians are 
 so accustomed to associate law and order with floggings, 
 executions, torture and Lynch Law, that they will not 
 respect any tribunal which does not continue these prac- 
 tices. This is a far-reaching argument: for instance, it 
 suggests that Church of England missionaries might do 
 well to adopt the rite of human sacrifice when evangeliz- 
 ing tribes in whose imagination that practice is insep- 
 arably bound up with religion. It suggests that the 
 sole reason why the Denshawai tribunal did not resort 
 to torture for the purpose of extorting confessions and 
 evidence was that parliament miglit not stand it — though 
 really a parliament which stood the executions would, 
 one would think, stand anything. The tribunal had cer- 
 tainly no intention of allowing witnesses to testify 
 against British officers; for, as it happened, the Ombashi 
 who accompanied them on the two shooting expeditions, 
 one Ahmed Hassan Zakzouk, aged 26, was rash enough 
 to insist that after the shot that struck the woman, the 
 officers fired on the mob twice. This appears in the 
 parliamentary paper; but the French newspaper 
 L'Egypte is quoted by Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt as 
 reporting that Zakzouk, on being asked by one of the 
 English judges whether he was not afraid to say such 
 a thing, replied " Nobody in the world is able to frighten 
 me: the truth is the truth," and was promptly told to 
 stand down. Mr. Blunt adds that Zakzouk was then 
 tried for his conduct in connection with the affair before 
 a Court of Discipline, which awarded him two years 
 imprisonment and fifty lashes. Without rudely calling 
 this a use of torture to intimidate anti-British witnesses, 
 I may count on the assent of mpst reasonable people 
 
Preface for Politicians Iv 
 
 when I say that Zakzouk probably regards himself as 
 having received a rather strong hint to make his evidence 
 agreeable to the Occupation in future. 
 
 Not only was there of course no jury at the trial, but 
 considerably less than no defence. Barristers of suffi- 
 cient standing to make it very undesirable for them to 
 offend the Occupation were instructed to " defend " the 
 prisoners. Far from defending them, they paid high 
 compliments to the Occupation as one of the choicest 
 benefits rained by Heaven on their country, and appealed 
 for mercy for their miserable clients, whose conduct had 
 " caused the unanimous indignation of all Egyptians." 
 " Clemency," they said, " was above equity." The tri- 
 bunal in delivering judgment remarked that "the coun- 
 sel for the defence had a full hearing: nevertheless the 
 defence broke down completely, and all that their coun- 
 sel could say on behalf of the prisoners practically 
 amounted to an appeal to the mercy of the Court." 
 
 Now the proper defence, if put forward, would prob- 
 ably have convinced Lord Cromer that nothing but the 
 burning of the village and the crucifixion of all its in- 
 habitants could preserve the British Empire. That de- 
 fence was obvious enough: the village was invaded by 
 five armed foreigners who attempted for the second time 
 to slaughter the villagers' farming stock and carry it 
 off; in resisting an attempt to disarm them four villagers 
 had been wounded; the villagers had lost their tempers 
 and knocked the invaders about; and the older men and 
 watchmen had finally rescued the aggressors and sent 
 them back with no worse handling than they would have 
 got anywhere for the like misconduct. 
 
 One can imagine what would have happened to the 
 man, prisoner or advocate, who should have dared to 
 tell the trutli in this fashion. The prisoners knew better 
 than to attempt it. On the scaffold, Darweesh turned to 
 his house as he stood on the trap, and exclaimed " May 
 God compensate us well for this world of meanness, for 
 
Ivi John Bull's Other Island 
 
 this world of injustice, for this world of cruelty." If 
 he had dared in court thus to compare God with the 
 tribunal to the disadvantage of the latter^ he would no 
 doubt have had fifty lashes before his hanging, to teach 
 him the greatness of the Empire. As it was, he kept 
 his views to himself until it was too late to do anything 
 worse to him than hang him. In court, he did as all 
 the rest did. They lied; they denied; they set up des- 
 perate alibis; they protested they had been in the next 
 village, or tending cattle a mile off, or threshing, or 
 what not. One of them, when identified, said " All men 
 are alike." He had only one eye. Darweesh, who had 
 secured one of the officers' guns, declared that his ene- 
 mies had come in the night and buried it in his house, 
 where his mother sat on it, like Rachel on Laban's stolen 
 teraphim, until she was dragged off. A pitiable business, 
 yet not so pitiable as the virtuous indignation with which 
 Judge Lynch, himself provable by his own reports to 
 be a prevaricator, hypocrite, tyrant and coward of the 
 first water, preened himself at its expense. When Lord 
 Cromer says that " the prisoners had a perfectly fair 
 trial " — not, observe, a trial as little unfair as human 
 frailty could make it, which is the most that can be said 
 for any trial on earth, but " a perfectly fair trial " — he 
 no doubt believes what he says; but his opinion is inter- 
 esting mainly as an example of the state of his mind, 
 and of the extent to which, after thirty years of official 
 life in Egypt, one loses the plain sense of English words. 
 Lord Cromer recalls how, in the eighties, a man threat- 
 ened with the courbash by a Moudir in the presence of 
 Sir Claude MacDonald, said " You dare not flog me 
 now that the British are here." " So bold an answer," 
 says Lord Cromer, " was probably due to the presence 
 of a British officer." What would that man say now.'' 
 \Miat does Lord Cromer say now.'' He deprecates 
 " premature endeavors to thrust Western ideas on an 
 Eastern people," by which he means that when you are 
 
Preface for Politicians Ivii 
 
 in Egypt you must do as the Egyptians do: terrorize 
 by the lash and the scaffold. Thus does the East con- 
 quer its conquerors. In 1883 Lord DufFerin was abol- 
 ishing the bastinado as " a horrible and infamous pun- 
 ishment." In 1906 Lord Cromer guarantees ferocious 
 sentences of flogging as "just and necessary," and can 
 see " nothing reprehensible in the manner in which they 
 were carried out." " I have," he adds, " passed nearly 
 thirty years of my life in an earnest endeavour to raise 
 the moral and material condition of the people of Egypt. 
 I have been assisted by a number of very capable offi- 
 cials, all of whom, I may say, have been animated by 
 the same spirit as myself." Egypt may well shudder 
 as she reads those words. If the first thirty years have 
 been crowned by the Denshawai incident, what will 
 Egypt be like at the end of another thirty years of 
 moral elevation "animated by the same spirit"? 
 
 It is pleasanter to return to Lord Cromer's first letter 
 on Denshawai, written to Sir Edward Grey the day after 
 the shooting party. It says that " orders will shortly 
 be issued by the General prohibiting officers in the army 
 from shooting pigeons in the future under any circum- 
 stances whatever." But pray why this prohibition, if, 
 as the tribunal declared, the officers were " guests (actu- 
 ally guests!) who had done nothing to deserve blame "? 
 
 Mr. Findlay is another interesting official correspond- 
 ent of Sir Edward. Even after the trial, at which it 
 had been impossible to push the medical evidence further 
 than to say that the officer who died of sunstroke had 
 been predisposed to it by the knocking about he had 
 suffered and by his flight under the Egyptian sun, whilst 
 the officers who had remained defenceless in the hands 
 of the villagers were in court, alive and well, Mr. Find- 
 lay writes that the four hanged men were " convicted 
 of a brutal and premeditated murder," and complains 
 that " the native press disregards the fact " and " is 
 being conducted with such an absolute disregard for 
 
Iviii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 truth as to make it evident that large sums of money 
 have been expended." Mr. Findlay is also a bit of a 
 philosopher. " The Egyptian, being a fatalist/' he says, 
 " does not greatly fear death, and there is therefore 
 much to be said for flogging as a judicial punishment in 
 Egypt." Logically, then, the four hanged men ought 
 to have been flogged instead. But Mr. Findlay does not 
 draw that conclusion. Logic is not his strong point: 
 he is a man of feeling, and a very nervous one at that. 
 " I do not believe that this brutal attack on British 
 officers had anything directly to do with political ani- 
 mosity. It is, however, due to the insubordinate spirit 
 which has been sedulously fostered during the last year 
 by unscrupulous and interested agitators." Again, " it 
 is my duty to warn you of the deplorable eff'ect which 
 is being produced in Egypt by the fact that Members of 
 Parliament have seriously called in question the unani- 
 mous sentence passed by a legally constituted Court, of 
 which the best English and the best native Judge were 
 members. This fact will, moreover, supply the lever 
 which has, up to the present, been lacking to the venal 
 agitators who are at the head of the so-called patriotic 
 party." I find Mr. Findlay irresistible, so exquisitely 
 does he give us the measure and flavor of officialism. 
 " A few days after the Denshawai aff"ray some natives 
 stoned and severely injured an irrigation inspector. Two 
 days ago three natives knocked a soldier off his donkey 
 and kicked him in the stomach: his injuries are serious. 
 In the latter case theft appears to have been the motive. 
 My object in mentioning these instances is to shew the 
 results to be expected if once respect for the law is 
 shaken. Should the present state of things continue, 
 and, still more, should the agitation in this country find 
 support at home, the date is not far distant when the 
 necessity will arise for bringing in a press law and for 
 considerably increasing the army of occupation." Just 
 think of it! In a population of nearly ten millions, one 
 
Preface for Politicians lix 
 
 irrigation inspector is stoned. The Denshawai execu- 
 tions are then carried out to make the law respected. 
 The result is that three natives knock a soldier off his 
 donkey and rob him. Thereupon Mr. Findlay, appalled 
 at the bankruptcy of civilization, sees nothing for it 
 now but suppression of the native newspapers and a 
 considerable increase in the army of occupation ! And 
 Lord Cromer writes " All I need say is that I concur 
 generally in Mr. Findlay's remarks, and that, had I re- 
 mained in Egypt, I should in every respect have adopted 
 the same course as that which he pursued." 
 
 But I must resolutely shut this rich parliamentary 
 paper. I have extracted enough to paint the picture, 
 and enforce my warning to England that if her Empire 
 means ruling the world as Denshawai has been ruled in 
 1906 — and that, I am afraid, is what the Empire does 
 mean to the main body of our aristocratic-military caste 
 and to our Jingo plutocrats — then there can be no more 
 sacred and urgent political duty on earth than the dis- 
 ruption, defeat, and suppression of the Empire, and, 
 incidentally, the humanization of its supporters by the 
 sternest lessons of that adversity which comes finally to 
 institutions which make themselves abhorred by the as- 
 piring will of humanity towards divinity. As for the 
 Egyptians, any man cradled by the Nile who, after the 
 Denshawai incident, will ever voluntarily submit to Brit- 
 ish rule, or accept any bond vpith us except the bond of 
 a Federation of free and equal states, will deserve the 
 worst that Lord Cromer can consider " just and neces- 
 sary " for him. That is what you get by attempting to 
 prove your supremacy by the excesses of frightened 
 soldiers and denaturalized officials instead of by courage- 
 ous helpfulness and moral superiority. 
 
 In any case let no Englishman who is content to leave 
 Abd-el-Nebi and his twenty-year-old neighbor in penal 
 servitude for life, and to plume himself on the power 
 to do it, pretend to be fit to govern either my country 
 
Ix John Bull's Other Island 
 
 or his own. The responsibilitj' cannot be confined to 
 the tribunal and to the demoralized officials of the Occu- 
 pation. The House of Commons had twenty-four hours 
 clear notice, with the telegraph under the hand of Sir 
 Edward Grey, to enable it to declare that England was 
 a civilized Power and would not stand these barbarous 
 lashings and vindictive hangings. Yet Mr. Dillon, rep- 
 resenting the Irish party, which well knows what British 
 Occupations and Findlay " loyalism " mean, protested in 
 vain. Sir Edward, on behalf of the new Liberal Gov- 
 ernment (still simmering with virtuous indignation at 
 the flogging of Chinamen and the military executions in 
 South Africa in the forced presence of the victims' 
 families under the late Imperialist Government) not 
 only permitted and defended the Denshawai executions, 
 but appealed to the House almost passionately not to 
 criticize or repudiate them, on the ground — how incred- 
 ible it now appears ! — that Abd-el-Xebi and Hassan 
 Mahfouz and Uarweesh and the rest were the fuglemen 
 of a gigantic Moslem plot to rise against Christendom 
 in the name of the Prophet and sweep Christendom out 
 of Africa and Asia by a colossal second edition of the 
 Indian Mutiny. That this idiotic romance, gross and 
 ridiculous as the lies of FalstafF, should have imposed 
 on any intelligent and politically experienced human be- 
 ing, is strange enough — though the secret shame of re- 
 volted humanity will make cabinet ministers snatch at 
 fantastic excuses — but what humanity will not forgive 
 our foreign secretary for is his failure to see that even 
 if such a conspiracy really existed, England should have 
 faced it and fought it bravely by honorable means, in- 
 stead of wildly lashing and strangling a handful of poor 
 peasants to scare Islam into terrified submission. Were 
 I abject enough to grant to Sir Edward Grey as valid 
 that main asset of " thinking Imperially," the conviction 
 that we are all going to be murdered, I should still 
 suggest to him that we can at least die like gentlemen.'* 
 
Preface for Politicians Ixi 
 
 Might I even be so personal as to say that the reason 
 for giving him a social position and political opportuni- 
 ties that are denied to liis tradesmen is that he is sup- 
 posed to understand better than they that honor is worth 
 its danger and its cost, and that life is worthless Avithout 
 honor? It is true that Sir John FalstafF did not think 
 so ; but Sir John is hardly a model for Sir Edward. Yet 
 even Sir John would have had enough gumption to see 
 that the Denshawai panic was more dangerous to the 
 Empire than the loss of ten pitched battles. 
 
 As cowardice is highly infectious, would it not be de- 
 sirable to supersede officials who, after years of oriental 
 service, have lost the familiar art of concealing their 
 terrors? I am myself a sedentary literary civilian, con- 
 stitutionally timid; but I find it possible to keep up 
 appearances, and can even face the risk of being rim 
 over, or garotted, or burnt out in London without shriek- 
 ing for martial law, suppression of the newspapers, ex- 
 emplary flogging and hanging of motor-bus drivers, and 
 compulsory police service. Why are soldiers and officials 
 on foreign service so much more cowardly than citizens ? 
 Is it not clearlj^ because the whole Imperial military sys- 
 tem of coercion and terrorism is unnatural, and that the 
 truth formulated by William Morris, that " no man is 
 good enough to be another man's master " is true also 
 of nations, and very specially true of those plutocrat- 
 ridden Powers which have of late stumbled into an enor- 
 mous increase of material wealth without having made 
 any intelligent provision for its proper distribution and 
 administration ? 
 
 However, the economic reform of the Empire is a 
 long business, whereas the release of Abd-el-Nebi and 
 his neighbors is a matter of the stroke of a pen, once 
 public opinion is shamed into activity. I fear I have 
 stated their case very unfairly and inadequately, because 
 I am hampered, as an Irishman, by my implacable hos- 
 tility to English domination. Mistrusting my own 
 
Ixii John Bull's Other Island 
 
 prejudices, I have taken the story from the two parlia- 
 mentary papers in which our officials have done their 
 utmost to whitewash the tribunals and the pigeon-shoot- 
 ing party, and to blackwash the villagers. Those who 
 wish to have it told to them by an Englishman of un- 
 questionable personal and social credentials, and an in- 
 timate knowledge of Egypt and the Egyptians, can find 
 it in ISIr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt's pamphlet entitled 
 " Atrocities of British Rule in Egypt." WTien they have 
 read it they will appreciate my forbearance; and when 
 I add that English rule in Ireland has been " animated 
 by the same spirit " (I thank Lord Cromer for the 
 phrase) as English rule in Egypt, and that this is the 
 inevitable spirit of all coercive military rule, they will 
 perhaps begin to understand why Home Rule is a neces- 
 sity not only for Ireland, but for all constituents of 
 those Federations of Commonwealths which are now the 
 only permanently practicable form of Empire. 
 
John Bull's Other Island 1 
 
 How He Lied to Her Husband . . 127 
 Major Barbara 155 
 
JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND 
 
JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Great George Street, Westminster, is the address of 
 Doyle and Broadbent, civil engineers. On the threshold 
 one reads that the firm consists of Mr. Laurence Doyle 
 and Mr. Thomas Broadbent, and that their rooms are 
 on the first floor. Most of these rooms are private; for 
 the partners, being bachelors and bosom friends, live 
 there; and the door marked Private, next the clerks' 
 office, is their domestic sitting room as well as their re- 
 ception room for clients. Let me describe it briefly 
 from the point of view of a sparrow on the window sill. 
 The outer door is in the opposite wall, close to the right 
 hand corner. Between this door and the left hand cor- 
 ner is a hatstand and a table consisting of large drawing 
 boards on trestles, with plans, rolls of tracing paper, 
 mathematical instruments and other draughtsman's ac- 
 cessories on it. In the left hand wall is the fireplace, 
 and the door of an inner room between the fireplace and 
 our observant sparrow. Against the right hand wall 
 is a filing cabinet, with a cupboard on it, and, nearer, a 
 tall office desk and stool for one person. In the middle 
 of the room a large double writing table is set across, 
 with a chair at each end for the two partners. It is a 
 room Tvhich no woman would tolerate, smelling of to- 
 bacco, and much in need of repapering, repainting, and 
 recarpeting; but this is the effect of bachelor untidiness 
 and indifference, not want of means; for nothing that 
 Doyle and Broadbent themselves have purchased is 
 3 
 
4'', .J^iliiti.. Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 /cfif^kp,; not' U 'anything fhey want lackhig. On the walls 
 hang rt Idrg'e 'map 'of' South America, a pictorial adver- 
 tisement of a steamship company, an impressive portrait 
 of Gladstone, and several caricatures of Mr. Balfour as 
 a rabbit and Mr. Chamberlain as a fox by Francis Car- 
 rut hers Gould. 
 
 At trventy minutes to five o'clock on a summer after- 
 noon in IQOl, the room is empty. Presently the outer 
 door is opened, and a valet comes in laden with a large 
 Gladstone bag, and a strap of rugs. He carries them 
 into the inner room. He is a respectable valet, old 
 enough to have lost all alacrity, and acquired an air of 
 putting up patiently with a great deal of trouble and 
 indifferent health. The luggage belongs to Broadhent, 
 who enters after the valet. He pulls off his overcoat 
 and hangs it with his hat on the stand. Then he comes 
 to the writing table and looks through the letters which 
 are waiting for him. He is a robust, full-blooded, ener- 
 getic man in the prime of life, sometimes eager and 
 credulous, sometimes shrewd and roguish, sometimes 
 portentously solemn, sometimes jolly and impetuous, al- 
 ways buoyant and irresistible, mostly likeable, and enor- 
 mously absurd in his most earnest moments. He bursts 
 open his letters with his thumb, and glances through 
 them, flinging the envelopes about the floor with reck- 
 less untidiness whilst he talks to the valet. 
 
 Broadbent (calling). Hodson. 
 
 HoDSON (in the bedroom). Yes sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Dont unpack. Just take out the things 
 Ive worn ; and put in clean things. 
 
 Hodson (appearing at the bedroom door). Yes sir. 
 (He turns to go back into the bedroom.) 
 
 Broadbent. And look here! (Hodson turns again.) 
 Do you remember where I put my revolver.'' 
 
 Hodson. Revolver, sir? Yes sir. Mr. Doyle uses 
 it as a paper-weight, sir, when he's drawing. 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 5 
 
 Bro'adbent. Well, I want it packed. Tlieres a 
 packet of cartridges somewhere, I think. Find it and 
 pack it as well. 
 
 HoDSON. Yes sir. 
 
 Broadbent. By the way, pack your own traps too. 
 I shall take you with me this time. 
 
 HoDsoN {hesitant). Is it a dangerous part youre 
 going to, sir.'' Should I be expected to carry a revolver, 
 sir? 
 
 Broadbent. Perhaps it might be as well. I'm go- 
 ing to Ireland. 
 
 HoDsoN (reassured). Yes sir. 
 
 Broadbent. You dont feel nervous about it, I sup- 
 pose ? 
 
 HoDsoN. Not at all, sir. I'll risk it, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Have 3'ou ever been in Ireland? 
 
 HoDsoN. No sir. I understand it's a very wet cli- 
 mate, sir. I'd better pack your india-rubber overalls. 
 
 Broadbent. Do. Wheres Mr. Doyle? 
 
 HoDSON. I'm expecting him at five, sir. He went 
 out after lunch. 
 
 Broadbent. Anybody been looking for me? 
 
 HoDSON. A person giving the name of Haffigan has 
 called twice to-day, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, I'm sorry. Why didnt he wait? I 
 told him to wait if I wasnt in. 
 
 Hodson. Well sir, I didnt know you expected him; 
 so I thought it best to — to — not to encourage him, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, lies all right. Hes an Irishman, 
 and not very particular about his aj^pearance. 
 
 Hodson. Yes sir, I noticed that he was rather Irish. 
 
 Broadbent. If he calls again let him come up. 
 
 Hodson. I think I saw him waiting about, sir, when 
 you drove up. Shall I fetch him, sir? 
 
 Broadbent. Do, Hodson. 
 
 Hodson. Yes sir. (He makes for the outer door.) 
 
 Broadbent. He'll want tea. Let us have some. 
 
G John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 HoDSON (stopping). I shouldn't think he drank tea, 
 sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Well, bring whatever you think he'd 
 like. 
 
 HoDSON. Yes sir. (An electric bell rings.) Here 
 he is, sir. Saw you arrive, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Right. Shew him in. (Hodson goes 
 out. Broadbent gets through the rest of his letters be- 
 fore Hodson returns rvith the visitor.) 
 
 Hodson. Mr. Affigan. 
 
 Haffigan is a stunted, shortneched, smallheaded, red- 
 haired man of about 30, with reddened nose and furtive 
 eyes. He is dressed in seedy black, almost clerically, 
 and 7night be a tenth-rate schoolmaster ruined by drink. 
 He hastens to shake Broadbent's hand with a show of 
 reckless geniality and high spirits, helped out by a rol- 
 licking stage brogue. This is perhaps a comfort to 
 himself, as he is secretly pursued by the horrors of in- 
 cipient delirium tremens. 
 
 Haffigan. Tim Haffigan, sir, at your service. The 
 top o the mornin to you, IMisther Broadbent. 
 
 Broadbent (delighted with his Irish visitor). Good 
 afternoon, Mr. Haffigan. 
 
 TiJi. An is it the afthernoon it is already.'' Begorra, 
 what I call the mornin is all the time a man fasts afther 
 breakfast. 
 
 Broadbent. Havnt you lunched? 
 
 Tim. Divil a lunch ! 
 
 Broadbent. I'm sorry I couldnt get back from 
 Brighton in time to offer you some; but — 
 
 Tim. Not a word, sir, not a word. Sure itll do to- 
 morrow. Besides, I'm Irish, sir: a poor ather, but a 
 powerful dhrinker. 
 
 Broadbent. I was just about to ring for tea when 
 you came. Sit down, Mr. Haffigan. 
 
 Tim. Tay is a good dhrink if your nerves can stand 
 it. Mhic cant. 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 7 
 
 Haffigan sits down at the writing table, with his back 
 to the filing cabinet. Broadbent sits opposite him. Hod- 
 son enters emptyhanded; takes two glasses, a siphon, 
 and a tantalus from the cupboard; places them before 
 Broadbent on the writing table; looks ruthlessly at 
 Haffigan, who cannot meet his eye; and retires. 
 
 Broadbent. Try a whisky and soda. 
 
 Tim (sobered). There you touch the national wake- 
 ness, sir. (Piously.) Not that I share it meself. Ive 
 seen too much of the mischief of it. 
 
 Broadbent (pouring the whisky). Say when. 
 
 Tim. Not too sthrong. (Broadbent stops and looks 
 enquiringly at him.) Say half-an-half. (Broadbent, 
 somewhat startled by this demand, pours a little more, 
 and again stops and looks.) Just a dhrain more: the 
 lower half o the tumbler doesnt hold a fair half. 
 Thankya. 
 
 Broadbent (laughing). You Irishmen certainly do 
 know how to drink. (Pouring some whisky for him- 
 self.) Now thats my poor English idea of a whisky 
 and soda. 
 
 Tim. An a very good idea it is too. Dhrink is the 
 curse o me unhappy counthry. I take it meself because 
 Ive a wake heart and a poor digestion; but in principle 
 I'm a teetoatler. 
 
 Broadbent (suddenly solemn and strenuous). So 
 am I, of course. I'm a Local Optionist to the backbone. 
 You have no idea, Mr. Haffigan, of the ruin that is 
 wrought in this country by the unholy alliance of the 
 publicans, the bishops, the Tories, and The Times. We 
 must close the public-houses at all costs (he drinks). 
 
 Tim. Sure I know. Its awful (he drinks). I see 
 youre a good Liberal like meself, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. I am a lover of liberty, like every true 
 Englishman, Mr. Haffigan. My name is Broadbent. If 
 my name were Breitstein, and I had a hooked nose and 
 a house in Park Lane, I should carry a Union Jack 
 
8 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 handkerchief and a penny trumpet, and tax the food of 
 the people to support the Navy League, and clamor for 
 the destruction of the last remnants of national liberty — 
 
 Tim. Not another word. Shake hands. 
 
 Broadbent. But I should like to explain — 
 
 Tim. Sure I know every word youre goin to say be- 
 fore yev said it. I know the sort o man yar. An so 
 youre thinkin o comin to Ireland for a bit.'' 
 
 Broadbext. Where else can I go? I am an Eng- 
 lishman and a Liberal; and now that South Africa has 
 been enslaved and destroyed, there is no country left to 
 me to take an interest in but Ireland. Mind: I dont 
 say that an Englishman has not other duties. He has a 
 duty to Finland and a duty to Macedonia. But what 
 sane man can deny that an Englishman's first duty is 
 his duty to Ireland? Unfortunately, we have politicians 
 here more unscrupulous than BobrikofF, more blood- 
 thirsty than Abdul the Damned; and it is under their 
 heel that Ireland is now writhing. 
 
 Tim. Faith, theyve reckoned up with poor oul Bobri- 
 kofF anyhow. 
 
 Broadbent. Not that I defend assassination: God 
 forbid ! However strongly we may feel that the un- 
 fortunate and patriotic young man who avenged the 
 wrongs of Finland on the Russian tyrant was perfectly 
 right from his own point of view, yet every civilized 
 man must regard murder with abhorrence. Not even 
 in defence of Free Trade would I lift my hand against 
 a political opponent, however richly he might deserve it. 
 
 Tim. Im sure you wouldnt; and I honor you for it. 
 Youre goin to Ireland, then, out o sympithy: is it? 
 
 Broadbent. I'm going to develop an estate there 
 for the Land Development Syndicate, in which I am 
 interested. I am convinced that all it needs to make it 
 pay is to handle it properly, as estates are handled in 
 England. You know the English plan, Mr. Haffigan, 
 dont you? 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 9 
 
 Tim. Bedad I do, sir. Take all you can out of Ire- 
 land and spend it in England: thats it. 
 
 Broadeent (not quite liking this). My plan, sir, will 
 be to take a little money out of England and spend it 
 in Ireland. 
 
 Tim. JNIore power to your elbow ! an may your shadda 
 never be less ! for youre the broth of a boy intirely. 
 An how can I help you.^ Command me to the last 
 dhrop o me blood, 
 
 Broadbent. Have you ever heard of Garden City? 
 
 Tim (doubtfully). D'j^e mane Heavn? 
 
 Broadbent. Heaven! No: it's near Hitchin. If you 
 can spare half an hour I'll go into it with you. 
 
 Tim. I tell you hwat. Gimme a prospectus. Lemme 
 take it home and reflect on it. 
 
 Broadbent. Youre quite right: I will. (He gives 
 him a copy of Mr. Ehenezer Howard's hook, and several 
 pamphlets.) You understand that the map of the city 
 — the circular construction — is only a suggestion. 
 
 Tim. I'll make a careful note o that (looking dazedly 
 at the map). 
 
 Broadbent. What I say is, why not start a Garden 
 City in Ireland? 
 
 Tim (with enthusiasm) . Thats just what was on the 
 tip o me tongue to ask you. Why not? (Defiantly.) 
 Tell me why not. 
 
 Broadbent. There are difficulties. I shall overcome 
 them; but there are difficulties. When I first arrive in 
 Ireland I shall be hated as an Englishman. As a 
 Protestant, I shall be denounced from every altar. My 
 life may be in danger. Well, I am prepared to face 
 that. 
 
 Tim. Never fear, sir. We know how to respict a 
 brave innimy. 
 
 Broadbent. What I really dread is misunderstand- 
 ing. I think you could help me to avoid that. When I 
 heard you speak the other evening in Bermondsey at 
 
10 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 the meeting of the National League, I saw at once tliat 
 you were — You wont mind my speaking frankly? 
 
 Tim. Tell me all me faults as man to man. I can 
 stand anything but flatthery. 
 
 Broadbext. May I jjut it in this way? — that I saw 
 at once that you were a thorough Irishman, with all the 
 faults and all the qualities of your race: rash and iui- 
 provident but brave and goodnatured; not likely to suc- 
 ceed in business on your own account perhaps, but 
 eloquent, humorous, a lover of freedom, and a true fol- 
 lower of that great Englishman Gladstone. 
 
 Tim. Spare me blushes. I mustnt sit here to be 
 praised to me face. But I confess to the goodnature: 
 its an Irish wakeness. I'd share me last shillin with a 
 friend. 
 
 Broadbent. I feel sure you would, Mr. HafBgan. 
 
 Tim {impulsively'). Damn it! call me Tim. A man 
 that talks about Ireland as you do may call me any- 
 tliing. Gimme a howlt o that whisky bottle {he replen- 
 ishes). 
 
 Broadbent {smiling indulgently). Well, Tim, will 
 you come with me and help to break the ice between 
 me and your warmhearted, impulsive countrymen ? 
 
 Tim. Will I come to ^ladagascar or Cochin China 
 wid you? Bedad I'll come to the North Pole wid you 
 if yll pay me fare; for the divil a shillin I have to buy 
 a third class ticket. 
 
 Broadbent. Ive not forgotten that, Tim. We must 
 put that little matter on a solid English footing, though 
 the rest can be as Irish as you please. You must come 
 as my — my — well, I hardly know what to call it. If 
 we call you my agent, they'll shoot you. If we call you 
 a bailiff, theyll duck you in the horsepond. I have a 
 secretary already ; and — 
 
 Tim. Then M-e'll call him the Home Secretary and 
 me the Irish Secretary. Eh? 
 
 Broadbent {laughing industriously). Capital. Your 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 11 
 
 Irish wit has settled the first difficulty. Now about 
 your salary — 
 
 Tim, a salary, is it? Sure I'd do it for nothin, only 
 me cloes ud disgrace you; and I'd be dhriven to borra 
 money from your friends: a thing thats agin me nacher. 
 But I wont take a penny more than a hundherd a year. 
 {He looks fvith restless cunning at Broadhent, trying to 
 guess how far he may go.) 
 
 Broadbent. If that will satisfy you — 
 
 Tim {more than reassured). Why shouldnt it satisfy 
 me? A hundherd a year is twelve-pound a month, isnt 
 it? 
 
 Broadbent. No. Eight pound six and eightpence. 
 
 Tim. Oh murdher! An I'll have to sind five timme 
 poor oul mother in Ireland. But no matther: I said a 
 hundherd; and what I said I'll stick to, if I have to 
 starve for it. 
 
 Broadbent {with business caution). Well, let us 
 say twelve pounds for the first month. Afterwards, we 
 shall see how we get on. 
 
 Tim. Youre a gentleman, sir. Whin me mother turns 
 up her toes, you shall take the five pounds off"; for your 
 expinses must be kep down wid a sthrong hand; an — 
 {He is interrupted by the arrival of Broadbent's part- 
 ner.) 
 
 Mr. Laurence Doyle is a man of 36, with cold grey 
 eyes, strained nose, fine fastidious lips, critical brows, 
 clever head, rather refined and goodlooking on the whole, 
 but with a suggestion of thinshinnedness and dissatis- 
 faction that contrasts strongly with Broadbent's eupeptic 
 jollity. 
 
 He comes in as a man at home there, but on seeing 
 the stranger shrinks at once, and is about to withdraw 
 when Broadbent reassures him. He then comes forward 
 to the table, between the two others. 
 
 Doyle {retreating). Youre engaged. 
 
 Broadbent. Not at all, not at all. Come in. {To 
 
12 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 Tim.) This gentleman is a friend who lives with me 
 here: my partner, Mr. Doyle. (To Doyle.) This is a 
 new Irish friend of mine, Mr. Tim Haffigan. 
 
 Tim (rising with effusion). Sure its meself thats 
 proud to meet any friend o Misther Broadbent's. The 
 top o the mornin to you, sir ! Me heart goes out teeye 
 both. Its not often I meet two such splendid speci- 
 ments iv the Anglo-Saxon race. 
 
 Broadbent (chuckling). Wrong for once, Tim. My 
 friend Mr. Doyle is a countryman of yours. 
 
 Tim is notii-3ably dashed by this announcement. He 
 draws in his horns at once, and scowls suspiciously at 
 Doyle under a vanishing mask of good fellowship : 
 cringing a little, too, in mere nerveless fear of him. 
 
 Doyle (with cool disgust). Good evening. (He re- 
 tires to the fireplace, and says to Broadbent in a tone 
 which conveys the strongest possible hint to Haffigan 
 that he is unwelcome) Will you soon be disengaged? 
 
 Tim (his brogue decaying into a common would-be 
 genteel accent with an unexpected strain of Glasgow in 
 it). I must be going. Ivnmportnt engeegement in the 
 west end. 
 
 Broadbext (rising). It's settled, then, that you 
 come with me. 
 
 Tim. Ishll be verra pleased to accompany ye, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. But how soon? Can you start tonight 
 — from Piddington? We go by Milford Haven. 
 
 Tim (hesitating). Well — I'm afreed — I (Doyle 
 goes abruptly into the bedroom, slamming the door and 
 shattering the last remnant of Tim's nerve. The poor 
 wretch saves himself from bursting into tears by plung- 
 ing again into his role of daredevil Irishman. He 
 rushes to Broadbent; plucks at his sleeve with trembling 
 fingers; and pours forth his entreaty with all the brogue 
 he can muster, subduing his voice lest Doyle should hear 
 and return.) Misther Broadbent: dont humiliate me 
 before a fella counthryman. Look here: me does is up 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 13 
 
 the spout. Gimme a fypounnote — I'll pay ya nex 
 Choosda whin me ship comes home — or you can stop it 
 out o mc montli's sallery. I'll be on the platform at 
 Paddnton punctial an ready. Gimme it quick, before he 
 comes back. You wont mind me axin, will ye? 
 
 Broadbent. Not at all. I was about to offer you an 
 advance for travelling expenses. {He gives lihn a bank 
 note.) 
 
 Tim {'pocketing it). Thank you. I'll be there half 
 an hour before the thrain starts. {Larry is heard at 
 the bedroom door, returning.) Whisht: lies comin back. 
 Goodbye an God bless ye. {He hurries out almost cry- 
 ing, the £5 note and all the drink it means to him being 
 too much for his empty stomach and overstrained 
 nerves.) 
 
 Doyle {returning). Where the devil did you pick 
 up that seedy swindler? What was he doing here? 
 {He goes up to the table rvhere the plans are, and 
 makes a note on one of them, referring to his pocket 
 book as he does so.) 
 
 Broadbent. There you go ! Why are you so down 
 on every Irishman you meet, especially if hes a bit 
 shabby ? poor devil ! Surely a fellow-countryman may 
 pass you the top of the morning without offence, even 
 if his coat is a bit shiny at the seams. 
 
 Doyle {contemptuously). The top of the morning! 
 Did he call you the broth of a boy? {He comes to the 
 writing table.) 
 
 Broadbent {triumphantly). Yes. 
 
 DoYLE. And wished you more power to your elbow? 
 
 Broadbent. He did. 
 
 DoYLE. And that your shadow might never be 
 less? 
 
 Broadbent. Certainly. 
 
 Doyle {taking up the depleted rvhisky bottle and 
 shaking his head at it). And he got about half a pint 
 of whisky out of you. 
 
14 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 Broadbent. It did him no harm. He never turned 
 a hair. 
 
 Doyle. How much money did he borrow.'' 
 
 Broadbent. It was not borrowing exactly. He 
 shewed a very honorable spirit about money. I believe 
 he would share his last shilling with a friend. 
 
 Doyle. No doubt he would share his friend's last 
 shilling if his friend was fool enough to let him. How 
 much did he touch you for.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, nothing. An advance on his salary 
 — for travelling expenses. 
 
 Doyle. Salary! In Heaven's name, what for? 
 
 Broadbent. For being my Home Secretary, as he 
 very wittily called it. 
 
 Doyle. I dont see the joke. 
 
 Broadbent. You can spoil any joke by being cold 
 blooded about it. I saw it all right when he said it. It 
 was something — something really very amusing — about 
 the Home Secretary and the Irish Secretary. At 
 all events, hes evidently the very man to take with 
 me to Ireland to break the ice for me. He can gain 
 the confidence of the people there, and make them 
 friendly to me. Eh.'' {He seats himself on the office 
 stool, and tilts it back so that the edge of the stand- 
 ing desk supports his back and prevents his toppling 
 over. ) 
 
 Doyle. A nice introduction, by George! Do you 
 suppose the whole population of Ireland consists of 
 drunken begging letter writers, or that even if it did, 
 they would accept one another as references.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Pooh ! nonsense ! hcs only an Irishman. 
 Besides, you dont seriously suppose that HaflBgan can 
 humbug me, do you? 
 
 Doyle. No: hes too lazy to take the trouble. All 
 he has to do is to sit there and drink your whisky while 
 you humbug yourself. However, we neednt argue 
 about Haffigan, for two reasons. First, with your money 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 15 
 
 in his pocket he will never reach Paddington: there are 
 too many public houses on the way. Second, hes not an 
 Irishman at all. 
 
 Broadbent. Not an Irishman ! {He is so amazed 
 hy the statement that he straightens himself and brings 
 the stool bolt upright.) 
 
 Doyle. Born in Glasgow. Never was in Ireland in 
 his life. I know all about him. 
 
 Broadbent. But he spoke — he behaved just like an 
 Irishman. 
 
 Doyle. Like an Irishman ! ! Is it possible that you 
 dont know that all this top-o-the-morning and broth-of- 
 a-boy and more-jDower-to-your-elbow business is as 
 peculiar to England as the Albert Hall concerts of 
 Irish music are? No Irishman ever talks like that in 
 Ireland, or ever did, or ever will. But when a thor- 
 oughly worthless Irishman comes to England, and finds 
 tlie whole place full of romantic duffers like you, who 
 will let him loaf and drink and sponge and brag as 
 long as he flatters your sense of moral superiority by 
 playing the fool and degrading himself and his coun- 
 try, he soon learns the antics that take you in. He 
 picks them up at the theatre or the music hall. Haffigan 
 learnt the rudiments from his father, who came from 
 my part of Ireland. I knew his uncles. Matt and Andy 
 Haffigan of Rosscullen. 
 
 Broadbent (still incredulous). But his brogue! 
 
 Doyle. His brogue! A fat lot you know about 
 brogues ! Ive heard you call a Dublin accent that you 
 could hang your hat on, a brogue. Heaven help you! 
 you dont know the difference between Connemara and 
 Rathmines. (With violent irritation.) Oh, damn Tim 
 Haffigan! lets drop the subject: hes not worth wrangling 
 about. 
 
 Broadbent. Whats wrong with you today, Larry? 
 Why are you so bitter? 
 
 Doyle looks at him perplej:edly; comes slowly to the 
 
16 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 rvriting table; and sits dorvn at the end next the fireplace 
 before replying. 
 
 DovLE. ^^'ell: your letter completely upset me, for 
 one thing. 
 
 Broadbent, Why? 
 
 Larry. Your foreclosing this RosscuUen mortgage 
 and turning poor Nick Lestrange out of house and 
 home has rather taken me aback; for I liked the old 
 rascal when I was a boy and had the rim of his park 
 to play in. I was brought up on the property. 
 
 Broadbext, But he wouldnt pay the interest. I 
 had to foreclose on behalf of the Syndicate. So now 
 I'm off to RosscuUen to look after the property myself. 
 (He sits down at the rvriting table opposite Larry, and 
 adds, casually, but with an anxious glance at his part- 
 ner.) Youre coming with me, of course? 
 
 Doyle (rising nervously and recommencing his rest- 
 less movements). Thats it. Thats what I dread. Thats 
 what has upset me. 
 
 Broadbent. But dont you want to see your country 
 again after 18 years absence? to see your people? to be 
 in the old home again? to — 
 
 Doyle (interrupting him very impatiently). Yes, 
 yes: I know all that as well as you do. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh well, of course (rvith a shrug) if 
 you take it in that way, I'm sorry. 
 
 Doyle. Never you mind my temper: its not meant 
 for you, as you ought to know by this time. (He sits 
 down again, a little ashamed of his petulance; reflects 
 a moment bitterly; then bursts out.) I have an instinct 
 against going back to Ireland: an instinct so strong 
 that I'd rather go with you to the South Pole than to 
 RosscuUen. 
 
 Broadbent. "SMiat! Here you are, belonging to a 
 nation with the strongest patriotism ! the most invet- 
 erate homing instinct in the world ! and you pretend 
 youd rather go anywhere than back to Ireland. 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 17 
 
 You donl suppose I believe you^ do you? In your 
 heart — 
 
 Doyle. Never mind my heart: an Irishman's heart 
 is nothing but his imagination. How many of all those 
 millions that have left Ireland have ever come back or 
 wanted to come back? But whats the use of talking to 
 you? Three verses of twaddle about the Irish emigrant 
 " sitting on the stile, Mary," or three hours of Irish 
 patriotism in Bermondsey or the Scotland Division of 
 Liverpool, go further with you than all the facts that 
 stare you in the face. Why, man alive, look at me! 
 You know the way I nag, and worry, and carp, and 
 cavil, and disparage, and am never satisfied and never 
 quiet, and try the patience of my best friends. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, come, Larry! do yourself justice. 
 Youre very amusing and agreeable to strangers. 
 
 Doyle. Yes, to strangers. Perhaps if I was a bit 
 stiffer to strangers, and a bit easier at home, like an 
 Englishman, I'd be better company for you. 
 
 Broadbent. We get on well enough. Of course 
 you have the melancholy of the Keltic race — 
 
 Doyle (bounding out of his chair). Good God!!! 
 
 Broadbent (slyly) — and also its habit of using 
 strong language when theres nothing the matter. 
 
 Doyle. Nothing the matter! When people talk 
 about the Celtic race, I feel as if I could burn down 
 London. That sort of rot does more harm than ten 
 Coercion Acts. Do you suppose a man need be a Celt to 
 feel melancholy in Rosscullen? Why, man, Ireland 
 was peopled just as England was; and its breed was 
 crossed by just the same invaders. 
 
 Broadbent. True. All the capable people in Ire- 
 land are of English extraction. It has often struck me 
 as a most remarkable circumstance that the only party 
 in parliament which shews the genuine old English char- 
 acter and spirit is the Irish party. Look at its inde- 
 pendence, its determination, its defiance of bad Govern- 
 
18 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 ments, its syrapcathy with oppressed nationalities all the 
 world over ! How English ! 
 
 Doyle. Not to mention the solemnity with which it 
 talks old-fashioned nonsense which it knows perfectly 
 well to be a century behind the times, Thats English^ 
 if you like. 
 
 Broadbent. No, Larry, no. You are thinking of 
 the modern hybrids that now monopolize England. 
 Hypocrites, humbugs, Germans, Jews, Yankees, for- 
 eigners. Park Laners, cosmopolitan riifrafF. Dont call 
 them English. They dont belong to the dear old island, 
 but to their confounded new empire ; and by George ! 
 the_vre worthy of it; and I wish them joy of it. 
 
 Doyle (unmoved by this outburst). There! You 
 feel better now, dont you.^ 
 
 Broadbent (defiantly). I do. Much better. 
 
 Doyle. My dear Tom, you only need a touch of the 
 Irish climate to be as big a fool as I am myself. If 
 all my Irish blood were poured into your veins, you 
 wouldnt turn a hair of your constitution and character. 
 Go and marry the most English Englishwoman you can 
 find, and then bring up your son in Rosscullen; and 
 that son's character will be so like mine and so imlike 
 yours that everybody will accuse me of being his father. 
 (With sudden anguish.) Rosscullen! oh, good Lord, 
 Rosscullen ! The dullness ! the hopelessness ! the igno- 
 rance ! the bigotry ! 
 
 Broadbent (matter-of-factly). The usual thing in 
 the country, Larry. Just the same here. 
 
 Doyle (hastily). No, no: the climate is different. 
 Here, if the life is dull, you can be dull too, and no 
 great harm done. (Going off into a passionate dream.) 
 But your wits cant thicken in that soft moist air, on 
 those white springy roads, in those misty rushes and 
 brown bogs, on those hillsides of granite rocks and 
 magenta heather. Youve no such colors in the sky, no 
 such lure in the distances, no such sadness in the even- 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 19 
 
 ings. Oh, the dreaming! the dreaming! the torturing, 
 heartiscalding, never satisfying dreaming, dreaming, 
 dreaming, dreaming! (Savagely.) No debauchery that 
 ever coarsened and brutalized an Englishman can take 
 the worth and usefulness out of him like that dreaming. 
 An Irishman's imagination never lets him alone, never 
 convinces him, never satisfies him; but it makes him 
 that he cant face reality nor deal with it nor handle it 
 nor conquer it: he can only sneer at them that do, and 
 (bitterly, at Broadhent) be " agreeable to strangers," 
 like a good-for-nothing woman on the streets. (Gab- 
 bling at Broadbent across the table.) Its all dreaming, 
 all imagination. He cant be religious. The inspired 
 Churchman that teaches him the sanctity of life and 
 the importance of conduct is sent away empty; while 
 the poor village priest that gives him a miracle or a 
 sentimental story of a saint, has cathedrals built for 
 him out of the pennies of the poor. He cant be in- 
 telligently political: he dreams of what the Shan Van 
 Vocht said in ninety eight. If you want to interest him 
 in Ireland youve got to call the unfortunate island Kath- 
 leen ni Hoolihan and pretend shes a little old woman. 
 It saves thinking. It saves working. It saves every- 
 thing except imagination, imagination, imagination; and 
 imagination's such a torture that you cant bear it with- 
 out whisky. (JVith fierce shivering self-contempt.) At 
 last you get that you can bear nothing real at all: youd 
 rather starve than cook a meal; youd rather go shabby 
 and dirty than set your mind to take care of your 
 clothes and wash yourself; you nag and squabble at 
 home because your wife isnt an angel, and she despises 
 you because youre not a hero; and you hate the whole 
 lot round you because theyre only poor slovenly useless 
 devils like yourself. (Dropping his voice like a man 
 making some shameful confidence.) And all the while 
 there goes on a horrible, senseless, mischievous laughter. 
 When youre young, you exchange drinks with other 
 
20 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 young men; and you exchange vile stories with them; 
 and as youre too futile to be able to help or cheer them, 
 you chaff and sneer and taunt them for not doing the 
 things you darent do yourself. And all the time you 
 laugl), laugh, laugh ! eternal derision, eternal envy, eter- 
 nal folly, eternal fouling and staining and degrading, 
 until, when you come at last to a country where men 
 take a question seriously and give a serious answer to it, 
 you deride them for having no sense of humor, and 
 })lume yourself on your own worthlessness as if it made 
 you better than them. 
 
 Broadbent {roused to intense earnestness by Doyle's 
 eloquence). Never despair, Larry. There are great 
 possibilities for Ireland. Home Rule will work won- 
 ders under English guidance. 
 
 UoYLE (pulled up short, his face twitching with a 
 reluctant smile). Tom: why do you select my most 
 tragic moments for your most irresistible strokes of 
 humor .'' 
 
 Broadbent. Humor! I was perfectly serious. 
 What do you mean.'' Do you doubt my seriousness 
 about Home Rule? 
 
 Doyle. I am sure you are serious, Tom, about the 
 English guidance. 
 
 Broadbent {quite reassured). Of course I am. Our 
 guidance is the important thing. We English must 
 place our capacity for government without stint at the 
 service of nations who are less fortunately endowed in 
 tliat respect; so as to allow them to develop in perfect 
 freedom to the English level of self-government, you 
 know. You understand me? 
 
 Doyle. Perfectly. And RosscuUen will understand 
 you too. 
 
 Broadbent {cheerfully). Of course it will. So 
 thats all right. {He pulls up his chair and settles him- 
 self comfortably to lecture Doyle.) Now, Larry, Ive 
 listened carefully to all youve said about Ireland; and 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 21 
 
 I can see notliing whatever to prevent your coming with 
 me. What does it all come to? Simply that you were 
 only a young fellow when you were in Ireland. Youll 
 find all that chaffing and drinking and not knowing 
 what to be at in Peckham just the same as in Donny- 
 brook. You looked at Ireland with a boy's eyes and 
 saw only boyish things. Come back with me and look 
 at it with a man's, and get a better opinion of your 
 country. 
 
 Doyle. I daresay youre partly right in that: at all 
 events I know very well that if I had been the son of 
 a laborer instead of the son of a country landagent, I 
 should have struck more grit than I did. Unfortunately 
 I'm not going back to visit the Irish nation, but to visit 
 my father and Aunt Judy and Nora Reilly and Father 
 Dempsey and the rest of them. 
 
 Broadbent. Well, why not? Theyll be delighted 
 to see you, now that England has made a man of you. 
 
 Doyle (struck by this). Ah! you hit the mark there, 
 Tom, with true British inspiration. 
 
 Broadbent. Common sense, you mean. 
 
 Doyle (quickly). No I dont: youve no more com- 
 mon sense than a gander. No Englishman has any 
 common sense, or ever had, or ever will have. Youre 
 going on a sentimental expedition for perfectly ridicu- 
 lous reasons, with your head full of political nonsense 
 that would not take in any ordinarily intelligent donkey; 
 but you can hit me in the " eye with the simple truth 
 about myself and my father. 
 
 Broadbent (amazed). I never mentioned your 
 father. 
 
 Doyle (not heeding the interruption). There he is 
 in Rosscullen, a landagent who's always been in a small 
 way because hes a Catholic, and the landlords are mostly 
 Protestants. What with land courts reducing rents and 
 Land Acts turning big estates into little holdings, he'd 
 be a beggar this day if he hadnt bought his own little 
 
22 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 farm under the Land Purchase Act. I doubt if has 
 been further from home than Athenmullet for the last 
 twent}' years. And here am I, made a man of, as you 
 say, by England. 
 
 Broadbent (apologetically). I assure you I never 
 meant 
 
 Doyle. Oh, dont apologize: it's quite true. I dare- 
 say Ive learnt something in America and a fcAV other 
 remote and inferior sjoots; but in the main it is by 
 living with jou and working in double harness with 
 you that I have learnt to live in a real world and not 
 in an imaginary one. I owe more to you than to any 
 Irishman. 
 
 Broadbent (shaking Ins head with a twinkle in his 
 eye). Very friendly of you, Larry, old man, but all 
 blarney. I like blarney; but it's rot, all the same. 
 
 Doyle, No it's not. I should never have done any- 
 thing without you; although I never stop wondering 
 at that blessed old head of yours with all its ideas in 
 watertiglit compartments, and all the compartments war- 
 ranted impervious to anything that it doesnt suit you 
 to understand. 
 
 Broadbent (invincible). Unmitigated rot, Larry, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Doyle. Well, at any rate you will admit that all my 
 friends are either Englishmen or men of the big world 
 that belongs to the big Powers. AH the serious part 
 of my life has been lived in that atmosphere: all the 
 serious part of my M'ork had been done with men of 
 that sort. Just think of me as I am now going back to 
 Rosscullen ! to that hell of littleness and monotony ! 
 How am I to get on with a little country landagent that 
 ekes out his 5 per cent with a little farming and a scrap 
 of house property in the nearest country to%vn? What 
 am I to say to him.'' ^Miat is he to say to me? 
 
 Broadbent (scandalized). But youre father and son, 
 man! 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 23 
 
 Doyle. What difference does that make? What 
 would you say if I proposed a visit to your father ? 
 
 Broadbent {tvith filial rectitude). I always made a 
 point of going to see my father regularly until his mind 
 gave way. 
 
 Doyle (concerned). Has he gone mad? You never 
 told me. 
 
 Broadbent. He has joined the Tariff Reform 
 League. He would never have done that if his mind 
 had not been weakened. (Beginning to declaim.) He 
 has fallen a victim to the arts of a political charlatan 
 who 
 
 Doyle (interrupting him). You mean that you keep 
 clear of your father because he differs from you about 
 Free Trade, and you dont want to quarrel with him. 
 Well, think of me and my father ! Hes a Nationalist 
 and a Separatist. I'm a metallurgical chemist turned 
 civil engineer. Now whatever else metallurgical chem- 
 istry may be, it's not national. It's international. And 
 my business and yours as civil engineers is to join coun- 
 tries, not to separate them. The one real political con- 
 viction that our business has rubbed into us is that fron- 
 tiers are hindrances and flags confomided nuisances. 
 
 Broadbent (still smarting under Mr. Chamberlain's 
 economic heresy). Only when there is a protective 
 tariff 
 
 Doyle (firmly). Now look here, Tom: you want to 
 get in a speech on Free Trade; and youre not going to 
 do it: I wont stand it. My father wants to make St. 
 George's Channel a frontier and hoist a green flag on 
 College Green ; and I want to bring Galway within 3 
 hours of Colchester and 2i of New York. I want Ire- 
 land to be the brains and imagination of a big Com- 
 monwealth, not a Robinson Crusoe island. Then theres 
 the religious difficulty. My Catholicism is the Catholi- 
 cism of Charlemagne or Dante, qualified by a great deal 
 of modern science and folklore which Father Dempsey 
 
24 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 would call the ravings of an Atheist. Well, my father's 
 Catholicism is the Catholicism of Father Dempsey. 
 
 Broadbext (shrewdly). I dont want to interrupt 
 you, Larry; but you know this is all gammon. These 
 differences exist in all families; but the members rub 
 on together all right. (Suddenly relapsing into por- 
 tentousness.) Of course there are some questions which 
 touch the very foundations of morals ; and on these I 
 grant you even the closest relationships cannot excuse 
 any compromise or laxity. For instance 
 
 Doyle (impatiently springing up and walking about). 
 For instance, Home Rule, South Africa, Free Trade, 
 and the Education Rate. Well, I should differ from 
 my father on every one of them, probably, just as I 
 differ from you about them. 
 
 Broadbent. Yes; but you are an Irishman; and 
 these things are not serious to you as they are to an 
 Englishman. 
 
 Doyle. ^\Tiat! not even Home Rule! 
 
 Broadbent (steadfastly). Not even Home Rule. 
 We owe Home Rule not to the Irish, but to our English 
 Gladstone. No, Larry: I cant help thinking that theres 
 something behind all this. 
 
 Doyle (hotly). What is there behind it? Do you 
 think I'm humbugging you? 
 
 Broadbent. Dont fly out at me, old chap. I only 
 thought — 
 
 Doyle. What did you think? 
 
 Broadbent. Well, a moment ago I caught a name 
 which is new to me: a Miss Nora Reilly, I think. 
 (Doyle stops dead and stares at him with something 
 like awe.) I dont wish to be impertinent, as you know, 
 Larry; but are you sure she has nothing to do with your 
 reluctance to come to Ireland with me? 
 
 Doyle (sitting down again, vanquished). Thomas 
 Broadbent: I surrender. The poor silly-clever Irish- 
 man takes off his hat to God's Englishman. The man 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 25 
 
 who could in all seriousness make that recent remark 
 of yours about Home Rule and Gladstone must be 
 simply the champion idiot of all the world. Yet the 
 man who could in the very next sentence sweep away 
 all my special pleading and go straight to the heart of 
 my motives must be a man of genius. But that the 
 idiot and the genius should be the same man ! how is 
 that possible? (Sprmging to his feet) By Jove, I 
 see it all now. I'll Avrite an article about it, and send it 
 to Nature. 
 
 Broadbent (staring at him). What on earth — 
 
 Doyle. It's quite simple. You know that a cater- 
 pillar — 
 
 Broadbent. A caterpillar ! ! ! 
 
 Doyle. Yes, a caterpillar. Now give your mind to 
 what I am going to say; for it's a new and important 
 scientific theory of the English national character. A 
 caterpillar — 
 
 Broadbent. Look here, Larry: dont be an ass. 
 
 Doyle (insisting). I say a caterpillar and I mean a 
 caterpillar. Youll understand presently. A caterpillar 
 (Broadbent mutters a slight protest, but does not press 
 it) when it gets into a tree, instinctively makes itself 
 look exactly like a leaf; so that both its enemies and 
 its prey may mistake it for one and think it not worth 
 bothering about. 
 
 Broadbent. ^Aliats that got to do Avith our English 
 national character? 
 
 Doyle. I'll tell you. The world is as full of fools 
 as a tree is full of leaves. Well, the Englishman does 
 what the caterpillar does. He instinctively makes him- 
 self look like a fool, and eats up all the real fools at 
 his ease while his enemies let him alone and laugh at 
 him for being a fool like the rest. Oh, nature is cim- 
 ning, cunning! (He sits down, lost in contemplation of 
 his Tvord- picture.) 
 
 Broadbent (rvith hearty admiration). Now you 
 
26 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 know, Larry, that would never have occurred to me. 
 You Irish people are amazingly clever. Of course it's 
 all tommy rot; but it's so brilliant, you know! How 
 the dickens do you think of such things ! You really 
 must write an article about it: they 11 paj^ you something 
 for it. If Nature wont have it, I can get it into En- 
 gineering for you: I know the editor. 
 
 Doyle. Lets get back to business. I'd better tell 
 you about Nora Reilly. 
 
 Broadbent. No: never mind. I sho\ildnt have al- 
 luded to her. 
 
 Doyle. I'd rather. Nora has a fortune. 
 Broadbent {keenly interested). Eh? How much? 
 Doyle. Forty per annum. 
 Broadbent. Forty thousand? 
 Doyle. No, forty. Forty pounds. 
 Broadbent (much dashed). Thats what you call a 
 fortune in Rosscullen, is it? 
 
 Doyle. A girl with a dowry of five pounds calls it 
 a fortune in Rosscullen. "WTiats more, £40 a year i s a 
 fortime there; and Nora Reilly enjoys a good deal of 
 social consideration as an heiress on the strength of it. 
 It has helped my father's household through many a 
 tight place. My father was her father's agent. She 
 came on a visit to us when he died, and has lived with 
 us ever since. 
 
 Broadbent (attentively, beginning to suspect Larry 
 of misconduct with Nora, and resolving to get to the 
 bottom of it). Since when? I mean how old were you 
 when she came? 
 
 Doyle. I was seventeen. So was she: if she'd been 
 older she'd have had more sense than to stay with us. 
 We were together for 18 months before I went up to 
 Dublin to study. WTien I went home for Christmas 
 and Easter, she was there: I suppose it used to be 
 something of an event for her, though of course I never 
 thought of that then. 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 27 
 
 Broadbent. Were you at all hard hit? 
 
 Doyle. Not really. I had only two ideas at that 
 time: first, to learn to do something; and then to get 
 out of Ireland and have a chance of doing it. She didnt 
 count. I was romantic about her, just as I was romantic 
 about Byron's heroines or the old Round Tower of 
 RosscuUen; but she didnt count any more than they 
 did. Ive never crossed St. George's Channel since for 
 her sake — never even landed at Queenstown and come 
 back to London through Ireland. 
 
 Broadbent. But did you ever say anything that 
 would justify her in waiting for you? 
 
 Doyle. No, never. But she i s waiting for me. 
 
 Broadbent. How do you know? 
 
 Doyle. She writes to me — on her birthday. She 
 used to write on mine, and send me little things 
 as presents; but I stopped that by pretending that 
 it was no use when I was travelling, as they got 
 lost in the foreign post-offices. (He pronounces 
 post-offices with the stress on offices, instead of on 
 post.) 
 
 Broadbent. You answer the letters? 
 
 Doyle. Not very punctually. But they get ac- 
 knowledged at one time or another. 
 
 Broadbent. How do you feel when you see her 
 handwriting ? 
 
 Doyle. Uneasy. I'd give <£50 to escape a letter. 
 
 Broadbent {looking grave, and throrving himself 
 back in his chair to intimate that the cross-examination 
 is over, and the result very damaging to the rvitness). 
 Hm! 
 
 Doyle. What d'ye mean by Hm ! ? 
 
 Broadbent. Of course I know that the moral code is 
 different in Ireland. But in England it's not consid- 
 ered fair to trifle with a woman's affections. 
 
 Doyle. You mean that an Englishman would get 
 engaged to another woman and return Nora her letters 
 
28 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 and presents with a letter to say he was unworthy of 
 her and wished her every happiness? 
 
 Bro.vdbext. Well, even that would set the poor 
 girl's mind at rest. 
 
 Doyle. Would it? I wonder! One thing I can tell 
 you; and that is that Nora would wait until she died of 
 old age sooner than ask my intentions or condescend 
 to hint at the possibility of my having any. You dont 
 know what Irish pride is. England may have knocked 
 a good deal of it out of me; but shes never been in 
 England; and if I had to choose between wounding that 
 delicacy in her and hitting her in the face, I'd hit her 
 in the face without a moment's hesitation. 
 
 Broadbent (rvho has been nursing his knee and re- 
 flecting, apparently rather agreeably). You know, all 
 this sounds rather interesting. Theres the Irish charm 
 about it. Thats the worst of you: the Irish charm 
 doesnt exist for you. 
 
 Doyle. Oh yes it does. But it's the charm of a 
 dream. Live in contact with dreams and you will get 
 something of their charm: live in contact with facts 
 and you will get something of their brutality. I wish 
 I could find a country to live in where the facts were 
 not brutal and the dreams not unreal. 
 
 Broadbext {changing his attitude and responding to 
 Doyle's earnestness rrith deep conviction: his elbons on 
 the table and his hands clenched). Dont despair, Larry, 
 old boy: things may look black; but there will be a 
 great change after the next election. 
 
 Doyle (jumping up). Oh get out, you idiot! 
 
 Broadbext (rising also, not a bit snubbed). Ha! 
 ha! you may laugh; but we shall see. However, dont 
 let us argue about that. Come now! you ask my advice 
 about Miss ReiUy? 
 
 DoYLE (reddening). No I dont. Damn your advice! 
 (Softening.) Lets have it, all the same. 
 
 Broadbext. Well, everything you tell me about her 
 
Act I John Bull's Other Island 29 
 
 impresses me favorably. She seems to have the feelings 
 of a lady; and though we must face the fact that in 
 England her income would hardly maintain her in the 
 lower middle class — 
 
 Doyle {interrupting). Now look here, Tom. That 
 reminds me. When you go to Ireland, just drop talking 
 about the middle class and bragging of belonging to it. 
 In Ireland youre either a gentleman or youre not. If 
 you want to be particularly offensive to Nora, you can 
 call her a PajDist; but if you call her a middle-class 
 woman, Heaven help you! 
 
 Broadbent {irrepressible'). Never fear. Youre all 
 descended from the ancient kings: I know that. {Com- 
 placently.) I'm not so tactless as you think, my boy. 
 {Earnest again.) I expect to find Miss Reilly a perfect 
 lady; and I strongly advise you to come and have an- 
 other look at her before you make up your mind about 
 her. By the way, have you a photograph of her? 
 
 Doyle. Her photographs stopped at twenty-five. 
 
 Broadbent {saddened). Ah yes, I suppose so. 
 {With feeling, severely.) Larry: youve treated that 
 poor girl disgracefully. 
 
 Doyle. By George, if she only knew that two men 
 were talking about her like this — ! 
 
 Broadbent. She wouldnt like it, would she? Of 
 course not. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, 
 Larry. {More and more carried away by his new fancy.) 
 You know, I have a sort of presentiment that Miss 
 Reilly is a very superior woman. 
 
 Doyle {staring hard at him). Oh! you have, have 
 you? 
 
 Broadbent. Yes I have. There is something very 
 touching about the history of this beautiful girl. 
 
 Doyle. Beau — ! Oho! Heres a chance for Nora! 
 and for me! {Calling.) Hodson. 
 
 HoDSON {appearing at the bedroom door). Did you 
 call, sir? 
 
30 John Bull's Other Island Act I 
 
 Doyle. Pack for me too. I'm going to Ireland with 
 
 Mr. Broadbent. 
 
 HoDsoN. Right, sir. {He retires into the bedroom.) 
 Broadbent (clapping Doyle on the shoulder). 
 
 Thank you, old chap. Thank you. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 Rosscullen. Westward a hillside of granite rock and 
 heather slopes upward across the prospect from south 
 to north. A huge stone stands on it in a naturally im- 
 possible place, as if it had been tossed up there by a 
 giant. Over the brow, in the desolate valley beyond, 
 is a round tower. A lonely white high road trending 
 away westward past the tower loses itself at the foot of 
 the far mountains. It is evening; and there are great 
 breadths of silken green in the Irish sky. The sun is 
 setting. 
 
 A man with the face of a young saint, yet with white 
 hair and perhaps 50 years on his back, is standing near 
 the stone in a trance of intense melancholy, looking over 
 the hills as if by mere intensity of gaze he could pierce 
 the glories of the sunset and see into the streets of 
 heaven. He is dressed in black, and is rather more 
 clerical in appearance than most English curates are 
 nowadays; but he does not wear the collar and waistcoat 
 of a parish priest. He is roused from his trance by the 
 chirp of an insect from a tuft of grass in a crevice of 
 the stone. His face relaxes: he turns quietly, and 
 gravely takes off his hat to the tuft, addressing the 
 insect in a brogue which is the jocular assumption of a 
 gentleman and not the natural speech of a peasant. 
 
 The Man. An is that yourself, IVfisther Grasshop- 
 per? I hope I see you well this fine evenin. 
 
 The Grasshopper (^prompt and shrill in answer^. 
 
 x.x. 
 
 SI 
 
32 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 The Man (encouragingly). Thats right. I suppose 
 now Touve come out to make yourself miserable be ad- 
 myerin the sunset? 
 
 The Grasshopper (sadly). X.X. 
 
 The Man. Aj-e^ youre a thrue Irish grasshopper. 
 
 The Grasshopper (loudly). X.X.X. 
 
 The Man. Three cheers for ould Ireland, is it? 
 That helps you to face out the misery and the poverty 
 and the torment, doesnt it? 
 
 The Grasshopper (plaintively). X.X. 
 
 The Man. Ah, its no use, me poor little friend. If 
 you could jump as far as a kangaroo you couldnt jump 
 away from your own heart an its punishment. You can 
 only look at Heaven from here: you cant reach it. 
 There ! (pointing with his stick to the sunset) thats the 
 gate o glory, isnt it? 
 
 The Grasshopper (assenting). X.X. 
 
 The Man. Sure it's the wise grasshopper yar to 
 know that ! But tell me this, Misther Unworldly Wise- 
 man: why does the sight of Heaven wring your heart 
 an mine as the sight of holy wather wrings the heart 
 o the divil? AMiat wickedness have you done to bring 
 that curse on you? Here! where are you jumpin to? 
 Wheres your manners to go skyrocketin like that out 
 o the box in the middle o your confession (he threatens 
 it with his stick) ? 
 
 The Grasshopper (penitently). X. 
 
 The Man (lowering the stick). I accept your apol- 
 ogy; but dont do it again. And now tell me one thing 
 before I let you go home to bed. Which would you 
 say this counthry was: hell or purgatory? 
 
 The Grasshopper. X. 
 
 The Man. Hell! Faith I'm afraid youre right. I 
 wondher what you and me did when we were alive to 
 get sent here. 
 
 The Grasshopper (shrilly). X.X. 
 
 The Man (nodding). Well, as you say, its a deli- 
 
Act ir John Bull's Other Island 33 
 
 cate subject; and I wont press it on you. Now off 
 widja. 
 
 The Grasshopper. X.X. (It springs away.) 
 
 The Man {waving his stick). God speed you! {He 
 walks away past the stone towards the brow of the hill. 
 Immediately a young laborer, his face distorted with 
 terror, slips round from behind the stone. 
 
 The Laborer (crossing himself repeatedly). Oh 
 glory be to God! glory be to God! Oh Holy Mother 
 an all the saints ! Oh murdher ! murdher ! (Beside 
 himself, calling. ) Fadher Keegan ! Fadher Keegan ! 
 
 The Man (turning). Who's there? Whats that? 
 (He comes back and finds the laborer, who clasps his 
 knees.) Patsy Farrell! What are you doing here? 
 
 Patsy. O for the love o God dont lave me here wi 
 dhe grasshopper. I hard it spakin to you. Dont let 
 it do me any harm, Father darlint. 
 
 Keegan. Get up, you foolish man, get up. Are you 
 afraid of a poor insect because I pretended it was talk- 
 ing to me? 
 
 Patsy. Oh, it was no pretending, Fadher dear. 
 Didnt it give three cheers n say it was a divil out o 
 hell? Oh say youll see me safe home, Fadher; n put 
 a blessin on me or somethin (he moans with terror). 
 
 Keegan. What were you doin there, Patsy, listnin? 
 Were you spyin on me? 
 
 Patsy. No, Fadher: on. me oath an soul I wasnt: I 
 was waitn to meet Masther Larry n carry his luggage 
 from the car; n I fell asleep on the grass; n you woke 
 me talkin to the grasshopper; n I hard its wicked little 
 voice. Oh, d'ye think I'll die before the year's out, 
 Fadher ? 
 
 Keegan. For shame, Patsy! Is that your religion, 
 to be afraid of a little deeshy grasshopper? Suppose 
 it was a divil, what call have you to fear it? If I 
 could ketch it, I'd make you take it home widja in your 
 hat for a penance. 
 
34 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 Patsy. Sure, if you wont let it harm me, I'm not 
 afraid, your riverence. {He gets up, a little reassured. 
 He is a callow, flaxen polled, smoothfaced, downy 
 chinned lad, fully grown hut not yet fully filled out, 
 with blue eyes and an instinctively acquired air of help- 
 lessness and silliness, indicating, not his real character, 
 but a cunning developed by his constant dread of a 
 hostile dominance, which he habitually tries to disarm 
 and tempt into unmasking by pretending to be a much 
 greater fool than he really is. Englishmen think him 
 half-witted, which is exactly what he intends them to 
 think. He is clad in corduroy trousers, unbuttoned 
 waistcoat, and coarse blue striped shirt.) 
 
 Keegan (adynonitorily). Patsy: what did I tell you 
 about callin me Father Keegan an your reverence ? What 
 did Father Dempsey tell you about it? 
 
 Patsy. Yis, Fadher. 
 
 Keegan. Father ! 
 
 Patsy (desperately). Arra, hwat am I to call you? 
 Fadher Dempsey sez youre not a priest; n we all know 
 youre not a man; n how do we know what ud happen 
 to us if we shewed any disrespect to you? N sure they 
 say wanse a priest always a priest. 
 
 Keegan (sternly). Its not for the like of you, Patsy, 
 to go behind the instruction of your parish priest and 
 set yourself up to judge whether your Church is right 
 or wrong. 
 
 Patsy. Sure I know that, sir. 
 
 Keegan. The Church let me be its priest as long 
 as it thought me fit for its work. When it took away 
 my papers it meant you to know that I was only a 
 poor madman, unfit and imworthy to take charge of the 
 souls of the people. 
 
 Patsy. But wasnt it only because you knew more 
 Latn than Fatlier Dempsey that he was jealous of you? 
 
 Keegan (scolding him to keep himself from smiling). 
 How dar you, Patsy Farrcll, jDut your own wicked little 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 35 
 
 spites and foolishnesses into the heart of your priest? 
 For two pins I'd tell him what you just said. 
 
 Patsy (coaxing). Sure you wouldnt — 
 
 Keegan. Wouldnt I ? God forgive you ! youre little 
 better than a heathen. 
 
 Patsy. Deedn I am, Fadher: it's me bruddher the 
 tinsmith in Dublin youre thinkin of. Sure he had to 
 be a freethinker when he larnt a thrade and went to 
 live in the town. 
 
 Keegan. Well, he'll get to Heaven before you if 
 youre not carefi^, Patsy. And now you listen to me, 
 once and for all. Youll talk to me and pray for me by 
 the name of Pether Keegan, so you will. And when 
 youre angry and tempted to lift your hand agen the 
 donkey or stamp your foot on the little grasshopper, 
 remember that the donkey's Pether Keegan's brother, 
 and the grasshopper Pether Keegan's friend. And 
 when youre tempted to throw a stone at a sinner or a 
 curse at a beggar, remember that Pether Keegan is a 
 worse sinner and a worse beggar, and keep the stone 
 and the curse for him the next time you meet him. 
 Now say God bless you, Pether, to me before I go, just 
 to practise you a bit. 
 
 Patsy. Sure it wouldnt be right, Fadher. I cant — 
 
 Keegan. Yes you can. Now out with it; or I'll 
 put this stick into your hand an make you hit me with it. 
 
 Patsy (throtving himself, on his knees in an ecstasy 
 of adoration). Siire its your blessin I want, Fadher 
 Keegan. I'll have no luck widhout it. 
 
 Keegan (shocked). Get up out o that, man. Dont 
 kneel to me: I'm not a saint. 
 
 Patsy (with intense conviction). Oh in throth yar, 
 sir. (The grasshopper chirps. Patsy, terrified, clutches 
 at Keegan's hands.) Dont set it on me, Fadher: I'll 
 do anythin you bid me. 
 
 Keegan (pulling him up). You bosthoon, you! 
 Dont you see that it only whistled to tell me Miss 
 
3G John Bull's Other Island Act n 
 
 Reill3''s comin? There! Look at her and pull yourself 
 together for shame. Off widja to the road: youll be 
 late for the car if you dont make haste {bustling him 
 down the hill). I can see the dust of it in the gap 
 already. 
 
 Patsv. The Lord save us ! (He goes down the hill 
 towards the road like a haunted man.) 
 
 Nora Reilljt/ comes down the hill. A slight weak 
 woman in a pretty muslin print gown {her best), she 
 is a figure commonplace enough to Irish eyes; but on 
 the inhabitants of fatter-fed, crowded, hustling and 
 bustling modern countries she makes a very different 
 impression. The absence of any symptoms of coarse- 
 ness or hardness or appetite in her, her comparative 
 delicacy of manner and sensibility of apprehension, her 
 thin hands and slender figure, her novel accent, with 
 the caressing plaintive Irish melody of her speech, give 
 her a charm which is all the more effective because, be- 
 ing untravelled, she is unconscious of it, and never 
 dreams of deliberately dramatizing and exploiting it, as 
 the Irishwoman in England does. For Tom Broadbent 
 therefore, an attractive woman, whom he would even 
 call ethereal. To Larry Doyle, an everyday woman fit 
 only for the eighteenth century, helpless, useless, al- 
 most sexless, an invalid tvithout the excuse of disease, 
 an incarnation of everything in Ireland that drove him 
 out of it. These judgments have little value and no 
 finality; but they are the judgments on which her fate 
 hangs just at present. Keegan touches his hat to her: 
 he does not take it off. 
 
 Nora. Mr. Keegan: I want to speak to you a minute 
 if you dont mind. 
 
 Keeoax {dropping the broad Irish vernacular of his 
 speech to Patsy). An hour if you like, Miss Reilly: 
 youre always welcome. Shall we sit down.'' 
 
 Nora. Thank you. {They sit on the heather. She 
 is shy and anxious; bid she comes to the point promptly 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 37 
 
 because she can think of nothing else.) They say you 
 did a gradle o travelling at one time. 
 
 Keegan. Well you see I'm not a Mnooth man (he 
 vieans that he was not a student at Maynooth College). 
 When I was young I admired the older generation of 
 priests that had been educated in Salamanca. So when 
 I felt sure of my vocation I went to Salamanca. Then 
 I walked from Salamanca to Rome, an sted in a monas- 
 tery there for a year. My pilgrimage to Rome taught 
 me that walking is a better way of travelling than the 
 train; so I walked from Rome to the Sorbonne in Paris; 
 and I wish I could have walked from Paris to Oxford; 
 for I was very sick on the sea. After a year of Oxford 
 I had to walk to Jerusalem to walk the Oxford feeling 
 off me. From Jerusalem I came back to Patmos, and 
 spent six months at the monastery of Mount Athos. 
 From that I came to Ireland and settled down as a 
 parish priest until I went mad. 
 
 Nora (startled). Oh dont say that. 
 
 Keegan. W^hy not.^ Dont you know the story? how 
 I confessed a black man and gave him absolution; and 
 how he put a spell on me and drove me mad. 
 
 Nora. How can you talk such nonsense about your- 
 self .'' For shame ! 
 
 Keegan. It's not nonsense at all: it's true — in a 
 way. But never mind the black man. Now that you 
 know what a travelled man I am, what can I do for 
 you? (She hesitates and plucks nervously at the heather. 
 He stays her hand gently.) Dear Miss Nora: dont 
 pluck the little flower. If it was a pretty baby you 
 wouldnt want to puil its head off and stick it in a vawse 
 o water to look at. (The grasshopper chirps: Keegan 
 turns his head and addresses it in the vernacular.) Be 
 aisy, me son : she wont sjjoil the swing-swong in your 
 little three. (To Nora, resuming his urbane style.) 
 You see I'm quite cracked; but never mind: I'm harm- 
 less. Now what is it? 
 
38 John Bull's Other Island Act n 
 
 SouA (embarrassed). Ofa, onlj idle conoaitT. I 
 vanted to know whether joa found Irthmd — I mean 
 the c ouulT T part of Ireland, of coarse — very small aiul 
 backwardlike when joo came back to it from Bome and 
 Oxford and all the great cities. 
 
 Kkkgax. When I went to those great cities I saw 
 wonders I had never seen in Ireland. But when I came 
 back to Ireland I found all the wonders there waiting 
 for me. Too see they had been there all the time; but 
 mr eres had nerer been apattd to them. I did not 
 know what mj own boose was like, becanse I had nerer 
 been ootside iL 
 
 Nora. D're think thats the same with everrbodrr 
 
 Kecgax. With everrbodr who has eres in his soul 
 as well as in his bead. 
 
 Nora. But reallr and tmly now, werent the people 
 rather disappmnting? I shoold think the girls most 
 hare seemed rather coarse and dowdr after the foreign 
 princesses and pettier But I snf^Mjse a priest wooldnt 
 notice that 
 
 Kezgax. It's a priest's bosiness to notice erervthing. 
 I wont tell TOD all I noticed about women; Irat 111 
 tell Ton this. The more a man knows, and the farther 
 he trarels, the more likelj he is to manr a comitry girl 
 afterwards. 
 
 N'oBA (blushing with deiigkt). Yoore joking, Mr. 
 Keegan: I'm sure jar. 
 
 Keegax. Mr war of joking is to tell the troth. It's 
 the fmmiest joke in the world. 
 
 NoKA (incredulous). Gakmg with roo! 
 
 Keegax (springing up actitely). Shall we go down 
 to the road and meet the car? (She gives hia$ her hand 
 and he helps her up.) Patsr Farrell told me too were 
 expecting joong Doyle. 
 
 Nora (tossing her chin up at once). Oh, I'm not 
 expecting him patticolarlr. It's a. wonder hes come 
 back at alL After staring away etgfateen years he can 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 39 
 
 harly expect us to be very anxioas to see him, can he 
 now? 
 
 Keeoax. Well, not anxious perhaps; bat you will 
 be curious to see how much hes changed in all these 
 years. 
 
 Nora (trith a sudden bitter flush). 1 supptose thats 
 all that brings him back to look at us, just to see how 
 much w e V e changed. Well, he can wait and see me 
 be candlelight: I didnt come out to meet him: I'm going 
 to walk to the Round Tower (going nest across the 
 hill). 
 
 Keegax. You couldnt do better this fine evening. 
 {Gravely.) I'll tell him where youve gone. {She turns 
 as if to forbid him; hut the deep understanding in his 
 eyes makes that impossible ; and she only looks at him 
 earnestly and goes. lie matches her disappear on the 
 other side of the hill; then says) Aye, hes come to tor- 
 ment you; and youre driven already to torment him. 
 {He shakes his head, and goes sloftly away across the 
 hill in the opposite direction, lost in thought.) 
 
 By this time the car has arrived, and dropped three 
 of its passengers on the high road at the foot of the 
 hill. It is a monster jaunting car, black and dilapidated, 
 one of the last survivors of the public vehicles known to 
 earlier generations as Beeyankiny cars, the Irish having 
 laid violent tongues on the name of their projector, one 
 Bianconi, an enterprising Italian. The three passen- 
 gers are the parish priest. Father Dempsey; Cornelius 
 Doyle, Larry's father; and Broadbent, all in overcoats 
 and as stiff as only an Irish car could make them. 
 
 The priest, stout and fatherly, falls far short of that 
 finest type of countryside pastor which represents the 
 genius of priesthood; but he is equally far above the 
 base type in which a strong-minded and unscrupulous 
 peasant uses the Church to extort money, power, and 
 privilege. He is a priest neither by vocation nor ambi- 
 tion, but because the life suits him. lie has boundless 
 
40 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 authority over his flock, and taxes them stiffly enough 
 to be a rich man. The old Protestant ascendency is now 
 too broken to gall him. On the whole, an easygoing, 
 amiable, even modest man as long as his dues are -paid 
 and his authority and dignity fully admitted. 
 
 Cornelius Doyle is an elder of the small miry type, 
 with a hardskinned, rather worried face, clean shaven 
 except for sandy whiskers blanching into a lustreless 
 pale yellow and quite white at the roots. His dress is 
 that of a country-town man of busi7iess: that is, an old- 
 ish shooting suit, and elastic sided boots quite uncon- 
 nected with shooting. Feeling shy with Broadbent, he 
 is hasty, which is his may of trying to appear genial. 
 
 Broadbent, for reasons which trill appear later, has 
 no luggage except a field glass and a guide book. The 
 other two have left theirs to the unfortunate Patsy Far- 
 rell, who struggles up the hill after them, loaded with 
 a sack of potatoes, a hamper, a fat goose, a colossal 
 salmon, and several paper parcels. 
 
 Cornelius leads the way up the hill, with Broadbent 
 at his heels. The priest follows; and Patsy lags labori- 
 ously behind. 
 
 Cornelius. This is a bit of a climb, Mr. Broadbent; 
 but its shorter than goin round be the road. 
 
 Broadbent (stopping to examine the great stone). 
 Just a moment, Mr. Doyle: I want to look at this stone. 
 It must be Finian's die-cast. 
 
 Cornelius (in blank bewilderment). Hwat.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Murray describes it. One of your 
 great national heroes — I cant pronounce the name — 
 Finian Somebody, I think. 
 
 Father Dempsey (also perplexed, and rather scan- 
 dalized). Is it Fin McCool you mean? 
 
 Broadbent. I daresay it is. (Referring to the 
 guide book.) Murray says that a huge stone, probably 
 of Druidic origin, is still pointed out as the die cast by 
 Fin in his celebrated match with the devil. 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 41 
 
 Cornelius (dubiously). Jeuce a word I ever heard 
 of it! 
 
 Father Dempsey (very seriously indeed, and even a 
 little severely). Dont believe any such nonsense, sir. 
 There never was any such thing. When people talk to 
 you about Fin McCool and the like, take no notice of 
 them. It's all idle stories and superstition. 
 
 Broadbent (somewhat indignantly; for to he re- 
 buked by an Irish priest for superstition is more than 
 he can stand). You dont suppose I believe it, do you.'' 
 
 Father Dempsey. Oh, I thought you did. D'ye 
 see the top o the Roun Tower there? thats an antiquity 
 worth lookin at. 
 
 Broadbent (deeply interested). Have you any the- 
 ory as to what the Round Towers were for.^ 
 
 Father Dempsey (a little o^ ended). A theory.^ 
 Me! (Theories are connected in his mind with the late 
 Professor Tyndall, and with scientific scepticism gen- 
 erally: also perhaps with the view that the Round Tow- 
 ers are phallic symbols.) 
 
 Cornelius (remonstrating) . Father Dempsey is the 
 priest of the parish, Mr. Broadbent. What would he 
 be doing with a theory.^ 
 
 Father Dempsey (with gentle emphasis). I have a 
 knowledge of what the Roun Towers were, if thats 
 what you mean. They are the forefingers of the early 
 Church, pointing us all to God. 
 
 Patsy, intolerably overburdened, loses his balance, 
 and sits down involuntarily. His burdens are scattered 
 over the hillside. Cornelius and Father Dempsey turn 
 furiously on him, leaving Broadbent beaming at the 
 stone and the tower with fatuous interest. 
 
 Cornelius. Oh, be the hokey, the sammin's broke in 
 two ! You schoopid ass, what d'ye mean .'' 
 
 Father Dempsey. Are you drunk. Patsy Farrell.^ 
 Did I tell you to carry that hamper carefully or did I 
 not.? 
 
42 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 Patsy (rubbing the back of his head, which has al- 
 most dinted a slab of granite). Sure me fut slipt. 
 Howkn I carry three men's luggage at wanst? 
 
 Father Dempsey. You were told to leave behind 
 what you couldnt carry, an go back for it. 
 
 Patsy. An whose things was I to lave behind? Hwat 
 would your reverence think if I left your hamper behind 
 in the wet grass; n hwat would the masther say if I 
 left the sammin and the goose be the side o the road 
 for annywan to pick up? 
 
 Cornelius. Oh, youve a dale to say for yourself, 
 you butther-fingered omadhaun. WaitU Ant Judy sees 
 the state o that sammin : she'll talk to you. Here ! 
 gimme that birdn that fish there; an take Father Demp- 
 sey 's hamper to his house for him; n then come back 
 for the rest. 
 
 Father Dempsey. Do, Patsy. And mind you dont 
 fall down again. 
 
 Patsy. Sure I — 
 
 Cornelius (bustling him up the hill). Whisht! heres 
 Ant Judy. (Patsy goes grumbling in disgrace, rvith 
 Father Dempsey's hamper.) 
 
 Aunt Judy comes down the hill, a woman of 50, in 
 no way remarkable, lively and busy without energy or 
 grip, placid without tranquillity, kindly without concern 
 for others: indeed without much concern for herself: 
 a contented product of a narrow, strainless life. She 
 wears her hair parted in the middle and quite smooth, 
 with a flattened bun at the back. Her dress is a plain 
 broivn frock, with a woollen pelerine of black and aniline 
 mauve over her shoulders, all very trim in honor of the 
 occasion. She looks round for Larry; is puzzled; then 
 stares incredulously at Broadbent. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Surely to goodness thats not you, 
 Larry ! 
 
 Cornelius. Arra how could he be Larry, woman 
 alive? Larry's in no hurry home, it seems. I havnt 
 
Act n John Bull's Other Island 43 
 
 set eyes on bim. This is his friend, Mr. Broadbent. 
 Mr. Broadbent: me sister Judy. 
 
 Aunt Judy {hospitably: going to Broadbent and 
 shaking hands heartily). Mr. Broadbent! Fancy me 
 takin you for Larry ! Sure we havnt seen a sight of 
 him for eighteen years, n he only a lad when he left us. 
 
 Broadbent. Its not Larry's fault: he was to have 
 been here before me. He started in our motor an hour 
 before ^Ir. Doyle arrived, to meet us at Athenmullet, 
 intending to get here long before me. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Lord save us ! do you think hes had n 
 axidnt ? 
 
 Broadbent. No: hes wired to say hes had a break- 
 down and will come on as soon as he can. He expects 
 to be here at about ten. 
 
 Aunt Judy. There now! Fancy him trustn himself 
 in a motor and we all expectn him ! Just like him ! 
 he'd never do anything like anybody else. Well, what 
 cant be cured must be injoored. Come on in, all of you. 
 You must be dyin for your tea, Mr. Broadbent. 
 
 Broadbent (with a slight start). Oh, I'm afraid it's 
 too late for tea {he looks at his watch). 
 
 Aunt Judy. Not a bit: we never have it airlier than 
 this. I hope they gave you a good dinner at Athen- 
 mullet. 
 
 Broadbent {trying to conceal his consternation as he 
 realizes that he is not going to get any dinner after his 
 drive). Oh — er — excellent, excellent. By the way, 
 hadnt I better see about a room at the hotel.'' {They 
 stare at him.) 
 
 Cornelius. The hotel! 
 
 Father Dempsey. Hwat hotel.'' 
 
 Aunt Judy. Indeedn youre not go in to a hotel. 
 Youll stay with us. I'd have put you into Larry's room, 
 only the boy's pallyass is too short for you; but we'll 
 make a comfortable bed for you on the sofa in the 
 parlor. 
 
44 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 Broadbent. Youre very kind, Miss Doyle; but really 
 I'm ashamed to give you so much trouble unnecessarily. 
 I shant mind the hotel in the least. 
 
 Father Dempsey. Man alive ! theres no hotel in 
 Rosscullen. 
 
 Broadbent. No hotel! Why, the driver told me 
 there was the finest hotel in Ireland here. (They re- 
 gard him joylessly.) 
 
 Aunt Judy. Arra would you mind what the like of 
 him woi^ld tell you? Sure he'd say hwatever was the 
 least trouble to himself and the pleasantest to you, 
 thinkin you might give him a thruppeny bit for him- 
 self or the like. 
 
 Broadbent. Perhaps theres a public house. 
 
 Father Dempsey {grimly). Theres seventeen. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah then, how could you stay at a public 
 house? thej'^d have no place to put you even if it was a 
 right place for you to go. Come! is it the sofa youre 
 afraid of? If it is^ you can have me own bed. I can 
 sleep with Nora. 
 
 Broadbent. Not at all, not at all: I should be only 
 too delighted. But to upset your arrangements in this 
 way — 
 
 Cornelius {anxious to cut short the discussion, which 
 makes him ashamed of his house; for he guesses Broad- 
 bent's standard of comfort a little more accurately than 
 his sister does). Thats all right: itll be no trouble at 
 all. Hweres Nora? 
 
 Aunt Judy. Oh, how do I know? She slipped out 
 a little while ago: I thought she was goin to meet the 
 car. 
 
 Cornelius {dissatisfied). Its a queer thing of her 
 to run out o the way at such a time. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Sure shes a queer girl altogether. Come. 
 Come in, come in. 
 
 Father Dempsey. I'll say good-night,. Mr. Broad- 
 bent. If theres anything I can do for you in this 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 45 
 
 parish, let mc know. {He shakes hands with Broad- 
 bent.) 
 
 Broadbent (effusively cordial). Thank you. Father 
 Dempsey. Delighted to have met you, sir. 
 
 Father Dempsey (passing on to Aunt Judy). Good- 
 night, Miss Doyle. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Wont you stay to tea? 
 
 Father Dempsey. Not to-night, thank you kindly: 
 I have business to do at home. (He turns to go, and 
 meets Patsy Farrell returning unloaded.) Have you 
 left that hamper for me? 
 
 Patsy. Yis, your reverence. 
 
 Father Dempsey. Thats a good lad (going). 
 
 Patsy (to Aunt Judy). Fadher Keegan sez — 
 
 Father Dempsey (J,urning sharply on him). Whats 
 that you say? 
 
 Patsy (frightened). Fadher Keegan — 
 
 Father Dempsey. How often have you heard me 
 bid you call Mister Keegan in his proper name, the 
 same as I do ? Father Keegan indeed ! Cant you tell 
 the difference between your priest and any ole madman 
 in a black coat? 
 
 Patsy. Sure I'm afraid he might put a spell on me. 
 
 Father Dempsey (rvrath fully). You mind what I 
 tell you or I'll put a spell on you thatll make you lep. 
 D'ye mind that now? (He goes home.) 
 
 Patsy goes down the hill to retrieve the fish, the bird, 
 and the sack. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah, hwy cant you hold your tongue. 
 Patsy, before Father Dempsey? 
 
 Patsy. Well, what was I to do? Father Keegan bid 
 me tell you Miss Nora was gone to the Roun Tower. 
 
 Aunt Judy. An hwy couldnt you wait to tell us 
 until Father Dempsey was gone? 
 
 Patsy. I was afeerd o forgetn it; and then may be 
 he'd a sent the grasshopper or the little dark looker 
 into me at night to remind me of it. (The dark looker 
 
46 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 is the common grey lizard, which is supposed to walk 
 down the throats of incautious sleepers and cause them 
 to perish in a slow decline.) 
 
 Cornelius, Yah, you great gaum, you! Widjer 
 grasshoppers and dark lookers ! Here : take up them 
 things and let me hear no more o your foolish lip. 
 {Patsy obeys.) You can take the sammin imder your 
 oxther. (He wedges the salmon into Patsy's axilla.) 
 
 Patsy. I can take the goose too, sir. Put it on me 
 back and gimme the neck of it in me mouth. (Cornelius 
 is about to comply thoughtlessly.) 
 
 Aunt Judy (feeling that Broadhent's presence de- 
 mands special punctiliousness). For shame. Patsy! to 
 offer to take the goose in your mouth that we have to 
 eat after you ! The masterll bring it in for you. (Patsy, 
 abashed, yet irritated by this ridiculous fastidiousness, 
 takes his load up the hill.) 
 
 Cornelius, \\nhat the jeuce does Nora want to go 
 to the Roun Tower for.^ 
 
 Aunt Judy, Oh, the Lord knows! Romancin, I 
 suppose. Praps she thinks Larry would go there to 
 look for her and see her safe home. 
 
 Broadbent. I'm afraid it's all the fault of my motor. 
 !Miss Reilly must not be left to wait and walk home 
 alone at night. Shall I go for her? 
 
 Aunt Judy (contemptuously). Arra hwat ud hap- 
 pen to her.'' Hurr}'^ in now, Corny. Come, Mr. Broad- 
 bent. I left the tea on the hob to draw; and itll be 
 black if we dont go in an drink it. 
 
 They go up the hill. It is dusk by this time. 
 
 Broadbent does not fare so badly after all at Aunt 
 Judy's board. He gets not only tea and bread-and- 
 butter, but more mutton chops than he has ever con- 
 ceived it possible to eat at one sitting. There is also 
 a most filling substance called potato cake. Hardly 
 have his fears of being starved been replaced by his 
 first misgiving that he is eating too much and will be 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 47 
 
 sorry for it to-morrow, rvhen his appetite is revived hy 
 the production of a bottle of illicitly distilled whisky, 
 called potcheen, which he has read and dreamed of (he 
 calls it pottine) and is now at last to taste. His good- 
 humor rises almost to excitement before Cornelius shews 
 signs of sleepiness. The contrast between Aunt Judy's 
 table service and that of the south and east coast hotels 
 at which he spends his Fridays-to-Tuesdays when he 
 is in London, seems to him delightfully Irish. The 
 almost total atrophy of any sense of enjoyment in Cor- 
 nelius, or even any desire for it or toleration of th^ 
 possibility of life being something better than a round 
 of sordid worries, relieved by tobacco, punch, fine morn- 
 ings, and petty successes in buying and selling, passes 
 with his guest as the whimsical affectation of a shrewd 
 Irish humorist and incorrigible spendthrift. Aunt Judy 
 seems to him an incarnate joke. The likelihood that 
 the joke will pall after a month or so, and is probably 
 not apparent at any time to born Rossculleners, or that 
 he himself unconsciously entertains Aunt Judy by his 
 fantastic English personality and English mispronun- 
 ciations, does not occur to him for a moment. In the 
 end he is so charmed, and so loth to go to bed and 
 perhaps dream of prosaic England, that he insists on 
 going out to smoke a cigar and look for Nora Reilly 
 at the Round Tower. Not that any special insistence 
 is needed; for the English inhibitive instinct does not 
 seem to exist in Rosscullen. Just as Nora's liking to 
 miss a meal and stay out at the Round Tower is accepted 
 as a sufficient reason for her doing it, and for the family 
 going to bed and leaving the door open for her, so 
 Broadbent's whim to go out for a late stroll provokes 
 neither hospitable remonstrance nor surprise. Indeed 
 Aunt Judy wants to get rid of him whilst she makes a 
 bed for him on the sofa. So off he goes, full fed, 
 happy and enthusiastic, to explore the valley by moon- 
 light . 
 
48 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 The Round Tower stands about half an Irish mile 
 from Rosscullen, some fft'j yards south of the road on 
 a knoll with a circle of wild greensward on if. Th& 
 road once ran over this knoll; but modern engineering 
 has tempered the level to the Beeyankiny car by carry- 
 ing the road partly round the knoll and partly through a 
 cutting; so that the way from the road to the tower is a 
 footpath up the embankment through furze and brambles. 
 
 On the edge of this slope, at the top of the path, 
 Nora is straining her eyes in the moonlight, watching 
 for Larry. At last she gives it up with a sob of im- 
 patience, and retreats to the hoary foot of the tower, 
 where she sits dorvn discouraged and cries a little. Then 
 she settles herself resignedly to wait, and hums a song 
 — not an Irish melody, but a hackneyed English draw- 
 ing-room ballad of the season before last — until some 
 slight noise suggests a footstep, when she springs up 
 eagerly and runs to the edge of the slope again. Some 
 moments of silence and suspense follow, broken by un- 
 mistakable footsteps. She gives a little gasp as she 
 sees a man approaching. 
 
 Nora. Is that you, Larry? {Frightened a little.^ 
 Wlio's that? 
 
 Broadbent's voice from below on the path. Dont be 
 alarmed. 
 
 Nora. Oh, what an English accent youve got! 
 
 Broadbent {rising into view). I must introduce my- 
 self— 
 
 Nora {violently startled, retreating). Its not you! 
 WTio are you? What do you want? 
 
 Broadbent {advancing). I'm really s o sorry to have 
 alarmed you, Miss Reilly. My name is Broadbent. 
 Larry's friend, j'ou know. 
 
 Nora {chilled). And has Mr. Doyle not come with 
 you? 
 
 Broadbent. No. Ive come instead. I hope I am 
 not unwelcome. 
 
Act II John Bulls Other Island 49 
 
 Nora (deeplj/ mortified). I'm sorry Mr. Doyle 
 should have given you the trouble, I'm sure. 
 
 Broadbent. You see, as a stranger and an English- 
 man, I thought it would be interesting to see the Round 
 Tower by moonlight. 
 
 Nora. Oh, you came to see the tower. I thought — 
 {confused, trying to recover her manners). Oh, of 
 course. I was so startled — It's a beautiful night, isnt 
 it? 
 
 Broadbent. Lovel}'. I must explain why Larry 
 has not come himself. 
 
 Nora. Why should he come? Hes seen the tower 
 often enough: it's no attraction to him. (Genteelly.) 
 An what do you think of Ireland, Mr. Broadbent? 
 Have you ever been here before? 
 
 Broadbent. Never. 
 
 Nora. An how do you like it? 
 
 Broadbent (suddenly betraying a condition of ex- 
 treme sentimentality). I can hardly trust myself to 
 say how much I like it. The magic of this Irish scene, 
 and — I really dont want to be personal. Miss Reilly; 
 but the charm of your Irish voice — 
 
 Nora (quite accustomed to gallantry, and attaching 
 no seriousness rvhatever to it). Oh, get along with you, 
 Mr. Broadbent! Youre breaking your heart about me 
 already, I daresay, after seeing me for two minutes in 
 the dark. 
 
 Broadbent. The voice is just as beautiful in the 
 dark, you know. Besides, Ive heard a great deal about 
 you from Larry. 
 
 Nora (rvith hitter indifference). Have you now? 
 Well, thats a great honor, I'm sure. 
 
 Broadbent. I have looked forward to meeting you 
 more than to anything else in Ireland. 
 
 Nora (ironically). Dear me! did you now? 
 
 Broadbent. I did really. I wish you had taken half 
 as much interest in me. 
 
.•>() Jolin l^uir.s Other Island Apt II 
 
 Nora. Oh, J was dying to sec you, of course. I dare- 
 say you can imagine the sensation an Englishman like 
 you would make among us poor Irish people. 
 
 Broadbent. Ah, now youre chaffing me. Miss Reilly: 
 you know you arc. You mustnt chaff me. I'm 
 very much in earnest about Ireland and everything 
 Irish. I'm very much in earnest about you and about 
 Larry. 
 
 Nora. Larry has nothing to do with me, 'Mr. Broad- 
 bent. 
 
 Broadbent. If I really thought that. Miss Reilly, 
 I should — well, I should let myself feel that charm of 
 which I spoke just now more deeply than I — than I — 
 
 Nora. Is it making love to me you are.'' 
 
 Broadbent (scared and much upset). On my word 
 I believe I am. Miss Reilly. If you say that to me 
 again I shant answer for myself: all the harps of Ire- 
 land are in your voice. (She laughs at him. He sud- 
 denly loses his head and seises her arms, to her great 
 indignation.) Stop laughing: do you hear? I am in 
 earnest — in English earnest. "When I say a thing like 
 that to a woman, I mean it. (Releasing her and trying 
 to recover his ordinary manner in spite of his bewilder- 
 ing emotion.) I beg your pardon. 
 
 Nora. How dare you touch me? 
 
 Broadbent. There are not many things I would not 
 dare for you. That does not sound right perhaps ; but 
 I really — (he stops and passes his hand over his fore- 
 head, rather lost). 
 
 Nora. I think you ought to be ashamed. I think if 
 you were a gentleman, and me alone with you in this 
 place at night, you would die rather than do such a 
 thing. 
 
 Broadbent. You mean that it's an act of treachery 
 to Larry.'' 
 
 Nora. Deed I dont. What has Larry to do with it? 
 It's an act of disrespect and rudeness to me: it shews 
 
Act II John Bulls Other Island 51 
 
 M'hat j'ou take me for. You can go your way now; and 
 I'll go mine. Goodnight, Mr. Broadbent. 
 
 Broadbent. No, please. Miss Reilly. One moment. 
 Listen to me. I'm serious: I'm desperately serious. 
 Tell me that I'm interfering with Larry; and I'll go 
 straight from this spot back to London and never see 
 you again. Thats on my honor: I will. Am I inter- 
 fering with him.^ 
 
 Nora (answering in spite of herself in a sudden 
 spring of bitterness). I should think you ought to know 
 better than me whether youre interfering with him. 
 Youve seen him oftener than I have. You know him 
 better than I do, b}' this time. Youve come to me 
 quicker than he has, havnt you? 
 
 Broadbent. I'm bound to tell you, Miss Reilly, that 
 Larry has not arrived in Rosscullen yet. He meant to 
 get here before me; but his car broke down; and he 
 may not arrive until to-morrow. 
 
 Nora (her face lighting up). Is that the truth .^ 
 
 Broadbent. Yes: thats the truth. (She gives a sigh 
 of relief.) Youre glad of that.'' 
 
 Nora (up in arms at once). Glad indeed! Why 
 should I be glad? As weve waited eighteen years for 
 him we can afford to wait a day longer, I should think. 
 
 Broadbent. If you really feel like that about him, 
 there may be a chance for another man yet. Eh? 
 
 Nora (deeply offended)^ I suppose people are dif- 
 ferent in England, Mr. Broadbent; so perhaps you dont 
 mean any harm. In Ireland nobody'd mind what a 
 man'd say in fun, nor take advantage of what a woman 
 might say in answer to it. If a woman couldnt talk 
 to a man for two minutes at their first meeting without 
 being treated the way youre treating me, no decent 
 woman would ever talk to a man at all. 
 
 Broadbent. I dont understand that. I dont admit 
 that. I am sincere; and my intentions are perfectly 
 honorable. I think you will accept the fact that I'm 
 
52 John Bull's Other Island Act II 
 
 a Englisliman as a guarantee that I am not a raan to act 
 hastily or romantically, though I confess that your voice 
 had such an extraordinary effect on me just now when 
 you asked me so quaintly whether I was making love 
 to you — 
 
 Nora {flushing). I never thought — 
 
 BROADnENT (quickly). Of course you didnt. I'm 
 not so stupid as that. But I couldnt bear your laughing 
 at the feeling it gave me. You — (agai7i struggling with 
 a surge of emotion) you dont know what I — (he chokes 
 for a moment and then hhirts out with unnatural steadi- 
 ness) Will you be my wife.'' 
 
 Nora (promptly). Deed I wont. The idea ! (Look- 
 ing at him more carefully.) Arra, come home, 'Mr. 
 Broadbent; and get your senses back again. I think 
 youre not accustomed to potcheen punch in the evening 
 after 3'our tea. 
 
 Broadbent (horrified). Do you mean to say that I 
 — I — I — mv God ! that I appear drunk to you. Miss 
 Reilly.? 
 
 Nora (compassionately). How many tumblers had 
 you .^ 
 
 Broadbent (helplessly). Two. 
 
 Nora. The flavor of the turf prevented you noticing 
 the strength of it. Youd better come home to bed. 
 
 Broadbent (fearfully agitated). But this is such a 
 horrible doubt to put into my mind — to — to — For 
 Heaven's sake. Miss Reilly, am I really drunk.'' 
 
 Nora (soothingly). Youll be able to judge better in 
 the morning. Come on now back with me, an think no 
 more about it. (She takes his arm with motherly solici- 
 tude and urges him gently towards the path.) 
 
 Broadbent (yielding m despair). I must be drunk 
 — frightfully drunk; for j'^our voice drove me out of my 
 senses— (he sttimhles over a stone). No: on my word, 
 on my most sacred word of honor, Miss Reilly, I tripped 
 over that stone. It was an accident; it was indeed. 
 
Act II John Bull's Other Island 53 
 
 Nora. Yes, of course it was. Just take my arm, 
 Mr. Broadbent, while we're goin down the path to the 
 road. Youll be all right then. 
 
 Broadbent (submissively/ taking it). I cant suffi- 
 ciently apologize, Miss Reilly, or express my sense of 
 your kindness when I am in such a disgusting state. 
 How could I be such a bea — (he trips again) damn the 
 heather ! my foot caught in it. 
 
 Nora. Steady now, steady. Come along: come. (He 
 is led down to the road in the character of a convicted 
 drunkard. To him there is something divine in the 
 sympathetic indulgence she substitutes for the angry dis- 
 gust Tvith which one of his own countrywomen tvould 
 resent his supposed condition. And he has no suspicion 
 of the fact, or of her ignorance of it, that ivhen aw 
 Englishman is sentimental he behaves very much as an 
 Irishman does when he is drunk.) 
 
 END OF act II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 Next morning Broadhent and Larry are sitting at the 
 ends of a breakfast table in the middle of a small grass 
 plot before Cornelius Doyle's house. They have finished 
 their meal, and are buried in newspapers. Most of the 
 crockery is croivded upon a large square black tray of 
 japanned metal. The teapot is of brown delft ware. 
 There is no silver; and the butter, on a dinner plate, is 
 en bloc. The background to this breakfast is the 
 house, a small white slated building, accessible by a 
 half -glazed door. A person coming out into the garden 
 by this door would find the table straight in front of 
 him, and a gate leading to the road half rvay down the 
 garden on his right; or, if he turned sharp to his left, 
 he could pass round the end of the house through an 
 unkempt shrubbery. The mutilated remnant of a huge 
 plaster statue, nearly dissolved by the rains of a century, 
 and vaguely resembling a majestic female in Roman 
 draperies, with a wreath in her hand, stands neglected 
 amid the laurels. Such statues, though apparently works 
 of art, grow naturally in Irish gardens. Their germina- 
 tion is a mystery to the oldest inhabitants, to whose 
 means and tastes they are totally foreign. 
 
 There is a rustic bench, much soiled by the birds, and 
 decorticated and split by the weather, near the little 
 gate. At the opposite side, a basket lies unmolested be- 
 cause it might as well be there as anywhere else. Am 
 empty chair at the table was lately occupied by Cor- 
 nelius, who lias finished his breakfast and gone in to the 
 room in rvJiich lie receives rents and keeps his books and 
 cash, known in the household as " the office." This 
 54 
 
xVcT III John Bull's Other Island 55 
 
 chair, like the two occupied by Larry and Broadbent, has 
 a mahogany frame and is upholstered in black horsehair. 
 Larry rises and goes off through the shrubbery with 
 his newspaper. Hodson comes in through the garden 
 gate, disconsolate. Broadbent, who sits facing the gate, 
 augurs the worst from his expression. 
 
 Broadbent. Have you been to the village? 
 
 Hodson. No use, sir. We'll have to get everything 
 from London by parcel post. 
 
 Broadbent. I hope they made you comfortable last 
 night. 
 
 Hodson. I was no worse than you were on that sofa, 
 sir. One expects to rough it here, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. We shall have to look out for some 
 other arrangement. {Cheering up irrepressibly.) Still, 
 it's no end of a joke. How do you like the Irish, 
 Hodson } 
 
 Hodson. Well, sir, theyre all right anywhere but in 
 their own country. Ive known lots of em in England, 
 and generally liked em. But here, sir, I seem simply 
 to hate em. The feeling come over me the moment we 
 landed at Cork, sir. It's no use my pretendin, sir: I 
 cant bear em. My mind rises up agin their ways, some- 
 how: they rub me the wrong way all over. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, their faults are on the surface: at 
 heart they are one of the finest races on earth. (Hodson 
 turns away, without affecting to respond to his enthusi- 
 asm.) By the way, Hodson — 
 
 Hodson {turning). Yes, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Did you notice anything about me last 
 night when I came in with that lady.'' 
 
 Hodson {surprised). No, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Not any — er — ? You may speak 
 frankly. 
 
 Hodson. 1 didut notice nothing, sir. What sort of 
 thing did you mean, sir? 
 
56 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Broadbent. Well — er — er — well, to put it plainly, 
 was I drunk? 
 
 HoDsoN (amazed). No, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Quite sure.'' 
 
 HoDSON. Well, I should a said rather the opposite, 
 sir. Usualh-- when youve been enjoying yourself, youre 
 a bit hearty like. Last night you seemed rather low, if 
 anything. 
 
 Broadbent. I certainly have no headache. Did you 
 try the pottine, Hodson.'' 
 
 HoDSON. I just took a mouthful, sir. It tasted of 
 peat: oh! something horrid, sir. The people here call 
 peat turf. Potcheen and strong porter is what they 
 like, sir. I'm sure I dont know how they can stand it. 
 Give me beer, I say. 
 
 Broadbent. By the way, you told me I couldnt have 
 porridge for breakfast; but Mr. Doyle had some. 
 
 HoDsoN. Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir. They call it 
 stirabout, sir: thats how it was. They know no better, 
 sir. 
 
 Broadbent. All right: I'U have some tomorrow. 
 
 Hodson goes to the house. When he opens the door 
 he finds Nora and Aunt Judy on the threshold. He 
 stands aside to let them pass, with the air of a well 
 trained servant oppressed hy heavy trials. Then he goes 
 in. Broadbent rises. Aunt Judy goes to the table and 
 collects the plates and cups on the tray. Nora goes to 
 the back of the rustic seat and looks out at the gate 
 with the air of a woman accustomed to have nothing to 
 do. I^arry returns from the shrubbery. 
 
 Broadbent. Good morning, Miss Doyle. 
 
 Aunt Judy (thinking it absurdly late in the day for 
 such a salutation). Oh, good morning. (Before moving 
 his plate.) Have you done? 
 
 Broadbent. Quite, thank you. You must excuse us 
 for not waiting for you. The country air tempted us to 
 get up early. 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 57 
 
 Aunt Judy. N d'ye call this airly, God help j'ou? 
 - Larry. Aunt Judy probably breakfasted about half 
 past six. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Whisht, you ! — draggin the parlor 
 chairs out into the gardn n givin Mr. Broadbent his 
 death over his meals out here in the cold air. {To 
 Broadbent.) Why d'ye put up with his foolishness, Mr. 
 Broadbent .'' 
 
 Broadbent. I assure you I like the open air. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah galong! How can you like whats 
 not natural? I hope you slept well. 
 
 Nora. Did anything wake yup with a thump at three 
 o'clock? I thought the house was falling. But then 
 I'm a very light sleeper. 
 
 Larry. I seem to recollect that one of the legs of 
 the sofa in the parlor had a way of coming out rniex- 
 pectedly eighteen years ago. Was that it, Tom? 
 
 Broadbent (hastily). Oh, it doesnt matter: I was 
 not hurt — at least — er — 
 
 Aunt Judy. Oh now what a shame! An I told 
 Patsy Farrll to put a nail in it. 
 
 Broadbent. He did, ]\Iiss Doyle. There was a nail, 
 certainly. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Dear oh dear ! 
 
 An oldish peasant farmer, small, leathery, peat-faced, 
 with a deep voice and a surliness that is meant to be 
 aggressive, and is in effect pathetic — the voice of a man 
 of hard life and many sorrows — comes in at the gate. 
 He is old enough to have perhaps worn a long tailed 
 frieze coat and knee breeches in his time; but now he, 
 is dressed respectably in a black frock coat, tall hat, 
 and pollard colored trousers; and his face is as clean 
 as washing can make it, though that is not saying much, 
 as the habit is recently acquired and not yet congenial. 
 
 The New-comer (at the gate). God save all here! 
 (He comes a little ivay into the garden.) 
 
 Larry (patronizingly, speaking across the garden to 
 
58 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 him). Is that yourself, Matt Haffigan? Do you re- 
 member me? 
 
 Mattiikw {intentionally rude and blunt). No. Who 
 are you? 
 
 Nora. Oh, I'm sure you remember him, Mr. Haffigan. 
 
 Matthew (grudgingli/ admitting it). I suppose he'll 
 be young Larry Doyle that was. 
 
 Larry. Yes. 
 
 Matthew (to Larry). I hear you done well in 
 America. 
 
 Larry. Fairly well. 
 
 Matthew. I suppose you saAv me brother Andy out 
 dhere, 
 
 Larry. No. It's such a big place that looking for a 
 man there is like looking for a needle in a bundle of 
 hay. They tell me lies a great man out there. 
 
 Matthew. So he is, God be j^raised. Wheres your 
 father? 
 
 Aunt Judy, He's inside, in the office, Mr. Haffigan, 
 with Barney Doarn n Father Dempsey. 
 
 Matthew, without wasting further words on the com- 
 pany, goes curtly into the house. 
 
 Larry (staring after him). Is anything wrong with 
 old Matt? 
 
 Nora. No. Hes the same as ever. Why? 
 
 Larry. Hes not the same to me. He used to be very 
 civil to Master Larry: a deal too civil, I used to think. 
 Now hes as surly and stand-off as a bear. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Oh sure hes bought his farm in the 
 Land Purchase. Hes independent now. 
 
 Nora, It's made a great change, Larry. Youd harly 
 know the old tenants now. Youd think it was a liberty 
 to speak t'dhem — some o dliem. (She goes to the table, 
 and helps to take off the cloth, which she and Aunt Judy 
 fold up between them.) 
 
 Aunt Judy. I wonder what he wants to see Corny 
 for. He hasnt been here since he paid tlu^ last of his 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 59 
 
 old rent; and then he as good as threw it in Corny 's 
 face, I thought. 
 
 Larry. No wonder ! Of course they all hated us 
 like the devil. Ugh! {Moodily.) Ive seen them in 
 that office, telling my father what a fine boy I was, and 
 plastering him with compliments, with your honor here 
 and your honor there, when all the time their fingers 
 were itching to be at his throat. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Deedn why should they want to hurt 
 poor Corny .^ It was he that got Matt the lease of his 
 farm, and stood up for him as an industrious decent 
 man. 
 
 Broadbent. Was he industrious? Thats remarkable, 
 you know, in an Irishman. 
 
 Larry. Industrious ! That man's industry used to 
 make me sick, even as a boy. I tell you, an Irish peas- 
 ant's industry is not human: it's worse than the industry 
 of a coral insect. An Englishman has some sense about 
 working: he never does more than he can help — and 
 hard enough to get him to do that without scamping it; 
 but an Irishman will work as if he'd die the moment 
 he stopped. That man Matthew Haffigan and his brother 
 Andy made a farm out of a patch of stones on the hill- 
 side — cleared it and dug it with their own naked hands 
 and bought their first spade out of their first crop of 
 potatoes. Talk of making two blades of wheat grow 
 where one grew before ! those two men made a whole 
 field of wheat grow where not even a furze bush had 
 ever got its head up between the stones. 
 
 Broadbent. That was magnificent, you know. Only 
 a great race is capable of producing such men. 
 
 Larry. Such fools, you mean ! What good was it to 
 them? The moment thej'^d done it, the landlord put a 
 rent of £5 a year on them, and turned them out because 
 they couldnt pay it. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Why couldnt they pay as well as Billy 
 Byrne that took it after them? 
 
60 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Larry {angrily). You know very well that Billy 
 Byrne never paid it. He only offered it to get posses- 
 sion. He never paid it. 
 
 Aunt Judy. That was because Andy Haffigan hurt 
 him with a brick so that he was never the same again. 
 Andy had to run awaj^ to America for it. 
 
 Broadbent {glowing rvith indignation). Who can 
 blame him. Miss Doyle .^ Who can blame him? 
 
 Larry {impatiently). Oh, rubbish! whats the good 
 of the man thats starved out of a farm murdering the 
 man thats starved into it.'' Would you have done such a 
 thing } 
 
 Broadbent. Yes. I — I — I — I — {stammering rvith 
 fury) I should have shot the confoimded landlord, and 
 wrung the neck of the damned agent, and bloAvn the 
 farm up with dynamite, and Dublin Castle along 
 with it. 
 
 Larry. Oh yes: youd have done great things; and a 
 fat lot of good youd have got out of it, too! Thats an 
 Englishman all over ! make bad laws and give away all 
 the land, and then, when your economic incompetence 
 produces its natural and inevitable results, get virtu- 
 ously indignant and kill the people that carry out your 
 laws. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Sure never mind him, Mr, Broadbent. 
 It doesnt matter, anyhow, because theres harly any land- 
 lords left! and therll soon be none at all. 
 
 Larry. On the contrary, therll soon be nothing else; 
 and the Lord help Ireland then ! 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah, youre never satisfied, Larry. {To 
 Nora.) Come on, alanna, an make the paste for the pie. 
 We can leave them to their talk. They dont want us 
 {she takes up the tray and goes into the house). 
 
 Broadbent {rising and gallantly protesting). Oh, 
 Miss Doyle ! Really, really — 
 
 Nora, following Aunt Judy ivith the rolled-up cloth 
 in her hands, holes at him and strikes him dumb. He 
 
Act III Jolin Bull's Other Island 61 
 
 tvatches her unfit she disoppears; then comes to Larry 
 and addresses him with sudden intensity. 
 
 Broadbent. Larry. 
 
 Larry. What is it? 
 
 Broadbent. I got drunk last night, and proposed to 
 Miss Reilly. 
 
 Larry. You hwat.''?? {He screams with laughter 
 in the falsetto Irish register unused for that purpose in 
 England.) 
 
 Broadbent. What are you laughing at? 
 
 Larry {stopping dead). I dont know. Thats the 
 sort of thing an Irishman laughs at. Has she accepted 
 you ? 
 
 Broadbent. I shall never forget that with the chiv- 
 alry of her nation, though I was utterly at her mercy, 
 she refused me. 
 
 Larry. That was extremely improvident of her. 
 {Beginning to reflect.) But look here: when were you 
 drunk? You were sober enough when you came back 
 from the Round Tower with her. 
 
 Broadbent. No, Larry, I was drunk, I am sorry to 
 say. I had two tumblers of punch. She had to lead 
 me home. You must have noticed it. 
 
 Larry. I did not. 
 
 Broadbent, She did. 
 
 Larry. May I ask how long it took you to come to 
 business? You can hardly have kno^vn her for more 
 tlian a couple of hours, 
 
 Broadbent. I am afraid it was hardly a couple of 
 minutes. She was not here when I arrived; and I saw 
 her for the first time at the tower. 
 
 Larry. Well, you area nice infant to be let loose 
 in this country ! Fancy the potcheen going to your head 
 like that! 
 
 Broadbent. Not to my head, I think. I have no 
 headache; and I could speak distinctly. No: potcheen 
 goes to the heart, not to the head. What ought I to do ? 
 
62 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Lakky. Nothing. What need you do? 
 
 Broadbent. There is rather a delicate moral ques- 
 tion involved. The point is^ was I drunk enough not 
 to be morally responsible for my proposal.^ Or was I 
 sober enough to be bound to repeat it now that I am 
 undoubtedh' sober.'' 
 
 Laruy. I should see a little more of her before de- 
 ciding. 
 
 Broadbent. No, no. That would not be right. That 
 would not be fair. I am either vmder a moral obligation 
 or I am not. I wish I knew how drunk I was. 
 
 Larry. Well, you were evidently in a state of blither- 
 ing sentimentality, anyhow. 
 
 Broadbent. That is true, Larry: I admit it. Her 
 voice has a most extraordinary effect on me. That Irish 
 voice ! 
 
 Larry (sympathetically'). Yes, I know. AMien I first 
 went to London I very nearly proposed to walk out with 
 a waitress in an Aerated Bread shop because her White- 
 chapel accent was so distinguished, so quaintly touching, 
 so pretty — 
 
 Broadbent (angrily). Miss Reilly is not a waitress, 
 is she? 
 
 Larry. Oh, come! The waitress was a very nice 
 girl. 
 
 Broadbent. You think every Englishwoman an 
 angel. You reallj' have coarse tastes in that way, Larry. 
 Miss Reilly is one of the finer types : a type rare in 
 England, except perhaps in the best of the aristocracy. 
 
 Larry. Aristocracy be blowed ! Do you know what 
 Nora eats? 
 
 Broadbent. Eats ! what do you mean ? 
 
 Larry. Breakfast: tea and bread-and-butter, with an 
 occasional rasher, and an egg on special occasions: say 
 on her birthday. Dinner in the middle of the day, one 
 course and nothing else. In the evening, tea and bread- 
 and-butter again. You compare her with your English- 
 
Act III John Bull's other Island 63 
 
 women who wolf down from three to five meat meals a 
 day ; and naturally you find her a sylph. The difference 
 is not a difference of type: its the difference between 
 the woman who eats not wisely but too well, and the 
 woman who eats not wisely but too little. 
 
 Broadbent (furious). Larry: you — you — you dis- 
 gust me. You are a damned fool. (He sits down 
 angrily on the rustic seat, which sustains the shock rvith 
 difficulty.) 
 
 Laruy. Steady! stead-eee ! (He laughs and seats 
 himself on the table.) 
 
 Cornelius Doyle, Father Dempsey, Barney Doran, 
 and Matthew Haffigan come from the house. Doran is 
 a stout bodied, short armed, roundheaded, red haired 
 man on the verge of middle age, of sanguine tempera- 
 ment, with an enormous capacity for derisive, obscene, 
 blasphemous, or merely cruel and senseless fun, and a 
 violent and impetuous intolerance of other temperaments 
 and other opinions, all this representing energy and 
 capacity wasted and demoralized by want of sufficient 
 training and social presstire to force it into beneficent 
 activity and build a character with it; for Barney is by 
 no means either stupid or weak. He is recklessly untidy 
 as to his person; but the worst effects of his neglect are 
 mitigated by a powdering of flour and mill dust; and 
 his unbrushed clothes, made of a fashionable tailor's 
 sackcloth, were evidently chosen regardless of expense 
 for the sake of their appearance. 
 
 Matthew Haffigan, ill at ease, coasts the garden shyly 
 on the shrubbery side until he anchors near the basket, 
 where he feels least in the way. The priest comes to 
 the table and slaps Larry on the shoulder. Larry, turn- 
 ing quickly, and recognizing Father Dempsey, alights 
 from the table and shakes the priest's hand warmly. 
 Doran comes down the garden between Father Dempsey 
 and Matt; and Cornelius, on the other side of the table, 
 turns to Broadbent, who rises genially. 
 
64 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Cornelius. I think wc all met las night. 
 
 DoRAN. I hadnt that pleasure. 
 
 Cornelius. To be sure, Barney: I forgot. (To 
 Broadheni, introducing Barney.) Mr. Doran. He owns 
 tliat fine mill you noticed from the car. 
 
 Broadbent {delighted with them all). Most happy, 
 Mr. Doran. Very pleased indeed. 
 
 Doran, not quite sure whether he is being courted or 
 patronised, nods independently. 
 
 Doran. Hows yourself, Larry? 
 
 Larry. Finely, thank you. No need to ask you. 
 (Doran grins; and they shake hands.) 
 
 Cornelius. Give Father Dempsey a chair, Larry. 
 
 Matthew Hafflgan runs to the nearest end of the table 
 and takes the chair from it, placing it near the basket; 
 but Larry has already taken the chair from the other 
 end and placed it in front of the table. Father Dempsey 
 accepts that more central position. 
 
 Cornelius. Sit down, Barney, will you; and you. 
 Mat. 
 
 Doran takes the chair Mat is still offering to the 
 priest; and poor Matthetv, outfaced by the miller, 
 humbly turns the basket upside down and sits on it. 
 Cornelius brings his own breakfast chair from the table 
 and sits down on Father Dempsey's right. Broadbent 
 resumes his seat on the rustic bench. Larry crosses to 
 the bench and is about to sit down beside him when 
 Broadbent holds him off nervously. 
 
 Broadbent. Do you think it will bear two, Larry? 
 
 Larry. Perhaps not. Dont move. I'll stand. (He 
 posts himself behind the bench.) 
 
 They are all now seated, except Larry; and the session 
 assumes a portentous air, as if something important were 
 coming. 
 
 Cornelius. Praps youU explain. Father Dempsey. 
 
 Father Dempsey. No, no: go on, you: the Church 
 has no politics. 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 65 
 
 Cornelius. Were yever thinkin o goin into parlia- 
 ment at all, Larry? 
 
 Larry. Me ! 
 
 Father Dempsey (encouragiyigli/). Yes, you. Hwy 
 not.? 
 
 Larry. I'm afraid my ideas would not be popular 
 enough. 
 
 Cornelius. I dont know that. Do you, Barney? 
 
 Doran. Theres too much blatherumskite in Irish 
 politics: a dale too much, 
 
 Larry. But what about your present member? Is 
 he going to retire? 
 
 Cornelius. No: I dont know that he is. 
 
 Larry (interrogatively). Well? then? 
 
 Matthew (breaking out with surly brtterness). Weve 
 had enough of his foolish talk agen lanlords. Hwat call 
 has he to talk about the Ian, that never was outside of a 
 city office in his life? 
 
 Cornelius. We're tired of him. He doesnt know 
 hwere to stop. Every man cant own land; and some 
 men must own it to employ them. It was all very well 
 when solid men like Doran and me and Mat were 
 kep from ownin land. But hwat man in his senses 
 ever wanted to give land to Patsy Farrll an dhe like 
 o him? 
 
 Broadbent. But surely Irish landlordism was ac- 
 countable for what Mr. Haffigan suffered. 
 
 Matthew. Never mind hwat I suffered. I know 
 what I suffered adhout you tellin me. But did I ever 
 ask for more dhan the farm I made wid me own bans: 
 tell me that. Corny Doyle, and you that knoAvs. Was I 
 fit for the responsibility or was I not? (Snarling angrily 
 at Cornelius.) Am I to be compared to Patsy Farrll, 
 that doesnt harly know his right hand from his left? 
 What did he ever suffer, I'd like to know? 
 
 Cornelius. Thats just what I say. I wasnt com- 
 parin you to your disadvantage. 
 
66 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Matthew (implacable). Then hwat did you mane 
 be talkin about givin him Ian? 
 
 DoRAN. Aisy, Mat, aisy. Youre like a bear with a 
 sore back. 
 
 Matthew {trembling nnth rage). An who are you, 
 to offer to taitch me manners? 
 
 Father Dempsey {admonitorily) . Now, now, now. 
 Mat! none o dhat. How often have I told you youre 
 too ready to take offence where none is meant? You 
 dont understand: Corny Doyle is saying just what yju 
 want to have said. {To Cornelius.) Go on, Mr. Doyle; 
 and never mind him. 
 
 Matthew (rising). Well, if me Ian is to be given 
 to Patsy and his like, I'm goin oura dhis. I — 
 
 DoRAN (rvith violent impatience). Arra who's goin 
 to give your Ian to Patsy, yowl fool ye? 
 
 Father Dempsey. Aisy, Barney, aisy. (Sternly, to 
 Mat.) I told you, Matthew HafEgan, that Corny Doyle 
 was sayin nothin against you. I'm sorry your priest's 
 word is not good enough for you. I'll go, sooner than 
 stay to make you commit a sin against the Church. 
 Good morning, gentlemen. (He rises. They all rise, 
 except Broadbent.) 
 
 Doran (to Mat). There! Sarve you dam well right, 
 you cantankerous oul noodle. 
 
 Matthew (appalled). Dont say dhat, Fadher Demp- 
 sey. I never had a thought agen you or the Holy 
 Church. I know I'm a bit hasty when I think about 
 the Ian. I ax your pardon for it. 
 
 Father Dempsey (resuming his seat rvith dignified 
 reserve). Very well: I'll overlook it this time. (He 
 sits dorvn. The others sit down, except Matthew. Father 
 Dempsey, about to ask Corny to proceed, remembers 
 Matthew and turns to him, giving him just a crumb of 
 graciousness.) Sit down. Mat. (Matthew, crushed, sits 
 down iji disgrace, and is silent, his eyes shifting pile- 
 ously from one speaker to another in an intensely mis- 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 67 
 
 trustful effort to understand them.) Go on^ Mr. Doyle. 
 We can make allowances. Go on. 
 
 Cornelius. Well, you see how it is, Larry. Round 
 about here, weve got the land at last; and we want no 
 more Government meddlin. We want a new class o man 
 in parliament : one dhat knows dhat the farmer's the real 
 backbone o the country, n doesnt care a snap of his 
 fingers for the shoutn o the riff-raff in the towns, or 
 for the foolishness of the laborers. 
 
 DoRAN. Aye; an dhat can afford to live in London 
 and pay his own way until Home Rule comes, instead 
 o wantin subscriptions and the like. 
 
 Father Dempsey. Yes: thats a good point, Barney. 
 When too much money goes to politics, it's the Church 
 that has to starve for it. A member of parliament ought 
 to be a help to the Cliurcli instead of a burden on it. 
 
 Larry. Heres a chance for you, Tom. What do you 
 say? 
 
 Broadbent (deprecatory, but important and S7niling). 
 Oh, I have no claim whatever to the seat. Besides, I'm 
 a Saxon. 
 
 Dor an. A hwat? 
 
 Broadbent. A Saxon. An Englishman. 
 
 DoRAN. An Englishman. Bedad I never heard it 
 called dhat before. 
 
 Matthew (cunningly). If I might make so bould, 
 Fadher, I wouldnt say but an English Prodestn 
 mightnt have a more indepindent mind about the Ian, 
 an be less afeerd to spake out about it, dhan an Irish 
 Catholic. 
 
 Cornelius. But sure Larry's as good as English: 
 arnt you, Larry.'' 
 
 Larry. You may put me out of your head, father, 
 once for all. 
 
 Cornelius. Arra why.'' 
 
 Larry. I have strong opinions which wouldnt suit 
 you. 
 
68 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Dor AN (rallying him blatantly). Is it still Lam' tlie 
 bould Fenian? 
 
 Larry. No: the bold Fenian is now an older and 
 possibly foolisher man. 
 
 Cornelius. Hwat does it matter to us hwat your 
 opinions are? You know that your father's bought his 
 farm, just the same as Mat here n Barney's mill. All 
 we ask now is to be let alone. Youve nothin against 
 that, have you? 
 
 Larry. Certainly I have. I dont believe in letting 
 anybody or anything alone. 
 
 Cornelius (losing his temper). Arra what d'ye 
 mean, you young fool? Here Ive got you the offer of 
 a good seat in parliament; n you think yourself mighty 
 smart to stand there and talk foolishness to me. Will 
 you take it or leave it? 
 
 Larry. Very well: I'll take it with pleasure if youll 
 give it to me. 
 
 Cornelius (subsiding sulkily). Well, why couldnt 
 you say so at once? It's a good job youve made up 
 your mind at last. 
 
 DoRAN (suspiciously). Stop a bit, stop a bit. 
 
 Matthew (writhing between his dissatisfaction and 
 his fear of the priest). Its not because lies your son 
 that lies to get the sate. Fadher Dempsey : wouldnt you 
 think well to ask him what he manes about the Ian? 
 
 Larry (coining down on Mat promptly). I'll tell 
 you, ]\Iat. I always thought it was a stupid, lazy, good- 
 for-nothing sort of thing to leave the land in the hands 
 of the old landlords without calling them to a strict 
 account for the use they made of it, and the condition 
 of the people on it. I could see for myself that they 
 thought of nothing but what they could get out of it to 
 spend in England; and that they mortgaged and mort- 
 gaged until hardly one of them owned his own property 
 or could have afforded to keep it up decently if he'd 
 wanted to. But I tell you plump and plain. Mat, that 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 69 
 
 if anybody thinks things will be any better now that 
 the land is handed over to a lot of little men like you, 
 without calling you to account either, thej^re mistaken. 
 
 Matthew {sullenly). What call have j^ou to look 
 down on me? I suppose you think youre everybody be- 
 cause your father was a land agent. 
 
 Larry. What call have you to look down on Patsy 
 Farrell.^ I suppose you think youre everybody because 
 you own a few fields. 
 
 Matthew. W\as Patsy Farrll ever ill used as I was 
 ill used? tell me dhat. 
 
 Larry. He will be, if ever he gets into your power 
 as you were in the power of your old landlord. Do you 
 think, because youre poor and ignorant and half-crazy 
 with toiling and moiling morning noon and night, that 
 youU be any less greedy and oppressive to them that 
 have no land at all than old Nick Lestrange, who was 
 an educated travelled gentleman that would not have 
 been tempted as hard by a hundred pounds as youd be 
 by five shillings? Nick was too high above Patsy Far- 
 rell to be jealous of him; but you, that are only one 
 little step above him, would die sooner than let him 
 come up that step; and well you know it. 
 
 Matthew (black with rage, in a low growl). Lemme 
 oura this. (^He tries to rise; but Doran catches his coat 
 and drags him down again.) I'm goin, I say. {Raising 
 his voice.) Leggo me coat, Barney Doran. 
 
 Doran. Sit down, yowl omadhaun, you. (Whisper- 
 ing.) Dont you want to stay an vote against him? 
 
 Father Dempsey (holding up his finger). Mat! 
 (Mat subsides.) Now, now, now! come, come! Hwats 
 all dhis about Patsy Farrll? Hwy need you fall out 
 about him? 
 
 Larry. Because it was by using Patsy's poverty to 
 undersell England in the markets of the world that we 
 drove England to ruin Ireland. And she'll ruin us 
 again the moment we lift our heads from the dust if 
 
70 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 we trade in clieai^ labor; and serve us right too! If I 
 get into parliament, I'll try to get an Act to prevent any 
 of you from giving Patsy less than a pound a week 
 {they all start, hardly able to believe their ears) or 
 working him harder than youd work a horse that cost 
 you fifty guineas. 
 
 DoRAN. Hwat!!! 
 
 Cornelius {aghast). A pound a — God save us! the 
 boy's mad. 
 
 Matthew, feeling that here is something quite beyond 
 his powers, turns openmouthed to the priest, as if look- 
 ing for nothing less than the summary excommunication 
 of Larry. 
 
 Larry. How is the man to marry and live a decent 
 life on less? 
 
 Father Dempsey. Islan alive, hwere have you been 
 living all these years ? and hwat have you been dreaming 
 of.'' Why, some o dhese honest men here cant make 
 that much out o the land for themselves, much less give 
 it to a laborer. 
 
 Larry {now thoroughly roused). Then let them 
 make room for those who can. Is Ireland never to have 
 a chance? First she was given to the rich; and now 
 that they have gorged on her flesh, her bones are to be 
 flimg to the poor, that can do nothing but suck the mar- 
 row out of her. If we cant have men of honor own the 
 land, lets have men of ability. If we cant have men 
 with ability, let us at least have men with capital. Any- 
 body's better than Mat, who has neither honor, nor 
 ability, nor capital, nor anything but mere brute labor 
 
 im 
 
 and greed in him, Heaven help h 
 
 Dor AN. Well, we're not all foostherin' oul doddher- 
 ers like Mat. {Pleasantly, to the subject of this descrip- 
 tion.) Are we. Mat? 
 
 Larry. For modern industrial purposes you might 
 just as well be, Barney. Youre all children: the big 
 world that I belong to has gone past you and left you. 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 71 
 
 Anyhow, we Irishmen were never made to be farmers; 
 and we'll never do any good at it. We're like the Jews : 
 the Almighty gave us brains, and bid us farm them, 
 and leave the clay and the worms alone. 
 
 Father Dempsey (with gentle irony). Oh! is it 
 Jews you want to make of us? I must catechize you a 
 bit meself, I think. The next thing youU be proposing 
 is to repeal the disestablishment of the so-called Irish 
 Church. 
 
 Larry. Yes: why not? (Sensation.) 
 
 Matthew (rancorously) . He's a turncoat. 
 
 Larry. St. Peter, the rock on which our Church was 
 built, was crucified head downwards for being a turn- 
 coat. 
 
 Father Dempsey (with a quiet authoritative dignity 
 which checks Doran, who is on the point of breaking 
 out). Thats true. You hold your tongue as befits your 
 ignorance, Matthew Haffigan; and trust your priest to 
 deal with this young man. Now, Larry Doyle, whatever 
 the blessed St Peter was crucified for, it was not for 
 being a Prodestan. Are you one? 
 
 Larry. No. I am a Catholic intelligent enough to 
 see that the Protestants are never more dangerous to us 
 than when they are free from all alliances with the 
 State. The so-called Irish Church is stronger today 
 than ever it was. 
 
 jMatthew. Fadher Dempsey: will you tell him dhat 
 me mother's ant was shot and kilt dead in the sthreet o 
 Rosscullen be a soljer in the tithe war? (Frantically.) 
 He wants to put the tithes on us again. He — 
 
 Larry (interrupting him with overhearing contempt). 
 Put the tithes on you again ! Did the tithes ever come 
 off you? Was your land any dearer when you paid 
 the tithe to the parson than it was when you paid the 
 same money to Nick Lestrange as rent, and he handed 
 it over to the Church Sustentation Fund? Will you 
 always be duped by Acts of Parliament that change 
 
72 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 nothing but the necktie of the man that picks your 
 pocket? I'll tell you what I'd do with you, Mat Haffi- 
 gan: I'd make you pay tithes to your own Church. I 
 want the Catholic Church established in Ireland: thats 
 what I want. Do you think that I, brought up to regard 
 myself as the son of a great and holy Church, can 
 bear to see her begging her bread from the ignorance 
 and superstition of men like you? I would have her as 
 high above worldly want as I would have her above 
 worldly pride or ambition. Aye; and I would have Ire- 
 land compete with Rome itself for the chair of St. Peter 
 and the citadel of the Church; for Rome, in spite of 
 all the blood of the martyrs, is pagan at heart to this 
 day, while in Ireland the people is the Church and the 
 Church the people. 
 
 Father Dempsey (startled, but not at all displeased). 
 Whisht, man! youre worse than mad Pether Keegan 
 himself. 
 
 Broadbent (who has listened in the greatest aston- 
 ishment). You amaze me, Larry. Who would have 
 thought of your coming out like this! (Solemnly.) 
 But much as I appreciate your really brilliant eloquence, 
 I implore you not to desert the great Liberal principle 
 of Disestablishment. 
 
 Larry. I am not a Liberal: Heaven forbid! A dis- 
 established Church is the worst tyranny a nation can 
 groan under. 
 
 Broadbent (making a wry face). Dont be para- 
 doxical, Larry. It really gives me a pain in my stomach. 
 
 Larry. YouU soon find out the truth of it here. 
 Look at Father Dempsey ! he is disestablished : he has 
 nothing to hope or fear from the State; and the result 
 is that hes the most powerful man in Rosscullen. The 
 member for Rosscullen would shake in his shoes if 
 Father Dempsey looked crooked at him. (Father Demp- 
 sey smiles, by no means averse to this acknowledgment 
 of his authority.) Look at yourself! you would defy 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 73 
 
 the established Archbishop of Canterbury ten times a 
 day; but catch you daring to say a word that would 
 shock a Nonconformist! not you. The Conservative 
 party today is the only one thats not priestrid- 
 den — excuse the expression, Father {Father Dempsey 
 nods tolerantly) — because its the only one that has 
 established its Church and can prevent a clergyman 
 becoming a bishop if he's not a Statesman as well as a 
 Churchman. 
 
 He stops. They stare at him dumbfounded, and leave 
 it to the priest to answer him. 
 
 Father Dempsey {judicially). Young man: youll 
 not be the member for Rosscullen; but theres more in 
 your head than the comb will take out. 
 
 Larry. I'm sorry to disappoint you, father; but I 
 told you it would be no use. And now I think the 
 candidate had better retire and leave you to discuss his 
 successor. {He takes a newspaper from the table and 
 goes arvay through the shrubbery amid dead silence, all 
 turning to watch him until he passes out of sight round 
 the corner of the house.) 
 
 DoRAN {dazed). Hwat sort of a fella is he at all at 
 all.? 
 
 Father Dempsey. He's a clever lad: theres the 
 making of a man in him yet. 
 
 Matthew {in consternation). D'ye mane to say dhat 
 yll put him into parliament to bring back Nick Le- 
 sthrange on me, and to put tithes on me, and to rob 
 me for the like o Patsy Farrll, because hes Corny Doyle's 
 only son.'' 
 
 Doran {brutally). Arra hould your whisht: who's 
 goin to send him into parliament? Maybe youd like us 
 to send you dhere to thrate them to a little o your 
 anxiety about dhat dirty little podato patch o yours. 
 
 Matthew {plaintively). Am I to be towld dhis 
 afther all me sufFerins.? 
 
 DoRAN, Och, I'm tired o your sufFerins. Weve been 
 
74 John Bull's Other Island Act ni 
 
 hearin nothin else ever since we -was childher but suf- 
 ferins. Hwen it wasnt yours it was somebody else's; 
 and hwen it was nobody else's it was ould Irelan's. How 
 the divil are we to live on wan anodher's sufFerins? 
 
 Father Dempsey. Thats a thrue word, Barney 
 Doarn; only your tongue's a little too familiar wi dhe 
 divil. {To Mat.) If youd think a little more o the 
 sufferins of the blessed saints, Mat, an a little less o 
 your own, youd find the way shorter from your farm 
 to heaven. {Mat is about to reply.) Dhere now! dhats 
 enough! we know you mean well; an I'm not angry with 
 you. 
 
 Broadbext. Surely, Mr. Haffigan, you can see the 
 simple explanation of all this. My friend Larry Doyle 
 is a most brilliant speaker; but he's a Tory: an ingrained 
 old-fashioned Tory. 
 
 Cornelius. N how d'ye make dhat out, if I might 
 ask you, Mr. Broadbent? 
 
 Broadbent {collecting himself for a political deliver- 
 ance). Well, you know, Mr. Doyle, theres a strong 
 dash of Toryism in the Irish character. Larry himself 
 says that the great Duke of Wellington was the most 
 tj'pical Irishman that ever lived. Of course thats an 
 absurd paradox; but still theres a great deal of truth 
 in it. Now I am a Liberal. You know the great prin- 
 ciples of the Liberal party. Peace — 
 
 Father Dempsey {piously). Hear! hear! 
 
 Broadbent {encouraged). Thank you. Retrench- 
 ment — {he rvaits for further applause). 
 
 Matthew {timidly). What might rethrenchment 
 mane now? 
 
 Broadbent. It means an immense reduction in the 
 burden of the rates and taxes. 
 
 Matthew {respectfully approving). Dhats right. 
 Dhats right, sir. 
 
 Broadbent {perfunctorily). And, of course. Re- 
 form. 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 75 
 
 Cornelius 1 
 
 Father Dempsey |- {conventionally) . Of course, 
 
 DORAN j 
 
 Matthew {still suspicious). Hwat does Reform 
 mane^ sir? Does it mane altlierin annythin dhats as it 
 is now? 
 
 Broadbent (impressively). It means, Mr. Haffigan, 
 maintaining those reforms which have already been con- 
 ferred on humanity by the Liberal Party, and trusting 
 for future developments to the free activity of a free 
 people on the basis of those reforms. 
 
 DoRAN. Dhats right. No more meddlin. We're all 
 right now: all we want is to be let alone. 
 
 Cornelius. Hwat about Home Rule? 
 
 Broadbent (rising so as to address them more 
 imposingly). I really cannot tell you what I feel 
 about Home Rule without using the language of hyper- 
 bole. 
 
 DoRAN. Savin Fadher Dempsey's presence, eh? 
 
 Broadbent (not understanding him). Quite so — er 
 — oh yes. All I can say is that as an Englishman I 
 blush for the Union. It is the blackest stain on our 
 national history. I look forward to the time — and it 
 cannot be far distant, gentlemen, because Humanity is 
 looking forward to it too, and insisting on it with no 
 uncertain voice — I look forward to the time when an 
 Irish legislature shall arise once more on the emerald 
 pasture of College Greenj and the Union Jack— that 
 detestable symbol of a decadent Imperialism — be re- 
 placed by a flag as green as the island over which it 
 waves — a flag on which we shall ask for England only 
 a modest quartering in memory of our great party and 
 of the immortal name of our grand old leader. 
 
 Doran (enthusiastically). Dhats the style, begob ! 
 (He sinites his knee, and ivinhs at Mat.) 
 
 Matthew. More power to you, sir ! 
 
 Broadbent. I shall leave you now, gentlemen, to 
 
76 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 your deliberations. I should like to have enlarged on 
 the services rendered by the Liberal Party to the re- 
 ligious faith of the great majority of the people of 
 Ireland; but I shall content myself with saying that in 
 my opinion you should choose no representative who — 
 no matter what his personal creed may be — is not an 
 ardent supporter of freedom of conscience, and is not 
 prepared to prove it by contributions, as lavish as his 
 means will allow, to the great and beneficent work which 
 you, Father Dempsey (Father Dempsey hows), are do- 
 ing for the people of Rosscullen. Xor should the lighter, 
 but still most important question of the sports of the 
 people be forgotten. The local cricket club — 
 
 Cornelius. The hwat! 
 
 DoRAX, Nobody plays batn ball here, if dhats what 
 you mean. 
 
 Broadbent. Well, let us say quoits. I saw two men, 
 I think, last night — but after all, these are questions of 
 detail. The main thing is that your candidate, who- 
 ever he may be, shall be a man of some means, able to 
 help the locality instead of burdening it. And if he 
 were a countryman of my own, the moral effect on the 
 House of Commons would be immense ! tremendous ! 
 Pardon my saying these few words: nobody feels 
 their impertinence more than I do. Good morning, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 He turns impressively to the gate, and trots away, 
 congratulating himself, with a little twist of his head 
 and cock of his eye, on having done a good stroke of 
 political business. 
 
 Haffigan (awestruck). Good morning, sir. 
 
 The Rest. Good morning. (They watch him 
 vacantly until he is out of earshot.) 
 
 Cornelius. Hwat d'ye think. Father Dempsey? 
 
 Father Dempsey (indulgently). Well, he hasnt 
 much sense, God help him; but for the matter o that, 
 neither has our present member. 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 77 
 
 DoRAN. Arra musha hes good enough for parlia- 
 ment: what is there to do tliere but gas a bit, an chivy 
 the Government, an vote wi dh Irish party? 
 
 Cornelius (rujiiinatively). He's the queerest Eng- 
 lishman I ever met. When he opened the paper dhis 
 mornin the first thing he saw was that an English ex- 
 pedition had been bet in a battle in Inja somewhere; 
 an he was as pleased as Punch ! Larry told him that 
 if he'd been alive when the news o Waterloo came, he'd 
 a died o grief over it. Bedad I dont think hes quite 
 right in his head. 
 
 DoRAN. Divil a matther if he has plenty o money. 
 He'll do for us right enough. 
 
 Matthew {deeply impressed by Broadbent, and un- 
 able to understand their levity concerning him). Did 
 you mind what he said about rethrenchment .'^ That was 
 very good, I thought. 
 
 Father Dempsey. You might find out from Larry, 
 Corny, what his means are. God forgive us all ! it's 
 poor Avork spoiling the Egyptians, though we have good 
 warrant for it; so I'd like to know how much spoil there 
 is before I commit meself. {He rises. They all rise 
 respectfully.) 
 
 Cornelius {ruefully). I'd set me mind on Larry 
 himself for the seat; but I suppose it cant be helped. 
 
 Father Dempsey {consoling him). Well, the boy's 
 young yet; an he has a head on him. Goodbye, all. 
 {He goes out through the gate.) 
 
 DoRAN. I must be goin, too. {He directs Cornelius's 
 attention to what is passing in the road.) Look at me 
 bould Englishman shakin bans wid Fadher Dempsey for 
 all the world like a candidate on election day. And look 
 at Fadher Dempsey givin him a squeeze an a wink as 
 much as to say Its all right, me boy. You watch him 
 shakin bans with me too: hes waitn for me. I'll tell 
 him hes as good as elected. {He goes, chuckling mis- 
 chievously.) 
 
78 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 Cornelius. Come in with me. Mat. I think I'll sell 
 you the pig after all. Come in an wet the bargain. 
 
 Matthew {instantly dropping into the old whine of 
 the tenant). I'm afeerd I cant afford the price, sir. 
 {He follows Cornelius into the house.) 
 
 Larry, newspaper still in hand, comes back through 
 the shrubbery. Broadbent returns through the gate. 
 
 Larry. Well? What has happened. 
 
 Broadbent {hugely self-satisfied). I think Ive done 
 the trick this time. I just gave them a bit of straight 
 talk; and it went home. They were greatly impressed: 
 everyone of those men believes in me and will vote for 
 me when the question of selecting a candidate comes up. 
 After all, whatever you say, Larry, they like an Eng- 
 lishman. They feel they can trust him, I suppose. 
 
 Larry. Oh! theyve transferred the honor to you, 
 have they.'' 
 
 Broadbent {complacently). Well, it was a pretty 
 obvious move, I should think. You know, these fellows 
 have plenty of shrewdness in spite of their Irish oddity. 
 {Hodson comes from the house. Larry sits in Doran's 
 chair and reads.) Oh, by the way, Hodson — 
 
 HoDSON {coming between Broadbent and Larry). 
 Yes, sir.'' 
 
 Broadbent. I want you to be rather particular as to 
 how you treat the people here. 
 
 Hodson. I havnt treated any of em yet, sir. If I 
 was to accept all the treats they offer me I shouldnt be 
 able to stand at this present moment, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh well, dont be too stand-offish, you 
 know, Hodson. I should like you to be popular. If it 
 costs anything I'll make it up to you. It docsnt matter 
 if you get a bit upset at first: they 11 like you all the 
 better for it. 
 
 Hodson. I'm sure youre very kind, sir; but it dont 
 seem to matter to me whether they like me or not. I'm 
 not going to stand for parliament here, sir. 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 79 
 
 Broadbent. Well, I am. Now do you understand? 
 
 HoDSON (rvaking up at once). Oh, I beg your par- 
 don, sir, I'm sure. I imderstand, sir. 
 
 Cornelius (appearing at the house door with Mat). 
 Patsy '11 drive the pig over this evenin, Mat. Goodbye. 
 (He goes back into the house. Mat makes for the gate. 
 Broadbent stops him. Hodson, pained by the derelict 
 basket, picks it up and carries it away behind the 
 house.) 
 
 Broadbent (beaming candidatorially). I must thank 
 you very particularly, Mr. Haffigan, for your support 
 this morning. I value it because I know that the real 
 heart of a nation is the class you represent, the yeo- 
 manry. 
 
 Matthew (aghast). The yeomanry !! ! 
 
 Larry (looking up from his paper). Take care, Tom! 
 In Rosscullen a yeoman means a sort of Orange Bashi- 
 Bazouk. In England, Mat, they call a freehold farmer 
 a yeoman. 
 
 Matthew (huffily). I dont need to be insthructed 
 be you, Larry Doyle. Some people think no one knows 
 anythin but dhemselves. (To Broadbent, deferentially.) 
 Of course I know a gentleman like you would not com- 
 pare me to the yeomanry. JNIe own granfather was 
 flogged in the sthreets of Athenmullet be them when 
 they put a gim in the thatch of his house an then went 
 and found it there, bad cess to them ! 
 
 Broadbent (with sympathetic interest). Then you 
 are not the first martyr of your family, IVIr. HafEgan .'' 
 
 Matthew. They turned me out o the farm I made 
 out of the stones o Little Rosscullen hill wid me own 
 bans. 
 
 Broadbent. I have heard about it; and my blood 
 still boils at the thought. (Calling.) Hodson — 
 
 HoDsoN (behind the corner of the house). Yes, sir. 
 (He hurries forward.) 
 
 Broadbent. Hodson: this gentleman's sufferings 
 
80 John Bull's Other Island Act III 
 
 should make every Englishman think. It is want of 
 thought rather than want of heart that allows such 
 iniquities to disgrace society. 
 
 HoDSON (prosaically). Yes sir. 
 
 Matthew. Well, I'll be go in. Good morning to you 
 kindly, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. You have some distance to go, Mr. 
 Haffigan : will you allow me to drive you home ? 
 
 Matthew. Oh sure it'd be throublin your honor. 
 
 Broadbent. I insist: it will give me the greatest 
 pleasure, I assure you. ISIy car is in the stable: I can 
 get it round in five minutes. 
 
 Matthew. Well, sir, if you wouldnt mind, we could 
 bring the pig Ive just bought from Corny — 
 
 Broadbent (with enthusiasm). Certainly, Mr. Haffi- 
 gan: it will be quite delightful to drive with a pig in 
 the car: I shall feel quite like an Irishman. Hodson: 
 stay with Mr. Haffigan; and give him a hand with the 
 pig if necessary. Come, Larry; and help me. (He 
 rushes away through the shrubbery.) 
 
 Larry (throwing the paper ill-humoredly on the 
 chair). Look here, Tom! here, I say! confound it! (he 
 runs after him). 
 
 Matthew (glowering disdainfully at Hodson, and sit- 
 ting down on Cornelius's chair as an act of social self- 
 assertion). N are you the valley.'' 
 
 HoDsoN. The valley.'' Oh, I follow you: yes: I'm 
 Mr. Broadbent's valet. 
 
 Matthew. Ye have an aisy time of it: you look 
 purty sleek. (With suppressed ferocity.) Look at m e ! 
 Do I look sleek .^ 
 
 HoDsoN (sadly). I wish I ad your ealth: you look 
 as hard as nails. I suffer from an excess of uric 
 acid. 
 
 Matthew. Musha what sort o disease is zhouragas- 
 sid? Didjever suffer from injustice and starvation? 
 Dhats the Irish disease. Its aisy for you to talk o suf- 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 81 
 
 ferin^ an you livin on the fat o the land wid money 
 wrung from us. 
 
 HoDsoN (coolly). Wots wrong with you, old chap? 
 Has ennybody been doin ennything to you? 
 
 Matthew. Anj-thin timme ! Didnt your English 
 masther say that the blood biled in him to hear the way 
 they put a rint on me for the farm I made wid me 
 own hans, and turned me out of it to give it to Billy 
 Byrne ? 
 
 HoDsoN. Ow, Tom Broadbent's blood boils pretty 
 easy over ennything that appens out of his own country. 
 Dont you be taken in by my ole man, Paddy. 
 
 Matthew (indignantly). Paddy yourself ! How dar 
 you call me Paddy? 
 
 HoDsoN (unmoved). You just keep your hair on and 
 listen to me. You Irish people are too well off: thats 
 whats the matter with you. (With sudden passion.) 
 You talk of your rotten little farm because you made 
 it by chuckin a few stownes dahn a hill! Well, wot 
 price my grenfa^vther, I should like to know, that fitted 
 up a fuss clawss shop and built up a fuss clawss drapery 
 business in London by sixty years work, and then was 
 chucked aht of it on is ed at the end of is lease withaht 
 a penny for his goodwill. You talk of evictions ! you 
 that cawnt be moved imtil youve run up eighteen months 
 rent. I once ran up four weeks in Lambeth when I 
 was aht of a job in winter. They took the door off 
 its inges and the winder aht of its sashes on me, and 
 gave my wife pnoomownia. I'm a widower now. (Be- 
 tween his teeth.) Gawd! when I think of the things we 
 Englishmen av to put up with, and hear you Irish hahlin 
 abaht your silly little grievances, and see the way you 
 make it worse for us by the rotten wages youll come 
 over and take and the rotten places youll sleep in, I 
 jast feel that I could take the oul bloomin British awland 
 and make you a present of it, jast to let you find out 
 wot real ardship's like. 
 
82 John Bull's Other Island Act m 
 
 Matthew (starting up, more in scandalised incre- 
 dulity than in anger). D'ye have the face to set up Eng- 
 land agen Ireland for injustices an wrongs an disthress 
 an sufFerin? 
 
 HoDSON (with intense disgust and contempt, but with 
 Cockney coolness). Ow^ chuck it, Paddy. Cheese it. 
 You danno wot ardship is over ere: all you know is ah 
 to ahl abaht it. You take the biscuit at that, you do. 
 I'm a Owm Ruler, I am. Do you know why? 
 
 Matthew (equally contemptuous). D'ye know, your- 
 self.? 
 
 HoDsoN, Yes I do. It's because I want a little at- 
 tention paid to my own country; and thetll never be as 
 long as your chaps are ollerin at Wesminister as if now- 
 body mettered but your own bloomin selves. Send em 
 back to hell or C'naught, as good oul English Cromwell 
 said. I'm jast sick of Ireland. Let it gow. Cut the 
 cable. Make it a present to Germany to keep the oul 
 Kyzer busy for a while; and give poor owld England a 
 chawnce: thets wot I say. 
 
 Matthew (full of scorn for a man so ignorant as to 
 he unable to pronounce the word Connaught, which prac- 
 tically rhymes with bonnet in Ireland, though in Hod- 
 son's dialect it rhymes with untaught). Take care we 
 dont cut the cable ourselves some day, bad scran to you ! 
 An tell me dhis: have yanny Coercion Acs in England? 
 Have yanny removables? Have you Dublin Castle to 
 suppress every newspaper dhat takes the part o your 
 own counthry? 
 
 HoDsoN. We can beyave ahrselves withaht sich 
 things. 
 
 Matthew. Bedad youre right. It'd only be waste 
 o time to muzzle a sheep. Here! where's me pig? God 
 forgimme for talkin to a poor ignorant craj^cher like 
 you. 
 
 HoDSON (grinning with good-humored malice, too 
 convinced of his own superiority to feel his withers 
 
Act m John Bull's Other Island 83 
 
 wrung). Your pigll ave a rare doin in that car, Paddy. 
 Forty miles an ahr dahn that rocky lane will strike it 
 pretty pink, you bet. 
 
 Matthew (scornfully). Hwy cant you tell a raison- 
 able lie when youre about it? What horse can go forty 
 mile an hour? 
 
 HoDsoN. Orse ! Wy, you silly oul rotter, it's not a 
 orse: it's a mowtor. Do you suppose Tom Broadbent 
 would gow ofF himself to arness a orse? 
 
 Matthew (m consternation). Holy Moses! dont tell 
 me its the ingine he wants to take me on. 
 
 HoDsoN. Wot else? 
 
 Matthew. Your sowl to Morris Kelly! why didnt 
 you tell me that before? The divil an ingine he'll get 
 me on this day. {His ear catches an approaching teuf- 
 teuf.) Oh murdher! its comin afther me: I hear the 
 puff-pufF of it. (He runs away through the gate, much 
 to Hodson's amusement. The noise of the motor ceases; 
 and Hodson, anticipating Broadbent's return, throws off 
 the politician and recomposes himself as a valet. Broad- 
 bent and Larry come through the shrubbery. Hodson 
 moves aside to the gate.) 
 
 Broadbent. Where is Mr. Haffigan? Has he gone 
 for the pig? 
 
 Hodson. Bolted, sir? Afraid of the motor, sir. 
 
 Broadbent (^much disappointed). Oh, thats very 
 tiresome. Did he leave any message? 
 
 Hodson. He was in too great a hurry, sir. Started 
 to run home, sir, and left his pig behind him. 
 
 Broadbent (eagerly). Left the pig! Then it's all 
 right. The pig's the thing: the pig will win over every 
 Irish heart to me. We'll take the pig home to HaflBgan's 
 farm in the motor: it will have a tremendous effect. 
 Hodson ! 
 
 Hodson. Yes sir? 
 
 Broadbent. Do you think you could collect a crowd 
 to see the motor? 
 
84 John Bull's Other Island Act hi 
 
 HoDSON. Well; I'll try, sir. 
 
 Broadbent. Thank you, Hodson: do. 
 
 Hodson goes out through the gate. 
 
 Larry {desperately). Once more, Tom, will you 
 listen to me.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Rubbish! I tell you it will be all 
 right. 
 
 Larry, Only this morning you confessed how sur- 
 prised you were to find that the people here shewed 
 no sense of humor. 
 
 Broadbent (suddenly very solemn). Yes: their sense 
 of humor is in abeyance: I noticed it the moment we 
 landed. Think of that in a coimtry where every man 
 is a born humorist ! Think of what it means ! (Im- 
 pressively.) Larry: we are in the presence of a great 
 national grief. 
 
 Larry. "Wliats to grieve them? 
 
 Broadbent. I divined it, Larry: I saw it in their 
 faces. Ireland has never smiled since her hopes were 
 buried in the grave of Gladstone. 
 
 Larry. Oh, whats the use of talking to such a man? 
 Now look here, Tom. Be serious for a moment if you 
 can. 
 
 Broadbent (stupent). Serious! I!!! 
 
 Larry. Yes, you. You say the Irish sense of humor 
 is in abeyance. Well, if you drive through Rosscullen 
 in a motor car with Haffigan's pig, it wont stay in abey- 
 ance. Now I warn you. 
 
 Broadbent (^breezily). Why, so much the better! I 
 shall enjoy the joke myself more than any of them. 
 (Shouti7ig.) Hallo, Patsy Farrell, where are you? 
 
 Patsy (appearing in the shrubbery). Here I am, 
 your honor. 
 
 Broadbent. Go and catch the pig and put it into the 
 car: we're going to take it to Mr. Haffigan's. (He gives 
 Larry a slap on the shoulders that sends him staggering 
 off through the gate, and follows him buoyantly, ex- 
 
Act III John Bull's Other Island 85 
 
 claiming) Come on^ you old croaker! I'll shew you how 
 to win an Irish seat. 
 
 Patsy (meditatively). Bedad, if dhat pig gets a 
 howlt o the handle o the machine — (He shakes his 
 head ominously and drifts away to the pigsty.) 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 The parlor in Cornelius Doyle's house. It communi- 
 cates with the garden by a half glased door. The fire- 
 place is at the other side of the room, opposite the door 
 and windows, the architect not having been sensitive to 
 draughts. The table, rescued from the garden, is in the 
 middle; and at it sits Keegan, the central figure in a 
 rather crowded apartment. Nora, sitting with her back 
 to the fire at the end of the table, is playing backgam- 
 mon across its corner with him, on his left hand. Aunt 
 Judy, a little further back, sits facing the fire knitting, 
 with her feet on the fender. A little to Keegan's right, 
 in front of the table, and almost sitting on it, is Barney 
 Doran, Half a dozen friends of his, all men, are be- 
 tween him and the open door, supported by others out- 
 side. In the corner behind them is the sofa, of ma- 
 hogany and horsehair, made up as a bed for Broadbent. 
 Against the wall behind Keegan stands a mahogany side- 
 board. A door leading to the interior of the house is 
 near the fireplace, behind Aunt Judy. There are chairs 
 against the wall, one at each end of the sideboard. 
 Keegan's hat is on the one nearest the inner door; and 
 his stick is leaning agaiiist it. A third chair, also against 
 the wall, is near the garden door. 
 
 There is a strong contrast of emotional atmosphere 
 between the two sides of the room. Keegan is extraor- 
 dinarily stern: no game of backgammon could possibly 
 make a man's face so grim. Aunt Judy is quietly busy. 
 Nora is trying to ignore Doran and attend to her game. 
 
 On the other hand Doran is reeling in an ecstasy of 
 85 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 87 
 
 mischievous mirth which has infected all his friends. 
 They are screaming with laughter, doubled up, leaning 
 on the furniture and against the walls, shouting, screech- 
 ing, crying. 
 
 Aunt Judy {as the noise lulls for a moment). Arra 
 hold your noise, Barney. What is there to laugh at? 
 
 DoRAN. It got its fut into the little hweel — (^he is 
 overcome afresh; and the rest collapse again). 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah, have some sense: youre like a parcel 
 o childher. Nora, hit him a thump on the back: he'll 
 have a fit. 
 
 DoRAN (with squeezed eyes, exsufflicate with cachin- 
 nation). Frens, he sez to dhem outside Doolan's: I'm 
 takin the gintleman that pays the rint for a dhrive. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Who did he mean be that? 
 
 DoRAN. They call a pig that in England. Thats 
 their notion of a joke. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Musha God help them if they can joke 
 no better than that! 
 
 DoRAN {with renewed symptoms). Thin — 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah now dont be tellin it all over and 
 settin yourself off again, Barney. 
 
 Nora. Youve told us three times, Mr, Doran. 
 
 DoRAN. Well but whin I think of it — ! 
 
 Aunt Judy. Then dont think of it, alanna. 
 
 DoRAN. There was Patsy Farrll in the back sate wi 
 dhe pig between his knees, n me bould English boyoh 
 in front at the machinery, n Larry Doyle in the road 
 startin the injine wid a bed winch. At the first puff of 
 it the pig lep out of its skin and bled Patsy's nose wi 
 dhe ring in its snout. (Roars of laughter: Keegan 
 glares at them.) Before Broadbint knew hwere he was, 
 the pig was up his back and over into his lap; and 
 bedad the poor baste did credit to Corny's thrainin of 
 it; for it put in the fourth speed wid its right crubecn 
 as if it was enthered for the Gordn Bennett. 
 
88 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 Nora {reproachfully). And Larry in front of it and 
 all ! It's nothin to laugh at, Mr. Doran. 
 
 DoRAN. Bedad, Miss Reilly, Larry cleared six yards 
 backwards at wan jump if he cleared an inch; and he'd 
 a cleared seven if Doolan's granmother hadnt cotch him 
 in her apern widhout intindin to. {Immense merriment.) 
 
 Aunt Judy. Ah^ for shame, Barney! the poor old 
 woman ! An she was hurt before, too, when she slipped 
 on the stairs. 
 
 Doran. Bedad, maam, shes hurt behind now; for 
 Larry bouled her over like a skittle. {General delight 
 at this typical stroke of Irish Rahelaisianism.) 
 
 Nora. It's well the lad wasnt killed. 
 
 DoRAN. Faith it wasnt o Larry we were thinkin jus 
 dhen, wi dhe pig takin the main sthreet o Rosscullen on 
 market day at a mile a minnit. Dh ony thing Broadbint 
 could get at wi dhe pig in front of him was a fut brake; 
 n the pig's tail was undher dhat ; so that whin he thought 
 he was putn non the brake he was ony squeezin the 
 life out o the pig's tail. The more he put the 
 brake on the more the pig squealed n the fasther he 
 dhruv. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Why couldnt he throw the pig out into 
 the road.'* 
 
 Doran. Sure he couldnt stand up to it, because he 
 was spanchelled-like between his seat and dhat thing 
 like a wheel on top of a stick between his knees. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 Nora. I dont know how you can laugh. Do you, 
 Mr. Keegan? 
 
 Keegan {grimly). Why not? There is danger, 
 destruction, torment! What more do we want to make 
 us merry? Go on, Barney: the last drops of joy are 
 not squeezed from the story yet. Tell us again how 
 our brother was torn asunder. 
 
 Doran {puzzled). Whose bruddher? 
 
 Keeoan. Mine. 
 
X«9 
 
 s OtJaer I^md 
 
 boaiieiiiirniD. Boil 
 
 
 
 ^«im 
 
 pleas^ 
 
 
 ^ ^T^ixa siT 
 
 
 ■£ 
 
90 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 in Me pig, me pig! n the polus takin the number o the 
 car, n not a man in the town able to speak for laughin — 
 
 Keegan (with intense emphasis). It is hell: it is hell. 
 Nowhere else could such a scene be a burst of happiness 
 for the people. 
 
 Cornelius comes in hastily from the garden, pushing 
 his rvay through the little crowd. 
 
 Cornelius. Whisht your laughin, boys ! Here he is. 
 (7/e puts his hat on the sideboard, and goes to the -fire- 
 place, where he posts himself with his back to the chim- 
 ney piece.) 
 
 Aunt Judy. Remember your behavior, now. 
 
 Everybody becomes silent, solemn, concerned, sym- 
 pathetic. Broadbent enters, soiled and disordered as to 
 his motoring coat: immensely important and serious as 
 to himself. He makes his way to the end of the table 
 nearest the garden door, whilst Larry, who accompanies 
 him, throws his motoring coat on the sofa bed, and sits 
 down, watching the proceedings. 
 
 Broadbent {taking off his leather cap with dignity 
 and placing it on the table). I hope you have not been 
 anxious about me. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Deedn we have, Mr. Broadbent. Its a 
 mercy you werent killed. 
 
 DoRAN. Kilt! Its a mercy dheres two bones of you 
 left houldin together. How dijjescape at all at all.'' 
 Well, I never thought I'd be so glad to see you safe and 
 sound again. Not a man in the town would say less 
 (murmurs of kindly assent). Wont you come down to 
 Doolan's and have a dhrop o brandy to take the shock 
 off.?' 
 
 Broadbent. Youre all really too kind; but the shock 
 has quite passed off. 
 
 Doran (jovially). Never mind. Come along all the 
 same and tell us about it over a frenly glass. 
 
 Broadbent. May I say how deeply I feel the kind- 
 ness with which I have been overwhelmed since my acci- 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 91 
 
 dent? I can truthfully declare that I am glad it hap- 
 penedj because it has brought out the kindness and sym- 
 pathy of the Irish character to an extent I had no con- 
 ception of. 
 
 Several \^^^' ^"^® y^""*^ welcome! 
 
 p -| Sure its only natural. 
 
 I Sure you might have been kilt. 
 
 A young man, an the point of bursting, hurries out. 
 Barney puts an iron constraint on his features. 
 
 Broadbent. All I can say is that I wish I could 
 drink the health of everyone of you. 
 
 DoRAN. Dhen come an do it. 
 
 Broadbent (very solemnly). No: I am a teetotaller. 
 
 Aunt Judy (incredulously'). Arra since when.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Since this morning. Miss Doyle. I 
 have had a lesson {he looks at Nora significantly) that 
 I shall not forget. It may be that total abstinence has 
 already saved my life ; for I was astonished at the steadi- 
 ness of my nerves when death stared me in the face to- 
 day. So I will ask you to excuse me. (He collects him- 
 self for a speech.) Gentlemen: I hope the gravity of 
 the peril through which we have all passed — for I know 
 that the danger to the bystanders was as great as to 
 the occupants of the car — will prove an earnest of closer 
 and more serious relations between us in the future. We 
 have had a somewhat agitating day: a valuable and 
 innocent animal has lost its life: a public building has 
 been wrecked: an aged and infirm lady has suffered an 
 impact for which I feel personally responsible, though 
 my old friend Mr. Laurence Doyle unfortunately in- 
 curred the first effects of her very natural resentment. 
 I greatly regret the damage to Mr. Patrick Farrell's 
 fingers; and I have of course taken care that he shall 
 not suffer pecuniarily by his mishap. (Murmurs of ad- 
 miration at his magnanimity , and A Voice " Youre a 
 gentleman, sir.") I am glad to say that Patsy took it 
 like an Irishman, and, far from expressing any vin- 
 
92 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 dictive feeling, declared his willingness to break all his 
 fingers and toes for me on the same terms {subdued 
 applause, and "More power to Patsy!"). Gentlemen: 
 I felt at home in Ireland from the first (rising excite- 
 ment among his hearers). In every Irish breast I have 
 found that spirit of liberty (A cheery voice " Hear 
 Hear "), that instinctive mistrust of the Government 
 (A small pious voice, with intense expression, " God 
 bless 3'ou, sir!"), that love of independence {A defiant 
 voice, " Thats it! Independence! "), that indignant sym- 
 pathy with the cause of oppressed nationalities abroad 
 (A threatening growl from all: the ground-swell of 
 patriotic passion), and with the resolute assertion of 
 personal rights at home, which is all but extinct in my 
 own country. If it were legally possible I should be- 
 come a naturalized Irishman; and if ever it be my good 
 fortune to represent an Irish constituency in parliament, 
 it shall be my first care to introduce a Bill legalizing 
 such an operation. I believe a large section of the Lib- 
 eral party would avail themselves of it. (Momentary 
 scepticism.) I do. (Convulsive cheering.) Gentle- 
 men: I have said enough. (Cries of "Go on.") No: 
 I have as yet no right to address you at all on political 
 subjects; and we must not abuse the warmhearted Irish 
 hospitality of Miss Doyle by turning her sittingroom 
 into a public meeting. 
 
 DoRAN (energetically). Three cheers for Tom 
 Broadbent, the future member for Rosscullen ! 
 
 Aunt Judy (tvaving a half knitted sock). Hip hip 
 hurray ! 
 
 The cheers are given with great heartiness, as it is 
 by this time, for the more humorous spirits present, a 
 question of vociferation or internal rupture. 
 
 Broadbent. Thank you from the bottom of my 
 heart, friends. 
 
 Nora (whispering to Doran). Take them away, Mr. 
 Doran (Doran nods). 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 93 
 
 DoRAN. Well, good evenin, Mr. Broadbent; an may 
 you never regret the day you wint dhrivin wid Haffigan's 
 pig! {They shake hands.) Good evenin. Miss Doyle. 
 
 General handshaking, Broadbent shaking hands with 
 everybody effusively. He accompanies them to the gar- 
 den and can he heard outside saying Goodnight in every 
 inflexion known to parliamentary candidates. Nora, 
 Aunt Judy, Keegan, Larry, and Cornelius are left in the 
 parlor. Larry goes to the threshold and watches the 
 scene in the garden. 
 
 Nora. It's a shame to make game of him like that. 
 Hes a gradle more good in him than Barney Doran. 
 
 Cornelius. It's all up with his candidature. He'll 
 be laughed out o the town. 
 
 Larry {turning quickly from the doorway). Oh no 
 he wont: hes not an Irishman. He'll never know theyre 
 laughing at him; and while theyre laughing he'll win 
 the seat. 
 
 Cornelius. But he cant prevent the story getting 
 about. 
 
 Larry. He wont want to. He'll tell it himself as 
 one of the most providential episodes in the history of 
 England and Ireland. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Sure he wouldnt make a fool of himself 
 like that. 
 
 Larry. Are you sure hes such a fool after all, Aunt 
 Judy ? Suppose you had a vote ! which would you rather 
 give it to .'' the man that told the story of Haffigan's pig 
 Barney Doran's way or Broadbent's way.^* 
 
 Aunt Judy. Faith I wouldnt give it to a man at all. 
 It's a few women they want in parliament to stop their 
 foolish blather. 
 
 Broadbent {bustling into the room, and taking off 
 his damaged motoring overcoat, which he puts down on 
 the sofa). Well, that's over. I must apologize for 
 making that speech. Miss Doyle; but they like it, you 
 know. Everything helps in electioneering. 
 
94 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 Larrij takes the chair near the door; draws it near the 
 table; and sits astride it, with his elborvs folded on the 
 back. 
 
 Aunt Judy. I'd no notion you were such an orator, 
 Mr. Broadbent. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, it's only a knack. One picks it up 
 on the platform. It stokes up their enthusiasm. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Oh, I forgot. Youve not met Mr. 
 Keegan. Let me introjooce you. 
 
 Broadbent (shaking hands effusively). Most happy 
 to meet you, -Sir. Keegan. I have heard of you, though 
 I have not liad the pleasure of shaking your hand before. 
 And now may I ask you — for I value no man's opinion 
 more — what you think of my chances here. 
 
 Keegan (coldly). Your chances, sir, are excellent. 
 You will get into parliament. 
 
 Broadbent (delighted). I hope so. I think so. 
 (Fluctuating.) You really think so? You are sure you 
 are not allowing your enthusiasm for our principles to 
 get the better of your judgment? 
 
 Keegan. I have no enthusiasm for your principles, 
 sir. You will get into parliament because you want 
 to get into it badly enough to be prepared to take the 
 necessary steps to induce the people to vote for you. 
 That is how people usually get into that fantastic as- 
 sembly. 
 
 Broadbent (puzzled). Of course. (Pause.) Quite 
 so. (Pause.) Er — yes. (Buoyant again.) I think 
 they will vote for me. Eh? Yes? 
 
 Aunt Judy. Arra why shouldnt they? Look at the 
 jieople they d o vote for ! 
 
 Broadbent (encouraged). Thats true: thats very 
 true. When I see the windbags, the carpet-baggers, the 
 charlatans, the — the — the fools and ignoramuses who 
 corrupt the multitude by their wealth, or seduce them 
 by spouting balderdash to them, I cannot help thinking 
 that an honest man with no humbug about him, who will 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 95 
 
 talk straight common sense and take his stand on the 
 solid ground of principle and public duty, must win his 
 way with men of all classes. 
 
 Keegan {quietly). Sir: there was a time, in my 
 ignorant youth, when I should have called you a hypo- 
 crite. 
 
 Broadbent {reddening). A hypocrite ! 
 
 Nora {hastily). Oh I'm sure you dont think any- 
 thing of the sort, Mr. Keegan. 
 
 Broadbent {emphatically). Thank you. Miss Reilly: 
 thank you. 
 
 Cornelius {gloomily). We all have to stretch it a 
 bit in politics: hwats the use o pretendin we dont? 
 
 Broadbent {stiffly). I hope I have said or done 
 nothing that calls for any such observation, Mr. Doyle. 
 If there is a vice I detest — or against which my whole 
 public life has been a protest — it is the vice of hypocrisy. 
 I would almost rather be inconsistent than insincere. 
 
 Keegan. Do not be offended, sir: I know that you 
 are quite sincere. There is a saying in the Scripture 
 which runs — so far as the memory of an oldish man 
 can carry the words — Let not the right side of your 
 brain know what the left side doeth. I learnt at Oxford 
 that this is the secret of the Englishman's strange power 
 of making the best of both worlds. 
 
 Broadbent. Surely the text refers to our right and 
 left hands. I am somewhat surprised to hear a member 
 of your Church quote so essentially Protestant a docu- 
 ment as the Bible; but at least you might quote it ac- 
 curately. 
 
 Larry. Tom: with the best intentions youre making 
 an ass of yourself. You dont understand Mr. Keegan's 
 peculiar vein of humor. 
 
 Broadbent {instantly recovering his confidence). 
 Ah ! it was only your delightful Irish humor, Mr. 
 Keegan. Of course, of course. How stupid of me ! 
 I'm so sorry. {He fats Keegan consolingly on the 
 
06 Jolm Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 hack.) John Bull's wits are still slow, you see. Be- 
 sides, calling in c a hypocrite was too big a joke to 
 swallow all at once, you know. 
 
 Keegan. You must also allow for the fact that I am 
 mad, 
 
 Nora, Ah, dont talk like that, Mr. Keegan. 
 
 Broadbent (encouraginglt/). Not at all, not at all. 
 Only a whimsical Irishman, eh? 
 
 Larry. Are you really mad, Mr. Keegan? 
 
 ArxT Judy (shocked). Oh, Larry, how could you 
 ask him such a thing? 
 
 Larry. I dont think iVIr. Keegan minds. (To 
 Keegan.) Whats the true version of the story of that 
 black man you confessed on his deathbed? 
 
 Keegan. What story have you heard about that? 
 
 Larry, I am informed that when the devil came for 
 the black heathen, he took off your head and turned it 
 three times round before joutting it on again; and that 
 your head's been turned ever since. 
 
 Nora (reproachfully). Larry! 
 
 Keegan (blandh/). That is not quite what occurred. 
 (He collects himself for a serious utterance: they attend 
 involuntarily.) I heard that a black man was dying, 
 and that the people were afraid to go near him. When 
 I went to the place I foimd an elderly Hindoo, who 
 told me one of those tales of unmerited misfortime, of 
 cruel ill luck, of relentless persecution by destiny, which 
 sometimes wither the commonplaces of consolation on 
 the lips of a priest. But this man did not complain of 
 his misfortunes. They were brought upon him, he said, 
 bj^ sins committed in a former existence. Then, without 
 a word of comfort from me, he died with a clear-eyed 
 resignation that my most earnest exhortations have 
 rarely produced in a Christian, and left me sitting there 
 by his bedside with the mystery of this world suddenly 
 revealed to me. 
 
 Broadbent, That is a remarkable tribute to the 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 97 
 
 liberty of conscience enjoyed by the subjects of our 
 Indian Empire. 
 
 Larry. No doubt; but may we venture to ask what 
 is the mystery of this world? 
 
 Keegax. This world, sir, is very clearly a place of 
 torment and penance, a place where the fool flourishes 
 and the good and wise are hated and persecuted, a place 
 where men and women torture one another in the name 
 of love; where children are scourged and enslaved in 
 the name of parental duty and education; where the 
 weak in body are poisoned and mutilated in the name 
 of healing, and the weak in character are put to the 
 horrible torture of imprisonment, not for hours but for 
 years, in the name of justice. It is a place where the 
 hardest toil is a welcome refuge from the horror and 
 tedium of pleasure, and where charity and good works 
 are done only for hire to ransom the souls of the spoiler 
 and the sybarite. Now, sir, there is only one place of 
 horror and torment kno\vn to my religion; and that 
 place is hell. Therefore it is plain to me that this earth 
 of ours must be hell, and that we are all here, as the 
 Indian revealed to me — perhaps he was sent to reveal 
 it to me — to expiate crimes committed by us in a former 
 existence. 
 
 AuxT Judy {awestruck). Heaven save us, what a 
 thing to say! 
 
 Cornelius {sighing). It's a queer world: thats cer- 
 tain. 
 
 Broadbent. Your idea is a very clever one, Mr. 
 Keegan: really most brilliant: I should never have 
 thought of it. But it seems to me — if I may say so — 
 that you are overlooking the fact that, of the evils you 
 describe, some are absolutely necessary for the preserva- 
 tion of society, and others are encouraged only when 
 the Tories are in office. 
 
 Larry. I expect you were a Tory in a former exist- 
 ence; and that is why you are here. 
 
98 John Bulls Other Island Act IV 
 
 Broadbent (with conviction). Never, Larry, never. 
 But leaving politics out of the question, I find the 
 world quite good enough for me: rather a jolly place, 
 in fact. 
 
 Keegan (looking at him with quiet wonder). You 
 are satisfied.'' 
 
 Broadbent, As a reasonable man, yes. I see no 
 evils in the world — except, of course, natural evils — 
 that cannot be remedied by freedom, self-government, 
 and English institutions. I think so, not because I am 
 an Englishman, but as a matter of common sense. 
 
 Keegan. You feel at home in the world, then.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Of course. Dont you? 
 
 Keegan (from the very depths of his nature). No. 
 
 Broadbent (breezily). Try phosphorus pills. I al- 
 ways take them when my brain is overworked. I'll give 
 you the address in Oxford Street. 
 
 Keegan (enigmatically: rising). Miss Doyle: my 
 wandering fit has come on me: will you excuse me.'' 
 
 Aunt Judy. To be sure: you know you can come in 
 n nout as you like. 
 
 Keegan. We can finish the game some other time, 
 Miss Reilly. (He goes for his hat and stick.) 
 
 Nora. No: I'm out with you (she disarranges the 
 pieces and rises.) I was too wicked in a former exist- 
 ence to play backgammon with a good man like you. 
 
 Aunt Judy (whispering to her). Whisht, whisht, 
 child! Dont set him back on that again. 
 
 Keegan (to Nora). When I look at you, I think that 
 perhaps Ireland is only purgatory, after all. (He passes 
 on to the garden door.) 
 
 Nora. Galon g with j^ou ! 
 
 Broadbent (whispering to Cornelius). Has he a 
 vote ? 
 
 Cornelius (nodding). Yes. An theres lotsle vote 
 the way he tells them. 
 
 Keegan (at the garden door, with gentle gravity). 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 99 
 
 Good evening, Mr. Broadbent. You have set me think- 
 ing. Thank you. 
 
 Broadbent (delighted, hurrying across to him to 
 shake hands). No, really? You find that contact with 
 English ideas is stimulating, eh.'' 
 
 Keegan. I am never tired of hearing you talk, Mr. 
 Broadbent. 
 
 Broadbent (modestly remonstrating). Oh come! 
 come ! 
 
 Keegan. Yes, I assure you. You are an extremely 
 interesting man. (He goes out.) 
 
 Broadbent (enthusiastically). What a nice chap! 
 What an intelligent, interesting fellow! By the way, 
 I'd better have a wash. (He takes up his coat and cap, 
 and leaves the room through the inner door.) 
 
 Nora returns to her chair and shuts up the backgam- 
 mon hoard. 
 
 Aunt Judy. Keegan's very queer to-day. He has 
 his mad fit on him. 
 
 Cornelius (worried and hitter). I wouldnt say but 
 hes right after all. It's a contrairy world. (To Larry.) 
 Why would you be such a fool as to let him take the 
 seat in parliament from you.'* 
 
 Larry (glancing at Nora). He will take more than 
 that from me before hes done here. 
 
 Cornelius. I wish he'd never set foot in my house, 
 bad luck to his fat face ! D'jre think he'd lend me £300 
 on the farm, Larry.'* When I'm so hard up, it seems 
 a waste o money not to mortgage it now its me 
 own. 
 
 Larry. I can lend you £300 on it. 
 
 Cornelius. No, no: I wasnt putn in for that. When 
 I die and leave you the farm I should like to be able to 
 feel that it was all me own, and not half yours to start 
 with. Now I'll take me oath Barney Doarn's goin to 
 ask Broadbent to lend him £500 on the mill to put in 
 a new hweel; for the old one'll harly hoi together. An 
 
100 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 Haffigan cant sleep with covetn that corner o land at 
 the foot of his medda that belongs to Doolan. He'll 
 have to mortgage to buy it. I may as well be first as 
 last. D'ye think Broadbcnt'd len me a little.-* 
 
 Larry. I'm quite sure he will. 
 
 Cornelius. Is he as ready as that? Would he len 
 me five hunderd, d'ye think .^ 
 
 Larry. He'll lend you more than the landll ever be 
 worth to you; so for Heaven's sake be prudent. 
 
 Cornelius (judicially). All right, all right, me son: 
 I'll be careful. I'm goin into the office for a bit. {He 
 withdratvs through the inner door, obviously to prepare 
 his application to Broadbent.) 
 
 Aunt Judy (indignantly). As if he hadnt seen 
 enough o borryin when he was an agent without begin- 
 nin borryin himself! (She rises.) I'll borry him, so I 
 will. (She puts her knitting on the table and folloivs 
 him out, with a resolute air that bodes trouble for Cor- 
 nelius.) 
 
 Larry and Nora are left together for the first time 
 since his arrival. She looks at him with a smile that 
 perishes as she sees him aimlessly rocking his chair, and 
 reflecting, evidently not about her, with his lips pursed 
 as if he were whistling. With a catch in her throat she 
 takes up Aunt Judy's knitting, and makes a pretence of 
 going on with it. 
 
 Nora. I suppose it didnt seem very long to you. 
 
 Larry (starting). Eh? What didnt? 
 
 Nora. The eighteen years youve been away. 
 
 Larry. Oh, that! No: it seems hardly more than a 
 week. I've been so busy — had so little time to tliink. 
 
 Nora. Ive had nothin else to do but think. 
 
 Larry. That was very bad for you. Why didnt you 
 give it up? Why did you stay here? 
 
 Nora. Because nobody sent for me to go any^vhere 
 else, I suppose. Thats why. 
 
 Larry. Yes: one does stick frightful!}^ in the same 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other IsJaiid 101 
 
 place, unless some external force comes and routs one 
 out. {He yawns slightly; hut as she looks up quickly 
 at him, he pulls himself together and rises with an air 
 of waking up and setting to work cheerfully to make 
 himself agreeable.) And how have you been all this 
 time ? 
 
 Nora. Quite well, thank you. 
 
 Larry. Thats right. {Suddenly finding that he has 
 nothing else to say, and being ill at ease in consequence, 
 he strolls about the room humming a certain tune from 
 Offenbach's Whitiington.) 
 
 Nora (struggling with her tears). Is that all you 
 have to say to me, Larry? 
 
 Larry, Well, what i s there to say ? You see, we 
 know each other so well. 
 
 Nora (a little consoled). Yes: of course we do. (He 
 does not reply.) I wonder you came back at all. 
 
 Larry. I couldnt help it. (She looks up affection- 
 ately.) Tom made me. (She looks down again quickly 
 to conceal the effect of this blow. He whistles another 
 stave; then resumes.) I had a sort of dread of return- 
 ing to Ireland. I felt somehow that my luck would 
 turn if I came back. And now here I am, none the 
 worse. 
 
 Nora. Praps it's a little dull for you. 
 
 Larry. No: I havnt exhausted the interest of stroll- 
 ing about the old places and- remembering and romancing 
 about them. 
 
 Nora (hopefully). Oh! You do remember the places, 
 then ? 
 
 Larry. Of course. They have associations. 
 
 Nora (not doubting that the associations are with 
 her). I suppose so. 
 
 Larry. M'yes. I can remember particular spots 
 where I had long fits of thinking about the countries I 
 meant to get to when I escaped from Ireland. America 
 and London, and sometimes Rome and the east. 
 
..IQZ John Buirs Other Island Act IV 
 
 ■ ' Nora (deeply mortified). Was that all you used to 
 be thinking about? 
 
 Larry. Well, there was precious little else to think 
 about here, my dear Nora, except sometimes at sunset, 
 when one got maudlin and called Ireland Erin, and 
 imagined one was remembering the days of old, and so 
 forth. (He whistles Let Erin remember.) 
 
 XoRA. Did jever get a letter I wrote you last Feb- 
 
 ruary 
 
 Larry. Oh yes; and I really intended to answer it. 
 But I ha\Tnt had a moment; and I knew you wouldnt 
 mind. You see, I am so afraid of boring you by writing 
 about affairs you dont understand and people you dont 
 know! And yet what else have I to write about? I 
 begin a letter; and then I tear it up again. The fact 
 is, fond as we are of one another, Xora, we have so 
 little in common — I mean of course the things one can 
 put in a letter — that correspondence is apt to become 
 the hardest of hard work. 
 
 Nora. Yes: it's hard for me to know anything about 
 you if you never tell me anything. 
 
 Larry (pettishly). Nora: a man cant sit down and 
 write his life day by day when hes tired enough with 
 having lived it. 
 
 Nora. I'm not blaming you. 
 
 Larry (looking at her with some concern). You 
 seem rather out of spirits. (Going closer to her, anx- 
 iously and tenderly.) You ha^^lt got neuralgia, have 
 you? 
 
 Nora. No. 
 
 Larry (reassured). I get a touch of it sometimes 
 when I am below par. (Absently, again strolling about.) 
 Yes, yes. (He begins to hum again, and soon breaks 
 into articulate melody.) 
 
 Though summer smiles on here for ever. 
 Though not a leaf falls from the tree. 
 Tell England Til forget her never. 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 103 
 
 (Nora puts down the knitting and stares at him.) 
 
 O wind that blows across the sea. 
 
 (With much expression.) 
 
 Tell England I'll forget her ne-e-e-e-ver 
 O wind that blows acro-oss — 
 
 (Here the melody soars out of his range. He con- 
 tinues falsetto, but changes the tune to Let Erin re- 
 member.) I'm afraid I'm boring you, Nora, though 
 youre too kind to say so. 
 
 Nora. Are you wanting to get back to England al- 
 ready ? 
 
 Larry. Not at all. Not at all. 
 
 Nora. Thats a queer song to sing to me if youre not. 
 
 Larry. The song! Oh, it doesnt mean anything: 
 its by a German Jew, like most English patriotic senti- 
 ment. Never mind me, my dear: go on with your work; 
 and dont let me bore you. 
 
 Nora (bitterly). Rosscullen isnt such a lively place 
 that I am likely to be bored by you at our first talk 
 together after eighteen years, though you dont seem to 
 have much to say to me after all. 
 
 Larry. Eighteen years is a devilish long time, Nora. 
 Now if it had been eighteen minutes, or even eighteen 
 months, we should be able to pick up the interrupted 
 thread, and chatter like two magpies. But as it is, I 
 have simply nothing to say; and you seem to have less. 
 
 Nora. I — (her tears choke her; but she keeps up 
 appearances desperately). 
 
 Larry (quite unconscious of his cruelty). In a week 
 or so we sliall be quite old friends again. Meanwhile, 
 as I feel that I am not making myself particularly en- 
 tertaining, I'll take myself off. Tell Tom Ive gone for 
 a stroll over the hill. 
 
104 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 Nora. You seem very fond of Tom, as you call him. 
 
 Larry (^the triviality going suddenly out of his voice). 
 Yes: I'm fond of Tom. 
 
 Nora. Oh, well, dont let me keep you from him. 
 
 Larry. I know quite well that my departure will be 
 a relief. Rather a failure, this first meeting after 
 eighteen years, eh? Well, never mind: these great sen- 
 timental events always are failures ; and now the worst 
 of it's over anyhow. (He goes out through the garden 
 door.) 
 
 Nora, left alone, struggles wildly to save herself from 
 breaking down, and then drops her face on the table 
 and gives way to a convulsion of crying. Her sobs 
 shake her so that she can hear nothing; and she has no 
 suspicion that she is no longer alone until her head and 
 breast are raised by Broadbent, who, returning newly 
 ivashed and combed through the inner door, has seen 
 her condition, first with surprise and concern, and then 
 with an emotional disturbance that quite upsets him. 
 
 Broadbent. Miss Reilly. Miss Reilly. Whats the 
 matter.^ Dont cry: I cant stand it: you mustnt cry. 
 (She makes a choked efort to speak, so painful that he 
 continues with impulsive sympathy.) No: dont try to 
 speak: it's all right now. Have your cry out: never 
 mind me: trust me. (Gathering her to him, and bab- 
 bling consolatorily.) Cry on my chest: the only really 
 comfortable place for a woman to cry is a man's chest: 
 a real man, a real friend. A good broad chest, eh? not 
 less than forty-two inches — no: dont fuss: never mind 
 the conventions: we're two friends, arnt we? Come 
 now, come, come! Its all right and comfortable and 
 happy now, isnt it? 
 
 Nora (through her tears). Let me go. I want me 
 hankerchief. 
 
 Broadbent (holding her with one arm and producing 
 a large silk handkerchief from his breast pocket). Heres 
 a handkerchief. Let me (he dabs her tears dry with it). 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 105 
 
 Never mind jonr own: it's too small: it's one of those 
 wretched little cambric handkerchiefs — 
 
 Nora (sobbing). Indeed it's a common cotton one. 
 
 Broadbent. Of course it's a common cotton one — 
 silly little cotton one — not good enough for the dear eyes 
 of Nora Cryna — 
 
 Nora (spluttering into a hysterical laugh and clutch- 
 ing him convulsively with her fingers while she tries to 
 stifle her laughter against his collar bone). Oh dont 
 make me laugh: please dont make me laugh. 
 
 Broadbent (terrified). I didnt mean to, on my soul. 
 What is it.? What is it? 
 
 Nora. Nora Creena, Nora Creena. 
 
 Broadbent (patting her). Yes, yes, of course, Nora 
 Creena, Nora acushla (he makes cush rhyme to plush) — 
 
 Nora. Acushla (she makes cush rhyme to bush). 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, confound the language! Nora 
 darling — my Nora — the Nora I love — 
 
 Nora (shocked into propriety). You mustnt talk like 
 that to me. 
 
 Broadbent (suddenly becoming prodigiously solemn 
 and letting her go). No, of course not. I dont mean it 
 — at least I d o mean it ; but I know it's premature. I 
 had no right to take advantage of your being a little 
 upset; but I lost my self-control for a moment. 
 
 Nora (wondering at him). I think youre a very 
 kindhearted man, jNIr. Broadbent; but you seem to me 
 to have no self-control at all (she turns her face away 
 with a keen pang of shame and adds) no more than 
 myself. 
 
 Broadbent (resolutely). Oh yes, I have: you should 
 see me when I am really roused : then I have tre- 
 mendous self-control. Remember : we have been 
 alone together only once before; and then, I regret to 
 say, I was in a disgusting state. 
 
 Nora. Ah no, Mr. Broadbent: you wernt disgusting. 
 
 Broadbent (mercilessly). Yes I was: nothing can 
 
106 Jolin Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 excuse it: perfectly beastly. It must have made a most 
 unfavorable impression on you. 
 
 Nora. Ob, sure it's all right. Say no more about 
 that. 
 
 Broadbent. I must, Miss Reilly: it is my duty. I 
 shall not detain you long. May I ask you to sit do-\vn. 
 (He indicates her chair with oppressive solemnity. She 
 sits down wondering. He then, with the same por- 
 tentous gravity, places a chair for himself near her; sits 
 down; and proceeds to explain.) First, Miss Reilly, 
 may I say that I have tasted nothing of an alcoholic 
 nature today. 
 
 Nora. It doesnt seem to make as much difference in 
 you as it would in an Irishman, somehow. 
 
 Broadbent. Perhaps not. Perhaps not. I never 
 quite lose myself. 
 
 Nora {consolingly). Well, anyhow, youre all right 
 now. 
 
 Broadbent (fervently). Thank you, Miss Reilly: I 
 am. Now we shall get along. (Tenderly, lowering his 
 voice.) Nora: I was in earnest last night. (Nora 
 moves as if to rise.) No: one moment. You must not 
 think I am going to press you for an answer before you 
 have known me for 24 hours. I am a reasonable man, 
 I hope; and I am prepared to wait as long as you like, 
 provided you will give me some small assurance that 
 the answer will not be unfavorable. 
 
 Nora. How could I go back from it if I did? I 
 sometimes think youre not quite right in your head, Mr. 
 Broadbent, you say such funny things. 
 
 Broadbent. Yes: I know I have a strong sense of 
 humor which sometimes makes people doubt whether I 
 am quite serious. That is why I have always thought 
 I should like to marry an Irishwoman. She would al- 
 ways understand my jokes. For instance, you would 
 understand them, eh? 
 
 Nora (uneasily). Mr. Broadbent, I couldnt. 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 107 
 
 Broadbent (soothingly). Wait: let me break this to 
 you gently, Miss Reilly: hear me out. I daresay you 
 have noticed tliat in speaking to you I have been putting 
 a very strong constraint on myself, so as to avoid wound- 
 ing your delicacy by too abrupt an avowal of my feel- 
 ings. Well, I feel now that the time has come to be 
 open, to be frank, to be explicit. Miss Reilly: you have 
 inspired in me a very strong attachment. Perhaps, with 
 a woman's intuition, you have already guessed that. 
 
 Nora (rising distractedly). Why do you talli to me 
 in that vmfeeling nonsensical way? 
 
 Broadbent (rising also, much astonished). Unfeel- 
 ing ! Nonsensical ! 
 
 Nora. Dont you know that you have said things to 
 me that no man ought to say unless — unless — (she sud- 
 denly breaks down again and hides her face on the, 
 table as before.) Oh, go away from me: I wont get 
 married at all: what is it but heartbreak and disap- 
 pointment .'' 
 
 Broadbent (developing the most formidable symp- 
 toms of rage and grief). Do you mean to say that you 
 are going to refuse me.'' that you dont care for me.^ 
 
 Nora (looking at him in consternation). Oh, dont 
 take it to heart, Mr, Br — 
 
 Broadbent (flushed and almost choking). I dont 
 want to be petted and blarneyed. (With childish rage.) 
 I love you. I want you for my wife. (In despair.) I 
 cant help your refusing. I'm helpless: I can do noth- 
 ing. You have no right to ruin my whole life. You — 
 (a hysterical convulsion stops him). 
 
 Nora (almost awestruck). Youre not going to cry, 
 are you ? I never thought a man could cry. Dont. 
 
 Broadbent. I'm not crying. I — I — I leave that sort 
 of thing to your damned sentimental Irishmen. You 
 think I have no feeling because I am a plain unemotional 
 Englisliman, with no powers of expression. 
 
 Nora. I dont think you know the sort of man you 
 
108 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 are at all. "V^Tiatever may be the matter with you, it's 
 not want of feeling. 
 
 Broadbent (hurt and petulant). It's you who have 
 no feeling. Youre as heartless as Larry. 
 
 Nora. What do you expect me to do.^ Is it to throw 
 meself at your head the minute the word is out o your 
 mouth ? 
 
 Broadbent (striking his silly head with his fists). 
 Oh, what a fool! what a brute I am! It's only your 
 Irish delicacy: of course, of course. You mean Yes. 
 Eh? What? Yes, yes, yes? 
 
 Nora. I think you might imderstand that though I 
 might choose to be an old maid, I could never marry 
 anybody but you now. 
 
 Broadbext (clasping her violently to his breast, 
 with a crow of immense relief and triumph). Ah, thats 
 right, thats right: thats magnificent. I knew you would 
 see what a first-rate thing this will be for both of us. 
 
 Nora (incommoded and not at all enraptured by his 
 ardor). Youre dreadfully strong, an a gradle too free 
 with your strength. An I never thought o whether it'd 
 be a good thing for us or not. But when you found 
 me here that time, I let you be kind to me, and cried 
 in your arms, because I was too wretched to think of 
 anything but the comfort of it. An how could I let 
 any other man touch me after that? 
 
 Broadbent (touched). Now thats very nice of you, 
 Nora: thats really most delicately womanly (he kisses 
 her hand chivalrously). 
 
 Nora (looking earnestly and a little doubtfully at 
 him). Surely if you let one woman cry on you like 
 that youd never let another touch you. 
 
 Broadbent (conscientiously) . One should not. One 
 ought not, my dear girl. But the honest truth is, if 
 a chap is at all a pleasant sort of chap, his chest becomes 
 a fortification that has to stand many assaults: at least 
 it is so in England. 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 109 
 
 Nora {curtly, much disgusted). Then youd better 
 marry an Englishwoman. 
 
 Broadbent {mahing a wry face). No, no: the Eng- 
 lishwoman is too prosaic for my taste, too material, too 
 much of the animated beefsteak about her. The ideal 
 is what I like. Now Larry's taste is just the opposite: 
 he likes em solid and bouncing and rather keen about 
 him. It's a very convenient diiference; for weve never 
 been in love with the same woman. 
 
 Nora. An d'ye mean to tell me to me face that youve 
 ever been in love before ? 
 
 Broadbent. Lord! yes. 
 
 Nora. I'm not your first love? 
 
 Broadbent. First love is only a little foolishness 
 and a lot of curiosity: no really self-respecting woman 
 would take advantage of it. No, my dear Nora: Ive 
 done with all that long ago. Love affairs always end 
 in rows. We're not going to have any rows : we're going 
 to have a solid four-square home: man and wife: com- 
 fort and common sense — and plenty of affection, eh {he 
 puts his arm round her with confident proprietorship) ? 
 
 Nora {coldly, trying to get away). I dont want any 
 other woman's leavings. 
 
 Broadbent {holding her). Nobody asked you to, 
 maam. I never asked any woman to marry me before. 
 
 Nora {severely). Then why didnt you if youre an 
 honorable man.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Well, to tell you the truth, they were 
 mostly married already. But never mind! there was 
 nothing wrong. Come ! dont take a mean advantage of 
 me. After all, you must have had a fancy or two your- 
 self, eh? 
 
 Nora {conscience-stricken). Yes. I suppose Ive no 
 right to be particular. 
 
 Broadbent {humbly). I know I'm not good enough 
 for you, Nora. But no man is, you laiow, when the 
 woman is a really nice woman. 
 
110 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 Nora. Oh, I'm no better than yourself. I may as 
 well tell you about it. 
 
 Broadbent. No, no: lets have no telling: much bet- 
 ter not. / shant tell you anything ; dont you tell m e 
 anything. Perfect confidence in one another and no 
 tellings: thats the way to avoid rows. 
 
 Nora. Dont think it was anything I need be ashamed 
 of. 
 
 Broadbent. I dont. 
 
 Nora. It was only that I'd never known anybody 
 else that I could care for; and I was foolish enough 
 once to think that Larry — 
 
 Broadbent {disposing of the idea at once). Larry! 
 Oh, that wouldnt have done at all, not at all. You dont 
 know Larry as I do, my dear. He has absolutely no 
 capacity for enjoyment: he couldnt make any woman 
 happy. He's as clever as be-blowed; but life's too 
 earthly for him: he doesnt really care for anything or 
 anybody. 
 
 Nora. Ive found that out. 
 
 Broadbent. Of course you have. No, my dear: take 
 my word for it, youre jolly well out of that. There! 
 (swinging her round against his breast) thats much 
 more comfortable for you. 
 
 Nora (with Irish peevishness). Ah, you mustnt go 
 on like that. I dont like it. 
 
 Broadbent (unabashed). YouU acquire the taste by 
 degrees. You mustnt mind me: it's an absolute neces- 
 sity of my nature that I should have somebody to hug 
 occasionally. Besides, it's good for you: itU plump out 
 your muscles and make em elastic and set up your 
 figure. 
 
 Nora. Well, I'm sure ! if this is English manners ! 
 Arnt you ashamed to talk about such things? 
 
 Broadbent (in the highest feather). Not a bit. By 
 George, Nora, its a tremendous thing to be able to enjoy 
 oneself. Lets go off for a walk out of this stuffy little 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 111 
 
 room. I want the open air to expand in. Come along. 
 Co-o-o-me along. {He puts her arm into his and sweeps 
 her out into the garden as an equinoctial gale might 
 sweep a dry leaf.) 
 
 Later in the evening, the grasshopper is again enjoy- 
 in o- the sunset by the great stone on the hill; hut this 
 time he enjoys neither the stimulus of Keegan's con- 
 versation nor the pleasure of terrifying Patsy Farrell. 
 He is alone until Nora and Broadbent come up the hill 
 arm in arm. Broadbent is still breezy and confident; 
 but she has her head averted from him and is almost in 
 tears. 
 
 Broadbent (stopping to snuff up the hillside air). 
 Ah! I like this spot. I like this view. This would be 
 a jolly good place for a hotel and a golf links. Friday 
 to Tuesday, railway ticket and hotel all inclusive. I 
 tell you, Nora, I'm going to develop this place. (Look- 
 ing at her.) Hallo! Whats the matter.? Tired? 
 
 Nora (unable to restrain her tears). I'm ashamed 
 out o me life. 
 
 Broadbent (astonished). Ashamed! What of? 
 
 Nora. Oh, how could you drag me all round the 
 place like that, telling everybody that we're going to be 
 married, and introjoocing me to the lowest of the low, 
 and letting them shake bans with me, and encouraging 
 them to make free with us? I little thought I should 
 live to be shaken bans with be Doolan in broad daylight 
 in the public street of Rosscullen. 
 
 Broadbent. But, my dear, Doolan's a publican: a 
 most influential man. By the way, I asked him if his 
 wife would be at home tomorrow. He said she would; 
 so you must take the motor car round and call on her. 
 
 Nora (aghast). Is it me call on Doolan's wife! 
 
 Broadbent. Yes, of course: call on all their wives. 
 We must get a copy of the register and a supply of 
 canvassing- cards. No use calling on people who havnt 
 votes. YouU be a great success as a canvasser, Nora: 
 
112 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 they call you the heiress; and theyll be flattered no end 
 by your calling, especially as youve never cheapened 
 yourself by speaking to them before — have you? 
 
 Nora {indignantly). Not likely, indeed. 
 
 Broadbext. Well, we mustnt be stiff and stand-off, 
 you know. We must be thoroughly democratic, and 
 patronize everybody without distinction of class. I tell 
 you I'm a jolly lucky man, Nora Cryna. I get engaged 
 to the most delightful woman in Ireland; and it turns 
 out that I couldnt have done a smarter stroke of elec- 
 tioneering. 
 
 Nora. An would you let me demean meself like that, 
 just to get yourself into parliament? 
 
 Broadbent {buoyantly). Aha! Wait till you find 
 out what an exciting game electioneering is: youll be 
 mad to get me in. Besides, youd like people to say that 
 Tom Broadbent's wife had been the making of him — 
 that she got him into parliament — into the Cabinet, per- 
 haps, eh? 
 
 Nora. God knows I dont grudge you me money! 
 But to lower meself to the level of common people — 
 
 Broadbent. To a member's wife, Nora, nobody is 
 common provided hes on the register. Come, my dear ! 
 its all right: do you think I'd let you do it if it wasnt? 
 The best people do it. Everybody does it. 
 
 Nora {who has been biting her Up and looking over 
 the hill, disconsolate and unconvinced). Well, praps you 
 know best what they do in England. They must have 
 very little respect for themselves. I think I'll go in 
 now. I see Larry and Mr. Keegan coming up the hill; 
 and I'm not fit to talk to them. 
 
 Broadbent. Just wait and say something nice to 
 Keegan. They tell me he controls nearly as many votes 
 as Father Dempsey himself. 
 
 Nora. You little know Peter Keegan. He'd see 
 through me as if I was a pane o glass. 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, he wont like it any the less for 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 113 
 
 that. What really flatters a man is that you think him 
 worth flattering. Not that I would flatter any man: 
 dont think that. I'll just go and meet him. {lie goes 
 down the hill with the eager forward look of a man 
 about to greet a valued acquaintance. Nora dries her*, 
 eyes, and turns to go as Larry strolls up the hill to her.^ 
 
 Larry. Nora. (She turns and looks at him hardly, 
 without a word. He continues anxiously, in his most 
 conciliatory tone.) When I left you that time, I was 
 just as wretched as you. I didnt rightly know what I 
 wanted to say; and my tongue kept clacking to cover 
 the loss I was at. Well, Ive been thinking ever since; 
 and now I know what I ought to have said. Ive come 
 back to say it. 
 
 Nora. Youve come too late, then. You thought 
 eighteen years was not long enough, and that you might 
 keep me waiting a day longer. Well, you were mistaken. 
 I'm engaged to your friend Mr. Broadbent; and I'm 
 done with you. 
 
 Larry (naively). But that was the very thing I was 
 going to advise you to do. 
 
 Nora (involuntarily). Oh you brute! to tell me that 
 to me face. 
 
 Larry (nervously relapsing into his most Irish man- 
 ner). Nora, dear, dont you understand that I'm an 
 Irishman, and lies an Englishman. He wants you; and 
 he grabs you. I want you ; .and I quarrel with you and 
 have to go on wanting you. 
 
 Nora. So you may. Youd better go back to England 
 to the animated beefsteaks youre so fond of. 
 
 Larry (amazed). Nora! (Guessing where she got 
 the metaphor.) Hes been talking about me, I see. Well, 
 never mind: we must be friends, you and I. I dont 
 want his marriage to you to be his divorce from me. 
 
 Nora. You care more for him than you ever did for 
 me. 
 
 Larry (with curt sincerity). Yes of course I do: 
 
114 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 why should I tell you lies about it? Nora Reilly was 
 a person of very little consequence to me or anyone else 
 outside this miserable little hole. But Mrs. Tom Broad- 
 bent will be a person of very considerable consequence 
 indeed. Play your new part well, and there will be 
 no more neglect, no more loneliness, no more idle re- 
 grettings and vain-hopings in the evenings by the round 
 tower, but real life and real work and real cares and 
 real joys among real people: solid English life in Lon- 
 don, the very centre of the world. You will find your 
 work cut out for you keeping Tom's house and enter- 
 taining Tom's friends and getting Tom into parliament; 
 but it will be worth the effort. 
 
 Nora. You talk as if I were under an obligation to 
 him for marrying me. 
 
 Larry. I talk as I think. Youve made a very good 
 match, let me tell you. 
 
 Nora. Indeed ! Well, some people might say hes 
 not done so badly himself. 
 
 Larry. If you mean that you will be a treasure to 
 him, he thinks so now; and you can keep him thinking 
 so if you like. 
 
 Nora. I wasnt thinking o meself at all. 
 
 Larry. Were you thinking of your money, Nora? 
 
 Nora. I didnt say so. 
 
 Larry. Your money will not pay your cook's wages 
 in London. 
 
 Nora {flaming up). If thats true — and the more 
 shame for you to throw it in my face if it i s true — at 
 all events itU make us independent; for if the worst 
 comes to the worst, we can always come back here an 
 live on it. An if I have to keep his house for him, at 
 all events I can keep you out of it ; for Ive done with 
 you; and I wish I'd never seen you. So goodbye to you, 
 Mister Larry Doyle. (She turns her back on him and 
 goes home.) 
 
 Larry {ivatching her as she goes). Goodbjx. Good- 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 115 
 
 bye. Oh, thats so Irish ! Irish both of us to the back- 
 bone: Irish, Irish, Irish — 
 
 Broadbent arrives, conversing energetically with 
 Keegan. 
 
 Broadbent. Nothing pays like a golfing hotel, if 
 you hold the land instead of the shares, and if the fur- 
 niture people stand in with you, and if you are a good 
 man of business. 
 
 Larry. Nora's gone home. 
 
 Broadbent {with conviction^. You were right this 
 morning, Larry. I must feed up Nora. She's weak; 
 and it makes her fanciful. Oh, by the way, did I tell 
 you that we're engaged.'* 
 
 Larry. She told me herself. 
 
 Broadbent (^complacently). She's rather full of it, 
 as you may imagine. Poor Nora ! Well, Mr. Keegan, 
 as I said, I begin to see my way here. I begin to see 
 my way. 
 
 Keegan {with a courteous inclination^. The con- 
 quering Englishman, sir. Within 24 hours of your ar- 
 rival you have carried off our only heiress, and prac- 
 tically secured the parliamentary seat. And you have 
 promised me that when I come here in the evenings to 
 meditate on my madness; to watch the shadow of the 
 round tower lengthening in the sunset; to break my 
 heart uselessly in the curtained gloaming over the dead 
 heart and blinded soul of the island of the saints, you 
 will comfort me with the bustle of a great hotel, and 
 the sight of the little children carrying the golf clubs 
 of your tourists as a preparation for the life to come. 
 
 Broadbent (quite touched, mutely offering him a 
 cigar to console him, at which he smiles and shakes his 
 head). Yes, Mr. Keegan: youre quite right. Theres 
 poetry in everything, even (looking absently into the 
 cigar case) in the most modern prosaic things, if you 
 know how to extract it (he extracts a cigar for himself 
 and offers one to Larry, who takes it). If I was to be 
 
116 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 shot for it I couldnt extract it myself; but thats where 
 you come in, you see {roguishly, waking up from his 
 reverie and bustling Keegan gooclhumoredly). And 
 then I shall wake you up a bit. Thats where / come in : 
 eh? d'ye see? Eh? eh? (He pats him very pleasantly 
 on the shoulder, half admiringly, half pityingly.) Just 
 so, just so. (Coming back to business.) By the way, 
 I believe I can do better than a light railway here. There 
 seems to be no question now that the motor boat has 
 come to stay. Well, look at your magnificent river there, 
 going to waste. 
 
 Keegan (closing his eyes). " Silent, p Moyle, be 
 the roar of thy waters." 
 
 Broadbent. You know, the roar of a motor boat is 
 quite pretty. 
 
 Keegan. Provided it does not drown the Angelus. 
 
 Broadbent (reassuringly). Oh no: it wont do that: 
 not the least danger. You know, a church bell can 
 make a devil of a noise when it likes. 
 
 Keegan. You have an answer for everything, sir. 
 But your plans leave one question still unansAvered: how 
 to get butter out of a dog's throat. 
 
 Broadbent. Eh? 
 
 Keegan. You cannot build your golf links and hotels 
 in the air. For that you must own our land. And how 
 will you drag our acres from the ferret's grip of ]Mat- 
 thew Haffigan? How will you persuade Cornelius Doyle 
 to forego the pride of being a small landowner? How 
 will Barney Doran's millrace agree with your motor 
 boats? Will Doolan help you to get a license for your 
 hotel? 
 
 Broadbent. My dear sir: to all intents and pur- 
 poses the syndicate I represent already owns half Ross- 
 cullen. Doolan's is a tied house; and the brewers are 
 in the syndicate. As to Haffigan's farm and Doran's 
 mill and Mr. Doyle's place and half a dozen others, they 
 will be mortgaged to me before a month is out. 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 117 
 
 Keegan. But pardon me, you will not lend them 
 more on their land than the land is worth; so they will 
 be able to pay you the interest. 
 
 Broadbent. Ah, you are a poet, Mr. Keegan, not 
 a man of business. 
 
 Larry. We will lend everyone of these men half 
 as much again on their land as it is worth, or ever can 
 be worth, to them. 
 
 Broadbent. You forget, sir, that we, with our cap- 
 ital, our knowledge, oiir organization, and may I say our 
 English business habits, can make or lose ten pounds 
 out of land that Haffigan, with all his industry, could 
 not make or lose ten shillings out of. Doran's mill 
 is a superannuated folly: I shall want it for electric 
 lighting. 
 
 Larry. What is the use of giving land to such men ? 
 they are too small, too poor, too ignorant, too simple- 
 minded to hold it against us: you might as well give a 
 dukedom to a crossing sweeper. 
 
 Broadbent. Yes, Mr. Keegan: this place may have 
 an industrial future, or it may have a residential future: 
 I cant tell yet; but it's not going to be a future in the 
 hands of your Dorans and Haffigans, poor devils ! 
 
 Keegan. It may have no future at all. Have you 
 thought of that.'' 
 
 Broadbent. Oh, I'm not afraid of that. I have 
 faith in Ireland, great faith, ]\Ir. Keegan. 
 
 Keegan. And we have none: only empty enthusiasms 
 and patriotisms, and emptier memories and regrets. Ah 
 yes : you have some excuse for believing that if there be 
 any future, it will be yours; for our faith seems dead, 
 and our hearts cold and cowed. An island of dreamers 
 who wake up in your jails, of critics and cowards whom 
 you buy and tame for your own service, of bold rogues 
 who help you to plunder us that they may plunder you 
 afterwards. Eh ? 
 
 Broadbent (a little impatient of this unbusinesslike 
 
118 John Bull's Other Island Act rv' 
 
 vierr). Yes, yes; but vou know you might say that of 
 any country. The fact is, there are only two qualities in 
 the world: efficiency and inefficiency, and only two sorts 
 of people: the efficient and the inefficient. It dont mat- 
 ter whether theyre English or Irish. I shall collar this 
 place, not because I'm an Englishman and Haffigan and 
 Co. are Irishmen, but because theyre duffers and I know 
 my way about. 
 
 Keegax. Have you considered what is to become of 
 Haffigan } 
 
 Larrv. Oh, we'll employ him in some capacity or 
 other, and probably pay him more than he makes for 
 himself now. 
 
 Broadbext (dubiously) . Do you think so? Xo no: 
 Haffigan's too old. It really doesnt pay now to take on 
 men over forty even for unskilled labor, which I sup- 
 pose is all Haffigan would be good for. Xo: Haffigan 
 had better go to America, or into the Union, poor old 
 chap I Hes worked out, you know: you can see it. 
 
 Keegax. Poor lost soul, so cunningly fenced in with 
 invisible bars I 
 
 Larry. Haffigan doesnt matter much. He'll die 
 presently. 
 
 Broadbext (shocked). Oh come, Larry! Dont be 
 imfeeling. Its hard on Haffigan. It's always hard on 
 the inefficient. 
 
 Larry. Pah ! what does it matter where an old and 
 broken man spends his last days, or whether he has a 
 million at the bank or only the workhouse dole.^ It's 
 the young men, the able men, that matter. The real 
 tragedy of Haffigan is the tragedy of his wasted youth, 
 his stimted mind, his drudging over his clods and pigs 
 until he has become a clod and a pig himself — until the 
 soul within him has smouldered into nothing but a dull 
 temper that hurts himself and all around him. I say 
 let him die, and let us have no more of his like. And 
 let young Ireland take care that it doesnt share his fate. 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 119 
 
 instead of making another empty grievance of it. Let 
 your syndicate come — 
 
 Broadbent. Your syndicate too, old chap. You 
 have your bit of the stock. 
 
 Larry. Yes, mine if you like. Well, our syndicate 
 has no conscience: it has no more regard for your Haffi- 
 gans and Doolans and Dorans than it has for a gang of 
 Chines coolies. It will use your patriotic blatherskite 
 and balderdash to get parliamentary powers over you as 
 cynically as it would bait a mousetrap with toasted 
 cheese. It will plan, and organize, and find capital 
 while you slave like bees for it and revenge yourselves 
 by paying politicians and penny newspapers out of your 
 small wages to write articles and report speeches against 
 its wickedness and tyranny, and to crack up your own 
 Irish heroism, just as Haffigan once paid a witch a penny 
 to put a spell on Billy Byrne's cow. In the end it will 
 grind the nonsense out of you, and grind strength and 
 sense into you. 
 
 Broadbent {out of patience'). \^Tiy cant you say a 
 simple thing simply, Larry, without all that Irish ex- 
 aggeration and talky-talky .'' The syndicate is a per- 
 fectly respectable body of responsible men of good 
 position. We'll take Ireland in hand, and by straightfor- 
 ward business habits teach it efficiency and self-help on 
 sound Liberal principles. You agree with me, Mr. 
 Keegan, dont you.'' 
 
 Keegan. Sir: I may even vote for you. 
 
 Broadbent {sincerely moved, shaking his hand 
 warmly). You shall never regret it, Mr. Keegan: I give 
 you my word for that. I shall bring money here: I 
 shall raise wages: I shall found public institutions, a 
 library, a Polytechnic (undenominational, of course), a 
 gymnasium, a cricket club, perhaps an art school. I 
 shall make a Garden city of Rosscullen : the round tower 
 shall be thoroughly repaired and restored. 
 
 Keegan. And our place of torment shall be as clean 
 
120 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 and orderly as the cleanest and most orderly place I 
 know in Ireland, which is our poetically named Mount- 
 joy prison. Well, perhaps I had better vote for an 
 efficient devil that knows his o-vvn mind and his own 
 business than for a foolish patriot who has na mind and 
 no business. 
 
 Broadbent {stiffly). Devil is rather a strong ex- 
 pression in that connexion, Mr. Keegan. 
 
 Keegan. Not from a man who knows that this world 
 is hell. But since the word offends you, let me soften 
 it, and compare you simply to an ass. {Larry whitens 
 with anger.) 
 
 Broadbent {reddening). An ass! 
 
 Keegan {gently). You may take it without offence 
 from a madman who calls the ass his brother — and a 
 very honest, useful and faithful brother too. The ass, 
 sir, is the most efficient of beasts, matter-of-fact, hardy, 
 friendly when you treat him as a fellow-creature, stub- 
 born when you abuse him, ridiculous only in love, which 
 sets him braying, and in politics, which move him to 
 roll about in the public road and raise a dust about 
 nothing. Can you deny these qualities and habits in 
 yourself, sir? 
 
 Broadbent {goodhumoredly) . Well, yes, I'm afraid 
 I do, you know. 
 
 Keegan. Then perhaps you will confess to the ass's 
 one fault. 
 
 Broadbent. Perhaps so: what is it.'* 
 
 Keegan. That he wastes all his virtues — his effi- 
 ciency, as you call it — in doing the will of his greedy 
 masters instead of doing the will of Heaven that is in 
 himself. He is efficient in the service of Mammon, 
 mighty in mischief, skilful in ruin^. heroic in destruc- 
 tion. But he comes to browse here without knowing 
 that the soil his hoof touches is holy ground. Ireland, 
 sir, for good or evil, is like no other place imder heaven ; 
 and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without 
 
Act TV John Bull's Other Island 121 
 
 becoming better or worse. It produces two kinds of 
 men in strange perfection: saints and traitors. It is 
 called the island of the saints; but indeed in these later 
 years it might be more fitly called the island of the 
 traitors; for our harvest of these is the fine flower of 
 the world's crop of infamy. But the day may come 
 when these islands shall live by the quality of their 
 men rather than by the abundance of their minerals; 
 and then we shall see. 
 
 Larry. Mr. Keegan: if you are going to be senti- 
 mental about Ireland, I shall bid you good evening. We 
 have had enough of that, and more than enough of 
 cleverly proving that everybody who is not an Irishman 
 is an ass. It is neither good sense nor good manners. 
 It will not stop the syndicate; and it will not interest 
 young Ireland so much as my friend's gospel of effi- 
 ciency. 
 
 Broadbent. Ah, yes, yes: efficiency is the thing. I 
 dont in the least mind your chaff, Mr. Keegan; but 
 Larry's right on the main point. The world belongs to 
 the efficient. 
 
 Keegan (with polished irony). I stand rebuked, gen- 
 tlemen. But believe me, I do every justice to the effi- 
 ciency of you and your syndicate. You are both, I am 
 told, thoroughly efficient civil engineers; and I have no 
 doubt the golf links will be a triumph of your art. Mr. 
 Broadbent will get into parliament most efficiently, which 
 is more than St. Patrick could do if he were alive now. 
 You may even build the hotel efficiently if you can find 
 enough efficient masons, carpenters, and plumbers, which 
 I rather doubt. (Dropping his irony, and beginning to 
 fall into the attitude of the priest rebuking sin.) When 
 the hotel becomes insolvent (Broadbent takes his cigar 
 out of his mouth, a little taken aback), your English 
 business habits will secure the thorough efficiency of the 
 liquidation. You will reorganize the scheme efficiently; 
 you will liquidate its second bankruptcy efficiently 
 
122 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 {Broadhent and Larry look quickly at one another; for 
 this, unless the priest is an old fnancial hand, must be 
 inspiration) ; you will get rid of its original shareholders 
 efficiently after efficiently ruining them ; and you will 
 finally profit very efficiently by getting that hotel for a 
 few shillings in the pound. {More and more ster7dy.) 
 Besides these efficient operations, you will foreclose your 
 mortgages most efficiently {his rebuking forefinger goes 
 up in spite of himself) ; you will drive Haffigan to 
 America very efficiently; you will find a use for Barney 
 Doran's foul mouth and bullying temper by employing 
 him to slave-drive your laborers very efficiently; and 
 (low and bitter) when at last this poor desolate coiuitry- 
 side becomes a busy mint in which we shall all slave to 
 make money for you. with our Polytechnic to teach us 
 how to do it efficiently, and our library to fuddle the 
 few imaginations your distilleries will spare, and our 
 repaired round tower with admission sixpence, and re- 
 freshments and penny-in-the-slot muto scopes to make it 
 interesting, then no doubt your English and American 
 shareholders will spend all the money we make for them 
 very efficiently in shooting and hunting, in operations 
 for cancer and appendicitis, in gluttony and gambling: 
 and you will devote what they save to fresh land de- 
 velopment schemes. For four wicked centuries the 
 world has dreamed this foolish dream of efficiency; and 
 the end is not yet. But the end will come. 
 
 Broadbext (seriously). Too true, Mr. Keegan, only 
 too true. And most eloquently put. It reminds me of 
 poor Ruskin — a great man, you know. I sympathize. 
 Believe me, I'm on your side. Dont sneer, Larry: I 
 used to read a lot of Shelley years ago. Let us be faith- 
 ful to the dreams of our youth {he wafts a wreath of 
 cigar smoke at large across the hill). 
 
 Keegan. Come, Mr. Doyle ! is this English senti- 
 ment so much more efficient than our Irish sentiment, 
 after all.'' Mr. Broadbent spends his life inefficiently 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 123 
 
 admiring the thoughts of great men, and efficiently 
 serving the cupidity of base money hunters. We spend 
 our lives efficiently sneering at him and doing nothing. 
 Which of us has any right to reproach the other? 
 
 Broadbent {coming down the hill again to Keegan's 
 right hand). But you know, something must be 
 done. 
 
 Keegan. Yes: when we cease to do, we cease to live. 
 Well, what shall we do? 
 
 Broadbent. Why, what lies to our hand. 
 
 Keegan. Which is the making of golf links and 
 hotels to bring idlers to a country which workers have 
 left in millions because it is a hungry land, a naked 
 land, an ignorant and oppressed land. 
 
 Broadbent. But, hang it all, the idlers will bring 
 money from England to Ireland! 
 
 Keegan. Just as our idlers have for so many gen- 
 erations taken money from Ireland to England. Has 
 that saved England from poverty and degradation more 
 horrible than we have ever dreamed of? When I went 
 to England, sir, I hated England. Now I pity it. 
 (Broadbent can hardly conceive an Irishman pitying 
 England; but as Larry intervenes angrily, he gives it up 
 and takes to the hill and his cigar again.) 
 
 Larry. Much good your pity will do it! 
 
 Keeg/n. In the accounts kept in heaven, Mr. Doyle, 
 a heart purified of hatred may be worth more even than 
 a Land Development Syndicate of Anglicized Irishmen 
 and Gladstonized Englishman. 
 
 Larry. Oh, in heaven, no doubt ! I have never been 
 there. Can you tell me where it is? 
 
 Keegan. Could you have told me this morning where 
 hell is? Yet you know now that it is here. Do not 
 despair of finding heaven: it may be no farther off. 
 
 Larry (ironically). On this holy ground, as you call 
 it, eh? 
 
 Keegan (^with fierce intensity). Yes, perhaps, even 
 
124 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 on this holy ground which such Irishmen as you have 
 turned into a Land of Derision. 
 
 Broadbent {coming between them). Take care! you 
 will be quarrelling presently. Oh, you Irishmen, you 
 Irishmen! Toujours Ballyhooly, eh.'' (Larry, with a 
 shrug, half comic, half impatient, turns away up the 
 hill, but presently strolls back on Keegan's right. Broad- 
 bent adds, confidentially to Keegan) Stick to the Eng- 
 lishman, Mr. Keegan: he has a bad name here; but at 
 least he can forgive you for being an Irishman. 
 
 Keegan. Sir: when you speak to me of English and 
 Irish you forget that I am a Catholic. My country is 
 not Ireland nor England, but the whole mighty realm 
 of my Church. For me there are but two countries: 
 heaven and hell; but two conditions of men: salvation 
 and damnation. Standing here between 3'ou the English- 
 man, so clever in your foolishness, and this Irishman, 
 so foolish in his cleverness, I cannot in my ignorance 
 be sure which of you is the more deeply damned; but 
 I should be unfaithful to my calling if I opened the 
 gates of my heart less widely to one than to the other. 
 
 Larry. In either case it would be an impertinence, 
 Mr. Keegan, as your approval is not of the slightest 
 consequence to us. What use do you suppose all this 
 drivel is to men with serious practical business in hand? 
 
 Broadbent. I dont agree with that, Larry. I think 
 these things cannot be said too often: they keep up the 
 moral tone of the community. As you know, I claim 
 the right to think for myself in religious matters: in 
 fact, I am ready to avow myself a bit of a — of a — ^well, 
 I dont care who knows it — a bit of a Unitarian; but if 
 the Church of England contained a few men like Mr. 
 Keegan, I should certainly join it. 
 
 Keegan. You do me too much honor, sir. (With 
 priestly humility to Larry.) Mr, Doyle: I am to blame 
 for having imintentionally set your mind somewhat on 
 edge against me. I beg your pardon. 
 
Act IV John Bull's Other Island 125 
 
 Larry {unimpressed and hostile). I didnl stand on 
 ceremony with you: you neednt stand on it with me. 
 Fine manners and fine words are cheajD in Ireland: you 
 can keep both for my friend here, who is still imposed 
 on by them. I know their value. 
 
 Keegan. You mean you dont know their value. 
 
 Larry {angrily). I mean what I say. 
 
 Keegan (turning quietly to the Englishman). You 
 see, ]Mr. Broadbent, I only make the hearts of my coim- 
 trymen harder when I preach to them: the gates of hell 
 still prevail against me. I shall wish you good evening. 
 I am better alone, at the round tower, dreaming of 
 heaven. {He goes up the hill.) 
 
 Larry. Aye, thats it! there you are! dreaming, 
 dreaming, dreaming, dreaming! 
 
 Keegan {halting and turning to them for the last 
 time). Every dream is a prophecy: every jest is an 
 earnest in the womb of Time. 
 
 Broadbent {reflectively). Once, when I was a small 
 kid, I dreamt I was in heaven, {They both stare at 
 him.) It was a sort of pale blue satin place, with all 
 the pious old ladies in our congregation sitting as if 
 they were at a service; and there was some awful person 
 in the study at the other side of the hall. I didnt enjoy 
 it, you know. What is it like in y o u r dreams ? 
 
 Keegan. In my dreams it is a country where the 
 State is the Church and the Church the people: three 
 in one and one in three. It is a commonwealth in which 
 work is play and play is life: three in one and one in 
 three. It is a temple in which the priest is the wor- 
 shipper and the worshipper the worshipped: three in 
 one and one in three. It is a godhead in which all life 
 is human and all humanity divine: three in one and one 
 in three. It is, in short, the dream of a madman. {He 
 goes away across the hill.) 
 
 Broadbent {looking after him affectionately). What 
 a regular old Church and State Tory he is! Hes a 
 
126 John Bull's Other Island Act IV 
 
 character: he'll be an attraction here. Really almost 
 equal to Ruskin and Carlyle. 
 
 Larry. Yes ; and much good t h e v did with all their 
 talk ! 
 
 Broadbent. Oh tut^ tut^ Larry ! They improved my 
 mind: they raised my tone enormously. I feel sincerely 
 obliged to Keegan: he has made me feel a better man: 
 distinctly better. (With sincere elevation.) I feel now 
 as I never did before that I am right in devoting my 
 life to the cause of Ireland. Come along and help me 
 to choose the site for the hotel. 
 
HOW HE LIED TO HER 
 HUSBAND 
 
 1904 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Like many other works of mine, this playlet is a piece 
 d'occasion. In 1905 it happened that Mr. Arnold Daly, 
 who was then playing the part of Napoleon in The Man 
 of Destiny in New York, found that whilst the play 
 was too long to take a secondary place in the evening's 
 performance, it was too short to suffice by itself. I 
 therefore took advantage of four days continuous rain 
 during a holiday in the north of Scotland to write How 
 He Lied To Her Husband for Mr. Daly. In his hands, 
 it served its turn very effectively. 
 
 I print it here as a sample of what can be done with 
 even the most hackneyed stage framework by filling it 
 in with an observed touch of actual humanity instead of 
 with doctrinaire romanticism. Nothing in the theatre 
 is staler than the situation of husband, wife and lover, 
 or the fun of knockabout farce. I have taken both, and 
 got an original play out of them, as anybody else can 
 if only he will look about him for his material instead 
 of plagiarizing Othello and the thousand plays that have 
 proceeded on Othello's romantic assumptions and false 
 point of honor. 
 
 A further experiment made by Mr. Arnold Daly with 
 this play is worth recording. In 1905 ^Ir. Daly pro- 
 duced Mrs. Warren's Profession in New York. The 
 press of that city instantly raised a cry that such per- 
 sons as Mrs. Warren are " ordure," and should not be 
 mentioned in the presence of decent people. This hide- 
 ous repudiation of humanity and social conscience so 
 took possession of the New York journalists that the 
 129 
 
180 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 few among them who kept their feet morally and in- 
 tellectually could do nothing to check the epidemic of 
 foul language^ gross suggestion, and raving obscenity of 
 word and thought that broke out. The writers aban- 
 doned all self-restraint under the impression that they 
 were upholding virtue instead of outraging it. They 
 infected each other with their hysteria until they were 
 for all practical purposes indecently mad. They finally 
 forced the police to arrest Mr. Daly and his company, 
 and led the magistrate to express his loathing of the 
 duty thus forced upon him of reading an unmentionable 
 and abominable play. Of course the convulsion soon 
 exhausted itself. The magistrate, naturally somewhat 
 impatient when he found that what he had to read was 
 a strenuously ethical play forming part of a book which 
 had been in circulation unchallenged for eight years, 
 and had been received without protest by the whole 
 London and New York press, gave the journalists a 
 piece of his mind as to their moral taste in plays. By 
 consent, he passed the case on to a higher court, which 
 declared that the play was not immoral; acquitted Mr. 
 Daly; and made an end of the attempt to use the law 
 to declare living women to be " ordure," and thus en- 
 force silence as to the far-reaching fact that you cannot 
 cheapen women in the market for industrial purposes 
 without cheapening them for other purposes as well. I 
 hope Mrs. Warren's Profession will be played every- 
 where, in season and out of season, until Mrs. Warren 
 has bitten that fact into the public conscience, and 
 shamed the newspapers which support a tariff to keep 
 up the price of every American commodity except Ameri- 
 can manhood and womanhood. 
 
 Unfortunately, Mr. Daly had already suffered the 
 usual fate of those who direct public attention to the 
 profits of the sweater or the pleasures of the voluptuary. 
 He was morally lynched side by side with me. Months 
 elapsed before the decision of the courts vindicated him', 
 
Preface 131 
 
 and even then, since his vindication implied the con- 
 demnation of the press, which was by that time sober 
 again, and ashamed of its orgie, his triumph received a 
 rather sulky and grudging publicity. In the meantime 
 he had hardly been able to approach an American city, 
 including even those cities which had heaped applause 
 on him as the defender of hearth and home when he 
 produced Candida, without having to face articles dis- 
 cussing whether mothers could allow their daughters to 
 attend such plays as You Never Can Tell, written by 
 the infamous author of Mrs. Warren's Profession, and 
 acted by the monster who produced it. What made this 
 harder to bear was that though no fact is better estab- 
 lished in theatrical business than the financial disastrous- 
 ness of moral discredit, the journalists who had done 
 all the mischief kept paying vice the homage of assum- 
 ing that it is enormously popular and lucrative, and 
 that I and Mr. Daly, being exploiters of vice, must 
 therefore be making colossal fortunes out of the abuse 
 heaped on us, and had in fact provoked it and welcomed 
 it with that express object. Ignorance of real life could 
 hardly go further. 
 
 One consequence was that ^Ir. Daly could not have 
 kept his financial engagements or maintained his hold on 
 the public had he not accepted engagements to appear 
 for a season in the vaudeville theatres (the American 
 equivalent of our music halls), where he played How 
 He Lied to Her Husband comparatively unhampered by 
 the press censorship of the theatre, or by that sophistica- 
 tion of the audience through press suggestion from 
 which I suffer more, perhaps, than any other author. 
 Vaudeville authors are fortunately unknown: the audi- 
 ences see what the play contains and what the actor can 
 do, not what the papers ha^e told them to expect. Suc- 
 cess under such circumstances had a value both for Mr. 
 Daly and myself which did something to console us 
 for the very unsavory mobbing which the New York 
 
132 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 press organized for us, and which was not the less dis- 
 gusting because we suffered in a good cause and in the 
 very best company, 
 
 Mr. Daly, having weathered the storm, can perhaps 
 shake his soul free of it as he heads for fresh successes 
 with younger authors. But I have certain sensitive 
 places in my soul : I do not like that word " ordure." 
 Apply it to my work, and I can afford to smile, since 
 the world, on the whole, will smile with me. But to 
 apply it to the woman in the street, whose spirit is of 
 one substance with our o^vn and her body no less holy: 
 to look your womenfolk in the face afterwards and not 
 go out and hang yourself: that is not on the list of 
 pardonable sins. 
 
HOW HE LIED TO HER 
 HUSBAND 
 
 It is eight o'clock in the evening. The curtains are 
 drawn and the lamps lighted in the drawing roovi of 
 Her flat in Cromwell Road. Her lover, a beautiful 
 youth of eighteen, in evening dress and cape, with a 
 bunch of flowers and an opera hat in his hands, comes 
 in alone. The door is near the corner; and as he appears 
 in the doorway, he has the fireplace on the nearest wall 
 to his right, and the grand piano along the opposite 
 wall to his left. Near the fireplace a small ornamental 
 table has on it a hand mirror, a fan, a pair of long white 
 gloves, and a little white woollen cloud to wrap a woman's 
 head in. On the other side of the room, near the piano, 
 is a broad, square, softly upholstered stool. The room 
 is furnished in the most approved South Kensington 
 fashion: that is, it is as like a show room as possible, 
 and is intended to demonstrate the social position and 
 spending powers of its owners, and not in the least to 
 make them comfortable. 
 
 He is, be it repeated, a very beautiful youth, moving 
 as in a dream, walking as on air. He puts his flowers 
 down carefully on the table beside the fan; takes off his 
 cape, and, as there is no room on the table for it, takes 
 it to the piano; puts his hat on the cape; crosses to the 
 hearth; looks at his watch; puts it up again; notices^ 
 the things on the table; lights up as if he saw heaven 
 opening before him; goes to the table and takes the. 
 cloud in both hands, nestling his nose into its softness 
 and kissing it; kisses the gloves one after another; kisses 
 133 
 
134 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 the fan; gasps a long shuddering sigh of ecstasy; sits 
 down on the stool and presses his hands to his eyes ta 
 shut out reality and dream a little; takes his hands down 
 and shakes his head with a little smile of rebuke for his 
 folly; catches sight of a speck of dust on his shoes and 
 hastily and carefully brushes it off with his handker- 
 chief; rises and takes the hand mirror from the table 
 to make sure of his tie with the gravest anxiety; and is 
 looking at his watch again when She comes in, much 
 flustered. As she is dressed for the theatre; has spoilt, 
 petted ways; and wears many diamonds, she has an air 
 of being a young and beautiful woman; but as a matter 
 of hard fact, she is, dress and pretensions apart, a very 
 ordinary South Kensington female of about 37, hope- 
 lessly inferior in physical and spiritual distinction to the 
 beautifid youth, who hastily puts down the mirror as she 
 enters. 
 
 He {kissing her hand). At last! 
 
 She. Henry: something dreadful has happened. 
 
 He. Whats the matter? 
 
 She. I have lost your poems. 
 
 He. They were unworthy of you. I will write you 
 some more. 
 
 She. No, thank you. Never any more poems for 
 me. Oh, how could I have been so mad! so rash! so 
 imprudent ! 
 
 He. Thank Heaven for your madness, your rashness, 
 your imprudence ! 
 
 She (impatiently). Oh, be sensible, Henry. Cant 
 you see what a terrible thing this is for me? Suppose 
 anybody finds these poems ! what will they think ? 
 
 He. They will think that a man once loved a woman 
 more devotedly than ever man loved woman before. But 
 they will not know what man it was. 
 
 She. ^Vliat good is that to me if everybody will know 
 what woman it was? 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 135 
 
 He. But how will they know? 
 
 She. How will they know ! Why, ray name is all 
 over them: my silly, unhappy name. Oh, if I had only 
 been christened Mary Jane, or Gladys Muriel, or 
 Beatrice, or Francesca, or Guinevere, or something quite 
 common! But Aurora! Aurora! I'm the only Aurora in 
 London; and everybody knows it. I believe I'm the 
 only Aurora in the world. And it's so horribly easy to 
 rhyme to it! Oh, Henry, why didn't you try to restrain 
 your feelings a little in common consideration for me? 
 Why didnt you write with some little reserve? 
 
 He. Write poems to you with reserve! You ask me 
 that ! 
 
 She (with perfunctory tenderness). Yes, dear, of 
 course it was very nice of you; and I know it was my 
 own fault as much as yours. I ought to have noticed 
 that your verses ought never to have been addressed to 
 a married woman. 
 
 He. Ah, how I wish they had been addressed to an 
 u n-married woman ! h o w I wish they had ! 
 
 She. Indeed you have no right to wish anything of 
 the sort. They are quite unfit for anybody but a mar- 
 ried woman. Thats just the difficulty. What will my 
 sisters-in-law think of them? 
 
 He {painfully jarred). Have you got sisters-in- 
 law? 
 
 She. Yes, of course I have. Do you suppose I am 
 an angel? 
 
 He (biting his lips). I do. Heaven help me, I do — 
 or I did — or (he almost chokes a sob). 
 
 She (softening and putting her hand caressingly on 
 his shoulder). Listen to me, dear. Its very nice of you 
 to live with me in a dream, and to love me, and so on; 
 but I cant help my husband having disagreeable relatives, 
 can I? 
 
 He (brightening up). Ah, of course they are your 
 husband's relatives: I forgot that. Forgive me, Aurora. 
 
136 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 \He taJces her hand from his shoulder and kisses it. She 
 sits down on the stool. He remains near the table, with 
 his back to it, smiling fatuously down at her.) 
 
 She. The fact is, Teddy's got nothing but relatives. 
 He has eight sisters and six half-sisters, and ever so 
 many brothers — but I dont mind his brothers. Novt^ if 
 you only knew the least little thing about the world, 
 Henry, youd know that in a large family, though the 
 sisters quarrel with one another like mad all the time, 
 yet let one of the brothers marry, and they all turn on 
 their unfortunate sister-in-law and devote the rest of 
 their lives with perfect imanimity to persuading him 
 that his wife is unworthy of him. They can do it to 
 her very face without her knowing it, because there are 
 always a lot of stupid low family jokes that nobody 
 understands but themselves. Half the time you cant 
 tell what theyre talking about: it just drives you wild. 
 There ought to be a law against a man's sister ever 
 entering his house after hes married. I'm as certain as 
 that I'm sitting here that Georgina stole those poems 
 out of my workbox. 
 
 He. She will not understand them, I think. 
 
 She. Oh, wont she! She'll understand them only 
 too well. She'll imderstand more harm than ever was 
 in them: nasty vulgar-minded cat! 
 
 He (going to her). Oh dont, dont think of people 
 in that way. Dont think of her at all. (He takes 
 her hand and sits down on the carpet at her feet.) 
 Aurora: do you remember the evening when I sat here 
 at your feet and read you those poems for the first 
 time ? 
 
 She. I shouldnt have let you : I see that now. When 
 I think of Georgina sitting there at Teddy's feet and 
 reading them to him for the first time^ I feel I shall 
 just go distracted. 
 
 He. Yes, you are right. It will be a profanation. 
 
 She. Oh, I dont care about the profanation; but 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 137 
 
 what will Teddy think? what will he do? (Suddenly 
 throwing his head away from her knee.) You dont seem 
 to think a bit about Teddy. (She jumps up, more and 
 more agitated.) 
 
 He (supine on the floor; for she has thrown him off 
 his balance). To me Teddy is nothing, and Georgina 
 less than nothing. 
 
 She. Youll soon find out how much less than nothing 
 she is. If you think a woman cant do any harm because 
 shes only a scandalmongering dowdy ragbag, youre 
 greatly mistaken. (She flounces about the room. He 
 gets up slowly and dusts his hands. Suddenly she runs 
 to him and throws herself into his arms.) Henry: help 
 me. Find a way out of this for me; and I'll bless you 
 as long as you live. Oh, how wretched I am ! (She sobs 
 on his breast.) 
 
 He. And oh ! how happy I am ! 
 
 She (whisking herself abruptly away). Dont be 
 selfish. 
 
 He (humbly). Yes: I deserve that. I think if I were 
 going to the stake with you, I should still be so happy 
 with you that I could hardly feel your danger more 
 than my own. 
 
 She (relenting arid patting his hand fondly). Oh, 
 you are a dear darling boy, Henry; but (throwing his 
 hand away fretfully) youre no u s e. I want somebody 
 to tell me what to do. 
 
 He (with quiet conviction). Your heart will tell you 
 at the right time. I have thought deeply over this; and 
 I know what we two must do, sooner or later. 
 
 She. No, Henry. I will do nothing improper, noth- 
 ing dishonorable. (She sits down plump on the stool 
 and looks inflexible.) 
 
 He. If you did, you would no longer be Aurora. Our 
 course is perfectly simple, perfectly straightforward, 
 perfectly stainless and true. We love one another. I 
 am not ashamed of that: I am ready to go out and pro- 
 
138 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 claim it to all London as simply as I will declare it to 
 your husband when you see — as you soon will see — 
 that this is the only way honorable enough for your feet 
 to tread. Let us go out together to our own house^ this 
 evening, without concealment and without shame. Re- 
 member! we owe something to your husband. We are 
 his guests here: he is an honorable man: he has been 
 kind to us: he has perhaps loved you as well as his 
 prosaic nature and his sordid commercial environment 
 permitted. We owe it to him in all honor not to let him 
 learn the truth from the lips of a scandalmonger. Let 
 us go to him now quietly, hand in hand; bid him fare- 
 well; and walk out of the house without concealment 
 and subterfuge, freely and honestly, in full honor and 
 self-respect. 
 
 She (staring at him). And where shall we go to? 
 
 He. We shall not depart by a hair's breadth from the 
 ordinary natural current of our lives. We were going to 
 the theatre when the loss of the poems compelled us to 
 take action at once. We shall go to the theatre still; 
 but we shall leave your diamonds here; for we cannot 
 afford diamonds, and do not need them. 
 
 She (fretfully). I have told you already that I 
 hate diamonds; only Teddy insists on hanging me all 
 over with them. You need not preach simplicity to 
 me. 
 
 He. I never thought of doing so, dearest: I know 
 that these trivialities are nothing to you. What was I 
 saying? — oh yes. Instead of coming back here from 
 the theatre, you will come with me to my home — ^now 
 and henceforth our home — and in due course of time, 
 when you are divorced, we shall go through whatever 
 idle legal ceremony you may desire. I attach no im- 
 portance to the law: my love was not created in me by 
 the law, nor can it be bound or loosed by it. That is 
 simple enough, and sweet enough, is it not? (He takes 
 the flowers from the table.) Here are flowers for you: 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 139 
 
 I have the tickets: we will ask your husband to lend us 
 the carriage to shew that there is no malice, no grudge, 
 between us. Come! 
 
 She (spiritlessly, taking the flowers without looking 
 at them, and temporizing). Teddy isnt in yet. 
 
 He. Well, let us take that calmly. Let us go to the 
 theatre as if nothing had happened, and tell him when 
 we come back. Now or three hours hence: to-day or 
 to-morrow: what does it matter, provided all is done in 
 honor, without shame or fear? 
 
 She. What did you get tickets for? Lohengrin? 
 
 He. I tried; but Lohengrin was sold out for to- 
 night. {He takes out two Court Theatre tickets.) 
 
 She. Then what did you get? 
 
 He. Can you ask me? What is there besides Lohen- 
 grin that we two could endure, except Candida? 
 
 She {springing up). Candida! No, I wont go to it 
 again, Henry {tossing the flowers on the piano). It is 
 that play that has done all the mischief. I'm very sorry 
 I ever saw it: it ought to be stopped. 
 
 He {amazed). Aurora! 
 
 She. Yes: I mean it. 
 
 He. That divinest love poem! the poem that gave 
 us courage to speak to one another ! that revealed to us 
 what we really felt for one another! that — 
 
 She. Just so. It put a lot of stuff into my head that 
 I should never have dreamt of for myself. I imagined 
 myself just like Candida. 
 
 He {catching her hands and looking earnestly at her). 
 You were right. You are like Candida. 
 
 She {snatching her hands away). Oh, stuff! And I 
 thought you were just like Eugene. {Looking critically 
 at him.) Now that I come to look at you, you arc 
 rather like him, too. {She throws herself discontentedly 
 into the nearest seat, which happens to be the bench at 
 the piano. He goes to her.) 
 
 He {very earnestly). Aurora: if Candida had loved 
 
140 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 Eugene she would have gone out into the night with 
 him without a moment's hesitation. 
 
 She (with equal earnestness). Henry: do you know 
 whats wanting in that play? 
 
 He. There is nothing wanting in it. 
 
 She. Yes there is. Theres a Georgina wanting in it. 
 If Georgina had been there to make trouble, that play 
 would have been a true-to-life tragedy. Now I'll 
 tell you something about it that I have never told you 
 before. 
 
 He. What is that? 
 
 She. I took Teddy to it. I thought it would do him 
 good; and so it would if I could only have kept him 
 awake. Georgina came too; and you should have heard 
 the way she went on about it. She said it was down- 
 right immoral, and that she knew the sort of woman 
 that encourages boys to sit on the hearthrug and make 
 love to her. She was just preparing Teddy's mind to 
 poison it about me. 
 
 He. Let us be just to Georgina, dearest — 
 
 She. Let her deserve it first. Just to Georgina, in- 
 deed! 
 
 He. She really sees the world in that way. That is 
 her punishment. 
 
 She. How can it be her punishment when she likes 
 it? Itll be my punishment when she brings that budget 
 of poems to Teddy. I wish youd have some sense, and 
 sympathize with my position a little. 
 
 He {going away from the piano and beginni?7g to walk 
 about rather testily). My dear: I really dont care about 
 Georgina or about Teddy. All these squabbles belong 
 to a plane on which I am, as you say, no use. I have 
 counted the cost; and I do not fear the consequences. 
 After all, what is there to fear ? Where is the difficulty ? 
 What can Georgina do? What can your husband do? 
 "Wliat can anybody do? 
 
 She. Do you mean to say that you propose that we 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 141 
 
 should walk right bang up to Teddy and tell him we're 
 going away together? 
 
 He, Yes. What can be simpler? 
 
 She. And do you think for a moment he'd stand it, 
 like that half-baked clergyman in the play? He'd just 
 kill you. 
 
 He (coming to a sudden stop and speaking with 
 considerable confidence). You dont understand these 
 things, my darling: how could you? In one respect I 
 am unlike the poet in the play. I have followed the 
 Greek ideal and not neglected the culture of my body. 
 Your husband would make a tolerable second-rate heavy 
 weight if he were in training and ten years younger. 
 As it is, he could, if strung up to a great effort by a 
 burst of passion, give a good account of himself for 
 perhaps fifteen seconds. But I am active enough to 
 keep out of his reach for fifteen seconds; and after that 
 I should be simply all over him. 
 
 She (rising and coming to him in consternation). 
 What do you mean by all over him? 
 
 He (gently). Dont ask me, dearest. At all events, 
 I swear to you that you need not be anxious about m e. 
 
 She. And what about Teddy? Do you mean to tell 
 me that you are going to beat Teddy before my face like 
 a brutal prizefighter? 
 
 He. All this alarm is needless, dearest. Believe me, 
 nothing will happen. Your husband knows that I am 
 capable of defending myself. Under such circumstances 
 nothing ever does happen. And of course / shall do 
 nothing. The man who once loved you is sacred to me. 
 
 She (suspiciously). Doesnt he love me still? Has 
 he told you anything? 
 
 He. No, no. (He takes her tenderly in his arms.) 
 Dearest, dearest : how agitated you are ! how unlike your- 
 self ! All these worries belong to the lower plane. Come 
 up with me to the higher one. The heights, the soli- 
 tudes, the soul world! 
 
142 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 She (avoiding his gaze). No: stop: it's no use^ Mr. 
 Apjohn. 
 
 He (recoiling). Mr. Apjohn!!! 
 
 She. Excuse me: I meant Henry, of course. 
 
 He. How could you even think of m e as Mr. Ap- 
 john? I never think of you as Mrs. Bompas: it is 
 always Cand — I mean Aurora, Aurora, Auro — 
 
 She. Yes, yes: thats all very well, Mr. Apjohn {he 
 is about to interrupt again: hut she wont have it) no: 
 it's no use: Ive suddenly begun to think of you as Mr. 
 Apjohn; and it's ridiculous to go on calling you Henry. 
 I thought you were only a boy, a child, a dreamer. I 
 thought you would be too much afraid to do anything. 
 And now you want to beat Teddy and to break up my 
 home and disgrace me and make a horrible scandal in 
 the papers. It's cruel, unmanly, cowardly. 
 
 He (with grave wonder). Are you afraid? 
 
 She. Oh, of course I'm afraid. So would you be if 
 you had any common sense. (She goes to the hearth, 
 turning her back to him, and puts one tapping foot on 
 the fender.) 
 
 He (watching her with great gravity). Perfect love 
 casteth out fear. That is why I am not afraid. Mrs. 
 Bompas: you do not love me. 
 
 She (turning to him with a gasp of relief). Oh, 
 thank you, thank you! You really can be very nice, 
 Henry. 
 
 He. Why do you thank me? 
 
 She (coming prettily to him from the fireplace). For 
 calling me ]\Irs. Bompas again. I feel now that you are 
 going to be reasonable and behave like a gentleman. 
 (He drops on the stool; covers his face with his hands; 
 and groans.) Whats the matter.'' 
 
 He. Once or twice in my life I have dreamed that I 
 was exquisitely happy and blessed. But oh! the mis- 
 giving at the first stir of consciousness ! the stab of 
 reality! the prison walls of the bedroom! the bitter. 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 143 
 
 bitter disappointment of waking ! And this time ! oh, 
 this time I thought I was awake. 
 
 She. Listen to me, Henry: we really ha\Tit time for 
 all that sort of flapdoodle now. (He starts to his feet 
 OS if she had pulled a trigger and straightened him by 
 the release of a powerful springj and goes past her with 
 set teeth to the little table.) Oh, take care: you nearly 
 hit me in the chin with the top of your head. 
 
 He (with fierce politeness). I beg your pardon. 
 What is it you want me to do? I am at your service. I 
 am ready to behave like a gentleman if you will be kind 
 enough to explain exactly how. 
 
 She (a little frightened). Thank you, Henry: I was 
 sure you would. Youre not angry with me, are you? 
 
 He. Go on. Go on quickly. Give me something to 
 think about, or I will — I will — (he suddenly snatches 
 up her fan and is about to break it in his clenched fists). 
 
 She (reaming forward and catching at the fan, with 
 loud lamentation). Dont break my fan — no, dont. (He 
 slowly relaxes his grip of it as she draws it anxiously 
 out of his hands.) No, really, thats a stupid trick. I 
 dont like that. Youve no right to do that. (She opens 
 the fan, and finds that the sticks are disconnected.) Oh, 
 how could you be so inconsiderate? 
 
 He. I beg your pardon. I will buy you a new one. 
 
 She (querulously). You will never be able to match 
 it. And it was a particular favorite of mine. 
 
 He (shortly). Then you will have to do without it: 
 thats all. 
 
 She. Thats not a very nice thing to say after break- 
 ing my pet fan, I think. 
 
 He. If you knew how near I was to breaking Teddy's 
 pet wife and presenting him with the pieces, you would 
 be thankful that you are alive instead of — of — of howl- 
 ing about fiveshillingsworth of ivory. Damn your fan ! 
 
 She. Oh ! Dont you dare swear in my presence. 
 One would think you were my husband. 
 
144 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 He (again collapsing on the stool). This is some 
 horrible dream. What has become of you ? You are 
 not my Aurora. 
 
 She. Oh, well, if you come to that, what has become 
 of you? Do you think I would ever have encouraged 
 you if I had known you were such a little devil? 
 
 He. Dont drag me down — dont — dont. Help me to 
 find the way back to the heights. 
 
 She (kneeling beside him and pleading). If you 
 would only be reasonable, Henry. If you would only 
 remember that I am on the brink of ruin, and not go 
 on calmly saying it's all quite simple. 
 
 He. It seems so to me. 
 
 She (jumping up distractedly). If you say that 
 again I shall do something I'll be sorry for. Here we 
 are, standing on the edge of a frightful precipice. No 
 doubt it's quite simple to go over and have done with it. 
 But cant you suggest anything more agreeable? 
 
 He. I can suggest nothing now. A chill black dark- 
 ness has fallen: I can see nothing but the ruins of our 
 dream. (He rises with a deep sigh.) 
 
 She. Cant you? Well, I can. I can see Georgina 
 rubbing those poems into Teddy. (Facing him deter- 
 minedly.) And I tell you, Henry Apjohn, that you 
 got me into this mess: and you must get me out of it 
 again. 
 
 He (polite and hopeless). AU I can say is that 
 I am entirely at your service. What do you wish me 
 to do? 
 
 She. Do you know anybody else named Aurora? 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Theres no use in saying No in that frozen pig- 
 headed way. You must know some Aurora or other 
 somewhere. 
 
 He. You said you were the only Aurora in the world. 
 And (lifting his clasped fists with a sudden return of 
 his emotion) oh God! you were the only Aurora in the 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 145 
 
 world to me. {He turns away from her, hiding his 
 face.) 
 
 She (petting him). Yes, yes, dear: of course. It's 
 very nice of you; and I appreciate it: indeed I do; but 
 it's not seasonable just at present. Now just listen to 
 me. I suppose you know all those poems by heart. 
 
 He. Yes, by heart. (Raising his head and look- 
 ing at her with a sudden suspicion.) Dont you.'' 
 
 She. Well, I never can remember verses; and be- 
 sides, Ive been so busy that Ive not had time to read 
 them all; though I intend to the very first moment I 
 can get: I promise you that most faithfully, Henry. 
 But now try and remember very particularly. Does the 
 name of Bompas occur in any of the poems.'' 
 
 He (indignantly). No. 
 
 She. Youre quite sure? 
 
 He. Of course I am quite sure. How could I use 
 such a name in a poem? 
 
 She. Well, I dont see why not. It rhymes to 
 rumpus, which seems appropriate enough at present, 
 goodness knows ! However, youre a poet, and you 
 ought to know, 't" 
 
 He. What does it matter — now? 
 
 She. It matters a lot, I can tell you. If theres 
 nothing about Bompas in the poems, we can say that 
 they were written to some other Aurora, and that you 
 shewed them to me because, my name was Aurora too. 
 So youve got to invent another Aurora for the occasion. 
 
 He (very coldly). Oh, if you wish me to tell a lie — 
 
 She. Surely, as a man of honor — as a gentleman, 
 you wouldnt tell the truth, would you? 
 
 He. Very well. You have broken my spirit and 
 desecrated my dreams. I will lie and protest and stand 
 on my honor: oh, I will play the gentleman, never fear. 
 
 She. Yes, put it all on me, of course. Dont be 
 mean, Henry. 
 
 He (rousing himself with an effort). You are 
 
146 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 quite right, Mrs. Bompas: I beg your pardon. You 
 must excuse my temper. I have got growing pains, I 
 think. 
 
 She. Growing pains! 
 
 He. The process of growing from romantic boyhood 
 into cynical maturity usually takes fifteen years. When 
 it is compressed into fifteen minutes, the pace is too 
 fast; and growing pains are the result. 
 
 She. Oh, is this a time for cleverness? It's settled, 
 isnt it, that youre going to be nice and good, and that 
 youll brazen it out to Teddy that you have some other 
 Aurora .'' 
 
 He. Yes: I'm capable of anything now. I should 
 not have told him the truth by halves; and now I will 
 not lie by halves. I'll wallow in the honor of a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 She. Dearest boy, I knew you would. I — Sh ! {she 
 rushes to the door, and holds it ajar, listening breath- 
 lessly). 
 
 He. What is it? 
 
 She {white with apprehension). It's Teddy: I hear 
 him tapping the new barometer. He cant have any- 
 thing serious on his mind or he wouldnt do that. Per- 
 haps Georgina hasnt said anything. (She steals back 
 to the hearth.) Try and look as if there was nothing 
 the matter. Give me my gloves, quick. (He hands 
 them to her. She pulls on one hastily and begins but- 
 toning it with ostentatious unconcern.) Go further 
 away from me, quick. (He walks doggedly away from 
 her until the piano prevents his going farther.) If I 
 button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, dont you 
 think that — 
 
 He. The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. 
 For Heaven's sake, Mrs. Bompas, let that glove alone: 
 you look like a pickpocket. 
 
 Her husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well 
 groomed city man, with a strong chin but a blithering 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 147 
 
 eye and credulous mouth. He has a momentous air, hut 
 shews no sign of displeasure: rather the contrary. 
 
 Her Husband. Hallo! I thought you two were at 
 the theatre. 
 
 She. I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didnt 
 you come home to dinner.'' 
 
 Her Husband. I got a message from Georgina. She 
 wanted me to go to her. 
 
 She. Poor dear Georgina ! I'm sorry I havnt been 
 able to call on her this last week. I hope theres nothing 
 the matter with her. 
 
 Her Husband. Nothing, except anxiety for my wel- 
 fare — and yours. (She steals a terrified look at Henry.) 
 By the way, Apjohn, I should like a word with you this 
 evening, if Aurora can spare you for a moment. 
 
 He {formally). I am at your service. 
 
 Her Husband. No hurry. After the theatre will do. 
 
 He. We have decided not to go. 
 
 Her Husband. Indeed! Well, then, shall we ad- 
 journ to my snuggery? 
 
 She. You neednt move. I shall go and lock up my 
 diamonds since I'm not going to the theatre. Give me 
 my things. 
 
 Her Husband {as he hands her the cloud and the 
 mirror). Well, we shall have more room here. 
 
 He {looking about him and shaking his shoulders 
 loose). I think I should prefer plenty of room. 
 
 Her Husband. So, if its not disturbing you, Rory — ? 
 
 She. Not at all. {She goes out.) 
 
 When the ttvo men are alone together, Bompas de- 
 liberately takes the poems from his breast pocket; looks 
 at them reflectively; then looks at Henry, mutely in- 
 viting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing 
 his best to look unconcerned. 
 
 Her Husband. Do these manuscripts seem at all 
 familiar to you, may I ask.-* 
 
 He. Manuscripts ? 
 
148 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 Her Husband. Yes. Would j-ou like to look at them 
 a little closer? {He proffers them under Henry's nose.) 
 
 He {as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise). 
 Why, these are my poems ! 
 
 Her Husband. So I gather. 
 
 He. ^'^Tiat a shame! Mrs. Bompas has shewn them 
 to you! You must think me an utter ass. I wrote them 
 years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before Sun- 
 rise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set 
 of Songs to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know : the rosy fin- 
 gered Aurora. Theyre all about Aurora. When Mrs. 
 Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldnt resist 
 the temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didnt 
 bargain for your unsympathetic eyes. 
 
 Her Husband {grinning). Apjohn: thats really very 
 ready of you. You are cut out for literature; and the 
 day will come when Rory and I will be proud to have 
 you about the house. I have heard far thinner stories 
 from much older men. 
 
 He {jvith an air of great surprise). Do you mean to 
 imply that you dont believe me.'* 
 
 Her Husband. Do you expect me to believe you.'' 
 
 He. Why not? I dont understand. 
 
 Her Husband. Come ! Dont underrate your own 
 cleverness, Apjohn. I think you understand pretty well. 
 
 He. I assure you I am quite at a loss. Can you not 
 be a little more explicit? 
 
 Her Husband. Dont overdo it, old chap. However, 
 I will just be so far explicit as to say that if you think 
 these poems read as if they were addressed, not to a 
 live woman, but to a shivering cold time of day at which 
 you were never out of bed in your life, you hardly do 
 justice to your own literary powers — which I admire 
 and appreciate, mind you, as much as any man. Come ! 
 own up. You wrote those poems to my wife. {An in- 
 ternal struggle prevents Henry from answering.) Of 
 course you did. {He throws the poems on the table; 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 149 
 
 and goes to the hearthrug, where he plants himself 
 solidly, chuckling a little and rvaiting for the next 
 move.) 
 
 He {formally and carefully). Mr. Bompas: I pledge 
 you my word you are mistaken. I need not tell you 
 that Mrs. Bompas is a lady of stainless honor, who has 
 never cast an unworthy thought on me. The fact that 
 she has shewn you my poems — 
 
 Her Husband. Thats not a fact. I came by them 
 without her knowledge. She didnt show them to me. 
 
 He. Does not that prove their perfect innocence? 
 She would have shewn them to you at once if she had 
 taken your quite unfounded view of them. 
 
 Her Husband (shaken). Apjohn: play fair. Uont 
 abuse your intellectual gifts. Do you really mean that 
 I am making a fool of myself? 
 
 He (earnestly). Believe me, you axe. I assure you, 
 on my honor as a gentleman, that I have never had the 
 slightest feeling for Mrs. Bompas beyond the ordinary 
 esteem and regard of a pleasant acquaintance. 
 
 Her Husband (shortly, showing ill humor for the 
 first time). Oh, indeed. (He leaves his hearth and he- 
 gins to approach Henry slowly, looking him up and 
 down with growing resentment.) 
 
 He (hastening to improve the impression made by his 
 mendacity). I should never have dreamt of writing 
 poems to her. The thing is absurd. 
 
 Her Husband (reddening ominously). Why is it ab- 
 surd? 
 
 He (shrugging his shoulders). Well, it happens that 
 I do not admire Mrs. Bompas — in that way. 
 
 Her Husband (breaking out in Henry's face). Let 
 me tell you that Mrs. Bompas has been admired by bet- 
 ter men than you, you soapy headed little puppy, you. 
 
 He (much taken aback). There is no need to insult 
 me like this. I assure you, on my honor as a — 
 
 Her Husband (too angry to tolerate a reply, and 
 
150 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 boring Henry more and more towards the piano). You 
 dont admire Mrs. Bompas ! You would never dream 
 of writing poems to Mrs. Bompas ! My wife's not good 
 enough for you, isnt she. {Fiercely.) Who are you, 
 pray, that you should be so jolly sujDerior? 
 
 He. Mr. Bompas: I can make allowances for your 
 jealousy — 
 
 Her Husband. Jealousy! do you suppose I'm jeal- 
 ous of you? No, nor of ten like you. But if jou 
 think I'll stand here and let you insult my wife in her 
 own house, youre mistaken. 
 
 He {very uncomfortable with his back against the 
 piano and Teddy standing over him threateningly). How 
 can I convince you.-* Be reasonable. I tell you my re- 
 lations with Mrs. Bompas are relations of perfect cold- 
 ness — of indifference — 
 
 Her Husband (scornfully). Say it again: say it 
 again. Youre proud of it, arnt you.'' Yah! youre not 
 worth kicking. 
 
 Henry suddenly executes the feat known to pugilists 
 as slipping, and changes sides with Teddy, who is now 
 between Henry and the piano. 
 
 He. Look here: I'm not going to stand this. 
 
 Her Husband. Oh, you have some blood in your 
 body after all! Good job! 
 
 He. This is ridiculous. I assure you Mrs. Bompas 
 is quite — 
 
 Her Husband. What is Mrs. Bompas to you, I'd 
 like to know. I'll tell you what Mrs. Bompas is. Shes 
 the smartest woman in the smartest set in South Ken- 
 sington, and the handsomest, and the cleverest, and the 
 most fetching to experienced men who know a good 
 thing when they see it, whatever she may be to con- 
 ceited penny-a-lining puppies wlio think nothing good 
 enough for them. It's admitted by the best people; 
 and not to know it argues yourself unknown. Three 
 of our first actor-managers have offered her a hundred 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband l5l 
 
 a week if she'll go on the stage when they start a 
 repertory theatre; and I think they know what theyre 
 about as well as you. The only member of the present 
 Cabinet that you might call a handsome man has 
 neglected the business of the country to dance with her, 
 though he dont belong to our set as a regular thing. 
 One of the first professional poets in Bedford Park 
 wrote a sonnet to her, worth all your amateur trash. At 
 Ascot last season the eldest son of a duke excused him- 
 self from calling on me on the ground that his feelings 
 for Mrs. Bompas were not consistent with his duty to 
 me as host; and it did him honor and me too. But 
 (fvith gathering fury) she isnt good enough for you, 
 it seems. You regard her with coldness, with indiffer- 
 ence; and you have the cool cheek to tell me so to my 
 face. For two pins I'd flatten your nose in to teach you 
 manners. Introducing a fine woman to you is casting 
 pearls before swine (yelling at him) before swine! 
 d'ye hear.'' 
 
 He (with a deplorable lack of polish). You call me 
 a swine again and I'll land you one on the chin thatU 
 make your head sing for a week. 
 
 Her Husband (exploding). What — ! 
 
 He charges at Henry with bull-like fury. Henry 
 places himself on guard in the manner of a well taught 
 boxer, and gets away smartly, but unfortunately forgets 
 the stool which is just behind him. He falls backwards 
 over it, unintentionally pushing it against the shins of 
 Bompas, who falls forward over it. Mrs. Bompas, with 
 a scream, rushes into the room between the S'prawling 
 champions, and sits down on the floor in order to get 
 her right arm round her husband's neck. 
 
 She. You shant, Teddy: you shant. You will be 
 killed : he is a prizefighter. 
 
 Her Husband (vengefully). I'll prizefight him. 
 (He struggles vainly to free himself from her em- 
 brace.) 
 
152 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 She. Henry: dont let him fight you. Promise me 
 that you wont. 
 
 He (ruefully). I have got a most frightful bump on 
 the back of my head. (He tries to rise.) 
 
 She (reaching out her left hand to seize his coat 
 tail, and pulling him down again, whilst keeping fast 
 hold of Teddy with the other hand). Not until you 
 have promised: not until you both have promised. 
 (Teddy rises to rise: she pulls him back again.) 
 Teddy: you promise, dont you? Yes, yes. Be good: 
 you promise. 
 
 Her Husband. I wont, unless he takes it back. 
 
 She. He will: he does. You take it back, Henry? 
 — yes. 
 
 He (savagely). Yes. I take it back. (She lets go 
 his coat. He gets up. So does Teddy.) I take it all 
 back, all, without reserve. 
 
 She (on the carpet). Is nobody going to help me up? 
 (They each take a hand and pull her up.) Now wont 
 you shake hands and be good? 
 
 He (recklessly). I shall do nothing of the sort. 
 I have steeped myself in lies for your sake; and the 
 only reward I get is a lump on the back of my head 
 the size of an apple. Now I ^vill go back to the straight 
 path. 
 
 She. Henry: for Heaven's sake — 
 
 He. It's no use. Your husband is a fool and a 
 brute— 
 
 Her Husband. Whats that you say? 
 
 He. I say you are a fool and a brute; and if youll 
 step outside with me I'll say it again. (Teddy begins 
 to take off his coat for combat.) Those poems were 
 written to your wife, every word of them, and to no- 
 body else. (The scowl clears away from Bompas's 
 countenance. Radiant, he replaces his coat.) I wrote 
 them because I loved her. I thought her the most 
 beautiful woman in the world; and I told her so over 
 
How He Lied to Her Husband 153 
 
 and over again. I adored her: do you hear? I told her 
 that you were a sordid commercial chump, utterly xm- 
 worthy of her; and so you are. 
 
 Her Husband (so gratified, he can hardly believe his 
 ears). You dont mean it! 
 
 He. Yes, I do mean it, and a lot more too. I asked 
 Mrs. Bompas to walk out of the house with me — to 
 leave you — to get divorced from you and marry me. I 
 begged and implored her to do it this very night. It 
 was her refusal that ended everything between us. 
 {Looking very disparagingly at him.) What she can 
 see in you, goodness only knows ! 
 
 Her Husband {beaming with remorse). My dear 
 chap, why didnt you say so before ? I apologize. Come ! 
 dont bear malice: shake hands. Make him shake hands, 
 Rory. 
 
 She. For my sake, Henry. After all, hes my hus- 
 band. Forgive him. Take his hand. {Henry, dazed, 
 lets her take his hand and place it in Teddy's.) 
 
 Her Husband {shaking it heartily). Youve got to 
 own that none of your literary heroines can touch my 
 Rory. {He turns to her and claps her with fond pride 
 on the shoulder.) Eh, Rory? They cant resist you: 
 none of em. Never knew a man yet that could hold out 
 three days. 
 
 She. Dont be foolish, Teddy. I hope you were not 
 really hurt, Henry. {She feels the back of his head. 
 He flinches.) Oh, poor boy, what a bump! I must get 
 some vinegar and brown paper. {She goes to the bell 
 and rings.) 
 
 Her Husband. Will you do me a great favor, Ap- 
 . I hardly like to ask ; but it would be a real kind- 
 ness to us both. 
 
 He. What can I do? 
 
 Her Husband {taking up the poems). Well, may I 
 get these printed? It shall be done in the best style. 
 The finest paper, sumptuous binding, everything first 
 
154 How He Lied to Her Husband 
 
 class. Theyre beautiful poems. I should like to shew 
 them about a bit. 
 
 She (running back from the bell, delighted with the 
 idea, and coming between them). Oh Henry^ if you 
 wouldnt mind! 
 
 He. Oh, I dont mind. I am past minding anything. 
 I have grown too fast this evening. 
 
 She. How old are you^ Henry? 
 
 He. This morning I was eighteen. Now I am — 
 confound it! I'm quoting that beast of a play (he takes 
 the Candida tickets out of his pocket and tears them up 
 viciously). 
 
 Her Husband. What shall we call the volume. To 
 Aurora, or something like that, eh? 
 
 He. I should call it How He Lied to Her Husband. 
 
MAJOR BARBARA 
 1905 
 
PREFACE TO MAJOR BARBARA 
 
 FIRST AID TO CRITICS 
 
 Before dealing with the deeper aspects of Major Bar- 
 bara, let me, for the credit of English literature, make 
 a protest against an unpatriotic habit into which many 
 of my critics have fallen. Whenever my view strikes 
 them as being at all outside the range of, say, an ordi- 
 nary suburban churchwarden, they conclude that I am 
 echoing Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Ibsen, Strindberg, 
 Tolstoy, or some other heresiarch in northern or eastern 
 Europe. 
 
 I confess there is something flattering in this simple 
 faith in my accomplishment as a linguist and my erudi- 
 tion as a philosopher. But I cannot tolerate the as- 
 sumption that life and literature is so poor in these 
 islands that we must go abroad for all dramatic material 
 that is not common and all ideas that are not super- 
 ficial. I therefore venture to put my critics in posses- 
 sion of certain facts concerning my contact with modern 
 ideas. 
 
 About half a century ago, an Irish novelist, Charles 
 Lever, wrote a story entitled A Day's Ride: A Life's 
 Romance. It was published by Charles Dickens in 
 Household Words, and proved so strange to the public 
 taste that Dickens pressed Lever to make short work of 
 it. I read scraps of this novel when I was a child; 
 and it made an enduring impression on me. The hero 
 was a very romantic hero, trying to live bravely, chival- 
 rously, and powerfully by dint of mere romance-fed 
 157 
 
158 Major Barbara 
 
 imagination^ without courage, without means, without 
 knowledge, without skill, without anything real except 
 his bodily appetites. Even in my childhood I found 
 in this poor devil's unsuccessful encounters with the 
 facts of life, a poignant quality that romantic fiction 
 lacked. The book, in spite of its first failure, is not 
 dead: I saw its title the other day in the catalogue of 
 Tauchnitz, 
 
 Now why is it that when I also deal in the tragi- 
 comic irony of the conflict between real life and the 
 romantic imagination, no critic ever affiliates me to my 
 countrj'man and immediate forerunner, Charles Lever, 
 whilst they confidently derive me from a Norwegian 
 author of whose language I do not know three words, 
 and of whom I knew nothing imtil years after the 
 Shavian Anschauung was already unequivocally declared 
 in books full of what came, ten years later, to be per- 
 functorily labelled Ibsenism. I was not Ibsenist even 
 at second hand; for Lever, though he may have read 
 Henri Beyle, alias Stendhal, certainly never read Ibsen. 
 Of the books that made Lever popular, such as Charles 
 0']\lalley and Harry Lorrequer, I know nothing but the 
 names and some of the illustrations. But the story of 
 the day's ride and life's romance of Potts (claiming 
 alliance with Pozzo di Borgo) caught me and fascinated 
 me as something strange and significant, though I al- 
 ready knew all about Alnaschar and Don Quixote and 
 Simon Tappertit and many another romantic hero 
 mocked by reality. From the plays of Aristophanes to 
 the tales of Stevenson that mockery has been made 
 familiar to all 'who are properly saturated with letters. 
 
 Where, then, was the novelty in Lever's tale? Partly, 
 I think, in a new seriousness in dealing with Potts's 
 disease. Formerly, the contrast between madness and 
 sanity was deemed comic: Hogarth shews us how fash- 
 ionable people went in parties to Bedlam to laugh at the 
 lunatics. I myself have had a village idiot exhibited to 
 
First Aid to Critics 159 
 
 me as sometliing irresistibly funny. On the stage the 
 madman was once a regular comic figure: that was how 
 Hamlet got his opportunity before Shakespear touched 
 him. The originality of Shakespear's version lay in his 
 taking the limatic sympathetically and seriously, and 
 thereby making an advance towards the eastern con- 
 sciousness of the fact that lunacy may be inspiration in 
 disguise, since a man who has more brains than his fel- 
 lows necessarily appears as mad to them as one who 
 has less. But Shakespear did not do for Pistol and 
 Parolles what he did for Hamlet. The particular sort 
 of madman they represented, the romantic make-be- 
 liever, lay outside the pale of sympathy in literature: 
 he was pitilessly despised and ridiculed here as he was 
 in the east under the name of Alnaschar, and was doomed 
 to be, centuries later, under the name of Simon Tapper- 
 tit. When Cervantes relented over Don Quixote, and 
 Dickens relented over Pickwick, they did not become 
 impartial: they simj^ly changed sides, and became 
 friends and apologists where they had formerly been 
 mockers. 
 
 In Lever's story there is a real change of attitude. 
 There is no relenting towards Potts: he never gains our 
 affections like Don Quixote and Pickwick: he has not 
 even the infatuate courage of Tappertit. But we dare 
 not laugh at him, because, somehow, we recognize our- 
 selves in Potts. We may, some of us, have enough nerve, 
 enough muscle, enough luck, enough tact or skill or 
 address or knowledge to carry things off better than he 
 did; to impose on the people who saw through him; to 
 fascinate Katinka (who cut Potts so ruthlessly at the 
 end of the story) ; but for all that, we know that Potts 
 plays an enormous part in ourselves and in the world, 
 and that the social problem is not a problem of story- 
 book heroes of the older pattern, but a problem of 
 Pottses, and of how to make men of them. To fall 
 back on my old phrase, we have the feeling — one that 
 
160 Major Barbara 
 
 Alnaschar, Pistol, Parolles, and Tappertit never gave 
 us — that Potts is a piece of really scientific natural his- 
 tory as distinguished from comic story telling. His 
 author is not throwing a stone at a creature of another 
 and inferior order, but making a confession, with the 
 effect that the stone hits everybody full in the conscience 
 and causes their self-esteem to smart very sorely. Hence 
 the failure of Lever's book to please the readers of 
 Household Words. That pain in the self-esteem nowa- 
 days causes critics to raise a cry of Ibsenism. I there- 
 fore assure them that the sensation first came to me 
 from Lever and may have come to him from Beyle, or 
 at least out of the Stendhalian atmosphere. I exclude 
 the hypothesis of complete originality on Lever's part, 
 because a man can no more be completely original in 
 that sense than a tree can grow out of air. 
 
 Another mistake as to my literary ancestry is made 
 whenever I violate the romantic convention that all 
 women are angels when they are not devils; that they 
 are better looking than men; that their part in courtship 
 is entirely passive; and that the human female form is 
 the most beautiful object in nature. Schopenhauer 
 wrote a splenetic essay which, as it is neither polite nor 
 profound, was probably intended to knock this nonsense 
 violently on the head. A sentence denouncing the idol- 
 ized form as ugly has been largely quoted. The English 
 critics have read that sentence; and I must here affirm, 
 with as much gentleness as the implication will bear, 
 that it has yet to be proved that they have dipped any 
 deeper. At all events, whenever an English playwright 
 represents a young and marriageable woman as being 
 anything but a romantic heroine, he is disposed of with- 
 out further thought as an echo of Schopenhauer. ^ly 
 own case is a specially hard one, because, when I implore 
 the critics who are obsessed with the Schopenhaurian 
 formula to remember that playwrights, like sculptors, 
 study their figures from life, and not from philosophic 
 
First Aid to Critics 161 
 
 essays, they reply passionately that I am not a play- 
 wright and that my stage figures do not live. But even 
 so, I may and do ask them why, if they must give the 
 credit of my plays to a philosopher, they do not give 
 it to an English j^hilosopher ? Long before I ever read 
 a word by Schopenhauer, or even knew whether he 
 was a philosopher or a chemist, the Socialist revival of 
 the eighteen-eighties brought me into contact, both lit- 
 erary and personal, with Mr. Ernest Belfort Bax, an 
 English Socialist and philosophic essayist, whose 
 handling of modern feminism would provoke romantic 
 protests from Schojaenhauer himself, or even Strind- 
 berg. At a matter of fact I hardly noticed Schopen- 
 hauer's disparagements of women when they came under 
 my notice later on, so thoroughly had Mr. Bax familiar- 
 ized me with the homoist attitude, and forced me to 
 recognize the extent to which public opinion, and conse- 
 quently legislation and jurisprudence, is corrupted by 
 feminist sentiment. 
 
 But Mr. Bax's essays were not confined to the Fem- 
 inist question. He was a ruthless critic of current 
 morality. Other writers have gained sympathy for 
 dramatic criminals by eliciting the alleged " soul of 
 goodness in things evil"; but Mr. Bax would propound 
 some quite undramatic and apparently shabby violation 
 of our commercial law and morality, and not merely 
 defend it with the most disconcerting ingenuity, but 
 actually prove it to be a positive duty that nothing but 
 the certainty of police persecution should prevent every 
 right-minded man from at once doing on principle. The 
 Socialists were naturally shocked, being for the most 
 part morbidly moral people; but at all events they were 
 saved later on from the delusion that nobody but 
 Nietzsche had ever challenged our mercanto-Christian 
 morality. I first heard the name of Nietzsche from a 
 German mathematician, ISIiss Borchardt, who had read 
 my Quintessence of Ibsenism, and told me that she saw 
 
162 Major Barbara 
 
 •what I had been reading: namely, Nietzsche's Jenseits 
 von Gut nnd Bose. Which I protest I had never seen, 
 and could not have read with anj comfort, for want of 
 the necessary German, if I had seen it. 
 
 Nietzsche, like Schopenhauer^ is the victim in Eng- 
 land of a single much quoted sentence containing the 
 phrase " big blonde beast." On the strength of this 
 alliteration it is assumed that Nietzsche gained his Euro- 
 pean reputation by a senseless glorification of selfish 
 bullying as the rule of life, just as it is assumed, on 
 the strength of the single word Superman (Ubermensch) 
 borrowed by me from Nietzsche, that I look for the 
 salvation of society to the despotism of a single Napo- 
 leonic Superman, in spite of my careful demonstration 
 of the folly of that outworn infatuation. But even the 
 less recklessly superficial critics seem to believe that 
 the modern objection to Christianity as a pernicious 
 slave-morality was first put forward by Nietzsche. It 
 was familiar to me before I ever heard of Nietzsche. 
 The late Captain Wilson, author of several queer 
 pamphlets, propagandist of a metaphysical system called 
 Comprehensionism, and inventor of the term " Cross- 
 tianity " to distinguish the retrograde element in Chris- 
 tendom, was wont thirty years ago, in the discussions of 
 the Dialectical Society, to protest earnestly against the 
 beatitudes of the Sermon on the Mount as excuses for 
 cowardice and servility, as destructive of our will, and 
 consequently of our honor and manhood. Now it is 
 true that Captain Wilson's moral criticism of Chris- 
 tianity was not a historical theory of it, like Nietzsche's ; 
 but this objection cannot be made to Mr. Stuart-Glen- 
 nie, the successor of Buckl6 as a philosophic historian, 
 who has devoted his life to the elaboration and propaga- 
 tion of his theory that Christianity is part of an epoch 
 (or rather an aberration, since it began as recently as 
 6000 B.C. and is already collapsing) produced by the 
 necessity in which the numerically inferior white races 
 
First Aid to Critics 163 
 
 found themselves to impose their domination on the 
 colored races by priestcraft, making a virtue and a popu- 
 lar religion of drudgery and submissiveness in this world 
 not only as a means of achieving saintliness of character 
 but of securing a reward in heaven. Here you have the 
 slave-morality view formulated by a Scotch philosopher 
 long before English writers began chattering about 
 Nietzsche. 
 
 As INIr. Stuart-Glennie traced the evolution of society 
 to the conflict of races, his theory made some sensation 
 among Socialists — that is, among the only people who 
 were seriously thinking about historical evolution at all 
 — by its collision with the class-conflict theory of Karl 
 ;Marx. Nietzsche, as I gather, regarded the slave- 
 morality as having been invented and imposed on the 
 world by slaves making a virtue of necessity and a re- 
 ligion of their servitude. Mr. Stuart-Glennie regards 
 the slave-morality as an invention of the superior white 
 race to subjugate the minds of the inferior races whom 
 they wished to exploit, and who would have destroyed 
 them by force of numbers if their minds had not been 
 subjugated. As this process is in operation still, and 
 can be studied at first hand not only in our Church 
 schools and in the struggle between our modern pro- 
 prietary classes and the proletariat, but in the part 
 played by Christian missionaries in reconciling the black 
 races of Africa to their subjugation by European Cap- 
 italism, we can judge for ourselves whether the in- 
 itiative came from above or below. My object here is 
 not to argue the historical point, but simply to make our 
 theatre critics ashamed of their habit of treating Britain 
 as an intellectual void, and assuming that every phil- 
 osophical idea, every historic theory, every criticism of 
 our moral, religious and juridical institutions, must 
 necessarily be either imported from abroad, or else a 
 fantastic sally (in rather questionable taste) totally un- 
 related to the existing body of thought. I urge them 
 
164 ]\Iajor Barbara 
 
 to remember tliat this body of thought is the slowest of 
 growths and the rarest of blossomings, and that if there 
 is such a thing on the philosophic plane as a matter of 
 course, it is that no individual can make more than a 
 minute contribution to it. In fact, their conception of 
 clever persons parthenogenetically bringing forth com- 
 plete original cosmogonies by dint of sheer " brilliancy " 
 is part of that ignorant credulity which is the despair 
 of the honest philosopher, and the opportunity of the 
 religious impostor. 
 
 The Gospel of St. Andrew Undershaft. 
 
 It is this credulity that drives me to help my critics 
 out with ]\Iajor Barbara by telling them what to say 
 about it. In the millionaire Undershaft I have repre- 
 sented a man who has become intellectually and spirit- 
 ually as well as practically conscious of the irresistible 
 natural truth which we all abhor and repudiate: to wit, 
 that the greatest of evils and the worst of crimes is 
 poverty, and that our first duty — a duty to which every 
 other consideration should be sacrificed — is not to be 
 poor. " Poor but honest," " the respectable poor," and 
 such phrases are as intolerable and as immoral as 
 " drimken but amiable," " fraudulent but a good after- 
 dinner speaker," " splendidly criminal," or the like. Se^ 
 curitv^^h^ chief pretence of civilization, cannot exist 
 tvherethe worst of dangers, the danger of poverty, 
 hangs over everyone's head, and where the alleged pro- 
 tection of our persons from violence is only an accidental 
 result of the existence of a police force whose real busi- 
 ness is to force the poor man to see his children starve 
 whilst idle people overfeed pet dogs with the money 
 that might feed and clothe them. 
 
 It is exceedingly difficult to make people realize that 
 an evil is an evil. For instance, we seize a man and 
 deliberately do him a malicious injury: say, imprison 
 
First Aid to Critics 165 
 
 him for rears. One would not suppose that it needed 
 any exceptional clearness of wit to recognize in this an 
 act of diabolical cruelty. But in England such a recog- 
 nition provokes a stare of surprise, followed by an ex- 
 planation that the outrage is punishment or justice or 
 something else that is all right, or perhaps by a heated 
 attempt to argue that we should all be robbed and mur- 
 dered in our beds if such senseless villainies as sen- 
 tences of imprisonment were not committed daily. It 
 is useless to argue that even if this were true, which it 
 is not, the alternative to adding crimes of our own to 
 the crimes from which we suff'er is not helpless sub- 
 mission. Chickenpox is an evil; but if I were to declare 
 that we must either submit to it or else repress it sternly 
 by seizing everyone who suffers from it and punishing 
 them by inoculation with smallpox, I should be laughed 
 at; for though nobody could deny that the result would 
 be to prevent chickenpox to some extent by making 
 people avoid it much more carefully, and to effect a \ 
 further apparent prevention by making them conceal it i, 
 very anxiously, yet people would have sense enough to 
 see that the deliberate propagation of smallpox was a 
 creation of evil, and must therefore be ruled out in 
 favor of purely humane and hygienic measures. Yet in 
 the precisely parallel case of a man breaking into my 
 house and stealing my wife's diamonds I am expected 
 as a matter of course to steal ten years of his life, tor- 
 turing him all the time. If he tries to defeat that % 
 monstrous retaliation by shooting me, my survivors hang 
 him. The net result suggested by the police statistics 
 is that we inflict atrocious injuries on the burglars we 
 catch in order to make the rest take effectual precautions 
 against detection; so that instead of saving our wives' 
 diamonds from burglary we only greatly decrease our 
 chances of ever getting them back, and increase our 
 chances of being shot by the robber if we are unlucky 
 enough to disturb him at his work. 
 
166 IMajor Barbara 
 
 But the thoughtless wickedness with which we scatter 
 sentences of imprisonment, torture in the solitary cell 
 and on the plank bed, and flogging, on moral invalids 
 and energetic rebels, is as nothing compared to the 
 stupid levity with which we tolerate poverty as if it 
 were either a wholesome tonic for lazy people or else a 
 virtue to be embraced as St. Francis embraced it. If a 
 man is indolent, let him be poor. If he is drunken, let 
 him be poor. If he is not a gentleman, let him be poor. 
 fy If he is addicted to the fine arts or to pure science in- 
 stead of to trade and finance, let him be poor. If he 
 chooses To spend his urbaneighteen shillings a week or 
 his agricultural thirteen shillings a week on his beer and 
 his family instead of saving it up for his old age, let him 
 be poor. Let nothing be done for " the undeserving " : 
 let him be poor. Serve him right ! Also — somewhat in- 
 consistently — blessed are the poor ! 
 
 Now what does this Let Him Be Poor mean? It 
 means let him be weak. Let him be ignorant. Let him 
 become a nucleus of disease. Let him be a standing 
 exhibition and example of ugliness and dirt. Let him 
 have rickety children. Let him be cheap and let him 
 drag hi s Jellows down to his p rice by selling himself to 
 dp theirjvork. Letliis habitations turn our cities into 
 poisonous congeries of slums. Let his daughters infect 
 our young men with the diseases of the streets and his 
 sons revenge him by turning the nation's manhood into 
 scrofula, cowardice, cruelty, hypocrisy, political imbe- 
 cility, and all the other fruits of oppression and mal- 
 nutrition. Let the undeserving become still less de- 
 serving; and let the deserving lay up for himself, not 
 treasures in heaven, but horrors in hell upon earth. This 
 being so, is it really wise to let him be poor.'' Would 
 he not do ten times less harm as a prosperous burglar, 
 incendiary, ravisher or murderer, to the utmost limits 
 of humanity's comparatively negligible impulses in these 
 directions? Suppose we were to abolish all penalties 
 
First Aid to Critics 167 
 
 for such activities, and decide that poverty is the one 
 thing we will not tolerate — that every adult with less 
 than, say, £365 a year, shall be painlessly but inexorably 
 killed, and every hungry half naked child forcibly fat- 
 tened and clothed, would not that be an enormous im- 
 provement on our existing system, which has already 
 destroyed so many civilizations^ and is visibly destroying 
 ours in the same way? 
 
 Is there any radicle of such legislation in our parlia- 
 mentary system? Well, there are two measures just 
 sprouting in the political soil, which may conceivably 
 grow to something valuable. One is the institution of a 
 Legal Minimum Wage. The other. Old Age Pensions. 
 But there is a better plan than either of these. Some 
 time ago I mentioned the subject of Universal Old Age 
 Pensions to my fellow Socialist Mr. Cobden-Sanderson, 
 famous as an artist-craftsman in bookbinding and print- 
 ing. "Why not Universal Pensions for Life?" said 
 Cobden-Sanderson. In saying this, he solved the in- 
 dustrial problem at a stroke. At present we say cal- 
 lously to each citizen: "If you want money, earn it," 
 as if his having or not having it were a matter that 
 concerned himself alone. We do not even secure for 
 him the opportunity of earning it: on the contrary, we 
 allow our industry to be organized in open dependence 
 on the maintenance of " a reserve army of unemployed " 
 for the sake of " elasticity." " The sensible course would 
 be Cobden-Sanderson's : that is, to give every man enough ^ 
 to live well on, so as to guarantee the community against 
 the possibility of a case of the malignant disease of ' 
 poverty, and then (necessarily) to see that he earned it. 
 
 Undershaft, the hero of Major Bar bara, is simply a 
 man who, having grasped the fact that poverty is a 
 crime, knows that when society offered him the alter- 
 native of poverty or a lucrative trade in death and 
 destruction, it offered him, not a choice between opulent 
 villainy and humble virtue, but between energetic enter- 
 
168 Major Barbara 
 
 prise and cowardly infamy. His conduct stands the 
 Kantian test, which Peter Shirley's does not. Peter 
 Shirley is what we call the honest poor man. Under- 
 shaft is what we call the Avicked rich one: Shirley is 
 Lazarus, Undershaft Dives. Well, the misery of the 
 world is due to the fact that the great mass of men act 
 and believe as Peter Shirley acts and believes. If they 
 acted and believed as Undershaft acts and believes, the 
 immediate result would be a revolution of incalculable 
 beneficence. To be wealthy, says Undershaft, is with 
 me a point of honor for which I am prepared to kill 
 at the risk of my own life. This preparedness is, as he 
 says, the final test of sincerity. Like Froissart's medi- 
 eval hero, who saw that " to rob and pill was a good 
 life," he is not the dupe of that public sentiment against 
 killing which is propagated and endowed by people who 
 would otherwise be killed themselves, or of the mouth- 
 honor paid to poverty and obedience by rich and in- 
 subordinate do-nothings who want to rob the poor with- 
 out courage and command them without superiority. 
 Froissart's knight, in placing the achievement of a good 
 life before all the other duties — which indeed are not 
 duties at all when they conflict with it, but plain wicked- 
 nesses — behaved bravely, admirably, and, in the final 
 analysis, public-spiritedly. Medieval society, on the 
 other hand, behaved very badly indeed in organizing 
 itself so stupidly that a good life could be achieved by 
 robbing and pilling. If the knight's contemporaries 
 had been all as resolute as he, robbing and pilling would 
 have been the shortest way to the gallows, just as, if 
 we were all as resolute and clearsighted as Undershaft, 
 an attempt to live by means of what is called " an inde- 
 pendent income " would be the shortest way to the 
 lethal chamber. But as, thanks to our political imbe- 
 cility and personal cowardice (fruits of jDoverty, both), 
 the best imitation of a good life now procurable is life 
 on an independent income, all sensible people aim at 
 
First Aid to Critics 169 
 
 securing such an income, and are, of course, careful to 
 legalize and moralize both it and all the actions and 
 sentiments which lead to it and support it as an institu- 
 tion. What else can they do? They know, of course, 
 that they are rich because others are poor. But they 
 cannot help that: it is f or the poor t o repudiate poverty 
 when they have had enough of it. The thing can be 
 denr easH}'^ enough: the demonstrations to the contrary 
 made by the economists, jurists, moralists and senti- 
 mentalists hired by the rich to defend them, or even 
 doing the wo rk gratuitously out of sheer foll y and ab- 
 jectness, impose only on the hirers. 
 
 The reason why the independent income-tax payers 
 are not solid in defence of their position is that since 
 we are not medieval rovers through a sparsely populated 
 country, tlie poverty of those we rob prevents our hav- 
 ing the good life for which we sacrifice them. Rich 
 men or aristocrats with a developed sense of life — men 
 like Ruskin and William JNIorris and Kropotkin — have 
 enormous social appetites and very fastidious personal 
 ones. They are not content with handsome houses : they 
 want handsome cities. They are not content with be- 
 diamonded wives and blooming daughters: they complain 
 because the charwoman is badly dressed, because the 
 laundress smells of gin, because the sempstress is anemic, 
 because every man they meet is not a friend and every 
 woman not a romance. They turn up their noses at 
 their neighbors' drains, and are made ill by the archi- 
 tecture of their neighbors' houses. Trade patterns made 
 to suit vulgar people do not please them (and they can 
 get nothing else) : they cannot sleep nor sit at ease upon 
 " slaughtered " cabinet makers' furniture. The very air 
 is not good enough for them: tliere is too much factory 
 smoke in it. They even demand abstract conditions: 
 justice, honor, a noble moral atmosphere, a mystic nexus 
 to replace the cash nexus. Finally they declare that 
 though to rob and pill with your own hand on horseback 
 
170 Major Barbara 
 
 and in steel coat may have been a good life, to rob and 
 pill by the hands of the policeman, the bailiff, and the 
 soldier, and to underpay them meanly for doing it, is 
 not a good life, but rather fatal to all possibility of even 
 a tolerable one. They call on the poor to revolt, and, 
 finding the poor shocked at their ungentlemanliness, 
 desjDairingly revile the proletariat for its " damned want- 
 lessness " (verdammte Bediirfnislosigkeit). 
 
 So far, however, their attack on society has lacked 
 simplicity. The poor do not share their tastes nor un- 
 derstand their art-criticisms. They do not want the 
 simple life, nor the esthetic life; on the contrary, they 
 want very much to wallow in all the costly vulgarities 
 from which the elect souls among the rich turn away 
 with loathing. It is by surfeit and not by abstinence 
 that they will be cured of their hankering after \m- 
 wholesome sweets. What they do dislike and despise 
 and are ashamed of is poverty. To ask them to fight 
 for the difference between the Christmas number of the 
 Illustrated London News and the Kelmscott Chaucer 
 is silly: they prefer the News. The difference between 
 a stockbroker's cheap and dirty starched white shirt and 
 collar and the comparatively costly and carefully dyed 
 blue shirt of William Morris is a difference so disgrace- 
 ful to Morris in their eyes that if they fought on the 
 subj ect at all, they would fight in defence of the starch. 
 " Cease to be slaves, in order that you may become 
 cranks " is not a very inspiring call to arms ; nor is it 
 really improved by substituting saints for cranks. Both 
 terms denote men of genius; and the common man does 
 not want to live the life of a man of genius: he would 
 much rather live the life of a pet collie if that were the 
 only alternative. But he does want more money. AMiat- 
 ever else he may be vague about, he is clear about that. 
 He may or ftaay not prefer Major Barbara to the Drury 
 Lane pantomime; but he always prefers five hundred 
 pounds to five hundred shillings. 
 
First Aid to Critics 171 
 
 Now to deplore this preference as sordid, and teach 
 children that it is sinful to desire money, is to strain 
 towards tlie extreme possible limit of impudence in lying, 
 and corruption in hypocrisy. J'he universal regard for 
 money is the one hopeful fact in our civilization, the one 
 sound spot in our social conscience. INIoney is the most 
 important thing in the world. It represents health, 
 sTtrength, honor, generosity and beauty as conspicuously 
 and undeniably as the want of it represents illness, 
 weakness, disgrace, meanness and ugliness. Not the 
 least of its virtues is that it destroys base people as 
 certainly as it fortifies and dignifies noble people. It 
 is only when it is cheapened to worthlessness for some, 
 and made impossibly dear to otliers, that- it becomes a 
 curse. In short, it is a curse only in such foolish social 
 conditions that life itself is a curse. For the two things 
 are inseparable: money is the counter that enables life 
 to be distributed socially: it is life as truly as sovereigns 
 and bank notes are money. The first duty of every 
 citizen is to insist on having money on reasonable terms; 
 and this demand is not complied with by giving four 
 men three shillings each for ten or twelve hours' drudg- 
 ery and one man a thousand pounds for nothing. The 
 crying need of the nation is not for better morals, cheaper 
 bread, temperance, liberty, culture, redemption of fallen 
 sisters and erring brothers, nor the grace, love and fel- 
 lowship of the Trinity, but simply for enough money. 
 And the evil to be attacked is not sin, suffering, greed, 
 priestcraft, kingcraft, demagogy, monopoly, ignorance, 
 drink, war, pestilence, nor any other of the scapegoats 
 which reformers sacrifice, but simply poverty. 
 
 Once take your eyes from the ends of the earth and 
 fix them on this truth just under your nose; and Andrew 
 Undershaft's views will not perplex you in the least. 
 Unless indeed his constant sense that he is only the 
 instrument of a Will or Life Force which uses him for 
 purposes wider than his own, may puzzle you. If so. 
 
172 Major Barbara 
 
 that is because you are walking either in artificial Dar- 
 winian darkness, or in mere stupidity. All genuinely 
 religious people have that consciousness. To them Un- 
 dershaft the Mystic will be quite intelligible, and his 
 perfect comprehension of his daughter the Salvationist 
 and her lover the Euripidean republican natural and in- 
 evitable. That, hoAvever, is not new, even on the stage. 
 "WTiat is new, as far as I know, is that article in Under- 
 shaft's religion which recognizes in Money the first need 
 and in poverty the vilest sin of man and society. 
 
 This dramatic conception has not, of course, been 
 attained per saltum. Nor has it been borrowed from 
 Nietzsche or from any man born beyond the Channel. 
 The late Samuel Butler, in his own department the 
 greatest English writer of the latter half of the XIX 
 century, steadily inculcated the necessity and morality 
 of a conscientious Laodiceanism in religion and of an 
 earnest and constant sense of the importance of money. 
 It drives one almost to despair of English literature 
 when one sees so extraordinary a study of English life 
 as Butler's posthumous Way of All Flesh making so 
 little impression that when, some years later, I produce 
 plays in which Butler's extraordinarily fresh, free and 
 future-piercing suggestions have an obvious share, I am 
 met with nothing but vague cacklings about Ibsen and 
 Nietzsche, and am only too thankful that they are not 
 about Alfred de ]Musset and Georges Sand. Really, 
 the English do not deserve to have great men. They 
 allowed Butler to die practically unknown, whilst I, a 
 comparatively insignificant Irish journalist, was leading 
 them by the nose into an advertisement of me which has 
 made my own life a burden. In Sicily there is a Via 
 Samuele Butler. When an English tourist sees it, he 
 either asks " AVlio the devil was Samuele Butler?" or 
 wonders why the Sicilians should perpetuate the memory 
 of the author of Hudibras. 
 
 Well, it cannot be denied that the English are only 
 
First Aid to Critics 173 
 
 too nnxious to recognize a man of genius if somebody 
 will kindly point him out to them. Having pointed my- 
 self out in this manner with some success, I now point 
 out Samuel Butler, and trust that in consequence I shall 
 hear a little less in future of the novelty and foreign 
 origin of the ideas which are now making their way into 
 the English theatre through plays written by Socialists. 
 There are living men whose originality and power are 
 as obvious as Butler's; and when they die that fact will 
 be discovered. Meanwhile I recommend them to insist 
 on their own merits as an important part of their own 
 business. 
 
 The Salvation Army. 
 
 When ]\Iajor Barbara was produced in London, the 
 second act was reported in an important northern news- 
 paper as a withering attack on the Salvation Army, and 
 the despairing ejaculation of Barbara deplored by a 
 London daily as a tasteless blasphemy. And they were 
 set right, not by the professed critics of the theatre, 
 but by religious and philosoi^hical publicists like Sir 
 Oliver Lodge and Dr. Stanton Coit, and strenuous Non- 
 conformist journalists like Mr. William Stead, who not 
 only understand the act as well as the Salvationists 
 themselves, but also saw it in its relation to the religious 
 life of tlie nation, a life ^hich seems to lie not only 
 outside the sympathy of many of our theatre critics, 
 but actually outside their knowledge of society. Indeed 
 nothing could be more ironically curious than the con- 
 frontation ^NL-ijor Barbara effected of the theatre en- 
 thusiasts with the religious enthusiasts. On the one 
 hand was the playgoer, always seeking pleasure, paying 
 exorbitantly for it, suffering unbearable discomforts for 
 it, and hardly ever getting it. On the other hand was 
 the Salvationist, repudiating gaiety and courting effort 
 and sacrifice, yet always in the wildest spirits, laughing, 
 
174 ]\Iajor Barbara 
 
 joking, singing, rejoicing, drumming, and lambourin- 
 ing: his life flying by in a flash of excitement, and his 
 death arriving as a climax of triumph. And, if you 
 please, the playgoer despising the Salvationist as a joy- 
 less person, shut out from the heaven of the theatre, 
 self-condemned to a life of hideous gloom; and the Sal- 
 vationist mourning over the playgoer as over a prodigal 
 with vine leaves in his hair, careering outrageously to 
 hell amid the popping of champagne corks and the 
 ribald laughter of sirens ! Could misunderstanding be 
 more complete, or sympathy worse misplaced? 
 
 Fortunately, the Salvationists are more accessible to 
 the religious character of the drama than the playgoers 
 to the gay energy and artistic fertility of religion. They 
 can see, when it is pointed out to them, that a theatre, 
 as a place where two or three are gathered together, 
 takes from that divine presence an inalienable sanctity 
 of which the grossest and profanest farce can no more 
 deprive it than a hypocritical sermon by a snobbish 
 bishop can desecrate Westminster Abbey. But in our 
 professional playgoers this indispensable preliminary 
 conception of sanctity seems wanting. They talk of 
 actors as mimes and mummers, and, I fear, think of 
 dramatic authors as liars and pandars, whose main busi- 
 ness is the voluptuous soothing of the tired city specu- 
 lator when what he calls the serious business of the day 
 is over. Passion, the life of drama, means nothing to 
 them but primitive sexual excitement: such phrases as 
 " impassioned poetry " or " passionate love of truth " 
 have fallen quite out of their vocabulary and been re- 
 placed by " passional crime " and the like. They as- 
 sume, as far as I can gather, that people in whom pas- 
 sion has a larger scope are passionless and therefore 
 iminteresting. Consequently they come to think of re- 
 ligious people as people who are not interesting and not 
 amusing. And so, when Barbara cuts the regular Salva- 
 tion Army jokes, and snatches a kiss from her lover 
 
First Aid to Critics 175 
 
 across his drum, the devotees of the theatre think they 
 ought to appear shocked, and conclude that the whole 
 play is an elaborate mockery of the Army. And then 
 either hypocritically rebuke me for mocking, or fool- 
 ishly take part in the supposed mockery ! 
 
 Even the handful of mentally competent critics got 
 into difficulties over my demonstration of the economic 
 deadlock in which the Salvation Army finds itself. Some 
 of them tliought that the Army would not have taken 
 money from a distiller and a cannon founder: others 
 thought it should not have taken it: all assumed more 
 or less definitely that it reduced itself to absurdity or 
 hypocrisy by taking it. On the first point the reply of 
 the Army itself was prompt and conclusive. As one of 
 its officers said, they would take money from the devil 
 himself and be only too glad to get it out of his hands 
 and into God's. They gratefully acknowledged that 
 publicans not only give them money but allow them to 
 collect it in the bar^sometimes even when there is a 
 Salvation meeting outside preaching teetotalism. In 
 fact, they questioned the verisimilitude of the play, not 
 because iSIrs. Baines took the money, but because Bar- 
 bara refused it. 
 
 On the point that the Army ought not to take such 
 money, its justification is obvious. It must take the 
 money because it cannot exist without money, and there 
 is no other money to be had. Practically all the spare 
 money in the country consists of a mass of rent, interest, 
 and profit, every pennj- of which is bound up with crime, 
 drink, prostitution, disease, and all the evil fruits of 
 poverty, as inextricably as with enterprise, wealth, com- 
 mercial probity, and national prosperity. The notion 
 that you can earmark certain coins as tainted is an un- 
 practical individualist superstition. None the less the 
 fact that all our money is tainted gives a very severe 
 shock to earnest young souls when some dramatic in- 
 stance of the taint first makes them conscious of it. 
 
1- 
 
 176 Major Barbara 
 
 "When an enthusiastic young clergyman of the Estab- 
 lished Church first realizes that the Ecclesiastical Com- 
 missioners receive the rents of sporting public houses, 
 brothels, and sweating dens; or that the most generous 
 contributor at his last charity sermon was an employer 
 trading in female labor cheapened by prostitution as 
 unscrupulously as a hotel keeper trades in waiters' labor 
 cheapened by tips, or commissionaire's labor cheapened 
 by pensions; or that i;he only patron who can afford to 
 rebuild his church or his schools or give his boys' brigade 
 a gymnasium or a library is the son-in-law of a Chicago 
 meat King, that young clergyman has, like Barbara, a 
 very bad quarter hour. But he cannot help himself by 
 refusing to accept money from anybody except sweet 
 old ladies with independent incomes and gentle and 
 lovely ways of life. He has only to follow up the in- 
 come of the sweet ladies to its industrial source, and 
 there he will fmd Mrs. Warren's profession and the 
 poisonous canned meat and all the rest of it. His own 
 stipend has the same root. He must either share the 
 world's guilt or go to another planet. He must save 
 the world's honor if he is to save his own. This is what 
 all the Churches find just as the Salvation Army and 
 Barbara find it in the play. Her discovery that she js 
 her father's acc anmligfi.; that the Salvation Army is the 
 accomplice of the distiller and the dynamite maker; that 
 they can no more escape one anotlier than they can 
 escape the air they breathe ; that th ere is n o salvatio n 
 f or them through person al righteousness, Eut only 
 through the redemption of tlie whole Tlation from its 
 vicious, lazy, competitive anarchy: this discovery has 
 been made by everyone except the Pharisees and (ap- 
 parently) the professional playgoers, who still wear 
 their Tom Hood shirts and underpay their washerwomen 
 without the slightest misgiving as to the elevation of 
 their private characters, the purity of their private at- 
 mospheres, and their right to repudiate as foreign to 
 
First Aid to Critics 177 
 
 themselves the coarse depravity of the garret and the 
 slum. Not that they mean any harm: they only desire 
 to be, in their little private way, what they call gentle- 
 men. They do not miderstand Barbara's lesson because 
 they have not, like her, learnt it by taking their part in 
 the larger life of the nation. 
 
 Barbara's Return to the Colors. 
 
 Barbara's return to the colors may yet provide a sub- 
 ject for the dramatic historian of the future. To go 
 back to the Salvation Army with the knowledge that 
 even the Salvationists themselves are not saved yet; that 
 poverty is not blessed, but a most damnable sin; and 
 that when General Booth chose Blood and Fire for the 
 emblem of Salvation instead of the Cross, he was per- 
 haps better inspired than he knew: such knowledge, for 
 the daughter of Andrew Undershaft, will clearly lead 
 to something hopefuller than distributing bread and 
 treacle at the expense of Bodger. 
 
 It is a very significant thing, this instinctive choice of 
 the military form of organization, this substitution of 
 the drum for the organ, by the Salvation Army. Does 
 it not suggest that the Salvationists divine that they 
 must actually fight the devil instead of merely praying 
 at him? At present, it is true, they have not quite 
 ascertained his correct address. When they do, they 
 may give a very rude shock to that sense of security 
 which he has gained from his experience of the fact 
 that hard words, even when uttered by eloquent essay- 
 ists and lecturers, or carried unanimously at enthusiastic 
 public meetings on the motion of eminent reformers, 
 break no bones. It has been said that the French Revo- 
 lution was the work of Voltaire, Rousseau and the En- 
 cyclopedists. It seems to me to have been the work of 
 men who .had observed that virtuous indignation, caustic 
 
178 Major Barbara 
 
 criticism, conclusive argument and instructive pamphlet'- 
 eering, even when done by the most earnest and witty 
 literary geniuses, were as useless as praying, things go- 
 ing steadily from bad to worse whilst the Social Con- 
 tract and the pamphlets of Voltaire were at the height 
 of their vogue. Eventually, as we know, perfectly 
 respectable citizens and earnest philanthropists con- 
 nived at the September massacres because hard experi- 
 ence had convinced them that if they contented them- 
 selves with appeals to humanity and patriotism, the 
 aristocracy, though it would read their appeals with the 
 greatest enjoyment and appreciation, flattering and ad- 
 miring the writers, would none the less continue to 
 conspire Avith foreign monarchists to mido the revolution 
 and restore the old system with every circumstance of 
 savage vengeance and ruthless repression of popular 
 liberties. 
 
 The nineteenth century saw the same lesson I'epeated 
 in England. It had its Utilitarians, its Christian Social- 
 ists, its Fabians (still extant) : it had Bentham, Mill, 
 Dickens, Ruskin, Carlyle, Butler, Henry George, and 
 Morris. And the end of all their efforts is the Chicago 
 described by ]\Ir. Upton Sinclair, and the London in 
 which the people who pay to be amused by my dramatic 
 representation of Peter Shirley turned out to starve at 
 forty because there are younger slaves to be had for his 
 wages, do not take, and have not the slightest intention 
 of taking, any effective step to organize society in such 
 a way as to make that everyday infamy impossible. I, 
 who have preached and pamphleteered like any Ency- 
 clopedist, have to confess that my methods are no use, 
 and would be no use if I were Voltaire, Rousseau, 
 Bentham, Mill, Dickens, Carlyle, Ruskin, George, But- 
 ler, and Morris all rolled into one, with Euripides, IMore, 
 Moliere, Shakespear, Beaumarchais, Swift, Goethe, Ib- 
 sen, Tolstoy, Moses and the prophets all thrown in (as 
 indeed in some sort I actually am, standing as I do on 
 
First Aid to Critics 170 
 
 all their shoulders). The problem being to make heroes 
 out of cowards, we paper ajDostlcs and artist-magicians 
 have succeeded only in giving cowards all the sensations 
 of heroes whilst they tolerate every abomination, accept 
 every plunder, and submit to every oppression. Chris- 
 tianity, in making a merit of such submission, has 
 marked only that depth in the abyss at which the very 
 sense of shame is lost. The Christian has been like 
 Dickens' doctor in the debtor's prison, who tells the 
 newcomer of its ineffable peace and security: no duns; 
 no tyrannical collectors of rates, taxes, and rent; no 
 importunate hopes nor exacting duties; nothing but the 
 rest and safety of having no further to fall. 
 
 Yet in the poorest corner of this soul-destroying 
 Christendom vitality suddenly begins to germinate 
 again. Joyousness, a sacred gift long dethroned by the 
 hellish laughter of derision and obscenity, rises like a 
 flood miraculously out of the fetid dust and mud of the 
 slums; rousing marches and impetuous dithyrambs rise 
 to the heavens from people among whom the depressing 
 noise called "sacred music" is a standing joke; a flag 
 with Blood and Fire on it is unfurled, not in murderous 
 rancor, but because fire is beautiful and blood a vital 
 and splendid red; Fear, which we flatter by calling Self, 
 vanishes; and transfigured men and women carry their 
 gospel through a transfigured world, calling their leader 
 General, themselves captains and brigadiers, and their 
 whole body an Army: praying, but praying only for 
 refreshment, for strength to fight, and for needful 
 Money (a notable sign, that) ; preaching, but not 
 preaching submission; daring ill-usage and abuse, but 
 not putting up with more of it than is inevitable; and 
 practising what the world will let them practise, includ- 
 ing soap and water, color and music. There is danger 
 in such activity ; and where there is danger there is hope. 
 Our present security is nothing, and can be nothing, but 
 evil made irresistible. 
 
180 Major Barbara 
 
 Weaknesses of the Salvation Army. 
 
 For the present, however, it is not my business to 
 flatter the Salvation Army. Rather must I point out 
 to it that it has almost as many weaknesses as the 
 Church of England itself. It is building up a business 
 organization which will compel it eventually to see that 
 its present staff of enthusiast-commanders shall be suc- 
 ceeded by a bureaucracy of men of business who will 
 be no better than bishops, and perhaps a good deal more 
 unscrupulous. That has always happened sooner or 
 later to great orders foimded by saints; and the order 
 founded by St. William Booth is not exempt from the 
 same danger. It is even more dependent than the Church 
 on rich people who would cut off supplies at once if it 
 began to preach that indispensable revolt against pov- 
 erty which must also be a revolt against riches. It is 
 hampered by a heavy contingent of pious elders who are 
 not really Salvationists at all, but Evangelicals of the 
 old school. It still, as Commissioner Howard affirms, 
 " sticks to Moses," which is flat nonsense at this time of 
 day if the Commissioner means, as I am afraid he does, 
 that the Book of Genesis contains a trustworthy scientific 
 account of the origin of species, and that the god to 
 whom Jephthah sacrificed his daughter is any less ob- 
 viously a tribal idol than Dagon or Chemosh. 
 
 Further, there is still too much other- worldliness 
 about the Army. Like Frederick's grenadier, the Sal- 
 vationist wants to live for ever (the most monstrous way 
 of crying for the moon) ; and though it is evident to 
 anyone who has ever heard General Booth and his best 
 officers that they would work as hard for human salva- 
 tion as they do at present if they believed that death 
 would be the end of them individually, they and their 
 followers have a bad habit of talking as if the Salva- 
 tionists were heroically enduring a very bad time on 
 earth as an investment which will bring them in divi- 
 
First Aid to Critics 181 
 
 dends later on in the form, not of a better life to come 
 for the whole world, but of an eternity spent by them- 
 selves personally in a sort of bliss which would bore 
 any active person to a second death. Surely the truth 
 is that the Salvationists are unusually happy people. 
 And is it not the very diagnostic of true salvation that 
 it shall overcome the fear of death? Now the man who 
 has come to believe that there is no such thing as death, 
 the change so called being merely the transition to an 
 exquisitely happy and utterly careless life, has not over- 
 come the fear of death at all: on the contrary, it has 
 overcome him so completely that he refuses to die on 
 any terms whatever. I do not call a Salvationist really 
 saved until he is ready to lie down cheerfully on the 
 scrap heajj, having paid scot and lot and something 
 over, and let his eternal life pass on to renew its youth 
 in the battalions of the future. 
 
 Then there is the nasty lying habit called confession, 
 which the Army encourages because it lends itself to 
 dramatic oratory, with plenty of thrilling incident. For ' 
 my part, when I hear a convert relating the violences ' 
 and oaths and blasphemies he was guilty of before he 
 was saved, making out tliat he was a very terrible fellow 
 then and is the most contrite and chastened of Christians 
 now, I believe him no more than I believe the millionaire 
 who says he came up to London or Chicago as a boy 
 with only three halfpence m his pocket. Salvationists 
 have said to me that Barbara in my play would never 
 have been taken in by so transparent a humbug as Snobby 
 Price; and certainly I do not think Snobby could have 
 taken in any experienced Salvationist on a point on 
 which the Salvationist did not wish to be taken in. But 
 on the point of conversion all Salvationists wish to be 
 taken in ; for the more obvious the sinner the more ob- 
 vious the miracle of his conversion. When you advertize 
 a converted burglar or reclaimed drunkard as one of the 
 attractions at an experience meeting, your burglar can 
 
182 Major Barbara 
 
 / 
 
 hardly have been too burglarious or your drunkard too 
 drunken. As long as such attractions are relied on, you 
 will have your Snobbies claiming to have beaten their 
 mothers when thej'^ were as a matter of prosaic fact 
 habitually beaten by them, and your Rummies of the 
 tamest respectability pretending to a past of reckless 
 and dazzling vice. Even when confessions are sincerely 
 autobiographic there is no reason to assume at once that 
 the impulse to make them is pious or the interest of the 
 hearers wholesome. It might as well be assumed that 
 the poor people who insist on shewing appalling ulcers 
 to district visitors are convinced hygienists, or that the 
 curiosity which sometimes welcomes such exhibitions is 
 a pleasant and creditable one. One is often tempted to 
 suggest that those who pester our police superintendents 
 with confessions of murder might very wisely be taken 
 at their word and executed, except in the few cases in 
 which a real murderer is seeking to be relieved of his 
 guilt by confession and expiation. For though I am 
 not, I hope, an unmerciful person, I do not think that 
 the inexorability of the deed once done should be dis- 
 guised by any ritual, whether in the confessional or on 
 the scaffold. 
 
 And here my disagreement with the Salvation Army, 
 and with all propagandists of the Cross (to which I 
 object as I object to all gibbets) becomes deep indeed. 
 Forgiveness, absolution, atonement, are figments : punish- 
 ment is only a pretence of cancelling one crime by an- 
 other; and you can no more have forgiveness without 
 
 > vindictiveness than you can have a cure without a disease. 
 
 ; You will never get a high morality from people who 
 conceive that their misdeeds are revocable and pardon- 
 
 ' able, or in a society where absolution and expiation are 
 
 ' officially provided for us all. The demand may be very 
 real; but the supply is spurious. Thus Bill Walker, in 
 my play, having assaulted the Salvation Lass, presently 
 finds himself overwhelmed with an intolerable conviction 
 
First Aid to Critics 183 
 
 of sin under the skilled treatment of Barbara. Straight- 
 wa)'^ he begins to try to unassault the lass and deruffian- 
 ize his deed, first by getting punished for it in kind, 
 and^ when that relief is denied him, by fining himself a 
 pound to compensate the girl. He is foiled both ways. 
 He finds the. Salvation Army as inexorable as fact itself. 
 It will not punish him: it will not take his money. It 
 will not tolerate a redeemed ruffian: it leaves him no 
 means of salvatioiAMccept ceasing to be a ruffian. In 
 doing this, the Salvation Army instinctively grasps the 
 ce ntral truth of /^liristi-'<"i<'Y ^nd discards its central ( 
 
 superstition: that central truth being the vanity of _i£r J 
 \ ^nge and p unishm ent, and that central superstition the 
 saTvation of the world bj^We gibbet. 
 
 For, be it noted, Bi^l^P assaulted an old and starving 
 woman also ; and ^^^^B. worse offence he feels no re- 
 morse whatever,*iHE^Bk she makes it clear that her 
 malice is as great as^^Bbwn. " Let her have the law 
 of me, as she said she^Hkld," says Bill: "what I done 
 to her is no more pn w^Hr'ou might call my consciefrc^ 
 than sticking a pig/' .^BjfckShews a perfectly, natural^ 
 and wholesome sta^' ^^^^Hr ^^ ^^^^ part. The old. ' 
 woman, like the law she^^Hptens him with, is perfectly 
 ready to play tlik game «Bgtaliation with him : to rob 
 him if he steals, to- flog him if he strikes, to murder him 
 if he kills. By example and precept the law and public 
 opinion teach him to impose his will on others by anger, 
 violence, and cruelty, and to wipe off t-he moral score 
 by punishm ent. T hat is^ ound_^Crosstianity. But this v/ 
 Crosstianity has got entangled with something which A 
 Barbara calls Christianity, and which unexpectedly ^ 
 
 causes her to refuse to play the hangman's game of 
 Satan casting out Satan. She refuses to prosecute a 
 drunken ruffian; she converses on equal terms with a 
 blackguard whom no lady could be seen speaking to in 
 the public street: in short, she behaves as illegally and 
 unbecomingly as possible under the circumstances. Bill's 
 
k 
 
 184 Major Barbara 
 
 conscience reacts to this just as naturally as it does to 
 the old woman's threats. He is placed in a position of 
 unbearable moral inferiority, and strives by every means 
 in his power to escape from it, whilst he is still quite 
 ready to meet the abuse of the old woman by attempting 
 to smash a mug on her face. And that is the triumphant 
 justification of Barbara's Christianity as against our 
 system of judicial punishment and the \'indictive villain- 
 thrashings and " poetic justice " of the romantic stage. 
 
 For the credit of literature it must be pointed out that 
 the situation is only partly novel. Victor Hugo long 
 ago gave us the epic of the convict and the bishop's 
 candlesticks, of the Crosstian policeman annihilated by 
 his encoimter with the Christian Valjean. But Bill 
 Walker is not, like Valjean, romantically changed from 
 a demon into an angel. Thei% are millions of Bill 
 Walkers in all classes of society to-day; and the point 
 which I, as a professor of natural psychology, desire to 
 demonstrate, is that Bill, without any change in his 
 character whatsoever, will react one way to one sort of 
 treatment and another way to another. 
 
 In proof I might point to the sensational object lesson 
 provided by ovu* commercial millionaires to-day. They 
 begin as brigands : merciless, unscrupulous, dealing out 
 ruin and death and slavery to their competitors and em- 
 ployees, and facing desperately the worst that their 
 competitors can do to them. The history of the English 
 factories, the American trusts, the exploitation of Afri- 
 can gold, diamonds, ivory and rubber, outdoes in vil- 
 lainy the worst that has ever been imagined of the buc- 
 caneers of the Spanish ^lain. Captain Kidd would have 
 marooned a modern Trust magnate for conduct unworthy 
 of a gentleman of fortune. The law every day seizes on 
 unsuccessful scoundrels of this type and punishes them 
 with a cruelty worse than their own, with the result 
 that they come out of the torture house more dangerous 
 than they went in, and renew their evil doing (nobody 
 
First Aid to Critics 185 
 
 will employ them at anything else) until they are again 
 seized, again tormented, and again let loose, with the 
 same result. 
 
 But the successful scoundrel is dealt with very differ- 
 ently, and very Christianly. He is not only forgiven: 
 he is idolized, respected, made much of, all but wor- 
 shipped. Society returns him good for evil in the most 
 extravagant overmeasure. And with what result? He 
 begins to idolize himself, to respect himself, to live up 
 to the treatment he receives. He preaches sermons; he 
 writes books of the most edifying advice to young men, 
 and actually persuades himself that he got on by taking 
 his own advice; he endows educational institutions; he 
 supports charities ; he dies finally in the odor of sanctity, 
 leaving a will which is a monument of public spirit and 
 boimty. And all this without any change in his charac- 
 ter. The spots of the leopard and the stripes of the 
 tiger are as brilliant as ever; but the conduct of the 
 world towards him has changed; and his conduct has 
 changed accordingly. You have only to reverse your 
 attitude towards him — to lay hands on his property, 
 revile him, assault him, and he will be a brigand again 
 in a moment, as ready to crush you as you are to crush 
 him, and quite as full of pretentious moral reasons for 
 doing it. 
 
 In short, when Major Barbara says that there are no j 
 scoundrels, she is right : there are no absolute scoun- 
 drels, though there are impracticable people of whom [ 
 I shall treat presently. Every practicable man (and 
 woman) is a potential scoundrel and a potential good 
 citizen. What a man is depends on his character; but 
 what he does, and what we think of what he does, de- 
 pends on his circumstances. The characteristics that 
 ruin a man in one class make him eminent in another. 
 The characters that behave differently in different cir- 
 cumstances behave alike in similar circumstances. Take 
 a common English character like that of Bill Walker. 
 
186 Major Barbara 
 
 We meet Bill everywhere: on the judicial bench, on the 
 episcopal bench, in the Privy Council, at the War Office 
 and Admiralty, as well as in the Old Bailey dock or in 
 the ranks of casual unskilled labor. And the morality 
 of Bill's characteristics varies with these various circum- 
 stances. The faults of tlie burglar are the qualities of 
 the financier: the manners and habits of a duke would 
 cost a city clerk his situation. In short, though charac- 
 ter is indejiendent of circumstances, conduct is not; and 
 our moral judgments of character are not: both are cir- 
 cumstantial. Take any condition of life in which the 
 circumstances are for a mass of men practically alike: 
 felony, the House of Lords, the factory, the stables, 
 the gipsy encampment or where you please ! In sj^ite 
 of diversity of character and temperament, the conduct 
 and morals of the individuals in each group are as 
 predicable and as alike in the main as if they were a 
 flock of shee]!, morals being mostly only social habits 
 and circumstantial necessities. Strong people know this 
 and count upon it. In nothing have the master-minds 
 of the world been distinguished from the ordinary 
 suburban season-ticket holder more than in their straight- 
 forward perception of the fact that mankind is practi- 
 cally a single species, and not a menagerie of gentlemen 
 and bounders, villains and heroes, cowards and dare- 
 devils, peers and peasants, grocers and aristocrats, arti- 
 sans and laborers, washerwomen and duchesses, in which 
 all the grades of income and caste represent distinct ani- 
 mals who must not be introduced to one another or inter- 
 marry. Napoleon constructing a galaxy of generals and 
 courtiers, and even of monarchs, out of his collection of 
 social nobodies; Julius Csesar appointing as governor of 
 Egypt the son of a freedman — one who but a short time 
 before would have been legally disqualified for the post 
 even of a private soldier in the Roman army; Louis 
 XL making his barber his privy councillor: all these had 
 in their different wavs a firm hold of the scientific fact 
 
First Aid to Critics 187 
 
 of luiman equality, expressed by Barbara in the Chris- 
 tian formula that all men are children of one father 
 A man wlio believes that men are naturally divided into 
 upper and lower and middle classes morally is making 
 exactly the same mistake as the man who believes that 
 they are naturally divided in the same way socially. 
 And just as our persistent attempts to found political 
 institutions on a basis of social inequality have always 
 produced long periods of destructive friction relieved 
 from time to time by violent explosions of revolution; 
 so the attempt — will Americans please note — to found 
 moral institutions on a basis of moral inequality can lead 
 to nothing but unnatural Reigns of the Saints relieved 
 by licentious Restorations; to Americans who have made 
 divorce a public institution turning the face of Europe 
 into one huge sardonic smile by refusing to stay in the 
 same hotel with a Russian man of genius who has 
 changed wives without the sanction of South Dakota; 
 to grotesque hypocrisy, cruel persecution, and final utter 
 confusion of conventions and compliances with benevo- 
 lence and respectability. It is quite useless to declare 
 that all men are born free if you deny that they are 
 born good. Guarantee a man's goodness and his liberty 
 will take care of itself. To guarantee his freedom on 
 condition that you apiJrove of his moral character is 
 formally to abolish all freedom whatsoever, as every 
 man's liberty is at the mercy of a moral indictment, 
 which any fool can trump up against everyone who vio- 
 lates custom, whether as a prophet or as a rascal. This 
 is the lesson Democracy has to learn before it can be- 
 come anything but the most oppressive of all the priest- 
 hoods. 
 
 Let us now return to Bill Walker and his case of 
 conscience against the Salvation Arm3\ Major Barbara, 
 not being a modern Tetzel, or the treasurer of a hos- 
 pital, refuses to sell Bill absolution for a sovereign. 
 Unfortunately, what the Army can afford to refuse in 
 
188 Major Barbara 
 
 the case of Bill Walker, it cannot refuse in the case of 
 Bodger. Bodger is master of the situation because he 
 holds the purse strings. " Strive as you will/' says 
 Bodger, in effect: "me you cannot do without. You 
 cannot save Bill Walker without my money." And the 
 Army answers, quite rightly under the circumstances, 
 " We will take money from the devil himself sooner 
 than abandon the work of Salvation." So Bodger pays 
 his conscience-money and gets the absolution that is 
 refused to Bill. In real life Bill would perhaps never 
 know this. But I, the dramatist, whose business it is 
 to shew the connexion between things that seem apart 
 and unrelated in the haphazard order of events in real 
 life, have contrived to make it known to Bill, with the 
 result that the Salvation Army loses its hold of him at 
 once. 
 
 But BiU may not be lost, for all that. He is still in 
 the grip of the facts and of his own conscience, and 
 may find his taste for blackguardism permanently 
 spoiled. Still, I cannot guarantee that happy ending. 
 Let anyone walk through the poorer quarters of our 
 cities Avhen the men are not working, but resting and 
 chewing the cud of their reflections; and he will find 
 that there is one expression on every mature face: the 
 expression of cynicism. The discovery made by Bill 
 Walker about the Salvation Army has been made by 
 everyone of them. They have found that every man 
 has his price; and they have been foolishly or corruptly 
 taught to mistrust and despise him for that necessary 
 and salutary condition of social existence. AMien they 
 learn that General Booth, too, has his price, they do 
 not admire him because it is a high one, and admit the 
 need of organizing society so that he shall get it in an 
 honorable way: they conclude that his character is un- 
 sound and that all religious men are hypocrites and 
 allies of their sweaters and oppressors. They know that 
 the large subscriptions which help to support the Army 
 
First Aid to Critics 189 
 
 are endowments, not of religion, but of the wicked doc- 
 trine of docility in poverty and humility under oppres- 
 sion; and they arc rent by the most agonizing of all the 
 doubts of the soul, the doubt whether their true salvation 
 must not come from their most abhorrent passions^ from 
 murder, envy, greed, stubbornness, rage, and terrorism, 
 rather than from public spirit, reasonableness, humanity, 
 generosity, tenderness, delicacy, pity and kindness. The 
 confirmation of that doubt, at which our newspapers 
 have been working so hard for years past, is the moral- 
 ity of militarism; and the justification of militarism is 
 that circumstances may at any time make it the true 
 morality of the moment. It is by producing such mo- 
 ments that we produce violent and sanguinary revolu- 
 tions, such as the one now in progress in Russia and 
 the one which Capitalism in England and America is 
 daily and diligently provoking. 
 
 At such moments it becomes the duty of the Churches 
 to evoke all the powers of destruction against the exist- 
 ing order. But if they do this, the existing order must 
 forcibly suppress them. Churches are suffered to exist 
 only on condition that they preach submission to the 
 State as at present capitalistically organized. The 
 Church of England itself is compelled to add ^ to the 
 thirty-six articles in which it formulates its religious 
 tenets, three more in which it apologetically protests that 
 the moment any of these articles comes in conflict with 
 the State it is to be entirely renounced, abjured, violated, 
 abrogated and abhorred, the policeman being a much 
 more important person than any of the Persons of the 
 Trinity. And this is why no tolerated Church nor Sal- 
 vation Army can ever win the entire confidence of the 
 poor. It must be on the side of the police and the 
 military, no matter what it believes or disbelieves; and 
 as the police and the military are the instruments by 
 which the rich rob and oppress the poor (on legal and 
 moral principles made for the purpose), it is not pos- 
 
190 Major Barbara 
 
 sible to be on the side of the poor and of the police at 
 the same time. Indeed the religious bodies, as the almon- 
 ers of the rich, become a sort of auxiliary police, taking 
 off the insurrectionary edge of poverty with coals and 
 blankets, bread and treacle, and soothing and cheering 
 the victims witli hopes of immense and inexpensive hap- 
 piness in another world when the process of working 
 tliem to premature death in the service of the rich is 
 complete in this. 
 
 Christianity and Anarchism. 
 
 Such is the false position from which neither the Sal- 
 vation Army nor the Church of England nor any other 
 religious organization whatever can escape except 
 through a reconstitution of society. Nor can they 
 merely endure the State passivel}^, washing their hands 
 of its sins. The State is constantly forcing the con- 
 sciences of men by violence and cruelty. Not content 
 with exacting money from us for the maintenance of its 
 soldiers and policemen, its gaolers and executioners, it 
 forces us to take an active personal part in its proceed- 
 ings on pain of becoming ourselves the victims of its 
 violence. As I write these lines, a sensational example 
 is given to the world. A royal marriage has been cele- 
 brated, first by sacrament in a cathedral, and then by a 
 bullfight having for its main amusement the spectacle of 
 horses gored and disembowelled by the bull, after which, 
 when the bull is so exhausted as to be no longer dan- 
 gerous, he is killed by a cautious matador. But the 
 ironic contrast between the bull fight and the sacrament 
 of marriage does not move anyone. Another contrast — 
 that between the splendor, the happiness, the atmosphere 
 of kindly admiration surrounding the young couple, and 
 the price paid for it under our abominable social ar- 
 rangements in the miserj^, squalor and degradation of 
 millions of other young couples — is drawn at the same 
 
First Aid to Critics 191 
 
 moment by a novelist, Mr. UiDton Sinclair, who chips a 
 corner of the veneering from the huge meat packing 
 industries of Chicago, and shews it to us as a sample 
 of what is going on all over the world underneath the 
 top layer of prosperous plutocracy. One man is suffi- 
 ciently moved by that contrast to pay his own life as 
 the price of one terrible blow at the responsible parties. 
 Unhappily his poverty leaves him also ignorant enough 
 to be duped by the pretence that the innocent young 
 bride and bridegroom, put forth and crowned by 
 plutocracy as the heads of a State in which they have 
 less personal power than any policeman, and less influ- 
 ence than any chairman of a trust, are responsible. At 
 them accordingly he launches his sixpennorth of ful- 
 minate, missing his mark, but scattering the bowels of 
 as many horses as any bull in the arena, and slaying 
 twenty-three persons, besides wounding ninetynine. 
 And of all these, the horses alone are innocent of the 
 guilt he is avenging: had he blown all Madrid to atoms 
 with every adult person in it, not one could have escaped 
 the charge of being an accessory, before, at, and after 
 the fact, to poverty and prostitution, to such wholesale 
 massacre of infants as Herod never dreamt of, to plague, 
 pestilence and famine, battle, murder and lingering 
 death — perhaps not one who had not helped, through 
 example, precept, connivance, and even clamor, to teach 
 the dynamiter his well-learnt gospel of hatred and ven- 
 geance, by approving every day of sentences of years of 
 imprisonment so infernal in its imnatural stupidity and 
 panic-stricken cruelty, that their advocates can disavow 
 neither tlie dagger nor the bomb without stripping the 
 mask of justice and humanity from themselves also. 
 
 Be it noted that at this very moment there appears the 
 biography of one of our dukes, who, being Scotch, could 
 argue about politics, and therefore stood out as a great 
 brain among our aristocrats. And what, if you please, 
 was his grace's favorite historical episode, which he de- 
 
192 Major Barbara 
 
 clared he never read without intense satisfaction? "N^liy, 
 the 3'oung General Bonapart's pounding of the Paris 
 mob to pieces in 1795, called in playful approval by our 
 respectable classes " the whiff of grapeshot," though 
 Napoleon, to do him justice, took a deeper view of it, 
 and would fain have had it forgotten. And since the 
 Duke of Argyll was not a demon, but a man of like 
 passions with ourselves, by no means rancorous or cruel 
 as men go, who can doubt that ail over the world pro- 
 letarians of the ducal kidney are now revelling in " the 
 whiff of dynamite " (the flavor of the joke seems to 
 evaporate a little, does it not?) because it was aimed at 
 the class they hate even as our argute duke hated what 
 he called the mob. 
 
 In such an atmosphere there can be only one sequel 
 to the Madrid explosion. All Europe burns to emulate 
 it. Vengeance! More blood! Tear "the Anarchist 
 beast " to shreds. Drag him to the scaffold. Imprison 
 him for life. Let all civilized States band together to 
 drive his like off the face of the earth ; and if any State 
 refuses to join, make war on it. This time the leading 
 London newspaper, anti-Liberal and therefore anti-Rus- 
 sian in politics, does not say " Serve you right " to the 
 victims, as it did, in effect, when Bobrikoff, and De 
 Plehve, and Grand Duke Sergius, were in the same 
 manner unofficially fulminated into fragments. No: ful- 
 minate our rivals in Asia by all means, ye brave Russian 
 revolutionaries; but to aim at an English princess — 
 monstrous ! hideous ! hound down the wretch to his doom ; 
 and observe, please, that we are a civilized and merciful 
 people, and, however much we may regret it, must not 
 treat him as Ravaillac and Damiens were treated. And 
 meanwhile, since we have not yet caught him, let us 
 soothe our quivering nerves with the bullfight, and com- 
 ment in a courtly way on the unfailing tact and good 
 taste of the ladies of our royal houses, who, though 
 presumably of full normal natural tenderness, have been 
 
First Aid to Critics 193 
 
 so effectually broken in to fashionable routine that they 
 can be taken to see the horses slaughtered as helplessly 
 as they could no doubt be taken to a gladiator show, if 
 that happened to be the mode just now. 
 
 Strangely enough, in the midst of this raging fire of 
 malice, the one man who still has faith in the kindness 
 and intelligence of human nature is the fulminator, now 
 a hunted wretch, with nothing, apparently, to secure his 
 triumph over all the prisons and scaffolds of infuriate 
 Europe except the revolver in his pocket and his readi- 
 ness to discharge it at a moment's notice into his own 
 or any other head. Think of him setting out to find a 
 gentleman and a Christian in the multitude of human 
 wolves howling for his blood. Think also of this: that 
 at tlie very first essay he finds what he seeks, a veritable 
 grandee of Spain, a noble, high-thinking, unterrified, 
 malice-void soul, in the guise — of all masquerades in the 
 world! — of a modern editor. The Anarchist wolf, fly- 
 ing from the wolves of plutocracy, throws himself on 
 the honor of the man. The man, not being a wolf (nor 
 a London editor), and therefore not having enough sym- 
 pathy with his exploit to be made bloodthirsty by it, 
 does not throw him back to the pursuing wolves — gives 
 him, instead, what help he can to escape, and sends him 
 off acquainted at last with a force that goes deeper 
 than dynamite, though you cannot make so much of it 
 for sixpence. That righteous and honorable high human 
 deed is not wasted on Europe, let us hope, though it 
 benefits the fugitive welf only for a moment. The 
 plutocratic wolves presently smell him out. The fugitive 
 shoots the unlucky wolf whose nose is nearest; shoots 
 himself; and then convinces the world, by his photo- 
 graph, that he was no monstrous freak of reversion to 
 the tiger, but a good looking young man with nothing 
 abnormal about him except his appalling courage and 
 resolution (that is why the terrified sliriek Coward at 
 him) : one to whom murdering a happy yoimg couple 
 
194 Major Barbara 
 
 on their wedding morning would have been an unthink- 
 ably unnatural abomination under rational and kindly 
 humafi circumstances. 
 
 Then comes the climax of irony and blind stupidity. 
 The wolves, balked of their meal of fellow-wolf, turn 
 on the man, and proceed to torture him, after their man- 
 ner, by imprisonment, for refusing to fasten his teeth 
 in the throat of the dynamiter and hold him down until 
 they came to iinish him. 
 
 Thus, you see, a man may not be a gentleman nowa- 
 days even if he wishes to. As to being a Christian, he 
 is allowed some latitude in that matter, because, I repeat, 
 Christianity has two faces. Popular Christianity has 
 for its emblem a gibbet, for its chief sensation a san- 
 guinary execution after torture, for its central mystery 
 an insane vengeance bought off by a trumpery expiation. 
 But there is a nobler and profounder Christianity which 
 affirms the sacred mystery of Equality, and forbids the 
 glaring futility and folly of vengeance, often politely 
 called punishment or justice. The gibbet part of Chris- 
 tianity is tolerated. The other is criminal felony. Con- 
 noisseurs in irony are well aware of the fact that the 
 only editor in England who denounces punishment as 
 radically wrong, also repudiates Christianity; calls his 
 paper The Freethinker; and has been imprisoned for 
 two years for blasphemy. 
 
 Sane Conclusions. 
 
 And now I must ask the excited reader not to lose 
 his head on one side or the other, but to draw a sane 
 moral from these grim absurdities. It is not good sense 
 to propose that laws against crime should apply to prin- 
 cipals only and not to accessories whose consent, counsel, 
 or silence may secure impunity to the principal. If you 
 institute punishment as part of the law, you must punish 
 people for refusing to punish. If you have a police, 
 
First Aid to Critics 195 
 
 part of its duty must be to compel everybody to assist 
 the police. No doubt if your laws are unjust, and your 
 policemen agents of oppression, the result will be an 
 unbearable violation of the private consciences of citi- 
 zens. But that cannot be helped: the remedy is, not to 
 license everybody to thwart the law if they please, but 
 to make laws that will command the public assent, and 
 not to deal cruelly and stupidly with lawbreakers. 
 Everybody disapproves of burglars ; but the modern bur- 
 glar, when caught and overpowered by a householder, 
 usually appeals, and often, let us hope, with success, 
 to his captor not to deliver him over to the useless hor- 
 rors of penal servitude. In other cases the lawbreaker 
 escapes because those who could give him up do not 
 consider his breach of the law a guilty action. Some- 
 times, even, private tribunals are formed in opposition 
 to the official tribunals; and these private tribunals em- 
 ploy assassins as executioners, as was done, for example, 
 by INIahomet before he had established his power offi- 
 cially, and by the Ribbon lodges of Ireland in their 
 long struggle with the landlords. Under such circum- 
 stances, the assassin goes free although everybody in 
 the district knows who he is and what he has done. 
 They do not betray him, partly because they justify 
 him exactly as the regular Government justifies its 
 official executioner, and partly because they would them- 
 selves be assassinated if tliey betrayed him : another 
 method learnt from the official government. Given a 
 tribunal, employing a slayer who has no personal quar- 
 rel with the slain; and there is clearly no moral differ- 
 ence between official and unofficial killing. 
 
 In short, all men are anarchists with regard to laws 
 which are against their consciences, either in the pre- 
 amble or in the penalty. In London our worst anarch- 
 ists are the magistrates, because many of them are so 
 old and ignorant that when they are called upon to 
 administer any law that is based on ideas or knowledge 
 
196 Major Barbara 
 
 less than half a century old, they disagree with it, and 
 being mere ordinary homebred private Englishmen with- 
 out any respect for law in the abstract, naively set the 
 example of violating it. In this instance the man lags 
 behind the law; but when the law lags behind the man, 
 he becomes equally an anarchist. When some huge 
 change in social conditions, such as the industrial revolu- 
 tion of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, throws 
 our legal and industrial institutions out of date. Anarch- 
 ism becomes almost a religion. The whole force of the 
 most energetic geniuses of the time in philosophy, 
 economics, and art, concentrates itself on demonstrations 
 and reminders that morality and law are only conven- 
 tions, fallible and continually obsolescing. Tragedies in 
 which the heroes are bandits, and comedies in which 
 law-abiding and conventionally moral folk are compelled 
 to satirize themselves by outraging the conscience of the 
 spectators every time they do their duty, appear simul- 
 taneously with economic treatises entitled " What is 
 ProjDerty ? Theft ! " and with histories of " The Con- 
 flict between Religion and Science." 
 
 Now this is not a healthy state of things. The ad- 
 vantages of living in society are proportionate, not to 
 the freedom of the individual from a code, but to the 
 complexity and subtlety of the code he is prepared not 
 only to accept but to uphold as a matter of such vital 
 importance that a lawbreaker at large is hardly to be 
 tolerated on any plea. Such an attitude becomes im- 
 possible when the only men who can make themselves 
 heard and remembered throughout the world spend all 
 their energy in raising our gorge against current law, 
 current morality, current respectability, and legal 
 property. The ordinary man, uneducated in social the- 
 ory even when he is schooled in Latin verse, cannot be 
 set against all the laws of his country and yet persuaded 
 to regard law in the abstract as vitally necessary to 
 societ}'. Once he is brought to repudiate the laws and 
 
First Aid to Critics 197 
 
 institutions he knows, he will repudiate the very con- 
 ception of law and the very groundwork of institutions, 
 ridiculing human rights, extolling brainless methods as 
 " historical," and tolerating nothing except pure em- 
 piricism in conduct, with dynamite as the basis of politics 
 and vivisection as the basis of science. That is hideous; 
 but what is to be done? Here am I, for instance, by 
 class a respectable man, by common sense a hater of 
 waste and disorder, by intellectual constitution legally 
 minded to the verge of pedantry, and by temperament 
 apprehensive and economically disposed to the limit of 
 old-maidishness ; yet I am, and have always been, and 
 shall now always be, a revolutionary writer, because 
 our laws make law impossible; our liberties destroy all 
 freedom ; our property is organized robbery ; our mo- 
 rality is an impudent hypocrisy; our wisdom is adminis- 
 tered by inexperienced or malexperienced dupes, our 
 power wielded by cowards and weaklings, and our honor 
 false in all its points. I am an enemy of the existing 
 order for good reasons; but that does not make my 
 attacks any less encouraging or helpful to people who 
 are its enemies for bad reasons. The existing order 
 may shriek that if I tell the truth about it, some foolish 
 person may drive it to become still worse by trying to 
 assassinate it. I cannot help that, even if I could see 
 what worse it could do than it is already doing. And 
 the disadvantage of that worst even from its own point 
 of view is that society, with all its prisons and bayonets 
 and whips and ostracisms and starvations, is powerless 
 in the face of the Anarchist who is prepared to sacrifice 
 his own life in the battle with it. Our natural safety 
 from the cheap and devastating explosives which every 
 Russian student can make, and every Russian grenadier 
 has learnt to handle in Manchuria, lies in the fact that 
 brave and resolute men, when they are rascals, will not 
 risk their skins for the good of humanity, and, when 
 they are sympathetic enough to care for humanity, abhor 
 
198 IMajor Barbara 
 
 murder, and never commit it until their consciences are 
 outraged beyond endurance. The remedy is, then, simply 
 not to outrage their consciences. 
 
 Do not be afraid that they will not make allowances. 
 All men make very large allowances indeed before they 
 stake their own lives in a war to the death with society. 
 Nobody demands or expects the millennium. But there 
 are two things that must be set right, or we shall perish, 
 like Rome, of soul atrophy disguised as empire. 
 
 The first is, that the daily ceremony of dividing the 
 wealth of the country among its inhabitants shall be so 
 conducted that no crumb shall go to any able-bodied 
 adults who are not producing by their personal exertions 
 not only a full equivalent for what they take, but a 
 surplus sufficient to provide for their superannuation 
 and pay back the debt due for their nurture. 
 
 The second is that the deliberate infliction of malicious 
 injuries which now goes on under the name of punish- 
 ment be abandoned; so that the thief, the ruffian, the 
 gambler, and the beggar, may without inhumanity be 
 handed over to the law, and made to understand that a 
 State which is too humane to punish will also be too 
 thrifty to waste the life of honest men in watching or 
 restraining dishonest ones. That is why we do not 
 imprison dogs. We even take our chance of their first 
 bite. But if a dog delights to bark and bite, it goes 
 to the lethal chamber. That seems to me sensible. To 
 allow the dog to expiate his bite by a period of torment, 
 and then let him loose in a much more savage condition 
 (for the chain makes a dog savage) to bite again and 
 expiate again, having meanwhile spent a great deal of 
 human life and happiness in the task of chaining and 
 feeding and tormenting him, seems to me idiotic and 
 superstitious. Yet that is what we do to men who bark 
 and bite and steal. It would be far more sensible to 
 put up with their vices, as we put up with their illnesses, 
 until they give more trouble than they are worthy at 
 
First Aid to Critics 199 
 
 which point we should, Avith many apologies and expres- 
 sions of sympathy, and some generosity in complying 
 with their last wishes, place them in the lethal chamber 
 and get rid of them. Under no circumstances should 
 they be allowed to expiate their misdeeds by a manu- 
 factured penalty, to subscribe to a charity, or to com- 
 pensate the victims. If there is to be no punishment 
 there can be no forgiveness. We shall never have real 
 moral responsibility until everyone knows that his deeds 
 are irrevocable, and that his life depends on his useful- 
 ness. Hitherto, alas ! humanity has never dared face 
 these hard facts. We frantically scatter conscience 
 money and invent systems of conscience banking, with 
 expiatory penalties, atonements, redemptions, salvations, 
 hospital subscription lists and what not, to enable us to 
 contract-out of the moral code. Not content with the 
 old scapegoat and sacrificial lamb, we deify human 
 saviors, and pray to miraculous virgin intercessors. We 
 attribute mercy to the inexorable; soothe our consciences 
 after committing murder by throwing ourselves on the 
 bosom of divine love; and shrink even from our own 
 gailows because we are forced to admit that it, at least, 
 is irrevocable — as if one hour of imprisonment were not 
 as irrevocable as any execution ! 
 
 If a man cannot look evil in the face without illusion, 
 he will never know what it really is, or combat it effectu- 
 ally. The few men who have been able (relatively) to 
 do this have been called cynics, and have sometimes had 
 an abnormal share of evil in themselves, corresponding 
 to the abnormal strength of their minds; but they have 
 never done mischief unless they intended to do it. That 
 is why great scoundrels have been beneficent rulers 
 whilst amiable and privately harmless monarchs have 
 ruined their countries by trusting to the hocus-pocus of 
 innocence and guilt, reward and punishment, virtuous 
 indignation and pardon, instead of standing up to the 
 facts without either malice or mercy. Major Barbara 
 
200 Major Barbara 
 
 stands up to Bill Walker in that way, with the result 
 that the ruffian who cannot get hated, has to hate him- 
 self. To relieve this agony he tries to get punished; 
 but the Salvationist whom he tries to provoke is as mer- 
 ciless as Barbara, and only prays for him. Then he 
 tries to pay, but can get nobody to take his money. His 
 doom is the doom of Cain, who, failing to find either a 
 savior, a policeman, or an almoner to help him to pre- 
 tend that his brother's blood no longer cried from the 
 ground, had to live and die a murderer. Cain took care 
 not to commit another murder, unlike our railway share- 
 holders (I am one) who kill and maim shunters by hun- 
 dreds to save the cost of automatic couplings, and make 
 atonement by annual subscriptions to deserving charities. 
 Had Cain been allowed to pay off his score, he might 
 possibly have killed Adam and Eve for the mere sake 
 of a second luxurious reconciliation with God after- 
 wards. Bodger, you may depend on it, will go on to the 
 end of his life poisoning people with bad whisky, be- 
 cause he can always depend on the Salvation Army or 
 the Church of England to negotiate a redemption for him 
 in consideration of a trifling percentage of his profits. 
 
 There is a third condition too, which must be fulfilled 
 before the great teachers of the world will cease to scoff 
 at its religions. Creeds must become intellectually hon- 
 est. At present there is not a single credible established 
 religion in the world. That is perhaps the most stu- 
 pendous fact in the whole world-situation. This play 
 of mine. Major Barbara, is, I hope, both true and in- 
 spired; but whoever says that it all happened, and that 
 faith in it and vmderstanding of it consist in believing 
 that it is a record of an actual occurrence, is, to speak 
 according to Scripture, a fool and a liar, and is hereby 
 solemnly denounced and cursed as such by me, the 
 author, to all posterity. 
 
 London, June 1906. 
 
ACT I 
 
 It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in 
 Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. 
 A large and comfortable settee is in the middle of the 
 room, upholstered in dark leather. A person sitting on 
 it (it is vacant at present) would have, on his right. 
 Lady Britomart's rvriting-table, with the lady herself 
 busy at it; a smaller writing-table behind him on his 
 left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and 
 a window with a window-seat directly on his left. Near 
 the window is an armchair. 
 
 Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, 
 well dressed and yet careless of her dress, well bred 
 and quite reckless of her breeding, well mannered and 
 yet appallingly outspoken and indifferent to the opinion 
 of her interlocutors, amiable and yet peremptory, ar- 
 bitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable degree, 
 and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper 
 class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a 
 scolding mother, and finally settling down with plenty 
 of practical ability and worldly experience, limited in 
 the oddest way with domestic and class limitations, con- 
 ceiving the universe exactly as if it were a large house 
 in Wiltoji Crescent, though handling her corner of it 
 very effectively on that assumption, and being quite en- 
 lightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the 
 pictures on the walls, the music in tlie portfolios, and 
 the articles in the papers. 
 
 Her son, Stephen, comes in. lie is a gravely correct 
 young man under 25, taking himself very seriously, but 
 201 
 
202 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 still in some awe of his mother, from childish habit and 
 bachelor shyness rather than from any weakness of char- 
 acter. 
 
 Stephen. Whats the matter? 
 
 Lady Britomart, Presently, Stephen. 
 
 {Stephen submissively ivalks to the settee and sits 
 down. He takes up The Speaker.) 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont begin to read, Stephen. I 
 shall require all your attention. 
 
 Stephen. It was only while I was waiting — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont make excuses, Stephen. (He 
 puts down The Speaker.) Now! (She finishes her 
 writing; rises; and comes to the settee.) I have not 
 kept you waiting very long, I think. 
 
 Stephen. Not at all, mother. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Bring me my cushion. (He takes 
 the cushion from the chair at the desk and arranges it 
 for her as she sits down on the settee.) Sit down. (He 
 sits down and fingers his tie nervously.) Dont fiddle 
 with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing the matter 
 with it. 
 
 Stephen. I beg your pardon. (He fiddles with his 
 watch chain instead.) 
 
 Lady Britomart. Now are you attending to me, 
 Stephen ? 
 
 Stephen. Of course, mother. 
 
 Lady Britomart. No : it's n o t of course. I want 
 something much more than your everyday matter-of- 
 course attention. I am going to speak to you very seri- 
 ously, Stephen. I wish you would let that chain alone. 
 
 Stephen (hastily relinquishing the chain). Have I 
 done anything to annoy you, mother.^ If so, it was quite 
 unintentional. 
 
 Lady Britomart (astonished). Nonsense! (With 
 some remorse.) My poor boy, did you think I was 
 angry with you? 
 
Act I JNIajor Barbara 203 
 
 Stephen. What is it, then, mother ? You are making 
 me very uneasy. 
 
 Lady Britomart (squaring herself at him rather ag- 
 gressively). Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend 
 to realize that you are a grown-up man, and that I am 
 only a woman? 
 
 Stephen (amazed). Only a — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont repeat my words, please: it 
 is a most aggravating habit. You must learn to face 
 life seriously, Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole 
 burden of our family affairs any longer. You must 
 advise me: you must assume the responsibility. 
 
 Stephen. I ! 
 
 Lady Britomart. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 
 last June. Youve been at Harrow and Cambridge. 
 Youve been to India and Japan. You must know a lot 
 of things, now; unless you have wasted your time most 
 scandalously. Well, advise me. 
 
 Stephen (much perplexed). You know I have never 
 interfered in the household — 
 
 Lady Britomart. No: I should think not. I dont 
 want you to order the dinner. 
 
 Stephen. I mean in our family aifairs. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Well, you must interfere now; for 
 they are getting quite beyond me. 
 
 Stephen (troubled). I have thought sometimes that 
 perhaps I ought; but really, mother, I know so little 
 about them; and what I do know is so painful — it is 
 so impossible to mention some things to you — (he stops, 
 ashamed). 
 
 Lady Britomart. I suppose you mean your father. 
 
 Stephen (almost inaudibly). Yes. 
 
 Lady Britomart. My dear: we cant go on all our 
 lives not mentioning him. Of course j'ou were quite 
 right not to open the subject until I asked you to; but 
 you are old enough now to be taken into my confidence, 
 and to help me to deal with him about the girls. 
 
204 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 Stephen. But the girls are all right. They are en- 
 gaged. 
 
 Ladv Britomart {complacently). Yes: I have made 
 a very good match for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be 
 a millionaire at 35. But that is ten years ahead; and 
 in the meantime his trustees cannot imder the terms of 
 his father's will allow him more than ,£800 a year. 
 
 Stephen. But the will says also that if he increases 
 his income by his own exertions, they may double the 
 increase. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Charles Lomax's exertions are 
 much more likely to decrease his income than to increase 
 it. Sarah will have to find at least another ,£800 a year 
 for the next ten years; and even then they will be as 
 poor as church mice. And what about Barbara? I 
 thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant 
 career of all of you. And what does she do.'' Joins the 
 Salvation Army; discharges her maid; lives on a poimd 
 a week; and walks in one evening with a professor of 
 Greek whom she has picked up in the street, and who 
 pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually plays the 
 big drum for her in public because he has fallen head 
 over ears in love with her. 
 
 Stephen. I was certainly rather taken aback when 
 I heard they were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fel- 
 low, certainly: nobody would ever guess that he was 
 born in Australia; but — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make 
 a very good husband. After all, nobody can say a word 
 against Greek: it stamps a man at once as an educated 
 gentleman. And my family, thank Heaven, is not a 
 pig-headed Tory one. We are ^Vhigs, and believe in 
 liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please: 
 Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the 
 man I like. 
 
 Stephen. Of course I was thinking only of his 
 income. However, he is not likely to be extravagant. 
 
Act I Major Barbara 205 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont be too sure of that, Stephen. 
 I know your quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like 
 Adolphus — quite content with the best of everything! 
 They cost more than your extravagant people, who are 
 always as mean as they are second rate. No: Barbara 
 will need at least £2000 a year. You see it means two 
 additional households. Besides, my dear, you must 
 marry soon. I dont approve of the present fashion of 
 philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am 
 trying to arrange something for you. 
 
 Stephen. It's very good of you, mother; but per- 
 haps I had better arrange that for myself. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Nonsense ! you are much too young 
 to begin matchmaking: you would be taken in by some 
 pretty little nobody. Of course I dont mean that you 
 are not to be consulted: you know that as well as I do. 
 (Stephen closes his lips and is silent.) Now dont sulk, 
 Stephen. 
 
 Stephen. I am not sulking, mother. What has all 
 this got to do with — with — with my father? 
 
 Lady Britomart. My dear Stephen: where is the 
 money to come from? It is easy enough for you and 
 the other children to live on my income as long as we 
 are in the same house; but I cant keep four families in 
 four separate houses. You know how poor my father 
 is: he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, 
 if he were not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to 
 give up society. He can do nothing for us. He says, 
 naturally enough, that it is absurd that he should be 
 asked to provide for the children of a man who is rolling 
 in money. You see, Stephen, your father must be fabu- 
 lously wealthy, because there is always a war going on 
 somewhere. 
 
 Stephen. You need not remind me of that, mother. 
 I have hardly ever opened a newspaper in my life with- 
 out seeing our name in it. The Undershaft torpedo! 
 The Undershaft quick firers ! The Undershaft ten inch ! 
 
200 INIajor Barbara Act I 
 
 the Undershaft disapj^earing rampart gun ! the Under- 
 shaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battle- 
 ship ! At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. 
 At Cambridge it was the same. A little brute at King's 
 who was alwaj'S trying to get up revivals, spoilt my 
 Bible — your first birthday present to me — by writing 
 under my name, " Son and heir to Undershaft and 
 Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, 
 Christendom and Judea." But that was not so bad as 
 the way I was kowtowed to everywhere because my 
 father was making millions by selling cannons. 
 
 Lady Britomart. It is not only the cannons, but the 
 war loans that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving 
 credit for the cannons. You know, Stephen, it's per- 
 fectly scandalous. Those two men, Andrew Undershaft 
 and Lazarus, positively have Europe under their thumbs. 
 That is why your father is able to behave as he does. 
 He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Glad- 
 stone or Disraeli could have openly defied every social 
 and moral obligation all their lives as your father has.'' 
 They simply wouldnt have dared. I asked Gladstone to 
 take it up. I asked The Times to take it up. I asked 
 the Lord Chamberlain to take it up. But it was just 
 like asking them to declare war on the Sultan. They 
 wouldnt. They said they couldnt touch him. I be- 
 lieve they were afraid. 
 
 Stephen, ^^^lat could they do? He does not actu- 
 ally break the law. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Not break the law! He is always 
 breaking the law. He broke the law when he was born: 
 his parents were not married. 
 
 Stephen. Mother! Is that true.-* 
 
 Lady Britomart. Of course it's true: that was why 
 we separated. 
 
 Stephen. He married without letting you know this I 
 
 Lady Britomart (rather taken aback by this infer- 
 ence). Oh no. To do Andrew justice, that was not the 
 
Act I Major Barbara 207 
 
 sort of tiling he did. Besides, you know the Undershaft 
 motto: Unashamed. Everybody knew. 
 
 Stephen. But you said that was why you separated. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Yes, because he was not content 
 with being a foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit 
 you for another foundling. That was what I couldnt 
 stand, 
 
 Stephen (ashamed). Do you mean for — for — for — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont stammer, Stephen. Speak 
 distinctly. 
 
 Stephen. But this so frightful to me, mother. To 
 have to speak to you about such things ! 
 
 Lady Britomart. It's not pleasant for me, either, 
 especially if you are still so childish that you must make 
 it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the 
 middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of 
 dumb helpless horror when they find that there are 
 wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to 
 decide what is to be done with wicked people; and noth- 
 ing should disturb our self-possession. Now ask your 
 question properly. 
 
 Stephen. Mother: you have no consideration for me. 
 For Heaven's sake either treat me as a child, as you 
 always do, and tell me nothing at all; or tell me every- 
 thing and let me take it as best I can. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Treat you as a child! What do 
 you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you 
 to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any 
 of you as children. I have always made you my com- 
 panions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom 
 to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked 
 what I could approve of. 
 
 Stephen (desperately). I daresay we have been the 
 very imperfect children of a very perfect mother; but 
 I do beg you to let me alone for once, and tell me about 
 this horrible business of my father wanting to set me 
 aside for another son. 
 
208 Major Barbara Acr I 
 
 Ladt Bmtomart {aauized). Another son! I never 
 SAid anTthing of the kind. I nerer dreamt of such a 
 thing. This is vfaat comes of interrupting me. 
 
 Stephkx. Bnt too said — 
 
 Ladt Bsttomakt {emttimg him short}. Xow be a 
 good boT. Ste]dien, and listen to me patientlr. The 
 Undershafts are descended from a fomidling in the 
 parish of St. Andrew Underdiaft in the city. That was 
 long ago, in the reign of James the FLrsL WelL this 
 foundling was adopted bv an armorer and gun-maker. 
 In the course of time the foundling sueceeded to the 
 business; and from some notion of gutiU i dej or some 
 TOW or somediingy he aSopbed another foundling, and 
 left die business to him. And that foundling did the 
 
 been left to an adapted foundling named Andrew Un- 
 drrAafL 
 
 SxsFHKX. But did ther nerer many? Were tiiere 
 
 Ladx Brttomabt. Oh res: thev married just as toot 
 father did; and they were rich «'w«»gh to bur land for 
 their own duldren and leave tihem wdD provided for. 
 Bnt tiiej ahrajs adopted and trained some foundling to 
 su e rcc d tiiem in the business; and of euume titer alwars 
 qnarrdled with their wires furionslT over iL Tour 
 father was adapted in tiiat way; ai^ he pretends to 
 eonsider hi imaplf bound to keep up the tradition and 
 adi^ samchodj to leare the business to. Of eonne I 
 was not going to stand that. Theie ma j hare been some 
 reason for it what the Undezdbafti could only marry 
 n uuM Jt in their own dbss, iriioae sons vere not fit to 
 guitxu great fsiatf<. But Aere could be no ♦•iruiw* for 
 passing over my son. 
 
 S iKrHKX {dtMomaijf). I aai afraid I should make a 
 poor hand of managing a rawnnw foundry. 
 
 Ladt !&utomakt. Xonsonse! joo could easilT get a 
 and pay him a salary. 
 
Act I Major Barbaia -09 
 
 Stephen'. My father evidently had no great opinion 
 of my capacity. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Stuff, child I you were only a baby: 
 it had nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did 
 it on principle, just as he did, e^ierv perverse ;vud wicked 
 thing on ^ principle. . When my father remonstrated. 
 ^Andrew actually told him to his face that history tells 
 us of only two successfid institutions: one the Under- 
 shaft firm, and the other the Romiiu Empire under the 
 Antonines. That was because the -\ntonine emperors all 
 adopted their successors. Such rubbish I The Steven- 
 ages are as good as the Antonines, I hope; and you are 
 a Stevenage. But that was -\ndrew all over. There 
 you have the man I Always clever and unanswerable 
 when he was defending nonsense and^ wickedness: al- 
 ways awkward and sullen when he had to behave sensibly 
 and decently I 
 
 Stephen*. Then it was on my accoimt that your home 
 life was broken up. mother. I am sorry. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Well. dear, there were other dif- 
 ferences. I really camiot bear an immoral man. I am 
 not a Pharisee. I hope; and I should not have minded 
 his merely doing wrong things : we are none of us 
 perfect. But your father didnt exactly d o wrong 
 things: he said them and thought them: that was what 
 was so dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of 
 wrongness. Just as one doesnt mind men practising 
 immorality so long as tliey own that they are in the 
 Mrong by preaching morality; so I couldnt forgive An- 
 drew for preaching immorality while he practised mo- 
 rality. You would all have grown up without prin- 
 ciples, without any knowledge of right ;uid wrong, if 
 he had been in the house. You know, my dear, your 
 father was a very attractive man in some ways. Chil- 
 dren did not dislike him; and he tix)k advjuitage of it 
 to put tlie wickedest ideas into their heads, and make 
 them quite unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: 
 
210 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 very "far from it; but nothing can bridge over moral 
 disagreement. 
 
 Stephen. All this simply bewilders me, mother. 
 People may differ about matters of opinion, or even 
 about religion; but how can they differ about right and 
 wrong.'' Right is right; and wrong is wrong; and if 
 a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is either a 
 fool or a rascal: thats all. 
 
 Lady Britomart (touched). Thats my own boy (she 
 pats his cheek) ! Your father never could answer that: 
 he used to laugh and get out of it under cover of some 
 affectionate nonsense. And now that you imderstand the 
 situation,- what do you advise me to do ? 
 
 Stephen. Well, what can you do ? 
 
 Lady Britomart. I must get the money somehow. 
 
 Stephen. We cannot take money from him. I had 
 rather go and live in some cheap place like Bedford 
 Square or even Hampstead than take a farthing of his 
 money. 
 
 Lady Britomart. But after all, Stepheiij our present 
 income comes from Andrew. 
 
 Stephen (shocked). I never knew that. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Well, you surely didnt suppose 
 your grandfather had anything to give me. The Steven- 
 ages could not do everj^thing for you. We gave you 
 social position. Andrew had to contribute some- 
 thing. He had a very good bargain, I think. 
 
 Stephen (bitterly). We are utterly dependent on 
 him and his cannons, then.'' 
 
 Lady Britomart. Certainly not: the money is set- 
 tled. But he provided it. So you see it is not a question 
 of taking money from him or not: it is simply a question 
 of how much. I dont want any more for myself. 
 
 Stephen. Nor do I. 
 
 Lady Britomart. But Sarah does ; and Barbara does. 
 That is, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost 
 them more. So I must put my pride in my pocket and 
 
Act I Major Barbara 211 
 
 ask for it, I suppose. That is your advice, Stephen, is 
 it not? 
 
 Stephen. No. 
 
 Lady Britomart (sharply). Stephen! 
 
 Stephen. Of course if you are determined — 
 
 Lady Britomart. I am not determined: I ask your 
 advice; and I am waiting for it. I will not have all the 
 responsibility thrown on my shoulders. 
 
 Stephen (obstinately). I would die sooner than ask 
 him for another penny. " 
 
 Lady Britomart (resignedly). You mean that I 
 must ask him. Very well, Stephen: it shall be as you 
 wish. You will be glad to know that your grandfather 
 concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask Andrew to come 
 here and see the girls. After all, he must have some 
 natural affection for them. 
 
 Stephen. Ask him here ! ! ! 
 
 Lady Britomart. Do not repeat my words, 
 Stephen. Where else can I ask him? 
 
 Stephen. I never expected you to ask him at all. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Now dont tease, Stephen. Come ! 
 you see that it is necessary that he should pay us a visit, 
 dont you? 
 
 Stephen (reluctantly). I suppose so, if the girls 
 cannot do without his money. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you 
 would give me the right advice when it was properly 
 explained to you. I have asked your father to come 
 this evening. (Stephen bounds from his seat.) Dont 
 jump, Stephen: it fidgets me. 
 
 Stephen (in utter consternation). Do you mean to 
 say that my father is coming here to-night — that he 
 may be here at any moment? 
 
 Lady Britomart (looking at her watch). I said nine. 
 (lie gasps. She rises.) Ring the bell, please. (Stephen 
 goes to the smaller writing table; presses a button on 
 it; and sits at it with his elbows on the table and his 
 
212 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 head in his hands, outwitted and overwhelmed.) It is 
 ten minutes t© nine yet; and I have to prepare the girls. 
 I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner on pur- 
 pose that they might be here. Andrew had better see 
 them in case he should cherish any delusions as to their 
 being capable of supporting their wives. (The butler 
 enters: Lady Britomart goes behind the settee to speak 
 to him.) Morrison: go up to the drawingroom and tell 
 everybody to come down here at once. {Morrison with- 
 draws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen.) Now re- 
 member^ Stephen: I shall need all your countenance and 
 authority. (He rises and tries to recover some vestige 
 of these attributes.) Give me a chair, dear. (He pushes 
 a chair forward from the wall to where she stands, near 
 the smaller writing table. She sits down; and he goes 
 to the arm-chair, into which he throws himself.) I dont 
 know how Barbara will take it. Ever since they made 
 her a major in the Salvation Army she has developed a 
 propensity to have her own way and order people about 
 which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm 
 sure I dont know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Bar- 
 bara shant bully me; but still it's just as well that 
 3'our father should be here before she has time to refuse 
 to meet him or make a fuss. Dont look nervous, Stephen ; 
 it will only encourage Barbara to make difficulties. I 
 am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I dont shew it. 
 Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young 
 men, Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is 
 slender, bored, and mundane. Barbara is robuster, jol- 
 lier, much more energetic. Sarah is fashionably dressed: 
 Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform. Lomax, a young 
 man about toivn, is like many other young men about 
 town. He is afflicted with a frivolous sense of humor 
 which plunges him at the most inopportune moments 
 into paroxysms of imperfectly suppressed laughter. 
 Cusins is a spectacled student, slight, thin haired, and 
 sweet voiced, with a more complex form of Lomax's 
 
Act I Major Barbara 213 
 
 complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and subtle, 
 and is complicated by an appalling temper. The life- 
 long struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high 
 conscience against impidses of inhuman ridicide and 
 ■fierce impatience has set up a chronic strain which has 
 visibly wrecked his constitution. He is a most implacable, 
 determined, tenacious, intolerant person who by mere 
 force of character presents himself as — and indeed actu- 
 ally is — considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and 
 apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cru- 
 elty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct 
 which is not merciful enough to blind him with the 
 illusions of love, he is obstinately bent on marrying Bar- 
 bara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be rather a 
 lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted 
 to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end. 
 
 All four look as if they had been having a good deal 
 of fun in the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leav- 
 ing the swains outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Bar- 
 bara comes in after her and stops at the door. 
 
 Barbara, Are Cholly and Dolly to come in? 
 
 Lady Britomart (forcibly). Barbara: I will not 
 have Charles called Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively 
 makes me ill. 
 
 Barbara. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite cor- 
 rect nowadays. Are they to come in? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Yesj if they will behave them- 
 selves. 
 
 Barbara (through the door). Come in, Dolly, and 
 behave yourself. 
 
 Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins 
 enters smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart. 
 
 Sarah (calling). Come in, Cholly. (Lomax enters, 
 controlling his features very imperfectly, and places 
 himself vaguely between Sarah and Barbara.) 
 
 Lady Britomart (peremptorily). Sit down, all of 
 you. (They sit. Cusins crosses to the window and seats 
 
214 ^lajor Barbara Act I 
 
 himself there. Lomax takes a chair. Barbara sits at 
 the writing table and Sarah on the settee.) I dont in 
 the least know what you are laughing at, Adolphus. I 
 am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better 
 from Charles Lomax. 
 
 CusiNs (in a remarkably gentle voice). Barbara has 
 been trying to teach me the West Ham Salvation March. 
 
 Lady Britomart. I see nothing to laugh at in that; 
 nor should you if you are really converted. 
 
 CusiNs {sweetly). You were not present. It was 
 really fimny, I believe. 
 
 Lomax, Ripping. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to 
 me, children. Your father is coming here this evening. 
 (General stupefaction.) 
 
 Lomax (remonstrating). Oh I say! 
 
 Lady Britomart. You are not called on to say any- 
 thing, Charles. 
 
 Sarah. Are you serious, mother? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Of course I am serious. It is on 
 your account, Sarah, and also on Charles's. (Silence. 
 Charles looks painfully unworthy.) I hope you are not 
 going to object, Barbara. 
 
 Barbara. I ! why should I ? My father has a soul 
 to be saved like anybody else. Hes quite welcome as 
 far as I am concerned. 
 
 Lomax (still remonstrant). But really, dont you 
 know! Oh I say! 
 
 Lady Britomart (frigidly). What do you wish to 
 convey, Charles.'' 
 
 Lomax. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick. 
 
 Lady Britomart (turning with ominous suavity to 
 Cusins). Adolphus: you are a professor of Greek. Can 
 you translate Charles Lomax's remarks into reputable 
 English for us? 
 
 Cusins (cautiously). If I may say so. Lady Brit, I 
 think Charles has rather happily expressed what we all 
 
Act I Major Barbara 215 
 
 feel. Homer, speaking of Autolycus, uses the same 
 phrase. irvKivbv 86/x.ov iXOeiv means a bit thick. 
 
 LoMAX {handsomely). Not that I mind, you know, 
 if Sarah dont. 
 
 Lady Britomart (cnishingly). Thank you. Have 
 I y o u r permission, Adolphus, to invite my own hus- 
 band to my own house? 
 
 CusiNs (gallantly). You have my imhesitating sup- 
 port in everything you do. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Sarah: have you nothing to say? 
 
 Sarah. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to 
 live here? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Certainly not. The spare room 
 is ready for him if he likes to stay for a day or two 
 and see a little more of you; but there are limits. 
 
 Sarah. Well, he cant eat us, I suppose. / dont mind. 
 
 Lomax (chuckling). I wonder how the old man will 
 take it. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Much as the old woman will, no 
 doubt, Charles. 
 
 Lomax (abashed). I didnt mean — at least — 
 
 Lady Britomart. You didnt think, Charles. You 
 never do; and the result is, you never mean anything. 
 And now please attend to me, children. Your father 
 will be quite a stranger to us. 
 
 Lomax. I suppose he hasnt seen Sarah since she was 
 a little kid. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Not since she was a little kid, 
 Charles, as you express it with that elegance of diction 
 and refinement of thought that seem never to desert you. 
 Accordingly — er — (impatiently) Now I have forgot- 
 ten what I was going to say. That comes of your pro- 
 voking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you 
 kindly tell me where I was. 
 
 CusiNs (sweetly). You were saying that as Mr. 
 Undershaft has not seen his children since they were 
 babies, he will form his opinion of the way you have 
 
216 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 brought them up from their behavior to-night, and that 
 therefore you wish us all to be particularly careful to 
 conduct ourselves well, especially Charles. 
 
 LoMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didnt say that. 
 
 Lady Britomart (vehemently). I did, Charles. 
 Adolphus's recollection is perfectly correct. It is most 
 important th.at you should be good; and I do beg you 
 for once not to pair off into opposite corners and giggle 
 and whisper while I am speaking to your father. 
 
 Barbara. All right, mother. We'll do you credit. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Remember, Charles, that Sarah 
 will want to feel proud of you instead of ashamed of 
 you. 
 
 LoMAX. Oh I say ! theres nothing to be exactly proud 
 of, dont you know. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Well, try and look as if there was. 
 
 Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in 
 unconcealed disorder. 
 
 Morrison. Might I speak a word to you, my lady? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Nonsense! Shew him up. 
 
 Morrison. Yes, my lady. {He goes.) 
 
 LoMAX. Does Morrison know who it is? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Of course. Morrison has always 
 been with us. 
 
 LoMAx. It must be a regular corker for him, dont 
 you know. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Is this a moment to get on my 
 nerves, Charles, with your outrageous expressions? 
 
 Lomax. But this is something out of the ordinary, 
 really — 
 
 Morrison (at the door). The — er — Mr. Undershaft. 
 {He retreats in confusion.) 
 
 Andrerv Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Brito- 
 mart meets him in the middle of the room behind the 
 settee. 
 
 Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly 
 man, rvith kindly patient manners, and an engaging sim- 
 
Act I Major Barbara 217 
 
 plicity of character. But he has a rvatchful, deliberate, 
 waiting, listening face, and formidable reserves of 
 power, both bodily and mental, in his capacious chest 
 and long head. His gentleness is partly that of a strong 
 man who has learnt by experience that his natural 
 grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very 
 carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. 
 He is also a little shy in his present very delicate sit- 
 uation. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Good evening, Andrew. 
 
 Undershaft. How d'ye do, my dear. 
 
 Lady Britomart. You look a good deal older. 
 
 Undershaft (apologetically). lam somewhat older. 
 (With a touch of courtship.) Time has stood still with 
 you. 
 
 Lady Britomart (promptly). Rubbish! This is 
 your family. 
 
 Undershaft (surprised). Is it so large? I am sorry 
 to say my memory is failing very badly in some things. 
 (He offers his hand with paternal kindness to Lomax.) 
 
 LoMAX (jerkily shaking his hand). Ahdedoo. 
 
 Undershaft. I can see you are my eldest. I am 
 very glad to meet you again, my boy. 
 
 Lomax (remonstrating) . No but look here dont you 
 know — (Overcome.) Oh I say! 
 
 Lady Britomart (recovering from, momentary speech- 
 lessness). Andrew: do you mean \o say that you dont 
 remember how many children you have? 
 
 Undershaft. Well, I am afraid I — . They have 
 grown so much — er. Am I making any ridiculous mis- 
 take? I may as well confess: I recollect only one son. 
 But so many things have happened since, of course — 
 er — 
 
 Lady Britomart (decisively). Andrew: you are 
 talking nonsense. Of course you have only one son. 
 
 Undershaft. Perhaps you will be good enough to 
 introduce me, my dear. 
 
218 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 Lady Britomart. That is Charles Lomax, who is en- 
 gaged to Sarah. 
 
 Undershaft. My dear sir, I beg your pardon. 
 
 LoMAx. Notatall. Delighted, I assure you. 
 
 Lady Britomart. This is Stephen. 
 
 Undershaft (bowing). Happy to make your ac- 
 quaintance, Mr. Stephen. Then (going to Cusins) you 
 must be my son. (Taking Cusins' hands in his.) How 
 are you, my young friend.'' (To Lady Britomart.) He 
 is very like you, my love. 
 
 Cusins. You flatter me, Mr. Undershaft. My name 
 is Cusins: engaged to Barbara. (Very explicitly.) That 
 is Major Barbara Undershaft, of the Salvation Army. 
 That is Sarah, your second daughter. This is Stephen 
 Undershaft, your son. 
 
 Undershaft. My dear Stephen, I b e g your pardon. 
 
 Stephen. Not at all. 
 
 Undershaft. Mr. Cusins: I am much indebted to 
 you for explaining so precisely. (Turning to Sarah.) 
 Barbara, my dear — 
 
 Sarah (prompting him). Sarah. 
 
 Undershaft. Sarah, of course. (They shake hands. 
 He goes over to Barbara.) Barbara — I am right this 
 time, I hope. 
 
 Barbara. Q^ite right. (They shake hands.) 
 
 Lady Britomai^t (resuming command). Sit down, 
 all of you. Sit down, Andrew. (She comes forward 
 and sits on the settee. Cusins also brings his chair for- 
 ward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume their 
 seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for 
 another.) 
 
 Undershaft. Thank you, my love. 
 
 LoMAX (conversationally, as he brings a chair forward 
 
 between the writing table and the settee, and offers it to 
 
 Undershaft). Takes you some time to find out exactly 
 
 where you are, dont it? 
 
 ' Undershaft (accepting the chair). That is not what 
 
Act I Major Barbara 219 
 
 embarrasses me, Mr. Lomax. My difficulty is that if I 
 play the part of a father, I shall produce the effect of 
 an intrusive stranger; and if I play the part of a dis- 
 creet stranger, I may appear a callous father. 
 
 Lady Britomart. There is no need for you to play 
 any part at all, Andrew. You had much better be sin- 
 cere and natural. 
 
 Undershaft {submissively^ Yes, my dear: I dare- 
 say that will be best. (Making himself comfortable.) 
 Well, here I am. Now what can I do for you all.'' 
 
 Lady Britomart. You need not do anything, An- 
 drew. You are one of the family. You can sit with 
 us and enjoy yourself. 
 
 Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in ago- 
 nised neighings. 
 
 Lady Britomart {outraged). Charles Lomax: if you 
 can behave yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the 
 room. 
 
 Lomax. I'm awfully sorry. Lady Brit; but really, 
 you know, upon my soul ! {He sits on the settee be- 
 tween Lady Britomart and Undershaft, quite overcome.) 
 
 Barbara. Why dont you laugh if you want to, 
 Cholly? It's good for your inside. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Barbara: you have had the educa- 
 tion of a lady. Please let your father see that; and 
 dont talk like a street girl. 
 
 Undershaft. Never mind me, my dear. As you 
 know, I am not a gentleman ; and I was never educated. 
 
 Lomax {encouragingly) . Nobody 'd know it, I assure 
 you. You look all right, you know. 
 
 CusiNS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr. Un- 
 dershaft. Jjrreek scholars are privileged meu. Few of 
 them know Greek; and none of them know anything 
 else; but their position is unchallengeable. Other lan- 
 guages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial 
 travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hall- 
 mark is to silver. 
 
220 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 Barbara. Dolly: dont be insincere. Cholly: fetch 
 your concertina and play something for us. 
 
 LoMAX {doubtfully to Under shaft). Perhaps that 
 sort of thing isnt in your line, eh.'' 
 
 Undershaft. I am particularly fond of music. 
 
 LoMAx {delighted). Are you.^ Then I'll get it. {He 
 goes upstairs for the instruvient.) 
 
 Undershaft. Do you play, Barbara? 
 
 Barbara. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teach- 
 ing me the concertina. 
 
 Undershaft. Is Cholly also a member of the Salva- 
 tion Army? 
 
 Barbara. No: he says it's bad form to be a dis- 
 senter. But I dont despair of Cholly. I made him 
 come yesterday to a meeting at the dock gates, and took 
 the collection in his hat. 
 
 Lady Britomart. It is not my doing, Andrew. Bar- 
 bara is old enough to take her own way. She has no 
 father to advise her. 
 
 Barbara. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in 
 the Salvation Army. 
 
 Undershaft. Your father there has a great many 
 children and plenty of experience, eh? 
 
 Barbara {looking at him with quick interest and nod- 
 ding). Just so. How did you come to imderstand that? 
 {Lomax is heard at the door trying the concertina.) 
 
 Lady Britomart. Come in, Charles. Play us some- 
 thing at once. 
 
 Lomax. Righto ! {He sits down in his former place, 
 and preludes.) 
 
 Undershaft. One moment, Mr. Lomax. I am rather 
 interested in the Salvation Army. Its motto might be 
 my own: Blood and Fire. 
 
 Lomax {shocked). But not your sort of blood and 
 fire, you know. 
 
 Undershaft. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of 
 fire purifies. 
 
Act I Major Barbara 221 
 
 Barbara. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to 
 my shelter — ^the West Ham shelter — and see what we're 
 doing. "We're going to march to a great meeting in the 
 Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the shelter 
 and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. 
 Can you play anything.'' 
 
 Undershaft. In my youth I earned pennies^ and 
 even shillings occasionally, in the streets and in public 
 house parlors by my natural talent for stepdancing. 
 Later on, I became a member of the Undershaft orches- 
 tral society, and performed passably on the tenor trom- 
 bone. 
 
 LoMAX (scandalized). Oh_I_^say! 
 
 Barbara. Many a sinner has played himself into 
 heaven on the trombone, thanks to the Army. 
 
 LoMAX (to Barbara, still rather shocked). Yes; but 
 what about the cannon business, dont you know? (To 
 Undershaft.) Getting into heaven is not exactly in 
 your line, is it.^ 
 
 Lady Britomart. Charles ! ! ! 
 
 LoMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, dont it? The 
 cannon business may be necessary anci nil that: '.ve cant 
 get on witiiout cannons; but it isn'c ri^lit, vm knoAv. On 
 the other hand, there wny bo a certain amount of to«h 
 about the Salvation Arii.y— [ belong to the l-^slablished 
 Church myself — but «-till yn^i cor* deny that it's re- 
 ligion; and you cant go against religion, can yoii? At 
 least unless youre downright immoral, dont you 
 know. 
 
 Undershaft. You hardly appreciate my position, 
 Mr. Lomax — 
 
 LoMAx (hastily). I'm not saying anything against 
 you personally, you know. 
 
 Undershaft. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a 
 moment. Here I am, a manufacturer of mutilation and 
 murder. I find myself in a specially amiable humor 
 just now because, this morning, down at the foundry. 
 
222 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments 
 with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen. 
 
 LoMAX {leniently). Well, the more destructive war 
 becomes, the sooner it will be abolished, eh? 
 
 Undershaft, Not at all. The more destructive war 
 becomes the more fascinating we find it. No, Mr. Lo- 
 max: I am obliged to you for making the usual excuse 
 for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it. I am not 
 one of those men who keep their morals and their busi- 
 ness in watertight compartments. All the spare money 
 my trade rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other 
 receptacles for conscience money, I devote to experi- 
 ments and researches in improved methods of destroying 
 life and property. I have always done so; and I always 
 shall. Therefore your Christmas card moralities of 
 peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use 
 to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist 
 not evil, and to turn the other cheek, would make me a 
 bankrupt. M y morality — m y religion — must have a 
 place for cannons and torpedoes in it. 
 
 Stephen {coldly — almost sidlenly). You speak as if 
 there were half a dozen moralities and religions to choose 
 from, instead of one true morality and one true religion. 
 
 Undershaft. For me there is only one true mo- 
 rality; but it might not fit you, as you do not manu- 
 facture aerial battleships. There is only one true 
 morality for every man ; but every man has not the same 
 true morality. 
 
 LoMAx {overtaxed). Would you mind saying that 
 again? I didnt quite follow it. 
 
 CusiNs. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one 
 man's meat is another man's poison morally as well as 
 physically. 
 
 Undershaft. Precisely. 
 
 LoMAx. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True. 
 
 Stephen. In other words, some men are honest and 
 some are scoundrels. 
 
Act I Major Barbara 223 
 
 Barbara. Bosh. There are no scoundrels. 
 
 Undershaft. Indeed.'' Are there any good men.'' 
 
 Barbara. No. Not one. There are neither good 
 men nor scoundrels: there are just children of one 
 Tather; and the sooner they stop calling one another 
 names the better. You neednt talk to me: I know them. 
 Ive had scores of them through my hands: scoimdrels, 
 criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county 
 councillors, all sorts. Theyre all just the same sort of 
 sinner ; and theres the same salvation ready for them all. 
 
 Undershaft. May I ask have you ever saved a maker 
 of cannons.'' 
 
 Barbara. No. Will you let me try.? 
 
 Undershaft. Well, I will make a bargain with you. 
 If I go to see you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, 
 will you come the day after to see me in my cannon 
 works .'' 
 
 Barbara. Take care. It may end in your giving up 
 the cannons for the sake of the Salvation Army. 
 
 Undershaft. Are you sure it will not end in your 
 giving up the Salvation Army for the sake of the 
 
 cannons 
 
 Barbara. I will take my chance of that. 
 
 Undershaft. And I will take my chance of the 
 other. {They shake hands on it.) Where is your 
 shelter ? 
 
 Barbara. In West Ham-. At the sign of the cross. 
 Ask anybody in Canning Town. Where are your 
 works ? 
 
 Undershaft. In Perivale St. Andrews. At the sign 
 of the sword. Ask anybody in Europe. 
 
 LoMAx. Hadnt I better play something? 
 
 Barbara. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers. 
 
 LoMAX. Well, thats rather a strong order to begin 
 with, dont you know. Suppose I sing Thourt passing 
 hence, my brother. It's much the same tune. 
 
 Barbara. It's too melancholy. You get saved. 
 
224 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 Cholly; and youll pass hence, my brother, without mak- 
 ing such a fuss about it. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Really, Barbara, you go on as if 
 religion were a pleasant subject. Do have some sense of 
 propriety. 
 
 Undershaft. I do not find it an impleasant subject, 
 my dear. It is the only one that capable people really 
 care for. 
 
 Lady Britomart (looking at her watch). Well, if 
 you are determined to have it, I insist on having it 
 in a proper and respectable way. Charles: ring for 
 prayers. (General amazement. Stephen rises in dis- 
 may.) 
 
 LoMAX (rising). Oh I say! 
 
 Undershaft (rising). I am afraid I must be going. 
 
 Lady Britomart. You cannot go now, Andrew: it 
 would be most improper. Sit down. What will the 
 servants think.'' 
 
 Undershaft. My dear: I have conscientious scru- 
 ples. May I suggest a compromise.^ If Barbara will 
 conduct a little service in the drawingroom, with Mr. 
 Lomax as organist, I will attend it willingly. I will 
 even take part, if a trombone can be procured. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont mock, Andrew. 
 
 Undershaft (shocked — to Barbara). You dont think 
 I am mocking, my love, I hope. 
 
 Barbara. No, of course not; and it wouldnt matter 
 if you were: half the Army came to their first meeting 
 for a lark. (Rising.) Come along. Come, Dolly, 
 Come, Cholly. (She goes out rvith Undershaft, who 
 opens the door for her. Cusins rises.) 
 
 Lady Britomart. I will not be disobeyed by every- 
 body. Adolphus: sit down, Charles: you may go. You 
 are not fit for prayers: you cannot keep your coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Lomax. Oh I say! (He goes out.) 
 
 Lady Britomart (continuing). But you, Adolphus, 
 
Act I Major Barbara 225 
 
 can behave yourself if you choose to. I insist on your 
 staying. 
 
 CusiNs. My dear Lady Brit: there are things in the 
 family prayer book that I couldnt bear to hear you say. 
 
 Lady Britomart. What things, pray? 
 
 CusiNs. Well, you would have to say before all the 
 servants that we have done things we ought not to have 
 done, and left undone things we ought to have done, and 
 that there is no health in us. I cannot bear to hear you 
 doing yourself such an injustice, and Barbara such an 
 injustice. As for myself, I flatly deny it: I have done 
 my best. I shouldnt dare to marry Barbara — I couldnt 
 look you in the face — if it were true. So I must go to 
 the drawingroom. 
 
 Lady Britomart (offended). Well, go. (He starts 
 for the door.) And remember this, Adolphus (he turns 
 to listen) : I have a very strong suspicion that you went 
 to the Salvation Army to worship Barbara and nothing 
 else. And I quite appreciate the very clever way in 
 which you systematically humbug me. I have found 
 you out. Take care Barbara doesnt. Thats all. 
 
 CusiNs (with unruffled sweetness). Dont tell on me. 
 (He goes out.) 
 
 Lady Britomart. Sarah: if you want to go, go. 
 Anything's better than to sit there as if you wished you 
 were a thousand miles away. 
 
 Sarah (languidly). Very well, mamma. (She goes.) 
 
 Lady Britomart, ivith a sudden flounce, gives way to 
 a little gust of tears. 
 
 Stephen (going to her). Mother: whats the matter? 
 
 Lady Britomart (swishitig away her tears with her 
 handkerchief). Nothing. Foolishness. You can go 
 with him, too, if you like, and leave me with the serv- 
 ants. 
 
 Stephen. Oh, you mustnt think that, mother. I — I 
 dont like him. 
 
 Lady Britomart. The others do. That is the in- 
 
226 Major Barbara Act I 
 
 justice of a woman's lot. A woman has to bring up her 
 children; and that means to restrain them, to deny them 
 things they want;, to set them tasks^, to punish them when 
 they do wrong, to do all the unpleasant things. And 
 then the father, who has nothing to do but pet them and 
 spoil them, comes in when all her work is done and steals 
 their affection from her. 
 
 Stephen. He has not stolen our affection from you. 
 It is only curiosity. 
 
 Lady Britomart (violently). I wont be consoled, 
 Stephen. There is nothing the matter with me. (She 
 rises and goes totvards the door.) 
 
 Stephen. Where are you going, mother? 
 
 Lady Britomart. To the drawingroom, of course. 
 (She goes out. Onward, Christian Soldiers, on the con- 
 certina, with tambourine accompaniment, is heard when 
 the door opens.) Are you coming, Stephen.'' 
 
 Stephen. No. Certainly not. (She goes. He sits 
 down on the settee, with compressed lips and an expres- 
 sion of strong dislike.) 
 
 END OF ACT 
 
ACT II 
 
 The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation 
 Army is a cold place on a January morning. The build- 
 ing itself, an old warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its 
 gabled end projects into the yard in the middle, with a 
 door on the ground floor, and another in the loft above 
 it without any balcony or ladder, but with a pulley rigged 
 over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from this 
 central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading 
 to the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just 
 beyond it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a 
 table from the weather. There are forms at the table; 
 and on them are seated a man and a woman, both much 
 down on their luck, finishing a meal of bread (one thick 
 slice each, with margarine and golden syrup) and diluted 
 milk. 
 
 The man, a workman out of employment, is young, 
 agile, a talker, a poser, sharp enough to be capable of 
 anything in reason except honesty or altruistic considera- 
 tions of any kind. The woman is a commonplace old 
 bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She looks 
 sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich 
 people, gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs 
 and overcoats, they would be numbed and miserable; for 
 it is a grindingly cold, raw, January day; and a glance 
 at the background of grimy warehouses and leaden sky 
 visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard would 
 drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean. 
 But these two, being no more troubled with visions of the 
 Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled 
 to keep more of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less 
 on their persons, in winter than in summer, are not de- 
 227 
 
228 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 pressed hy the cold: rather are they stung into vivacity, 
 to which their meal has just now given an almost jolly 
 turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then gets 
 up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his 
 pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance. 
 
 The Woman. Feel better arter your meal, sir ? 
 
 The Man. No. Call that a meal ! Good enough for 
 you, praps; but wot is it to me, an intelligent workin 
 man. 
 
 The Woman. Workin man! Wot are you? 
 
 The Man. Painter. 
 
 The Woman (sceptically). Yus, I dessay. 
 
 The Man. Yus, you dessay ! I know. Every loafer 
 that cant do nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a 
 real painter: grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week 
 when I can get it. 
 
 The Woman. Then why dont you go and get it? 
 
 The Man. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent 
 — fffff ! it's rotten cold here (he dances a step or two) — 
 yes: intelligent beyond the station o life into which it 
 has pleased the capitalists to call me ; and they dont like 
 a man that sees through em. Second, an intelligent bein 
 needs a doo share of appiness; so I drink somethink 
 cruel when I get the chawnce. Third, I stand by my 
 class and do as little as I can so's to leave arf the job 
 for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough to know 
 wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it 
 I do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands 
 on. In a proper state of society I am sober, industrious 
 and honest: in Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans 
 do. Wots the consequence? When trade is bad — and 
 it's rotten bad just now — and the employers az to sack 
 arf their men, they generally start on me. 
 
 The Woman. Whats your name? 
 
 The Man. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usu- 
 ally called Snobby Price, for short. 
 
Act II Major Barbara 229 
 
 The Woman. Snobby 's a carpenter, aint it? You 
 said you was a painter. 
 
 Price. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. 
 I'm too uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father 
 being a Chartist and a reading, thinking man: a sta- 
 tioner, too. I'm none of your common hewers of wood 
 and drawers of water; and dont you forget it. (He 
 returns to ]iis seat at the table, and takes up his mug.) 
 Wots your name ? 
 
 The Woman. Rummy Mitchens, sir. 
 
 Price (quaffing the remains of his milk to her). Your 
 elth. Miss Mitchens. 
 
 Rummy {correcting him). Missis Mitchens. 
 
 Price. Wot ! Oh Rummy, Rummy ! Respectable 
 married woman. Rummy, gittin rescued by the Sal- 
 vation Army by pretendin to be a bad un. Same old 
 game! 
 
 ~" Rummy. What am I to do? I cant starve. Them 
 Salvation lasses is dear good girls ; but the better you 
 are, the worse they likes to think you were before they 
 rescued you. Why shouldnt the}'^ av a bit o credit, poor 
 loves? they're worn to rags by their work. And where 
 would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let 
 on we're no worse than other people? You know what 
 ladies and gentlemen are. 
 
 Price. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job. Rummy, 
 all the same. Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name 
 praps ? 
 
 Rummy. Short for Romola. 
 
 Price. For wot!? 
 
 Rummy. Romola. It was out of a new book. Some- 
 body me mother wanted me to grow up like. 
 
 Price. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. 
 Both on us got names that nobody cawnt pronounce. 
 Consequently I'm Snobby and youre Rummy because Bill 
 and Sally wasnt good enough for our parents. Such is 
 life! 
 
230 ]Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Rummy. Wlio saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major 
 Barbara .'' 
 
 Price. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be 
 Bronterre O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know- 
 wot they like. I'll tell em how I blasphemed and gam- 
 bled and wopped my poor old mother 
 
 Rummy (shocked). Used you to beat your mother? 
 
 Price. Not likely. She used to beat me. No mat- 
 ter: you come and listen to the converted painter, and 
 youll hear how she was a pious woman that taught me 
 me prayers at er knee, an how I used to come home 
 drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs, an 
 lam into er with the poker. 
 
 Rummy. Thats whats so imfair to us women. Your 
 confessions is just as big lies as ours: you dont tell 
 what you really done no more than us; but you men 
 can tell your lies right out at the meetins and be made 
 much of for it; while the sort o confessions we az to 
 make az to be whispered to one lady at a time. It aint 
 right, spite of all their piety. 
 
 Price. Right ! Do you spose the Army 'd be allowed 
 if it went and did right? Not much. It combs our air 
 and makes us good little blokes to be robbed and put 
 upon. But I'll play the game as good as any of em. 
 I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a voice 
 sayin "Snobby Price: where will you spend eternity?" 
 I'll ave a time of it, I tell you. 
 
 Rummy. You wont be let drink, though. 
 
 Price. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I dont 
 want to drink if I can get fun enough any other way. 
 
 Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass 
 of 18, comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter 
 Shirley, a half hardened, half worn-out elderly man, 
 weak with hunger. 
 
 Jenny (supporting him). Come! pluck up. I'll get 
 you something to eat. Youll be all right then. 
 
 Price (rising and hurrying officiously to take the old 
 
Act II Major Barbara 231 
 
 man off Jenny's hands). Poor old man! Cheer up, 
 brother: youll find rest and peace and appiness ere. 
 Hurry up with the food, miss: e's fair done. (Jenny 
 hurries into the shelter.) Ere, buck up, daddy! shes 
 fetchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o sky- 
 blue. (He seats him at the corner of the table.) 
 
 Rummy (gaily). Keep up your old art! Never say 
 die! 
 
 Shirley. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as 
 good as ever I was. The grey patch come in my hair 
 before I was thirty. All it wants is three pennorth o 
 hair dye: am I to be turned on the streets to starve for 
 it.'' Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve hours a day 
 since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through; and 
 now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given 
 to a young man that can do it no better than me because 
 Ive black hair that goes white at the first change.'' 
 
 Price (cheerfully). No good jawrin about it. Youre 
 ony a jumped-up, jerked-ofF, orspittle-turned-out incur- 
 able of an ole workin man: who cares about you? Eh.'' 
 Make the thievin swine give you a meal: theyve stole 
 many a one from you. Get a bit o your own back. 
 (Jenny returns with the usual meal.) There you are, 
 brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you. 
 
 Shirley (looking at it ravenously but not touching 
 it, and crying like a child). I never took anything 
 before. 
 
 Jenny (petting him). Come, come! the Lord sends 
 it to you : he wasnt above taking bread from his friends ; 
 and why should you be? Besides, when we find you a 
 job you can pay us for it if you like. 
 
 Shirley (eagerly). Yes, yes: thats true. I can pay 
 you back: its only a loan. (Shivering.) Oh Lord! oh 
 Lord ! (He turns to the table and attacks the meal 
 ravenously.) 
 
 Jenny. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable 
 
232 ^lajor Barbara Act II 
 
 Rummy. God bless you, lovey! youve fed my body 
 and saved my soul, havent you ? {Jenny, touched, kisses 
 her. ) Sit doAvn and rest a bit : you must be ready to drop. 
 
 Jenny. Ive been going hard since morning. But 
 theres more work than we can do. I mustnt stop. 
 
 Rummy. Try a prayer for just two minutes. YouU 
 work all the better after. 
 
 Jenny (her eyes lighting up). Oh isnt it wonder- 
 ful how a few minutes prayer revives you ! I was quite 
 lightheaded at twelve o'clock, I was so tired; but Major 
 Barbara just sent me to pray for five minutes; and I 
 was able to go on as if I had only just begim. (To 
 Price.) Did you have a piece of bread? 
 
 Price (with unction). Yes, miss; but Ive got the 
 piece that I value more ; and thats the peace that passeth 
 hall hannerstennin. 
 
 Rummy (fervently). Glory Hallelujah! 
 
 Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears 
 at the yard gate and looks malevolently at Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. That makes me so happy. When you say 
 that, I feel wicked for loitering here. I must get to 
 work again. 
 
 She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer 
 moves quickly up to the door and intercepts her. His 
 manner is so threatening that she retreats as he comes 
 at her truculently, driving her down the yard. 
 
 Bill. I know you. Youre the one that took away 
 my girl. Youre the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm 
 goin to av er out. Not that I care a curse for her 
 or you: see? But I'll let er know; and I'll let you 
 know. I'm goin to give er a doin thatll teach er to cut 
 away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come 
 out afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker 
 wants er. She'll know what that means; and if she 
 keeps me waitin itll be worse. You stop to jaw back 
 at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye hear? Theres your 
 way. In you go. (He takes her by the arm and slings 
 
Act II Major Barbara 233 
 
 her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her 
 hand and knee. Rummy helps her up again.) 
 
 Price {rising, and venturing irresolutely towards 
 Bill). Easy there, mate. She aint doin you no arm. 
 
 Bill. Who are you callin mate? (Standing over him 
 threateningly.) Youre goin to stand up for her, are 
 you? Put up your ands. 
 
 Rummy {running indignantly to him to scold him). 
 Oh, you great brute — {He instantly swings his left 
 hand back against her face. She screams and reels back 
 to the trough, where she sits down, covering her bruised 
 face with her hands and rocking herself and moaning 
 with pain.) 
 
 Jenny {going to her). Oh God forgive you! How 
 could you strike an old woman like that? 
 
 Bill {seizing her by the hair so violently that she also 
 screams, and tearing her away from the old woman)., 
 You Gawd forgive me again and I'll Gawd forgive you 
 one on the jaw thatll stop you prayin for a week. 
 {Holding her and turning fiercely on Price.) Av you 
 anything to say agen it? Eh? 
 
 Price {intimidated). No, matey: she aint anything 
 to do with me. 
 
 Bill. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you 
 and fight you with one finger after, you starved cur. 
 {To Jenny.) Now are you goin to fetch out Mog Hab- 
 bijam; or am I to knock yotir face off you and fetch her 
 myself ? 
 
 Jenny {writhing in his grasp). Oh please someone 
 go in and tell Major Barbara — {she screams again as 
 he wrenches her head down; and Price and Rummy flee 
 into the shelter). 
 
 Bill. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, 
 do you? 
 
 Jenny. Oh please dont drag my hair. Let me go. 
 
 Bill. Do you or dont you? {She stifles a scream.) 
 Yes or no. 
 
234 IMajor Barbara Act II 
 
 Jenny. God give me strength — 
 
 Bill {striking her with his fist in the face). Go and 
 shew her that, and tell her if she wants one like it to 
 come and interfere with me. {Jenny, crying with pain, 
 goes into the shed. He goes to the form and addresses 
 the old man.) Here: finish your mess; and get out o 
 my way. 
 
 Shirley (springing up and facing him fiercely, with 
 the mug in his hand). You take a liberty with me, and 
 I'll smash you over the face with the mug and cut your 
 eye out. Aint you satisfied — young whelps like you— 
 with takin the bread out o the mouths of your elders 
 that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you 
 must come shovin and cheekin and bullyin in here, where 
 the bread o charity is sickeniii in our stummicks ? 
 
 Bill (contemptuously, but backing a little). Wot 
 good are you, you old palsy mug? Wot good are you? 
 
 Shirley. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's 
 work agen you or any fat young soaker of your age. 
 Go and take my job at Horrockses, where I worked fcr 
 ten year. They want young men there: they cant afford 
 to keep men over forty-five. Theyre very sorry — give 
 3'^ou a character and happy to help you to get anything 
 suited to your years — sure a steady man wont be long 
 out of a job. Well, let em try you. Theyll find the 
 differ. What do y o u know ? Not as much as how to 
 beeyave yourself — layin your dirty fist across the mouth 
 of a respectable woman! 
 
 Bill. Dont provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye 
 hear ? 
 
 Shirley (with blighting contempt). Yes: you like 
 an old man to hit, dont you, when youve finished with 
 the women. I aint seen you hit a young one yet. 
 
 Bill (sttmg). You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. 
 There was a yoimg man here. Did I offer to hit him 
 or did I not? 
 
 Shirley. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he 
 
Act n Major Barbara 235 
 
 a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would 
 you hit my son-in-law's brother? 
 
 Bill. Who's he? 
 
 Shirley. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that 
 won £20 off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by 
 standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. 
 
 Bill (sullenly). I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he 
 box? 
 
 Shirley. Yes: an you cant. 
 
 Bill. Wot! I cant, cant I? Wots that you say 
 (threatening him) ? 
 
 Shirley (tiot budging an inch). Will you box 
 Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you ? Say the word. 
 
 Bill (subsiding with a slouch). I'll stand up to any 
 man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I dont 
 set up to be a perfessional. 
 
 Shirley (looking down on him with unfathomable 
 disdain). You box ! Slap an old woman with the back 
 o your hand ! You hadnt even the sense to hit her where 
 a magistrate couldnt see the mark of it, you silly young 
 lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw 
 and ony make her cry ! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, 
 she wouldnt a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than 
 you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about 
 you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two 
 months starvation. (He returns to the table to finish 
 his meal.) 
 
 Bill (following him and stooping over him to drive 
 the taunt in). You lie! you have the bread and treacle 
 in you that you come here to beg. 
 
 Shirley (bursting into tears). Oh God! it's true: 
 I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. (Furiously.) 
 But youU come to it yourself; and then youll know. 
 Youll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin 
 yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin ! 
 
 Bill. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I 
 want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a 
 
236 Major Barbara Act n 
 
 bit o defH in me: see? An here I am, taDdn to a rotten 
 (dd bligbter like joa sted o girin bo* wot for, {Work- 
 ing himself into a rage.) I'm goin in there to fetch her 
 out. {He make* vemgefmlly for the shelter door.) 
 
 Shokxct. Yoaxe gain to the staticm on a strefa^ier, 
 more Hkely; and tfaejll take the gin and the devil ont 
 of joa tfaoe when tl^ get joa inside. Ton mind what 
 jonre abont: the major here is the Earl o Sterenage's 
 granddanghter. 
 
 'Biw (cheeked). Gam! 
 
 SHtRi.ET. Yooll see. 
 
 Bu,i. (his resolmtkm oozimg). Well, I aint done notb- 
 in to er, 
 
 Shirijet. Spoce the said 70a did! wbo'd believe 70a? 
 
 Biu. (rery uneasif, skulking back to the comer of the 
 pemthomse). Gawd! theres no jastice in this eotmtrj. 
 To dunk wot than people can do ! I'm as gc»od as er. 
 
 SwsKUEY. Tell ha so. Its jttst w hat a fool like yoo 
 would do. 
 
 Barbara, brisk and bmsmesslike, comes from the shel- 
 ter with a note hook, and addresses herself to Shhieg. 
 BiU, corned, sits domm in the comer on a form, and 
 turns his hack on them, 
 
 Basbaba. Good mormag, 
 
 SxOkuet (st4aidimg up and taking of his hat). Good 
 
 Bjuajou, Sit down: make jonrself at bomeu (He 
 hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder 
 and makes Jum obey.) Now tben! since joore made 
 friends widi ns, we want to know all aboot joo. ISames 
 and addresses and trades, 
 
 SmuMJsr. Pet» Sbirkj, Fitter. Chocked out two 
 mondis ago becaose I was too did. 
 
 Bambaka (not at all surprised). Yood pass stilL 
 Wl^ didnt JOO dje jam hair? 
 
 SamusT. I did. Me age oome oat at a ooroner's in- 
 4|iKst on me daiiglrtcr. 
 
Act II Major Barbara 237 
 
 Barbara. Steady ? 
 
 Shirley. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. 
 Good worker. And sent to the knackers like an old 
 horse ! 
 
 Barbara. No matter: if you did your part God will 
 do his. 
 
 Shirley {suddenly stubborn). My religion's no con- 
 cern of ivnybody but myself. 
 
 Barbara {guessing). I know. Secularist? 
 
 Shirley (hotly). Did I ofi'er to deny it.'' 
 
 Barbara. Why should you.^ My own father's a 
 Secularist, I think. Our Father — yours and mine — ful- 
 fils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what 
 he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So 
 buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady 
 man like you. {Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She 
 turns from him to Bdl.) "NMiats your name.^ 
 
 Bill (insolently). Wots that to you? 
 
 Barbara (calmly making a note). Afraid to give his 
 name. Any trade? 
 
 Bill. Who's afraid to give his name? (Doggedly, 
 rvith a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords 
 in the person of Lord Stevenage.) If you want to bring 
 a charge agen me, bring it. (She nraits, unruffled.) My 
 name's Bill Walker. 
 
 Barbara (as if the name rvere familiar: trying to 
 remember hon'). Bill Walker? (Recollecting.) Oh, 
 I know: youre the man that Jenny Hill was praying for 
 inside just now. (She enters his name in her note book.) 
 
 Bill. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to 
 pray for me? 
 
 Barb.vra. I dont know. Perhaps it was you that cut 
 her lip. 
 
 Bill (defiantly). Yes, it was me that cut her lip. 
 I aint afraid o y o u. 
 
 Barbara. How could you be, since youre not afraid 
 of God? Youre a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes 
 
238 INIajor Barbara Act n 
 
 some pluck to do our work here ; but none of us dare 
 lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her 
 father in heaven. 
 
 Bill (sullenly). I want none o your cantin jaw. I 
 suppose Tou think I come here to beg from you, like 
 this damaged lot here. Not me. I dont want your 
 bread and scrape and catlap. I dont believe in your 
 Gawd, no more than you do yourself. 
 
 Barbara (sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a 
 new footing with him). Oh, I beg your pardon for 
 putting your name do^vn, Mr. Walker. I didnt under- 
 stand. I'll strike it out. 
 
 Bill (taking this as a slight, and deeply mounded by 
 it). Eah! you let my name alone. Aint it good enough 
 to be in your book? 
 
 Barbara (considering). Well, you see, theres no use 
 putting doAvn your name unless I can do something for 
 you, is there.'' ^Miats your trade.'' 
 
 Bill (still smarting). Thats no concern o yours. 
 
 Barbara. Just so. (Very businesslike.) I'll put 
 you down as (writing) the man who — struck — poor little 
 Jenny Hill — in the mouth. 
 
 Bill (rising threateningly). See here. Ive ad 
 enough o this. 
 
 Barbara (quite sunny and fearless). What did you 
 come to us for? 
 
 Bill. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her 
 out o this and to break er jawr for her. 
 
 Barbara (complacently). You see I was right about 
 your trade. (Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, 
 finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger 
 of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly.) 
 ^\^lats her name? 
 
 Bill (dogged). Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot 
 her name is. 
 
 Barbara. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our 
 barracks there. 
 
Act II Major Barbara 239 
 
 Bill {fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy). 
 Is she? (Vindictively.) Then I'txi goin to Kennintahn 
 arter her. (He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally 
 comes back at Barbara.) Are you lyin to me to get 
 shut o me? 
 
 Barbara. I dont want to get shut of you. • I want 
 to keep you here and save your soul. Youd better stay: 
 youre gohig to have a bad time today. Bill. 
 
 Bill. Who's goin to give it to me? You, praps. 
 
 Barbara. Someone you dont believe in. But youll 
 be glad afterwards. 
 
 Bill (slinking off). I'll go to Kennintahn to be out 
 
 the reach o your tongue. (Suddenly turning on her 
 with intense malice.) And if I dont find Mog there, 
 I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd 
 if I don't! 
 
 Barbara (a shade hindlier, if possible). It's no use. 
 Bill. Shes got another bloke. 
 
 Bill. Wot ! 
 
 Barbara. One of her own converts. He fell in love 
 with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her 
 face clean, and her hair washed. 
 
 Bill (surprised). Wottud she wash it for, the car- 
 roty slut? It's red. 
 
 Barbara. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a 
 new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity youre too late. 
 The new bloke has put your riose out of joint. Bill. 
 
 Bill. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that 
 
 1 care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her 
 to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to 
 meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? 
 
 Barbara. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. 
 
 Shirley (rising with grim joy). I'll go with him, 
 miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to 
 the infirmary when it's over. 
 
 Bill (to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving). Is 
 that im you was speakin on? 
 
240 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Shirley. Thats him. 
 
 Bill. Im that wrastled in the music all? 
 
 Shirley. The competitions at the National Sportin 
 Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. Hes 
 gev em up now for religion; so hes a bit fresh for want 
 of the exercise he was accustomed to. Hell be glad to 
 see you. Come along. 
 
 Bill. Wots is weight? 
 
 Shirley. Thirteen four. (Bill's last hope expires.) 
 
 Barbara. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert 
 you. 
 
 Shirley. He'll convert your head into a mashed 
 potato. 
 
 Bill {sullenly) . I aint afraid of him. I aint afraid 
 of ennybody. But he can lick me. Shes done me. (He 
 sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough.) 
 
 Shirley. You aint goin. I thought not. (He re- 
 sumes his seat.) 
 
 Barbara (calling). Jenny! 
 
 Jenny (appearing at the shelter door with a plaster 
 on the corner of her mouth). Yes, Major. 
 
 Barbara. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away 
 here. 
 
 Jenny. I think shes afraid. 
 
 Barbara (her resemblance to her mother flashing out 
 for a moment). Nonsense! she must do as shes told. 
 
 Jenny (calling into the shelter). Rummy: the Major 
 says you must come. 
 
 Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the 
 side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank 
 from him or bore malice. 
 
 Barbara. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? (Look- 
 ing at the wounded cheek.) Does it hurt? 
 
 Jenny. No : it's all right now. It was nothing. 
 
 Barbara (critically). It was as hard as he could 
 hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You dont feel angry with 
 him, do you? 
 
Act II Major Barbara 241 
 
 Jenny. Oh no, no, no: indeed I dont, Major, bless 
 his poor heart ! {Barbara hisses her; and she runs away 
 merrily into the shelter. Bill ivrithes with an (Agonising 
 return of his new and alarming symptoms, hut says noth- 
 ing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter.) 
 
 Barbara (going to meet Rummy). Now Rummy, 
 bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; 
 and throw the crumbs about for the birds. 
 
 Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley 
 takes back his mug from her, as there is still some milk 
 left in it. 
 
 Rummy. There aint any crumbs. This aint a time to 
 waste good bread on birds. 
 
 Price {appearing at the shelter door). Gentleman 
 come to see the shelter. Major. Says hes your father. 
 
 Barbara. All right. Coming. (Snobby goes back 
 into the shelter, followed by Barbara.) 
 
 Rummy (stealing across to Bill and addressing him 
 in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction). I'd 
 av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, 
 if she'd let me. Youre no gentleman, to hit a lady in 
 the face. (Bill, with greater things moving in him, 
 takes no notice.) 
 
 Shirley (following her). Here! in with you and 
 dont get yourself into more trouble by talking. 
 
 Rummy (with hauteur). I aint ad the pleasure o 
 being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. (She 
 goes into the shelter with the plates.) 
 
 Shirley. Thats the — 
 
 Bill (savagely). Dont you talk to me, d'ye hear. 
 You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not 
 dirt under your feet, anyway. 
 
 Shiri^ey (calmly). Dont you be afeerd. You aint such 
 prime company that you need expect to be sought after. 
 (He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes 
 out, with Undershaft on her right.) 
 
 Barbara. Oh there you are, Mr. Shirley ! (Between 
 
242 ^lajor Barbara Act 11 
 
 them.) This is my father: I told yon he was a Sectlar- 
 ist, didnt I? Perhaps youll be able to comfort one 
 another. 
 
 Undershaft (startled). A Secularist! Not the 
 least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. 
 
 Barbara. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what 
 i s your religion — in case I have to introduce you again ? 
 
 Undershaft. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a 
 Millionaire. That is my religion. 
 
 Barbara. Then I'm afraid you and Mr. Shirley wont 
 be able to comfort one another after all. Youre not a 
 Millionaire, are you, Peter? 
 
 Shirley. No; and proud of it. 
 
 Undershaft (gravely). Poverty, my friend, is not 
 a thing to be proud of. 
 
 Shirley (angrily). "N^Tio made your millions for 
 you? Me and my like. Whats kep us poor? Keepin 
 you rich. I wouldnt have your conscience, not for all 
 your income. 
 
 Undershaft. I wouldnt have your income, not tot 
 all your conscience, Mr. Shirley. (He goes to the pent' 
 house and sits down on a form.) 
 
 Barbara (stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to 
 retort). You wouldnt think he was my father, would 
 you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the 
 lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. 
 
 Shirley (bitterly). Yes: I'm in their debt for a 
 meal, aint I? 
 
 Barbara. Oh, not because youre in their debt; but 
 for love of them, Peter, for love of them. (He cannot 
 understand, and is rather scandalised.) There! dont 
 stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of 
 yours a holiday (bustling him into the shelter). 
 
 Shirley (as he goes in). Ah! it's a pity you never 
 was trained to use your reason, miss. Youd have been 
 a very taking lecturer on Secularism. 
 
 Barbara turns to her father. 
 
 !• 
 
Act II Major Barbara 243 
 
 Undershaft. Never mind me, my dear. Go about 
 your work; and let me watch it for a while. 
 
 Barbara. All right. 
 
 Undershaft. For instance, whats the matter with 
 that out-patient over there.'' 
 
 Barbara {looking at Bill, whose attitude has never 
 changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has 
 deepened). Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just 
 watch. {She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances 
 up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, hut 
 grimmer than ever.) It would be nice to just stamp 
 on Mog Habbi jam's face, wouldnt it. Bill? 
 
 Bill (starting up from the trough in consternation). 
 It's a lie: I never said so. (She shakes her head.) Who 
 told you wot was in my mind? 
 
 Barbara. Only your new friend. 
 
 Bill. Wot new friend? 
 
 Barbara. The devil. Bill. When he gets round 
 people they get miserable, just like you. 
 
 Bill (with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care 
 cheerfulness). I aint miserable. (He sits down again, 
 and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent.) 
 
 Barbara. Well, if youre happy, why dont you look 
 happy, as we do? 
 
 Bill (his legs curling back in spite of him). I'm 
 appy enough, I tell you. Why dont you lea me alown? 
 Wot av I done to y o u ? "I aint smashed your face, 
 av I ? 
 
 Barbara (softly: wooing his soul). It's not me thats 
 getting at you. Bill. 
 
 Bill. Who else is it? 
 
 Barbara. Somebody that doesnt intend you to smash 
 women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that 
 wants to make a man of you. 
 
 Bill (blustering). Make a man o me! Aint I a 
 man? eh? aint I a man? Wlio sez I'm not a man? 
 
 Barbara. Theres a man in you somewhere, I sup- 
 
244 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 pose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? 
 That wasnt very manly of him^ was it? 
 
 Bill {tormented). Av done with it, I tell you. Chack 
 it. I'm sick of your Jenny 111 and er silly little face. 
 
 Barbara. Then why do you keep thinking about it? 
 "Wliy does it keep coming up against you in your mind? 
 Youre not getting converted, are you? 
 
 Bill {with conviction). Not me. Not likely. Not 
 arf. 
 
 Barbara. Thats right, Bill. Hold out against it. 
 Put out your strength. Dont lets get you cheap. Todger 
 Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his 
 Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at 
 the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm 
 was going to break. But he didnt give in to his salvation 
 until his heart was going to break. Perhaps youll 
 escape that. You havnt any heart, have you? 
 
 Bill. Wot d'ye mean? Wy aint I got a art the same 
 as ennybody else? 
 
 Barbara. A man with a heart wouldnt have bashed 
 poor little Jenny's face, would he? 
 
 Bill {almost crying). Ow, will you lea me alown? 
 Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come 
 naggin and provowkin me lawk this? {He writhes con- 
 vulsively from his eyes to his toes.) 
 
 Barbara {tvith a steady soothing hand on his arm 
 and a gentle voice that never lets him go). It's your 
 soul thats hurting you. Bill, and not me. Weve been 
 through it all ourselves. Come with us. Bill. {He looks 
 wildly round). To brave manhood on earth and eternal 
 glory in heaven. {He is on the point of breaking down.) 
 Come. {A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, tvith 
 a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. 
 Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum.) Oh! 
 there you are, Dollv. Let me introduce a new friend 
 of mine, Mr. Bill Walker. This is my bloke. Bill: Mr. 
 Cusins. {Cusins salutes with his drumstick.) 
 
Act n Major Barbara 245 
 
 Bill. Goin to marry im? 
 
 Baubara. Yes. 
 
 Bill {fervently). Gord elp im! Gawd elp im! 
 
 Barbara. Why? Do you think he wont be happy 
 with me."* 
 
 Bill. Ive only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to 
 stand it for a lifetime. 
 
 CusiNs. That is a frightful reflection, Mr. Walker. 
 But I cant tear myself away from her. 
 
 Bill. Well, I can. {To Barbara.) Eah! do you 
 know where I'm going to, and wot I'm goin to do? 
 
 Barbara. Yes: youre going to heaven; and youre 
 coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. 
 
 Bill. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in 
 Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and 
 now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and 
 shew it to er. E'll it me ardern I it e r. Thatll make 
 us square. {To Adolphus.) Is that fair or is it not? 
 Youre a genlmn: you oughter know. 
 
 Barbara. Two black eyes wont make one white one, 
 Bill. 
 
 Bill. I didnt ast you. Cawnt you never keep your 
 mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. 
 
 CusiNS {reflectively). Yes: I think youre right, Mr. 
 Walker. Yes: I should do it. Its curious: its exactly 
 what 'an ancient Greek would have done. 
 
 Barbara. But what good will it do? 
 
 CusiNs. Well, it will give Mr. Fair mile some exer- 
 cise; and it will satisfy Mr. Walker's soul. 
 
 Bill. Rot! there aint no sach a thing as a soul. Ah 
 kin you tell wether Ive a soul or not? You never seen it. 
 
 Barbara. Ive seen it hurting you when you went 
 against it. 
 
 Bill {with compressed aggravation). If you was my 
 girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd 
 give you suthink youd feel urtin, so I would. {To 
 Adolphus.) You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or 
 
246 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 youll die afore your time. (With intense expression.) 
 Wore aht : thets wot joull be : wore aht. {He goes away 
 through the gate.) 
 
 Cusixs (looking after him). I wonder! 
 
 Barbara. DoUy ! (indignant, in her mother's man- 
 ner.) 
 
 CusiNs. YeSj my dear, it's very wearing to be in 
 love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die 
 young. 
 
 Barbara. Should you mind? 
 
 CfsiNs. Not at all. (He is suddenly softened, and 
 kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, 
 as people cannot kiss over a big drum rvithout practice. 
 Undershaft coughs.) 
 
 Barbara. It's all right, papa, weve not forgotten 
 you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I ha^-nt time. 
 (She goes busily into the shelter.) 
 
 Under&haft and Adolphus now have the yard to them- 
 selves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly 
 attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard 
 at him. 
 
 UxDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what 
 is in my mind, Mr. Cusins. (Cusins flourishes his drum- 
 sticks as if in the act of beating a lively rataplan, but 
 makes no sound.) Exactly so. But suppose Barbara 
 finds you out! 
 
 Cusins. You know, I do not admit that I am im- 
 posing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in 
 the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a 
 sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is 
 that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have 
 you any religion? 
 
 Undershaft. Yes. 
 
 Cusins. Anything out of the common? 
 
 Undershaft. Only that there are two things neces- 
 sary to Salvation. 
 
 Cusins (disappointed, but polite). Ah, the Church 
 
Act II Major Barbara 247 
 
 Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Estab- 
 lished Church. 
 
 Undershaft. The two things are — 
 
 CusiNs. Baptism and — 
 
 Undershaft. No. Money and gunpowder. 
 
 CusiNs {surprised, hut interested). That is the gen- 
 eral opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in 
 hearing any man confess it. 
 
 Undershaft. Just so. 
 
 CusiNs. Excuse me: is there any place in your re- 
 ligion for honor, j ustice, truth, love, mercy and so forth ? 
 
 Undershaft. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries 
 oi- a rich, stx'ong, and safe life. 
 
 CusiNs. Suppose one is forced to choose between 
 them and money or gunpowder.^ 
 
 Undershaft. Choose money and gunpowder; for 
 •without enough of both you cannot afford the others. 
 
 CusiNs. That is your religion.'' 
 
 Undershaft. Yes. 
 
 The cadence of this reply makes a fidl close in the 
 conversation. Cusins ttvists his face dubiously and con- 
 templates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. 
 
 CusiNs. Barbara wont stand that. You will have to 
 choose between your religion and Barbara. 
 
 Undershaft. So will you, my friend. She will find 
 out that that drum of yours is hollow. 
 
 Cusins. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am 
 a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Sal- 
 vation Array. It is the army of joy, of love, of cour- 
 age: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair 
 of the old hell-ridden evangelical sects: it marches to 
 fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and 
 dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from 
 heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out 
 of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds 
 a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo ! a woman ! 
 Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the 
 
248 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greeks the 
 most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, 
 from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist 
 in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; 
 sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs 
 (/le plays a thundering flourish on the drum). 
 Undershaft. You will alarm the shelter. 
 CusiNs. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden 
 ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you — 
 (he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and 
 stands it on the ground opposite the gatervay). 
 Undershaft. Thank you. 
 
 CusiNS. You remember what Euripides says about 
 your money and gunpowder.'' 
 Undershaft. No. 
 CusiNs (declaiming). 
 
 One and another 
 In money and guns may outpass his brother ; 
 And men in their millions float and flow 
 And seethe with a million hopes as leaven ; 
 And they win their will ; or they miss iheir will ; 
 And their hopes are dead or are pined for still ; 
 But whoe'er can know 
 As the long days go 
 That to live is happy, has found h i s heaven. 
 
 My translation: what do you think of it? 
 
 Undershaft. I think, my friend, that if you wish 
 to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, 
 you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, 
 and power enough to be your own master. 
 
 CusiNS. You are damnably discouraging. (He re- 
 sumes his declamation.) 
 
 Is it so hard a thing to see 
 That the spirit of God— whate'er it be— 
 The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, , 
 The Eternal and Nature-born : these things be strong? 
 
Act II Major Barbara 249 
 
 What else is Wisdom ? What of Man's endeavor. 
 Or God's high grace so lovely and so great ? 
 To stand from fear set free ? to breathe and wait ? 
 To hold a hand uplifted over Fate ? 
 And shall not Barbara be loved for ever ? 
 
 Undershaft. Euripides mentions Barbara^ does he? 
 
 CusiNS. It is a fair translation. The word means 
 Loveliness. 
 
 Undershaft. May I ^ask — as Barbara's father — how 
 much a year she is to be loved for-ever on.^ 
 
 CusiNS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair 
 than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is 
 about all. 
 
 Undershaft. Do you consider it a good match for 
 her? 
 
 CusiNS (with polite obstinacy). Mr. Undershaft: I 
 am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and 
 my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel 
 that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I 
 feel that way about Barbara. I dont like marriage: 
 I feel intensely afraid of it; and I dont know what I 
 shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. 
 B.ut I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. 
 Please regard that as settled. — Not that I wish to be 
 arbitrdry; but why should I waste your time in discuss- 
 ing what is inevitable? 
 
 Undershaft. You mean that you will stick at noth- 
 ing: not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to 
 the worship of Dionysos. 
 
 CusiNs. The business of the Salvation Army is to 
 save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. 
 Dionysos or another: what does it matter? 
 
 Undershaft (rising and approaching him). Pro- 
 fessor Cusins: you are a young man after my own 
 heart. 
 
 CusiNS. Mr. Undershaft: you are, as far as I am 
 
250 Major Barbara Act It 
 
 able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal 
 very strongly to mj'^ sense of ironic humor. 
 
 Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. 
 
 Undershaft (suddenly concentrating himself). And 
 now to business. 
 
 CusiNs. Pardon me. We were discussing religion.; 
 Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant 
 subject as business? 
 
 Undershaft. Religion is our business at present, 
 because it is through religion alone that we can win 
 Barbara. 
 
 CusiNs. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? 
 
 Undershaft. Yes, with a father's love. 
 
 CusiNS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is 
 the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for 
 mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the 
 same breath with it. 
 
 Undershaft. Keep to the point. We have to win 
 her; and we are neither of us Methodists. 
 
 CusiNS. That doesnt matter. The power Barbara 
 wields here — the power that wields Barbara herself — is 
 not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism — 
 
 Undershaft. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? 
 
 CusiNS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in 
 her religion. 
 
 UsDERsu AFT (triumphantly). Aha! Barbara Under- 
 shaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within 
 herself. 
 
 CusiNS. How do you suppose it got there? 
 
 Undershaft (in torvering excitement) . It is the Un- 
 dershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my 
 daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my 
 gospel — 
 
 CusiNS. What ! Money and gunpowder ! 
 
 Undershaft. Yes, money and gunpowder; free- 
 dom and power; command of life and command of 
 death. 
 
Act" II Major Barbara 251 
 
 CusiNs {urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth). 
 This is extremely interesting, Mr. Undershaft. Of 
 course you know that you are mad. 
 ' Undershaft (rvith redoubled force). And you? 
 
 CusiNs. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to 
 my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am 
 astonished. Can a madman make cannons .'' 
 
 Undershaft. Would anyone else than a madman 
 make them.'' And now (ivith surging energy) question 
 for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides.'' 
 
 CusiNs. No. 
 
 Undershaft (seizing him by the shoulder). Can a 
 sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a 
 worm.'' 
 
 CusiNs (reeling before the storm). Father Colossus 
 — Mammoth Millionaire — 
 
 Undershaft (pressing him). Are there two mad 
 people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day.? 
 
 CusiNs. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are ! 
 
 Undershaft (pushing him lightly off and resuming 
 his equanimity suddenly and completely). Pooh, Pro- 
 fessor ! let us call things by their proper names. J_ am 
 a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of 
 souls. What have we three to do with the common mob 
 of slaves and idolaters.'' (He sits down again with a 
 shrug of contempt for the mob.) 
 
 CusiNS. Take care ! Barbara is in love with the 
 common people. So am I. Have you never felt the 
 romance of that love? 
 
 Undershaft (cold and sardonic). Have you ever 
 been in love with Povert}^, like St. Francis? Have you 
 ever been in love with Dirt, like St. Simeon? Have you 
 ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our 
 nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not vir- 
 tues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love 
 of the common people may please an earl's grand- 
 daughter and a university professor; but I have been a 
 
252 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 common man and a poor man; and it has no romance for 
 me. Leave it to the poor to pretend that poverty is a 
 blessing: leave it to the coward to make a religion of 
 his cowardice by preaching humility: we know better 
 than that. We three must stand together above the 
 common people: how else can we help their children to 
 climb up beside us ? Barbara must belong to us, not 
 to the Salvation Army. 
 
 CusiNS. Well, I can only say that if you think you 
 will get her away from the Salvation Army by talking 
 to her as you have been talking to me, you dont know 
 Barbara. 
 
 Undershaft. My friend: I never ask for what I 
 can buy. 
 
 CusiNs (in a white fury). Do I understand you to 
 imply that you can buy Barbara? 
 
 Undershaft. No ; but I can buy the Salvation Army. 
 
 CusiNs. Quite impossible. 
 
 Undershaft. You shall see. All religious organiza- 
 tions exist by selling themselves to the rich. 
 
 CusiNs. Not the Army. That is the Church of the 
 poor. 
 
 Undershaft. All the more reason for buying it. 
 
 CusiNs. I dont think you quite know what the Army 
 does for the poor. 
 
 Undershaft. Oh yes I do. It draws their teeth: 
 that is enough for me— as a man of business — 
 
 Cusins. Nonsense. It makes them sober — 
 
 Undershaft. I prefer sober workmen. The profits 
 are larger. 
 
 CusiNS. — honest — 
 
 Undershaft. Honest workmen are the most eco- 
 nomical. 
 
 CusiNs. — attached to their homes — 
 
 Undershaft. So much the better: they will put up 
 with anything sooner than change their shop. 
 
 Cusins. — happy — 
 
Act II Major Barbara 253 
 
 Undershaft. An invaluable safeguard against revo- 
 lution. 
 
 CusiNs. — unselfish — 
 
 Undershaft. Indifferent to their own interests, 
 which suits me exactly. 
 
 CcsiNs. — with their thoughts on heavenly things — 
 
 Undershaft (rising). And not on Trade Unionism 
 nor Socialism. Excellent. 
 
 CusiNs {revolted). You really are an infernal old 
 rascal. 
 
 Undershaft (indicating Peter Shirley, rvho has just 
 come from the shelter and strolled dejectedly down the 
 yard between th em). ^ And this is an honest man! 
 
 Shirley. Yes; and what av I got by it.'' (he passes 
 on bitterly and sits on the form, in the corner of the 
 penthouse). 
 
 Snobby Price, beaming sanctimoniously, and Jenny 
 Hill, rvith a tambourine full of coppers, come from the 
 shelter and go to the drum, on which Jenny begins ta 
 count the money. 
 
 Undershaft (replying to Shirley). Oh, your em- 
 ployers must have got a good deal by it from first to 
 last. (He sits on the table, with one foot on the side 
 form. Cusins, overrvhelmed, sits down on the same form 
 nearer the shelter. Barbara comes from the shelter to 
 the middle of the yard. She is excited and a little over- 
 ivrought.) 
 
 Barbara. Weve just had a splendid experience meet- 
 ing at the other gate in Cripps's lane. Ive hardly ever 
 seen them so much moved as they were by your con- 
 fession, Mr. Price. 
 
 Price. I could almost be glad of my past wickedness 
 if I could believe that it would elp to keep bathers 
 stright. 
 
 Barbara. So it will, Snobby. How much, Jenny? 
 
 Jen'ny. Four and tenpence. Major. 
 
 Barbara. Oh Snobby, if you had given your poor 
 
254 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 motlier just one more kick, we should have got the whole 
 five shillings ! 
 
 Price. If she heard you say that, miss, she'd be sorry 
 I didnt. But I'm glad. Oh what a joy it will be to 
 her when she hears I'm saved! 
 
 Undershaft. Shall I contribute the odd twopence, 
 Barbara? The millionaire's mite, eh? {He takes a 
 couple of pennies from his pocket.) 
 
 Barbara. How did you make that twopence? 
 
 Undershaft. As usual. By selling cannons, tor- 
 pedoes, submarines, and my new patent Grand Duke 
 hand grenade. 
 
 Barbara. Put it back in your pocket. You cant buy 
 your Salvation here for twopence: you must work it out. 
 
 Undershaft. Is twopence not enough ? I can afford 
 a little more, if you press me. 
 
 Barbara. Two million millions would not be enough. 
 There is bad blood on your hands; and nothing but good 
 blood can cleanse them. Money is no use. Take it 
 away. (She turns to Cusins.) Dolly: you must write 
 another letter for me to the papers. (He makes a wry 
 face.) Yes: I know you dont like it; but it must be 
 done. The starvation this winter is beating us: every- 
 body is imemployed. The General says we must close 
 this shelter if we cant get more money. I force the 
 collections at the meetings imtil I am ashamed: dont I, 
 Snobby ? 
 
 Price. It's a fair treat to see you work it, Miss. The 
 way you got them up from three-and-six to four-and-ten 
 with that hymn, penny by penny and verse by verse, 
 was a caution. Not a Cheap Jack on Mile End Waste 
 could touch you at it. 
 
 Barbara. Yes ; but I wish we could do without it. I 
 am getting at last to think more of the collection than 
 of the people's souls. And what are those hatfuls of 
 pence and halfpence ? We want thousands ! tens of 
 thousands ! himdreds of thousands ! I want to convert 
 
Act II Major Barbara 255 
 
 people^ not to be always begging for the Army in a way 
 J'd die sooner than beg for myself. 
 
 Undershaft (in profound irony). Genuine unselfish- 
 ness is capable of anything, my dear. 
 
 Barbara {unsuspectingly , as she turns away to take 
 the money from the drum and put it in a cash bag she 
 carries). Yes, isnt it.'' (Undershaft looks sardonically 
 at Cusins.) 
 
 CusiNs (aside to Undershaft). Mephistopheles ! Ma- 
 chiavelli ! 
 
 Barbara (tears coming into her eyes as she ties the 
 hag and pockets it). How are we to feed them? I cant 
 talk religion to a man with bodily hunger in his eyes. 
 (Almost breaking down.) It's frightful. 
 
 Jenny (running to her). Major, dear — 
 
 Barbara (rebounding). No, dont comfort me. It 
 will be all right. We shall get the money. 
 
 Undershaft. How.'' 
 
 Jenny. By praying for it, of course. Mrs. Baines 
 says she prayed for it last night; and she has never 
 prayed for it in vain: never once. (She goes to the gate 
 and looks out into the street.) 
 
 Barbara (who has dried her eyes and regained her 
 composure). By the way, dad, Mrs. Baines has come 
 to march with us to our big meeting this afternoon; and 
 she is very anxious to meet you, for some reason or 
 other. Perhaps she'll convert you. 
 
 Undershaft. I shall be delighted, my dear. 
 
 Jenny (at the gate: excitedly). Major! Major! 
 heres that man back again. 
 
 Barbara. What man.'' 
 
 Jenny, The man that hit me. Oh, I hope hes com- 
 ing back to join us. 
 
 Bill Walker, with frost on his jacket, comes through 
 the gate, his hands deep in his pockets and his chin sunk 
 between his shoulders, like a cleaned-out gambler. He 
 halts between Barbara and the drum. 
 
256 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Barbara. Hullo, Bill! Back already! 
 
 Bill {nagging at her). Bin talkin ever sence, av 
 you? 
 
 Barbara. Pretty nearly. Well, has Todger paid you 
 out for poor Jenny's jaw.'* 
 
 Bill. No he aint. 
 
 Barbara. I thought your jacket looked a bit snowy. 
 
 Bill. So it is snowy. You want to know where the 
 snow come from, dont you.'' 
 
 Barbara. Yes. 
 
 Bill. Well, it come from off the ground in Parkinses 
 Corner in Kennintahn. It got rubbed off be my shoul- 
 ders: see? 
 
 Barbara. Pity you didnt rub some off with your 
 knees. Bill! That would have done you a lot of good. 
 
 Bill {with sour mirthless humor). I was saving an- 
 other man's knees at the time. E was kneelin on my 
 ed, so e was. 
 
 Jenny. AMio was kneeling on your head? 
 
 Bill. Todger was. E was prayin for me: prayin 
 comfortable with me as a carpet. So was Mog. So 
 was the ole bloomin meetin. Mog she sez " O Lord 
 break is stubborn spirit; but dont urt is dear art." That 
 was wot she said. " Dont urt is dear art " ! An er 
 bloke — thirteen stun four! — kneelin wiv all is weight on 
 me. Funny, aint it? 
 
 Jenny. Oh no. We're so sorry, Mr. Walker. 
 
 Barbara {enjoying it frankly). Nonsense! of course 
 it's funny. Served you right. Bill! You must have 
 done something to him first. 
 
 Bill {doggedly). I did wot I said I'd do. I spit in 
 is eye. E looks up at the sky and sez, " O that I should 
 be f ahnd worthy to be spit upon for the gospel's sake ! " 
 e sez; an Mog sez "Glory AUelloolier ! " ; and then e 
 called me Brother, an dahned me as if I was a kid and 
 e was me mother washin me a Setterda nawt. I adnt 
 just no show wiv im at all. Arf the street prayed; an 
 
Act II Major Barbara 257 
 
 the tother arf larfed fit to split theirselves. (To Bar- 
 bara.) There! are you settisfawd nah? 
 
 Barbara (her eyes dancing). Wish I'd been there, 
 Bill. 
 
 Bill. Yes: youd a got in a hextra bit o talk on me, 
 wouldnt you? 
 
 Jenny. I'm so sorry, Mr. Walker. 
 
 Bill (fiercely). Dont you go bein sorry for me: 
 youve no call. Listen ere. I broke your jawr. 
 
 Jenny. No, it didnt hurt me: indeed it didnt, except 
 for a moment. It was only that I was frightened. 
 
 Bill. I dont want to be forgive be you, or be enny- 
 body. Wot I did I'll pay for. I tried to get me own 
 jawr broke to settisfaw you — 
 
 Jenny (distressed). Oh no — 
 
 Bill (impatiently) . Tell y'l did: cawnt you listen to 
 wots bein told you? All I got be it was bein made a 
 sight of in the public street for me pains. Well, if I 
 cawnt settisfaw you one way, I can another. Listen 
 ere! I ad two quid saved agen the frost; an Ive a 
 pahnd of it left. A mate o mine last week ad words 
 with the judy e's goin to marry. E give er wot- for; 
 an e's bin fined fifteen bob. E ad a right to it er 
 because they was goin to be marrid; but I adnt no 
 right to it you; so put anather fawv bob on an call it a 
 pahnd's worth. (lie produces a sovereign.) Eres the 
 money. Take it; and lets av no more o your forgivin 
 an pray in and your Major jawrin me. Let wot I done 
 be done and paid for; and let there be a end of it. 
 
 Jenny. Oh, I couldnt take it, Mr. Walker. But if 
 you would give a shilling or two to poor Rummy 
 Mitchens ! you really did hurt her ; and shes old. 
 
 Bill (contemptuously). Not likely. I'd give her 
 anather as soon as look at er. Let her av the lawr o 
 me as she threatened ! She aint forgiven me : not mach. 
 Wot I done to er is not on me mawnd — wot she (indi- 
 cating Barbara) might call on me conscience — no more 
 
258 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 than stickin a pig. It's this Christian game o yours that 
 I wont av played agen me: this bloomin forgivin an 
 naggin an jawrin that makes a man that sore that iz 
 lawf's a burdn to im. I wont av it, I tell you; so take 
 your money and stop throwin your silly bashed face hup 
 agen me. 
 
 Jenny. Major: may I take a little of it for the 
 Army ? 
 
 Barbara. No: the Army is not to be bought. We 
 want your soul, Bill; and we'll take nothing less. 
 
 Bill (bitterly). I know. It aint enough. Me an 
 me few shillins is not good enough for you. Youre a 
 earl's grendorter, you are. Nothin less than a underd 
 pahnd for you. 
 
 Undershaft. Come, Barbara ! you could do a great 
 deal of good with a hundred pounds. If you will set 
 this gentleman's mind at ease by taking his pomid, I 
 will give the other ninety-nine. (Bill, astounded by 
 such opulence, instinctively touches his cap.) 
 
 Barbara. Oh, youre too extravagant, papa. Bill 
 offers twenty pieces of silver. All you need offer is 
 the other ten. That will make the standard price to 
 buy anybody who's for sale. I'm not; and the Army's 
 not. (To Bill.) Youll never have another quiet mo- 
 ment. Bill, until you come round to us. You cant stand 
 out against your salvation. 
 
 Bill (sullenly). 1 cawnt stend aht agen music-all 
 wrastlers and artful tongued women. Ive offered to 
 pay. I can do no more. Take it or leave it. There 
 it is. (He throws the sovereign on the drum, and sits 
 down on the horse-trough. The coin fascinates Snobby 
 Price, who takes an early opportunity of dropping his 
 cap on it.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines comes from the shelter. She is dressed 
 as a Salvation Army Commissioner. She is an earnest 
 looking woman of- about 40, with a caressing, urgent 
 voice, and an appealing manner. 
 
Act II Major Barbara 259 
 
 Barbara. This is my father, Mrs. Baines. (JJnder- 
 shaft comes from the table, taking his hat off with 
 marked civility.) Try what you can do with him. He 
 wont listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I 
 was when I was a baby. (She leaves them together 
 and chats with Jenny.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Have you been shewn over the shelter, 
 Mr. Undershaft? You know the work we're doing, of 
 course. 
 
 Undershaft (very civilly). The whole nation knows 
 it, Mrs. Baines. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. No, sir: the whole nation does not 
 know it, or we should not be crippled as we are for 
 want of money to carry our work through the length 
 and breadth of the land. Let me tell you that there 
 would have been rioting this winter in London but for us. 
 
 Undershaft, You really think so.'' 
 
 Mrs. Baines. I know it. I remember 1886, when 
 you rich gentlemen hardened your hearts against the 
 cry of the poor. They broke the windows of your clubs 
 in Pall Mall. 
 
 Undershaft (gleaming with approval of their 
 method). And the Mansion House Fund went up next 
 day from thirty thousand pounds to seventy-nine thou- 
 sand! I remember quite well. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Well, wont- you help me to get at the 
 people."* They wont break windows then. Come here. 
 Price. Let me shew you to this gentleman (Price comes to 
 he inspected) . Do you remember the window breaking? 
 
 Price. My ole father thought it was the revolution, 
 maam. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Would you break windows now? 
 
 Price. Oh no maam. The windows of eaven av bin 
 opened to me. I know now that the rich man is a sinner 
 like myself. 
 
 RuMMV (appearing above at the loft door). Snobby 
 Price ! 
 
260 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Snobby, Wot is it? 
 
 Rummy. Your mother's askin for you at the other 
 gate in Crippses Lane. She's heard about your confes- 
 sion (Price turns pale). 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Go, Mr. Price; and pray with her. 
 
 Jenny. You can go through the shelter. Snobby. 
 
 Price (to Mrs. Baines). I couldnt face her now, 
 maam, with all the weight of my sins fresh on me. Tell 
 her she'll find her son at ome, waitin for her in prayer. 
 (He skulks off through the gate, incidentally stealing 
 the sovereign on his way out by picking up his cap from 
 the drum.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines (with swimming eyes). You see how 
 we take the anger and the bitterness against you out 
 of their hearts, Mr. Undershaft. 
 
 Undershaft. It is certainly most convenient and 
 gratifying to all large employers of labor, Mrs. Baines. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Barbara: Jenny: I have good news: 
 most wonderful news. (Jenny runs to her.) My prayers 
 have been answered. I told you they would, Jenny, 
 didn't I? 
 
 Jenny. YeSj yes. 
 
 Barbara (m.oving nearer to the drum). Have we got 
 money enough to keep the shelter open? 
 
 Mrs. Baines. I hope we shall have enough to keep 
 all the shelters open. Lord Saxmundham has promised 
 us five thousand pounds — 
 
 Barbara. Hooray ! 
 
 Jenny. Glory ! 
 
 Mrs. Baines. — if — 
 
 Barbara. "If!" If what? 
 
 Mrs. Baines. — if five other gentlemen will give a 
 thousand each to make it up to ten thousand. 
 
 Barbara. Who is Lord Saxmundham? I never heard 
 of him. 
 
 Undershaft (who has pricked up his ears at the 
 peer's name, and is now ivatching Barbara curiously)* 
 
Act n Major Barbara 261 
 
 A new creation, my dear. You have heard of Sir Horace 
 Bodger ? 
 
 Barbara. Bodger! Do you mean the distiller? 
 Bodger's whisky ! 
 
 Undershaft. That is the man. He is one of the 
 greatest of our public benefactors. He restored the 
 cathedral at Hakington. They made him a baronet for 
 that. He gave half a million to the funds of his party: 
 they made him a baron for that. 
 
 Shirley. What will they give him for the five thou- 
 sand ? 
 
 Undershaft. There is nothing left to give him. So 
 the five thousand, I should think, is to save his soul. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Heaven grant it may ! Oh Mr. Under- 
 shaft, you have some very rich friends. Cant you help 
 us towards the other five thousand? We are going to 
 hold a great meeting this afternoon at the Assembly 
 Hall in the Mile End Road. If I could only announce 
 that one gentleman had come forward to support Lord 
 Saxmundham, others would follow. Dont you know 
 somebody? couldnt you? wouldnt you? (her eyes fill with 
 tears) oh, think of those poor people, Mr. Undershaft: 
 think of how much it means to them, and how little to 
 a great man like you. 
 
 Undershaft {sardonically gallant). Mrs. Baines: 
 you are irresistible. I cant disappoint you; and I cant 
 deny myself the satisfaction of making Bodger pay up. 
 You shall have your five thousand pounds. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Thank God ! 
 
 Undershaft. You dont thank me? 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Oh sir, dont try to be cynical : dont be 
 ashamed of being a good man. The Lord will bless you 
 abundantly; and our prayers will be like a strong forti- 
 fication round you all the days of your life. {With a 
 touch of caution.) You will let me have the cheque to 
 shew at the meeting, wont you? Jenny: go in and 
 fetch a pen and ink. {Jenny runs to the shelter door.) 
 
262 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Undershaft. Do not disturb Miss Hill: I have a 
 fountain pen. {Jenny halts. He sits at the table and 
 writes the cheque. Cusins rises to make more room for 
 him. They all watch him silently.) 
 
 Bill (cynically, aside to Barbara, his voice and accent 
 horribly debased). Wot jDrawce Selvytion nab? 
 
 Barbara. Stop. (Undershaft stops writing: they all 
 turn to her in surprise.) Mrs. Baines: are you really 
 going to take this money.'' 
 
 Mrs. Baines (astonished). Why not, dear.^ 
 
 Barbara. Why not ! Do you know what my' father 
 is? Have you forgotten that Lord Saxmundham is 
 Bodger the whisky man? Do you remember how we 
 implored the County Council to stop him from writing 
 jBodger's A^Tiisky in letters of fire against the sky; so 
 that the poor drink-ruined creatures on the embankment 
 could not wake up from their snatches of sleep without 
 being reminded of their deadly thirst by that wicked 
 sk}' sign ? Do you know that the worst thing I have had 
 to fight here is not the devil, but Bodger, Bodger, 
 Bodger, with his whisky, his distilleries, and his tied 
 houses? Are you going to make our shelter another, 
 tied house for him, and ask me to keep it? 
 
 Bill. Rotten drunken whisky it is too, 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Dear Barbara: Lord Saxmundham has 
 a soul to be saved like any of us. If heaven has found 
 the way to make a good use of his money, are we to set 
 ourselves up against the answer to our prayers? 
 
 Barbara. I know he has a soul to be saved. Let 
 him come down here; and I'll do my best to help him 
 to his salvation. But he wants to send his cheque down 
 to buy us, and go on being as wicked as ever. 
 
 Undershaft (with a reasonableness which Cusins 
 alone perceives to be ironical). My dear Barbara: alco- 
 hol is a very necessary article. It heals the sick— 
 
 Barbara. It does nothing of the sort. 
 
 Undershaft. Well, it assists the doctor: that is per- 
 
Act II Major Barbara 263 
 
 haps a less questionable way of putting it. It makes 
 life bearable to millions of people who could not endure 
 their existence if they were quite sober. It enables Par- 
 liament to do things at eleven at night that no sane 
 person would do at eleven in the morning. Is it Bodger's 
 fault that this inestimable gift is deplorably abused by 
 less than one jjer cent of the poor.f* (//e turns again to 
 the table; signs the cheque; and crosses it.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Barbara: will there be less drinking 
 or more if all those poor souls we are saving come to- 
 morrow and find the doors of our shelters shut in their 
 faces.'' Lord Saxmundham gives us the money to stop 
 drinking — to take his own business from him. 
 
 CusiNs (irnpishh/). Pure self-sacrifice on Bodger's 
 part, clearly! Bless dear Bodger ! (Barbara almost 
 breaks down as Adolphus, too, fails her.) 
 
 Undershaft {tearing out the cheque and pocketing 
 the book as he rises and goes past Ciisins to Mrs. Baines). 
 I also, jNIrs. Baines, may claim a little disinterestedness. 
 Think of my business ! think of the widows and orphans ! 
 the men and lads torn to pieces with shrapnel and 
 poisoned with lyddite (Mrs. Baines shrinks; but he goes 
 on remorsely) ! the oceans of blood, not one drop of 
 which is shed in a really just cause! the ravaged crops! 
 the peaceful peasants forced, women and men, to till 
 their fields under the fire of opposing armies on \ta.in of 
 starvation! the bad blood of the fierce little cowards at 
 home who ^gg on others to fight for the gratification of 
 their national vanity! All this makes money for me: 
 I am never richer, never busier than when the papers 
 are full of it. Well, it is your work to preach peace 
 on earth and goodwill to men. (Mrs. Baines's face 
 lights up again.) Every convert you make is a vote 
 against war. (Her lips move in prayer.) Yet I give 
 you this money to help you to hasten my own com- 
 mercial ruin. (He gives her the cheque.) 
 
 CusiNs (mounting the form in an ecstasy of mischief). 
 
2G4 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 The millennium will be in<augurated by the unselfish- 
 ness of Undershaft and Bodger. Oh be joyful! {He 
 takes the drumsticks from his pockets and flourishes 
 them.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines (taking the cheque). The longer I live 
 the more proof I see that there is an Infinite Goodness 
 that turns everything to the work of salvation sooner 
 or later. Who would have thought that any good could 
 have come out of war and drink .^ And yet their profits 
 are brought today to the feet of salvation to do its 
 blessed work. (She is affected to tears.) 
 
 Jenny (^running to Mrs. Baines and throwing her 
 arms round her). Oh dear! how blessed, how glorious 
 it all is ! 
 
 CusiNs (in a convulsion of irony). Let us seize this 
 unspeakable moment. Let us march to the great meet- 
 ing at once. Excuse me just an instant. {He rushes 
 into the shelter. Jenny takes her tambourine from the 
 drum head.) 
 
 INIrs. Baines. Mr. Undershaft: have you ever seen a 
 thousand people fall on their knees with one impulse 
 and pray? Come with us to the meeting. Barbara shall 
 tell them that the Army is saved, and saved through you. 
 
 CusiNs (returning impetuously from the shelter with 
 a flag and a trombone, and coining between Mrs. Baines 
 and Undershaft). You shall carry the flag down the 
 first street, Mrs. Baines (he gives her the flag). Mr. 
 Undershaft is a gifted trombonist: he shall intone an 
 Olympian diapason to the West Ham Salvation March. 
 (Aside to Undershaft, as he forces the trombone on 
 him.) Blow, Machiavelli, blow. 
 
 Undershaft (aside to him, as he takes the trombone). 
 The trumpet in Zicn ! (Cusins rushes to the drum, which 
 he takes up and puts on. Undershaft continues, aloud) 
 I will do my best. I could vamp a bass if I knew the 
 tune. 
 
 Cusins. It is a wedding chorus from one of Doni- 
 
Act II Major Barbara 265 
 
 zetti's operas; but we have converted it. We _CQuyert 
 everything to good here, including Bodger. You re- 
 member the chorus. " For thee immense rejoicing — 
 immenso giubilo — immenso giubilo." (With drum obbli- 
 gato.) Rum tum ti tum tum, tum turn ti ta — 
 
 Barbara. Dolly: you are breaking my heart. 
 
 CusiNS. What is a broken heart more or less here? 
 Dionysos Undershaft has descended. I am possessed. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Come, Barbara: I must have my dear 
 Major to carry the flag with me. 
 
 Jenny. Yes, yes, Major darling. 
 
 CusiNs (snatches the tambourhie out of Jenny's hand 
 and mutely offers it to Barbara). 
 
 Barbara (coming forrvard a little as she puts the offer 
 behind her with a shudder, whilst Cusins recklessly 
 tosses the tambourine back to Jenny and goes to the 
 gate). I cant come. 
 
 Jenny. Not come ! 
 
 Mrs. Baines (with tears in her eyes). Barbara: do 
 you think I am wrong to take the mon'eiy? 
 
 Barbara (impulsively going to her and kissing her). 
 No, no: God help you, dear, you must: you are saving 
 the Army. Go ; and may you have a great meeting ! 
 
 Jenny. But arnt you coming? 
 
 Barbara. No. (She begins taking off the silver S 
 brooch from her collar.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Barbara :what are you doing? 
 
 Jenny. Why are you taking your badge oflf? You 
 cant be going to leave us, !Major. 
 
 Barbara (quietly). Father: come here. 
 
 Undershaft (coming to her). My dear! (Seeing 
 that she is going to pin the badge on his collar, he re- 
 treats to the penthouse in- some alarm.) 
 
 Barbara (following him). Dont be frightened. 
 (She pins the badge on and steps back towards the table, 
 shewing him to the others.) .There! It's not much for 
 £5000, is it? 
 
266 Major Barbara Act II 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Barbara: if you wont come and pray 
 with us^ promise me you will pray for us. 
 
 Barbara. I cant pray now. Perhaps I shall never 
 pray again. 
 
 Mrs. Baines. Barbara! 
 
 Jenny. Major! 
 
 Barbara (almost delirious). I cant bear any more. 
 Quick march! 
 
 CusiNs (calling to the procession in the street out- 
 side). Off we go. Play up, there ! Immenso giu- 
 b i 1 o. (He gives the time with his drum; and the 
 band strikes up the march, which rapidly becomes more 
 distant as the procession moves briskly away.) 
 
 Mrs. Baines. I must go, dear. Youre overworked: 
 you will be all right tomorrow. We'll never lose you. 
 Now Jenny: step out with the old flag. Blood and Fire! 
 (She marches out through the gate with her flag.) 
 
 Jenny. Glory Hallelujah! (flourishing her tam- 
 bourine and marching). 
 
 Undershaft (to Cusins, as he marches out past him 
 easing the slide of his trombone). " My ducats and my 
 daughter " ! 
 
 CusiNs (following him out). Money and gunpowder! 
 
 Barbara. Drunkenness and Murder! My God: 
 why hast thou forsaken me? 
 
 She sinks on the form with her face buried in her 
 hayids. The march passes away into silence. Bill Walker 
 steals across to her. 
 
 Bill (taunting). Wot prawce Sehytion nah? 
 
 Shirley. Dont you hit her when shes down. 
 
 Bill. She it me wen aw wiz dahn. Waw shouldnt I 
 git a bit o me own back? 
 
 Barbara (raising her head). I didnt take your 
 money, Bill. (She crosses the yard to the gate and 
 turns her back on the two men to hide her face from 
 them.) 
 
 Bill (sneering after her). Naow, it warnt enough 
 
Act II Major Barbara 267 
 
 for you. (Turning to the drum, he misses the money.) 
 Ellow ! If you aint took it summun else az. Weres it 
 gorn ? Blame me if Jenny 111 didnt take it arter all ! 
 
 Rummy (screaming at him from tJie loft). You lie, 
 you dirty blackguard ! Snobby Price pinched it off the 
 drum wen e took ap iz cap. I was ap ere all the time 
 an see im do it. 
 
 Bill. Wot ! Stowl maw money ! Waw didnt you 
 call thief on him, j'ou silly old mucker you? 
 
 Rummy. To serve you aht for ittin me acrost the fice. 
 It's cost y'pahnd, that az. (Raising a pcean of squalid 
 triumph.) I done you. I'm even with you. Ive ad it 
 aht o y — (Bill snatches up Shirley's mug and hurls 
 it at her. She slams the loft door and vanishes. The 
 mug smashes against the door and falls in fragments.) 
 
 Bill (beginning to chuckle). Tell us, ole man, wot 
 o'clock this morniia was it wen im as they call Snobby 
 Prawce was sivei.^ 
 
 Barbara (turning to fhim more composedly , and with 
 unspoiled sweetness). About half past twelve. Bill. 
 And he pinched your pound at a quarter to two. I know. 
 Well, you cant afford to lose it. I'll send it to you. 
 
 Bill (his voice and accent suddenly improving). Not 
 if I was to starve for it. / aint to be_bou^it. 
 
 Shirley. Aint you.'' Youd sell yourself to the devil 
 for a pint o beer; ony there aint no devil to make the 
 offer. 
 
 Bill (unshamed). So I would, mate, and often av, 
 cheerful. But she cawnt buy me. (Approaching Bar- 
 bara.) You wanted my soul, did you.^ Well, you aint 
 got it. 
 
 Barbara. I nearly got it. Bill. But weve sold it back 
 to you for ten thousand pounds. . 
 
 Shirley. And dear at the money ! 
 
 Barbara. No, Peter: it was worth more than money. 
 
 Bill (salvationproof). It's no good: you cawnt get 
 rahnd me nah. I dont blieve in it; and Ive seen today 
 
268 ^Mujor Barbara Act II 
 
 that I was right. (Going.) So long, old soupkitchener ! 
 Ta, ta, Major Earl's Grendorter ! {Turning at the gate.) 
 Wot prawce Selvytion nah ? Snobby Prawce ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Barbara {offering her hand). Goodbye, Bill. 
 
 Bill {taken aback, half plucks his cap off; then shoves 
 it on again defiantly). Git aht. {Barbara drops her 
 hand, discouraged. He has a twinge of remorse.) But 
 thets aw rawt, you knaow. Nathink pasnl. Naow 
 mellice. So long, Judy. {He goes.) 
 
 Barbara. No malice. So long, Bill. 
 
 Shirley {shaking his head). You make too much of 
 him. Miss, in your innocence. 
 
 Barbara {going to him). Peter: I'm like you now. 
 Cleaned out, and lost my job. 
 
 Shirley. Youve youth an hope. Thats two better 
 than me. 
 
 Barbara. I'll get you a job, Peter. Thats hope for 
 you: the youth will have to be enough for me. {She 
 counts her money.) I have just enough left for two 
 teas at Lockharts, a Rowton doss for you, and my tram 
 and bus home. {He frowns and rises with offended 
 pride. She takes his arm.) Dont be proud, Peter: it's 
 sharing between friends. And promise me youll talk to 
 me and not let me cry. {She draws him towards the 
 gate.) 
 
 Shirley. Well, I'm not accustomed to talk to the 
 like of you — 
 
 Barbara {urgently). Yes, yes: you must talk to me. 
 Tell me about Tom Paine's books and Bradlaugh's 
 lectures. Come along. 
 
 Shirley. Ah, if you would only read Tom Paine in 
 the proper spirit. Miss! {They go out through the gate 
 together.) 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 Next day after lunch Lady Britomart is writing in the 
 library in Wilton Crescent. Sarah is reading in the 
 armchair near the rvindow. Barbara, in ordinary dress, 
 pale and brooding, is on the settee. Charles Lomax 
 enters. Coming fortvard between the settee and the 
 ■writing table, he starts on seeing Barbara fashionably 
 attired and in low spirits. 
 
 Lomax, Youve left off your uniform! 
 
 Barbara says nothing; but an expression of pain passes 
 over her face. 
 
 Lady Britomart {warning him in low tones to be 
 careful). Charles! 
 
 Lomax (much concerned, sitting down sympathetically 
 on the settee beside Barbara). I'm awfully sorry, Bar- 
 bara. You know I helped you all I could with the con- 
 certina and so forth. (Momentously.) Still, I have 
 never shut my eyes to the fact that there is a certain 
 amount of tosh about the Salvation Army. Now the 
 claims of the Church of England — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Thats enough, Charles. Speak of 
 something suited to j'our mental capacity. 
 
 Lomax. But surely the Church of England is suited 
 to all our capacities. 
 
 Barbara (pressing his hand). Thank you for your 
 sympathy, Cholly. Now go and spoon with Sarah. 
 
 Lomax (rising and going to Sarah). How is my own- 
 est today.'' 
 
 Sarah. I wish you wouldnt tell Cholly to do things, 
 Barbara. He always comes straight and does them. 
 Cholly : we're going to the works at Perivale St. Andrews 
 this afternoon. 
 
270 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 LoMAX. "Wliat works? 
 
 Sarah. The cannon works. 
 
 LoMAX. What! Your governor's shop! 
 
 Sarah. Yes. 
 
 LoMAx. Oh I say! 
 
 Cusins enters in poor condition. He also starts visibly 
 when he sees Barbara without her uniform. 
 
 Barbara. I expected you this morning, Dolly. Didnt 
 you guess that.'' 
 
 CusiNs (sitting down beside her). I'm sorry. I have 
 only just breakfasted. 
 
 Sarah. But weve just finished lunch. 
 
 Barbara. Have you had one of your bad nights? 
 
 CusiNs. No: I had rather a good night: in fact, one 
 of the most remarkable nights I have ever passed. 
 
 Barbara. The meeting? 
 
 CusiNS. No: after the meeting. 
 
 Lady Britomart. You should have gone to bed after 
 the meeting. What were you doing? 
 
 CusiNs. Drinking. 
 
 Lady Britomart. "i TAdolphus! 
 
 Sarah. M Dolly! 
 
 Barbara. j| Dolly! 
 
 LoMAX. j I^Oh I say! 
 
 Lady Britomart. What were you drinking, may I 
 ask? 
 
 CusiNs. A most devilish kind of Spanish burgundy, 
 warranted free from added alcohol: a Temperance bur- 
 gundy in fact. Its richness in natural alcohol made any 
 addition superfluous. 
 
 Barbara. Are you joking, Dolly? 
 
 Cusins (patiently) . No. I have been making a night 
 of it with the nominal head of this household : that is all. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew made you drunk ! 
 
 CusiNs. No: he only provided the wine. I think it 
 was Dionysos who made me drunk. (To Barbara.) I 
 told you I was possessed. 
 
Act III Major Barbara 271 
 
 Lady Britomart. Youre not sober yet. Go home to 
 bed at once. 
 
 CusiNs. I have never before ventured to reproach 
 you. Lady Brit; but how could you marry the Prince of 
 Darkness ? 
 
 Lady Britomart. It was much more excusable to 
 marry him than to get drunk with him. That is a new 
 accomplishment of Andrew's, by the way. He usent to 
 drink. 
 
 CusiNs. He doesnt now. He only sat there and com- 
 pleted the wreck of my moral basis, the rout of my 
 convictions, the purchase of my soul. He cares for you, 
 Barbara. That is what makes him so dangerous to me. 
 
 Barbara. That has nothing to do with it, Dolly. 
 There are larger loves and diviner dreams than the fire- 
 side ones. You know that, dont you? 
 
 Cusixs. Yes : that is our understanding. I know it. 
 I hold to it. Unless he can win me on that holier ground 
 he may amuse me for a while; but he can get no deeper 
 held, strong as he is. 
 
 Barbara. Keep to that; and the end Avill be right. 
 Now tell me what happened at the meeting? 
 
 CusiNS. It was an amazing meeting. Mrs.. Baines 
 almost died of emotion. Jenny Hill went stark mad 
 with hysteria. The Prince of Darkness jDlayed his trom- 
 bone like a madman: its brazen roarings were like the 
 laughter of the damned. 117 conversions took place 
 then and there. They prayed with the most touching 
 sincerity and gratitude for Bodger, and for the anony- 
 mous donor of the £5000. Your father would not let 
 his name be given. 
 
 LoM.\x. That was rather fine of the old man, you 
 know. Most chaps would have wanted the advertisement. 
 
 CusiNS. He said all the charitable institutions would 
 be down on him like kites on a battle field if he gave his 
 name. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Thats Andrew all over. He never 
 
272 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 does a proper__thing without giving an improper reason 
 for it. 
 
 CusiNs. Hr onvinced me that I have all my life been 
 doing impropei things for proper reasons. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Adolphus: now that Barbara has 
 left the Salvation Army, you had better leave it too. I 
 will not have you playing that drum in the streets. 
 
 CusiNS. Your orders are already obeyed. Lady Brit. 
 
 Barbara. Dolly: were you ever really in earnest 
 about it? Would you have joined if you had never seen 
 me? 
 
 CusiNs (disingenuously). Well — er — well, possibly, 
 as a collector of religions — 
 
 LoMAX {cunningly). Not as a drummer, though, you 
 know. You are a very clearheaded brainy chap, Cholly: 
 and it must have been apparent to you that there is a 
 certain amount of tosh about — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Charles: if you must drivel, drivel 
 like a grown-up man and not like a schoolboy. 
 
 Lomax {out of countenance). Well, drivel is drivel, 
 dont you know, whatever a man's age. 
 
 Lady Britomart. In good society in England, 
 Charles, men drivel at all ages by repeating silly for- 
 mulas with an air of wisdom. Schoolboys make their 
 own formulas out of slang, like you. When they reach 
 your age, and get political private secretaryships and 
 things of that sort, they drop slang and get their for- 
 mulas out of The Spectator or The Times. You had 
 better confine yourself to The Times. You will find 
 that there is a certain amount of tosh about The Times; 
 but at least its language is reputable. 
 
 LoMAX {overwhelmed). You are so awfully strong- 
 minded, Lady Brit — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Rubbish! {Morrison comes in.) 
 What is it? 
 
 Morrison. If you please, my lady, Mr. Undershaft 
 has just drove up to the door. 
 
Act III Major Barbara . ^ 273 
 
 Lady Britomart. Well, let him in. {Mprrison hesi- 
 tates.) Whats the matter with you? 
 
 Morrison. Shall I announce him, n^j'^lady; or is he 
 at home here, so to speak, my lady? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Announce him. 
 
 Morrison. Thank you, my lady. You wont paind my 
 asking, I hope. The occasion is in a manner oiP speaking 
 new to me. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Quite right. Go and let him in. 
 
 Morrison. Thank you, my lady. (Fie withdraws.) 
 
 Lady Britomart. Children: go and get ready. 
 (Sarah and Barbara go tipstairs for their out-of-door 
 wraps.) Charles: go and tell Stephen to come down 
 here in five minutes: you will find him in the drawing 
 room. (Charles goes.) Adolphus: tell them to send 
 round the carriage in about fifteen minutes. (Adolphvi 
 goes.) 
 
 ISIoRRisoN (at the door). Mr. Undershaft. 
 
 Undershaft comes in. Morrison goes out. 
 
 Undershaft. Alone ! How fortunate ! 
 
 Lady Britomart (rising). Dont be sentimental, An- 
 drew. Sit down. (She sits on the settee: he sits beside 
 her, on her left. She comes to the point before he has 
 time to breathe.) Sarah must have £800 a year until 
 Charles Lomax comes into his property. Barbara will 
 need more, and need it permanently,- because Adolphus 
 hasnt any property. 
 
 Undershaft (resignedly). Yes, my dear: I will see 
 to it. Anj'thing else? for yourself, for instance? 
 
 Lady Britomart. I want to talk to you about 
 Stephen. 
 
 Undershaft (rather wearily). Dont, my dear. 
 Stephen doesnt interest me. 
 
 Lady Britomart. He does interest me. He is our 
 son. 
 
 Undershaft. Do you really think so? He has in- 
 duced us to bring him into the world; but he chose his 
 
274 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 parents very incongruously, I think, I see nothing of 
 myself in him, and less of you. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew: Stephen is an excellent 
 son, and a most steady, capable, highminded young man. 
 You are simply trying to find an excuse for disinheriting 
 him. 
 
 Undershaft. My dear Biddy: the Undershaft tradi- 
 tion disinherits him. It would be dishonest of me to 
 leave the cannon foundry to my son. 
 
 Lady Britomart. It would be most unnatural and 
 improper of you to leave it anyone else, Andrew. Do 
 you suppose this wicked and immoral tradition can be 
 kept up for ever.? Do you pretend that Stephen could 
 not carry on the foundry just as well as all the other 
 sons of the big business houses? 
 
 Undershaft. Yes: he could learn the office routine 
 without understanding the business, like all the other 
 sons; and the firm would go on by its own momentum 
 until the real Undershaft — probably an Italian or a Ger- 
 man — would invent a new method and cut him out. 
 
 Lady Britomart. There is nothing that any Italian 
 or German could do that Stephen could not do. And 
 Stephen at least has breeding. 
 
 Undershaft. The son of a foundling ! nonsense ! 
 
 Lady Britomart. My son, Andrew! And even you 
 may have good blood in your veins for all you know. 
 
 Undershaft. True. Probably I have. That is an- 
 other argument in favor of a foundling. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew: dont be aggravating. 
 And dont be wicked. At present you are both. 
 
 Undershaft. This conversation is part of the Un- 
 dershaft tradition, Biddy. Every Undershaft's wife has 
 treated him to it ever since the house was founded. It 
 is mere waste of breath. If the tradition be ever broken 
 it will be for an abler man than Stephen. 
 
 Lady Britomart {pouting). Then go away. 
 
 Undershaft {deprecatory). Go away! 
 
Act III Major Barbara 275 
 
 Lady Britomart. Yes: go away. If you will do 
 nothing for Stephen^ you are not wanted here. Go to 
 your foundling, whoever he is ; and look after him. 
 
 Undershaft. The fact is, Biddy — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont call me Biddy. I dont call 
 you Andy. 
 
 Undershaft. I will not call my wife Britomart: it 
 is not good sense. Seriously, my love, the Undershaft 
 tradition has landed me in a difficulty. I am getting on 
 in years; and my partner Lazarus has at last made a 
 stand and insisted that the succession must be settled 
 one way or the other; and of course he is quite right. 
 You see, I havnt found a fit successor yet. 
 
 Lady Britomart (obstinately). There is Stephen. 
 
 Undershaft. Thats just it: all the foundlings I can 
 find are exactly like Stephen. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew ! ! 
 
 Undershaft. I want a man with no relations and no 
 schooling: that is, a man who would be out of the run- 
 ning altogether if he were not a strong man. And I 
 cant find him. Every blessed foundling nowadays is 
 snapped up in his infancy by Barnardo homes, or School 
 Board officers, or Boards of Guardians; and if he shews 
 the least ability, he is fastened on by schoolmasters; 
 trained to win scholarships like a racehorse; crammed 
 with secondhand idefft ; drilled and disciplined in docility 
 and what they call good taste; and lamed for life so 
 that he is fit for nothing but teaching. If you want to 
 keep the foundry in the family, you had better find an 
 eligible foundling and marry him to Barbara. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Ah! Barbara! Your pet! You 
 would sacrifice Stephen to Barbara. 
 
 Undershaft. Cheerfully. And you, my dear, would 
 boil Barbara to make soup for Stephen. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew: this is not a question of 
 our likings and dislikings: it is a question of duty. It 
 is your duty to make Stephen your successor. 
 
276 Major Barbara Act m 
 
 Undershaft. Just as much as it is your duty to 
 submit to your husband. Come, Biddy ! these tricks of 
 the governing class are of no use with me. I am one 
 of the governing class myself; and it is waste of time 
 giving tracts to a missionary. I have the power in this 
 matter; and I am not to be humbugged into using it for 
 your purposes. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew: you can talk my head 
 off; but you cant change wrong into right. And your 
 tie is all on one side. Put it straight. 
 
 Undershaft {disconcerted). It wont stay unless it's 
 pinned — {he fumbles at it jvith childish grimaces). 
 
 Stephen comes in. 
 
 Stephen {at the door). I beg your pardon {about to 
 retire). 
 
 Lady Britomart. No: come in, Stephen. {Stephen 
 comes forward to his mother's writing table.) 
 
 Undershaft {not very cordially). Good afternoon. 
 
 Stephen {coldly). Good afternoon. 
 
 Undershaft {to Lady Britomart). He knows all 
 about the tradition, I suppose.'' 
 
 Lady Britomart. Yes. {To Stephen.) It is what I 
 told you last night, Stephen. 
 
 Undershaft {sulkily). I imderstand you want to 
 come into the cannon business. 
 
 Stephen. I go into trade ! Certainly not. 
 
 Undershaft {opening his eyes, greatly eased in mind 
 and manner). Oh! in that case — ! 
 
 Lady Britomart. Cannons are not trade, Stephen. 
 They are enterprise. 
 
 Stephen. I have no intention of becoming a man 
 of business in any sense. I have no capacity for busi- 
 ness and no taste for it. I intend to devote myself to 
 politics. 
 
 Undershaft {rising). My dear boy: this is an im- 
 mense relief to me. And I trust it may prove an equally 
 good thing for the country. I was afraid you would 
 
Act in Major Barbara 277 
 
 consider yourself disparaged and slighted. {He moves 
 towards Stephen as if to shake hands with him.) 
 
 Lady Britomart {rising and interposing). Stephen: 
 I cannot allow you to throw away an enormous property 
 like this. 
 
 Stephen (stiffly). Mother: there must be an end of 
 treating me as a child, if you please. (Lady Britomart 
 recoils, deeply wounded by his tone.) Until last night 
 I did not take your attitude seriously, because I did not 
 think you meant it seriously. But I find now that 
 you left me in the dark as to matters which 3'3U should 
 have explained to me years ago. I am extremely hurt 
 and offended. Any further discussion of my intentions 
 had better take place with my father, as between one 
 man and another. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Stephen ! (She sits down again; 
 and her eyes fill with tears.) 
 
 Undershaft (with grave compassion). You see, my 
 dear, it is only the big men who can be treated as chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Stephen. I am sorry, mother, that you have forced 
 me — 
 
 Undershaft (stopping him). Yes, yes, yes, yes: 
 thats all right, Stephen. She wont interfere with you 
 any more: your independence is achieved: you have 
 won your latchkey. Dont.rub it in; and above all, dont 
 apologize. (He resumes his seat.) Now what about 
 your future, as between one man and another — I 
 beg 3'our pardon, Biddy: as between two men and 
 a woman. 
 
 Lady Britomart (who has pulled herself together 
 strongly). I quite imderstand, Stephen. By all means 
 go your own way if you feel strong enough. (Stephen 
 sits down magisterially in the chair at the writing table 
 tvith an air of affirming his majority.) 
 
 Undershaft. It is settled that you do not ask for 
 the succession to the cannon business. 
 
278 Major Barbara Act m 
 
 Stephen. I hope it is settled that I repudiate the 
 cannon business. 
 
 Undershaft. Come, come! dont be so devilishly- 
 sulky: it's boyish. Freedom should be generous. Be- 
 sides, I owe you a fair start in life in exchange for 
 disinheriting you. You cant become prime minister all 
 at once. Havnt you a turn for something? What about 
 literature, art and so forth? 
 
 Stephen. I have nothing of the artist about me, 
 either in faculty or character, thank Heaven ! 
 
 Undershaft. A philosopher, perhaps? Eh? , 
 
 Stephen. I make no such ridiculous pretension. 
 
 Undershaft. Just so. Well, there is the army, the 
 navy, the Church, the Bar. The Bar requires some abil- 
 ity. What about the Bar? 
 
 Stephen. I have not studied law. And I am afraid 
 I have not the necessary push — I believe that is the 
 name barristers give to their vulgarity — for success in 
 pleading. 
 
 Undershaft. Rather a difficult case, Stephen. Hardly 
 anything left but the stage, is there? (^Stephen makes 
 an impatient movement.) Well, come! is there any- 
 thing you know or care for ? 
 
 Stephen (rising and looking at him steadily). I 
 know the difference between right and wrong. 
 
 Undershaft (hugely tickled). You dont say so! 
 What! no capacity for business, no knowledge of law, 
 no sympathy with art, no pretension to philosophy; only 
 a simple knowledge of the secret that has puzzled all 
 the philoso2:)hers, baffled all the lawyers, muddled all 
 the men of business, and ruined most of the artists: the 
 secret of right and wrong. \ATiy, man, youre a genius, 
 a master of masters, a god ! At twenty-four, too ! 
 
 Stephen (keeping his temper with difficulty). You 
 are pleased to be facetious. I pretend to nothing more 
 than any honorable English gentleman claims as his 
 birthright (he sits down angrily). 
 
Act III Major Barbara 270 
 
 Undershaft. Oh, tliats everybody's birthright. Look 
 at poor little Jenny Hill, the Salvation lassie ! she would 
 think you were laughing at her if you asked her to 
 stand up in the street and teach grammar or geography 
 or mathematics or even drawingroom dancing; but it 
 never occurs to her to doubt that she can teach morals 
 and religion. You are all alike, you respectable people. 
 You cant tell me tlielbnrsting strain of^ai ten-inch gun, 
 which is a very simple matter; but you all think you can 
 tell me the bursting strain of a man under temptation. 
 You darent handle high explosives ; but youre all ready 
 to handle honesty and truth and justice and the whole 
 duty of man, and kill one another at that game. What 
 a country ! what a world ! 
 
 Lady Britomart (uneasily). What do you think he 
 had better do, Andrew? 
 
 Undershaft. Oh, just what he wants to do. He 
 knows nothing ; and he thinks he knows everything. That 
 points clearly to a political career. Get him a private 
 secretaryship to someone who can get him an Under 
 Secretaryship ; and then leave him alone. He will find 
 his natural and proper place in the end on the Treasury 
 bench. 
 
 Stephen {springing up again). I am sorry, sir, that 
 you force me to forget the respect due to you as my 
 father. I am an Englishman; and I will not hear the 
 Government of my country insulted. (He thrusts his 
 hands in his pockets, and walks angrily across to the 
 window.) 
 
 Undershaft (with a touch of brutality). The gov- 
 ernment of your country ! / am the government of your 
 country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and 
 half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that 
 foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus ? 
 No, my friend : you will do what pays u s. You will 
 make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it 
 doesnt. You will find out that trade requires certain 
 
280 Major Barbara Act m 
 
 measures when we have decided on those measures. 
 ^Vl^en I want anything to keep my dividends up, j^ou 
 will discover that my want is a national need. When 
 other people want something to keep my dividends down, 
 you will call out the police and military. And in return 
 you shall have the support and applause of my news- 
 papers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great 
 statesman. Government of your country ! Be off with 
 you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading 
 articles and historic parties and great leaders and burn- 
 ing questions and the rest of your toys. I am going 
 back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the 
 tune. 
 
 Stephen {actually smiling, and putting his hand on 
 his father's shoulder with indulgent patronage}. Really, 
 my dear father, it is impossible to be angry with you. 
 You don't know how absurd all this sounds to m e. You 
 are very properly proud of having been industrious 
 enough to make money; and it is greatly to your credit 
 that you have made so much of it. But it has kept you 
 in circles where you are valued for your money and 
 deferred to for it, instead of in the doubtless very old- 
 fashioned and behind-the-times public school and uni- 
 versity where I formed my habits of mind. It is natural 
 for you to think that money governs England; but you 
 must allow me to think I know better. 
 
 Undershaft. And what does govern England, 
 pray ? 
 
 Stephen. Character, father, character. 
 
 Undershaft. Whose character.'' Yours or m^ne? 
 
 Stephen. Neither yours nor mine, father, but the 
 best elements in the English national character. 
 
 Undershaft. Stephen: Ive found , your profession 
 for you. Youre a born journalist. I'll start you with a 
 high-toned weekly review. There! 
 
 Stephen goes to the smaller writing table and busies 
 himself with his letters. 
 
Act m Major Barbara 281 
 
 Sarah, Barbara, Lomax, and Cus'ins come in ready for 
 walking. Barbara crosses the room to the window and 
 looks out. Cusins drifts amiablij to the armchair, and 
 Lomax remains near the door, whilst Sarah comes to her 
 mother. 
 
 Sarah. Go and get ready, mamma: the carriage is 
 waiting. (Lady Britomart leaves the room.) 
 
 Undershaft (to Sarah). Good day, my dear. Good 
 afternoon, Mr. Lomax. 
 
 Lomax (vaguely). Ahdedoo. 
 
 Undershaft (<o Cusins). Quite well after last night, 
 Euripides, eh.'' 
 
 Cusins. As well as can be expected. 
 
 Undershaft. Thats right. (To Barbara.) So you 
 are coming to see my death and devastation factory, 
 Barbara? 
 
 Barbara (at the window). You came yesterday to 
 see my salvation factory. I promised you a return visit. 
 
 Lomax (coming forward between Sarah and Under- 
 shaft). Youll find it awfully interesting. Ive been 
 through the Woolwich Arsenal; and it gives you a rip- 
 ping feeling of security, you know, to think of the lot 
 of beggars we could kill if it came to fighting. (To 
 Undershaft, with sudden solemnity.) Still, it must be 
 rather an awful reflection for yoUj from the religious 
 point of view as it were. Youre getting on, you know, 
 and all that. 
 
 Sarah. You dont mind Cholly's imbecility, papa, do 
 you.^ 
 
 Lomax (much taken aback). Oh I say! 
 
 Undershaft. Mr. Lomax looks at the matter in a 
 very proper spirit, my dear. 
 
 Lomax. Just so. Thats all I meant, I assure you. 
 
 Sarah. Are you coming, Stephen.'' 
 
 Stephen. Well, I am rather busy — er — (Magnani- 
 mously.) Oh well, yes: I'll come. That is, if there is 
 room for me. 
 
282 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 Undershaft. I can take two with me in a little 
 motor I am experimenting with for field use. You wont 
 mind its being rather unfashionable. It's not painted 
 yet; but it's bullet proof. 
 
 LoMAX {appalled at the prospect of confronting Wil- 
 ton Crescent in an unpointed motor). Oh I say! 
 
 Sarah. The carriage for me, thank you. ■ Barbara 
 doesnt mind what shes seen in. 
 
 Lomax. I say, Dolly old chap: do you really mind 
 the car being a guy.'' Because of course if you do I'll 
 go in it. Still — 
 
 CusiNS. I prefer it. 
 
 Lomax. Thanks awfully, old man. Come, Sarah. 
 (He hurries out to secure his seat in the carriage. Sarah 
 follows him.) 
 
 CusiNs (moodily walking across to Lady Britomart's 
 writing table). Why are we two coming to this Works 
 Department of Hell? that is what I ask myself. 
 
 Barbara. I have always thought of it as a sort of 
 pit where lost creatures with blackened faces stirred up 
 smoky fires and were driven and tormented by my father .'' 
 Is it like that, dad.> 
 
 Undershaft (scandalized). My dear! It is a spot- 
 lessly clean and beautiful hillside town. 
 
 CusiNs. With a Methodist chapel.'* Oh do say 
 theres a Methodist chapel. 
 
 Undershaft. There are two: a Primitive one and a 
 sophisticated one. There is even an Ethical Society; but 
 it is not much patronized, as my men are all strongly 
 religious. In the High Explosives Sheds they object to 
 the presence of Agnostics as unsafe. 
 
 CusiNs. And yet they dont object to you! 
 
 Barbara. Do they obey all your orders? 
 
 Undershaft. I never give them any orders. When 
 I speak to one of them it is " Well, Jones, is the baby 
 doing well? and has Mrs. Jones made a good recovery? " 
 " Nicely, thank you, sir." And thats all. 
 
Act III Major Barbara 283 
 
 Clsixs. But Jones has to be kept in order. How do 
 Tou maintain discipline among your men? 
 
 Ux|tRSHAFT. I dont. They do. You see, the one 
 thing ^ones wont stnnd is any rebellion from the man 
 under him, or any assertion of social equality between 
 the wife of the man with -i shillings a week less than 
 himself, and Mrs. Jones! Of course they all rebel 
 against me, theoretically. Practically, every man of 
 them keeps the man just below him in his place. I 
 never meddle with them. I never bully them. I dont 
 even bully Lazarus. I say that certain things are to be 
 done; but I dont order anybody to do them. I dont say, 
 mind you, that there is no ordering about and snubbing 
 and even bullying. The men snub the boys and order 
 them about; the carmen snub the sweepers; the artisans 
 snub the unskilled laborers; the foremen drive and bully 
 both the laborers and artisans; the assistant engineers 
 find fault with the foremen ; the chief engineers drop 
 on the assistants ; the departmental managers worry the 
 chiefs ; and the clerks have tall hats and hymnbooks and 
 keep up the social tone by refusing to associate on equal 
 terms with anybody. The result is a colossal profit, 
 which comes to me. 
 
 Crsixs (rei-olted). You really are a^well, what I 
 was saying yesterday. 
 
 Barbara. What was he saying yesterday? 
 
 UxDERSHAFT. Never mind, my dear. He thinks I 
 have made you unhappy. Have I ? 
 
 Barbara. Do you think I can be happy in this vulgar 
 silly dress ? I ! who have worn the uniform. Do you 
 imderstand what you have done to me ? Yesterday I had 
 a man's soul in my hand. I set him in the way of life 
 with his face to salvation. But when we took your 
 money he turned back to drunkenness and derision. 
 (JVith ,intense conviction.) I will never forgive you 
 that. If I had a child, and you destroyed its body with 
 your explosives — if you murdered Dolly with your hor- 
 
284 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 rible guns — I could forgive you if my forgiveness vrould 
 open the gates of heaven to you. But to take ajiuman 
 soul from me, and turn it into the soul of a woM! that 
 is worse than any murder. vW 
 
 Undershaft. Does my daughter despair so easily? 
 Can you strike a man to the heart and leave no mark on 
 him? 
 
 Barbara (her face lighting up). Oh, you are right: 
 he can never be lost now : where was my faith ? 
 
 CusiNS. Oh, clever clever devil! 
 
 Barbara. You may be a devil; but God sjDeaks 
 through you sometimes. (She takes her father's hands 
 and kisses them.) You have given me back my happi- 
 ness: I feel it deep down now, though my spirit is 
 troubled. 
 
 Undershaft. You have learnt something. That al- 
 ways feels at first as if you had lost something. 
 
 Barbara. Well, take me to the factory of death, and 
 let me learn something more. There must be some truth 
 or other behind all this frightful irony. Come, Dolly. 
 (She goes out.) 
 
 Cusixs. My guardian angel! (To Undershaft.) 
 Avaimt! (He follows Barbara.) 
 
 Stephen (quietly, at the writing table). You must not 
 mind Cusins, father. He is a very amiable good fellow; 
 but he is a Greek scholar and naturally a little eccentric. 
 
 Undershaft. Ah, quite so. Thank you, Stephen. 
 Thank you. (He goes out.) 
 
 Stephen smiles patronizinglij ; buttons his coat re- 
 sponsibly; and crosses the room to the door. Lady 
 Britomart, dressed for o'Ut-of -doors, opens it before he 
 reaches it. She looks round for the others; looks at 
 Stephen; and turns to go without a word. 
 
 Stephen (embarrassed). Mother — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Dont be apologetic, Stephen. And 
 dont forget that you have outgrown your mother. (She 
 goes out.) 
 
I 
 
 Act nl Major Barbara 285 
 
 Perivale St. Andretvs lies bettveen two Middlesex hills, 
 half giimbing the northern one. It is an almost smoke- 
 l^ssMfU^of white walls, roofs of narrow green slates or 
 rec^Ues/wJ trees, domes, campaniles, and slender chim- 
 ncif shafts," b$aut if ally situated and beautiful in itself. 
 Theif^ vienf of it is obtained from the crest of a slope 
 about lialf a mile to the east, where the high explosives 
 are dealt with. The foundry lies hidden in the depths 
 between, the tops of its chimneys sprouting like huge 
 skittles into the middle distance. Across the crest runs 
 a platform of concrete, with a parapet which suggests a 
 fortification, because there is a huge cannon of the 
 obsolete Woolwich Infant pattern peering across it at 
 the town. The cannon is mounted on an experimental 
 gun carriage: possibly the original model of the Under- 
 shaft disappearing rampart gun alluded to by Stephen. 
 The parapet has a high step inside which serves as a seat. 
 
 Barbara is leaning over the parapet, looking towards 
 the town. On her right is the cannon; on her left the 
 end of a shed raised on piles, with a ladder of three or 
 four steps up to the door, which opens outwards and 
 has a little wooden landing at the threshold, with a fire 
 bucket in the corner of the landing. The parapet stops 
 short of the shed, leaving a gap which is the beginning 
 of the path down the hill through the foundry to the 
 town. Behind the cannon is a trolley carrying a huge 
 conical bombshell, with a red band painted on it. Fur- 
 ther from the parapet, on the same side, is a deck chair, 
 near the door of an office, which, like the sheds, is of the 
 lightest possible construction. 
 
 Cusins arrives by the path from the town. 
 
 Barbara. Well ? 
 
 Cusins. Not a ray of hope. Everytliing perfect, 
 wonderful, real. It only needs a cathedral to be a 
 heavenly city instead of a hellish one. 
 
 Barbara. Have you found out whether they have 
 done anything for old Peter Shirley. 
 
286 Major Barbara ' Act HI 
 
 CusiNs. They have found him a job as gatekeeper 
 and timekeeper. He's frightfully miserable, 
 the timekeeping brainwork, and says he isnt 
 and his gate lodge is so splendid that hes asl 
 the rooms, and skulks in the scullery. 
 
 Barbara. Poor Peter! 
 
 Stephen arrives from the tOTvn. He carries a field- 
 glass. 
 
 Stephen {enthusiastically). Have you two seen the 
 place? Why did you leave us? 
 
 CusiNS. I wanted to see everything I was not in- 
 tended to see ; and Barbara wanted to make the men talk. 
 
 Stephen. Have you found anything discreditable? 
 
 CrsiNS. No. They call him Dandy Andy and are 
 proud of his being a cunning old rascal; but it's all 
 horribly, frightfully, immorally, unanswerably perfect. 
 
 Sarah arrives. 
 
 Sarah. Heavens ! what a place ! {She crosses to the 
 trolley.) Did you see the nursing home!? {She sits 
 down on the shell.) 
 
 Stephen. Did you see the libraries and schools ! ? 
 
 Sarah. Did you see the ball room and the banqueting 
 chamber in the ToAvn Hall ! ? 
 
 Stephen. Have you gone into the insurance fund, 
 the pension fund, the building society, the various ap- 
 plications of co-operation ! ? 
 
 Undershaft comes from the office, with a sheaf of 
 telegrams in his hands. 
 
 Undershaft. Well, have you seen everything? I'm 
 sorry I was called away. {Indicating the telegrams.) 
 News from Manchuria. 
 
 Stephen, Good news, I hope. 
 
 Undershaft. Very. 
 
 Stephen. Another Japanese victory? 
 
 Undershaft. Oh, I dont know. WTiich side wins 
 docs not concern us here. No : the good news is that the 
 aerial battleship is a tremendous success. At the first 
 
Act III Major Barbara 287 
 
 trial it has wiped out a fort with three hundred soldiers 
 in it. 
 
 CusiNs (from the platform). Dummy soldiers? 
 
 Undersiiaft, No: the real thing. (Cusins and Bar- 
 hara exchange glances. Then Cusins sits on the step 
 and buries his face in his hands. Barbara gravely lays 
 her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at her in a 
 sort of tvhitnsical desperation.) Wcll^ Stephen, what do 
 you think of the place? 
 
 Stephen. Ohj_Qiagiiifi€€nt. A perfect triumph of 
 organization. Frankly, my dear father, I have been a 
 fool: I had no idea of what it all meant — of the won- 
 derful forethought, the power of organization, the ad- 
 ministrative capacity, tlie financial genius, the colossal 
 capital it represents. I have been repeating to myself 
 as I came through your streets " Peace hath lier victories 
 no less renowned than War." I have only one misgiving 
 about it all. 
 
 Undershaft. Out witli it. 
 
 Stephen. Well, I cannot help thinking that all this 
 provision for every want of your workmen may sap their 
 indei^endence and weaken their sense of rcsjionsibility. 
 And greatly as we enjoyed our tea at that splendid 
 restaurant — how they gave us all that luxury and cake 
 and jam and cream for threepence I really cannot imag- 
 ine ! — still you must remember that restaurants break up 
 home life. Look at the continent, for instance ! Are 
 you sure so much pampering is really good for thcjuen's 
 characters ? 
 
 Undershaft. Well you see, my dear boy, when you 
 are organizing civilization you have to make up your 
 mind whether trouble and anxiety are good things or 
 not. If you decide that they are, then, I take it, you 
 simply dont organize civilization ; and there you are, 
 with trouble and anxiety enough to make us all angels ! 
 But if you decide the other way, you may as well go 
 through with it. However, Stephen, our characters are 
 
288 Major Barbara Act m 
 
 safe here. A sufficient dose of anxiety is always pro- 
 vided by the fact that we may be blown to smithereens 
 at any moment. 
 
 Sarah. By the way, papa, where do you make the 
 explosives .'' 
 
 Undershaft. In separate little sheds, like that one. 
 When one of them blows up, it costs very little; and 
 only the people quite close to it are killed. 
 
 Stephen, who is quite close to it, looks at it rather 
 scaredly, and moves away quickly to the cannon. At 
 the same moment the door of the shed is thrown abruptly 
 open; and a foreman in overalls and list slippers comes 
 out on the little landing and holds the door open for 
 Lomax, who appears in the doorway. 
 
 LoMAX {ivith studied coolness}. My good fellow: you 
 neednt get into a state of nerves. Nothing's going to 
 happen to you; and I suppose it wouldnt be the end of 
 the world if anything did. A little bit of British pluck 
 is what you want, old chap. (He descends and strolls 
 across to Sarah.) 
 
 Undershaft (to the foreman). Anything wrong, 
 Bilton ? 
 
 BiLTON (with ironic calm). Gentleman walked into 
 the high explosives shed and lit a cigaret, sir: thats all. 
 
 Undershaft. Ah, quite so. (To Lomax.) Do you 
 happen to remember what you did with the match .^ 
 
 Lomax. Oh come! I'm not a fool. I took jolly good 
 care to blow it out before I chucked it away. 
 
 Bilton. The top of it was red hot inside, sir. 
 
 Lomax. Well, suppose it was ! I didnt chuck it into 
 any of your messes. 
 
 Undershaft. Think no more of it, Mr. Lomax. By 
 the way, would j-^ou mind lending me your matches? 
 
 Lomax (offering his box). Certainly. 
 
 Undershaft. Thanks. (He pockets the matches.) 
 
 Lomax (lecturing to the company generally). You 
 know, these high explosives dont go off like gunpowder, 
 
Act ni Major Barbara 289 
 
 except when theyre in a gun. When theyre spread 
 loose, you can put a match to them without the least 
 risk: they just burn quietly like a bit of paper. {Warm- 
 ing to the scientific interest of the subject.) Did you 
 know that, Undershaft? Have you ever tried? 
 
 Undershaft. Not on a large scale, Mr. Lomax. Bil- 
 lon will give you a sample of gun cotton when you are 
 leaving if you ask him. You can experiment with it at 
 home. {Bilton looks puzzled.) 
 
 Sarah. Bilton will do nothing of the sort, papa. I 
 suppose it's your business to blow up the Russians and 
 Japs; but you might really stop short of blowing up 
 poor ChoUy. {Bilton gives it up and retires into the 
 shed.) 
 
 LoMAx. My ownest, there is no danger. {He sits 
 beside her on the shell.) 
 
 Lady Britomart arrives from the town with a bouquet. 
 
 Lady Britomart {coming impetuously between Un- 
 dershaft and the deck chair). Andrew: you shouldnt 
 have let me see this place. 
 
 Undershaft. Why, my dear? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Never mind why: you shouldnt 
 have: thats all. To think of all that {indicating the 
 town) being yours ! and that you have kept it to yourself 
 all these years ! 
 
 Undershaft. It does not belong to me. I belong to 
 it. It is the Undershaft inheritance. 
 
 Lady Britomart. It is not. Your ridiculous cannons 
 and that noisy banging foundry may be the Undershaft 
 inheritance; but all that plate and linen, all that furni- 
 ture and those houses and orchards and gardens belong 
 to us. They belong to me: they are not a man's busi- 
 ness. I wont give them up. You must be out of your 
 senses to throw them all away; and if you persist in 
 such folly, I will call in a doctor. 
 
 Undershaft {stooping to smell the bouquet). Where 
 did you get the flowers, my dear? 
 
290 Major Barbara Act in 
 
 Lady Britomart. Your men presented them to me 
 in your William Morris Labor Church. 
 
 CusiNs (springing up). Oh! It needed only that. 
 A Labor Church ! 
 
 Lady Britomart. Yes, with Morris's words in mosaic 
 letters ten feet high round the dome. No man is good 
 
 ENOUGH TO BE ANOTHER MAN's MASTER. The Cynlcism 
 
 of it! 
 
 Undershaft. It shocked the men at first, I am 
 afraid. But now they take no more notice of it than 
 of the ten commandments in church. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Andrew: you are trying to put me 
 off the subject of the inheritance by profane jokes. 
 Well, you shant. I dont ask it any longer for Stephen: 
 he has inherited far too much of your perversity to be 
 fit for it. But Barbara has rights as well as Stephen. 
 Why should not Adolphus succeed to the inheritance? 
 I could manage the town for him; and he can look after 
 the cannons, if they are really necessary. 
 
 Undershaft. I should ask nothing better if Adolphus 
 were a foundling. He is exactly the sort of new blood 
 that is wanted in English business. But hes not a 
 foundling; and theres an end of it. 
 
 Cusixs {diplomatic all tj) . Xot quite. (They all turn 
 and stare at him. He comes from the platform past the 
 shed to Undershaft.) I think — Mind! I am not com- 
 mitting myself in any way as to my future course — but 
 I think the foundling difficulty can be got over. 
 
 Undershaft. What do you mean? 
 
 CusiNS. Well, I have something to say which is in 
 the nature of a confession. 
 
 Sarah. "j 
 
 Lady Britomart. I c^^f^ggj^^; 
 
 Barbara. I 
 
 Stephen. J 
 
 Lomax. Oh I say! 
 
 CusiNs. Yes, a confession. Listen, all. Until I met 
 
Act III Major Barbara 291 
 
 Barbara I thought myself in the main an honorable, 
 truthful man, because I wanted the apj)roval of my 
 conscience more than I wanted anything else. But the 
 moment I saw Barbara, I wanted her far more than the 
 approval of my conscience. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Adolphus! 
 
 CusiNs. It is true. You accused me yourself. Lady 
 Brit, of joining the Army to worship Barbara; and so 
 I did. She bought my soul like a flower at a street cor- 
 ner; but she bought it for herself. 
 
 Undershaft. ^^^lat! Not for Dionysos or another? 
 
 CusiNs. Dionysos and all the others are in herself. 
 I adored what was divine in her, and was therefore a 
 true worshipijer. But I M-as romantic about her too. I 
 thought she was a woman of the people, and that a 
 marriage with a professor of Greek would be far beyond 
 the wildest social ambitions of her rank. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Adolphus ! ! 
 
 LoMAx. Oh I say!!! 
 
 CusiNS. When I learnt the horrible truth — 
 
 Lady Britomart. What do you mean by the horrible 
 truth, pray.'' 
 
 CusiNS. That she was enormously rich; that her 
 grandfather was an earl; that her father was the Prince 
 of Darkness — 
 
 Undershaft. Chut ! 
 
 CusiNS. — and that I was only an adventurer trying 
 to catch a rich wife, then I stooped to deceive her about 
 my birth. 
 
 Barbara, Dolly! 
 
 Lady Britomart. Your birth! Now Adolphus, dont 
 dare to make up a wicked story for the sake of these 
 wretched cannons. Remember: I have seen photographs 
 of your parents ; and the Agent General for South West- 
 ern Australia knows them personally and has assured 
 me that they are most respectable married people. 
 
 CusiNS. So they are in Australia; but here they are 
 
292 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 outcasts. Their marriage is legal in Australia, but not 
 in England. My mother is my father's deceased wife's 
 sister; and in this island I am consequently a foundling. 
 (Sensation.) Is the subterfuge good enough, Machia- 
 velli.? 
 
 Undershaft (thoughtfully). Biddy: this may be a 
 way out of the difficulty. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Stuff! A man cant make cannons 
 any the better for being his own cousin instead of his 
 proper self (she sits down in the deck chair with a 
 bounce that expresses her downright contempt for their 
 casuistry). 
 
 Undershaft (to Cusins). You are an educated man. 
 That is against the tradition. 
 
 Cusins. Once in ten thousand times it happens that 
 the schoolboy is a born master of what they try to teach 
 him. Greek has not destroyed my mind: it has nour- 
 ished it. Besides, I did not learn it at an English public 
 school. 
 
 Undershaft. Hm! Well, I cannot afford to be too 
 particular : you have cornered the foundling market. Let 
 it pass. You are eligible, Euripides : you are eligible. 
 
 Barbara (coming from the platform and interposing 
 between Cusins and Undershaft). Dolly: yesterday 
 morning, when Stephen told us all about the tradition, 
 you became very silent; and you have been strange and 
 excited ever since. Were you thinking of your birth 
 then? 
 
 Cusins. When the finger of Destiny suddenly points 
 at a man in the middle of his breakfast, it makes him 
 thoughtful. (Barbara turns away sadly and stands near 
 her mother, listening perturbedly-.) 
 
 Undershaft. Aha ! You have had your eye on the 
 business, my young friend, have you.'' 
 
 Cusins. Take care! There is an abyss of moral 
 horror between me and your accursed aerial battle- 
 ships. 
 
Act III Major Barbara 293 
 
 Undershaft. Never mind the abyss for the present. 
 Let us settle the practical details and leave your final 
 decision open. You know that you will have to change 
 your name. Do you object to that? 
 
 CusiNs. Would any man named Adolphus — any man 
 called Dolly! — object to be called something else? 
 
 Undershaft. Good. Now, as to money! I propose 
 to treat you handsomely from the beginning. You shall 
 start at a thousand a year. 
 
 CusiNs (with sudden heat, his spectacles twinkling 
 with mischief). A thousand! You dare oifer a miser- 
 able thousand to the son-in-law of a millionaire ! No, 
 by Heavens, Machiavelli ! you shall not cheat m e. You 
 cannot do without me; and I can do without you. I 
 must have two thousand five hundred a year for two 
 years. At the end of that time^ if I am a failure, I go. 
 But if I am a success, and stay on, you must give me 
 the other five thousand. 
 
 Undershaft. What other five thousand? 
 
 CusiNs. To make the two years up to five thousand a 
 year. The two thousand five hundred is only half pay 
 in case I should turn out a failure. The third year I 
 must have ten per cent on the profits. 
 
 Undershaft (taken aback). Ten per cent! ^Vhy, 
 man, do you know what my profits are? 
 
 CusiNs. Enormous, I hope: otherwise I shall require 
 twentyfive per cent. 
 
 Undershaft. But, Mr. Cusins, this is a serious mat- 
 ter of business. You are not bringing any capital into 
 the concern. 
 
 CusiNS, WTiat! no capital! Is my mastery of Greek 
 no capital? Is my access to the subtlest thought, the 
 loftiest poetry yet attained by humanity, no capital? 
 My character ! my intellect ! my life ! my career ! what 
 Barbara calls my soul! are these no capital? Say an- 
 other word; and I double my salary. 
 
 Undershaft. Be reasonable — 
 
294. Major Barbara Act III 
 
 CusiNs (peremptorily). Mr. Undershaft: you have 
 my t'erms. Take them or leave them. 
 
 Undershaft (recovering himself). Very well. I 
 note your terms ; and I offer you half. 
 
 CusiNs (disgusted). Half! 
 
 Undershaft (firmly). Half. 
 
 CusiNs. You call yourself a gentleman ; and you offer 
 me half!! 
 
 Undershaft. I do not call myself a gentleman; but 
 I offer you half. 
 
 CusiNs. This to your future partner ! your successor ! 
 your son-in-law ! 
 
 Barbara. You are selling your own soul, Dolly, not 
 mine. Leave me out of the bargain, please. 
 
 Undershaft. Come! I will go a step further for 
 Barbara's sake. I will give you three fifths; but that 
 is my last word. 
 
 CusiNs. Done ! 
 
 LoMAX. Done in the eye. Why, I only get eight hun- 
 dred, you know. 
 
 CusiNs. By the way, Mac, I am a classical scholar, 
 not an arithmetical one. Is three fifths more than half 
 or less? 
 
 Undershaft. More, of course. 
 
 CusiNs. I would have taken two hundred and fifty. 
 How you can succeed in business when you are willing 
 to pay all that money to a University don who is ob- 
 viously not worth a junior clerk's wages! — well! What 
 will Lazarus say? 
 
 Undershaft. Lazarus is a gentle romantic Jew who 
 cares for nothing but string quartets and stalls at fash- 
 ionable theatres. He will get the credit of your rapacity 
 in money matters, as he has hitherto had the credit of 
 mine. You are a shark of the first order, Euripides. 
 So much the better for the firm ! 
 
 Barbara. Is the bargain closed, Dolly? Does your 
 soul belong to him now? 
 
Act III Major Barbara 295 
 
 CusiNs. No: the price is settled: that is all. The real 
 tug of war is still to come. What about the moral 
 question ? 
 
 Lady Britomart. There is no moral question in the 
 matter at all, Adolphus. You must simply sell cannons 
 and weapons to people whose cause is right and just, and 
 refuse them to foreigners and criminals. 
 
 Undersuaft (determinedly). No : none of that. You 
 must keep the true faith of an Armorer, or you dont 
 come in here. 
 
 CusiNs. What on earth is the true faith of an Ar- 
 morer .'' 
 
 Undershaft. To give arms to all men who offer an 
 honest price for them, without respect of persons or 
 principles: to aristocrat and republican, to Nihilist and 
 Tsar, to Capitalist and Socialist, to Protestant and 
 Catholic, to burglar and policeman, to black man white 
 man and yellow man, to all sorts and conditions, all 
 nationalities, all faiths, all follies, all causes and all 
 crimes. The first Undershaft wrote up in his shop if 
 God gave the hand, let not Man withhold the 
 SWORD. The second wrote up all have the right to 
 fight: none have the right to judge. The third 
 wrote up TO ^Ian the weapon: to Heaven the vic- 
 tory. The fourth had no literary turn ; so he did not 
 write up anything; but- be sold cannons to Napoleon 
 under the nose of George the Third. The fifth wrote up 
 peace shall not prevail save with a sword in her 
 hand. The sixth, my master, was the best of all. He 
 wrote up nothing is ever done in this world until 
 
 MEN ARE prepared TO KILL ONE ANOTHER IF IT IS NOT 
 
 DONE. After that, there was nothing left for the scventli 
 to say. So he wrote up, simply, unashamed. 
 
 CusiNs. My good Macliiavelli, I shall certainly write 
 something up on the wall; only, as I shall write it in 
 Greek, you wont be able to read it. But as to your 
 Armorer's faith, if I take my neck out of the noose of 
 
296 Major Barbara Act in 
 
 -my own morality I am not going to put it into the noose 
 of yours. I shall sell cannons to whom I please and 
 refuse them to whom I please. So there ! 
 
 Undershaft. From the moment when you become 
 Andrew Undershaft, you will never do as you please 
 again. Dont come here lusting for power, young man. 
 
 CusiNs. If power were my aim I should not come 
 here for it. You have no power. 
 
 Undershaft. None of my own, certainly. 
 
 CusiNs. I have more power than you, more will. You 
 do not drive this place: it drives you. And what drives 
 the place.'' 
 
 Undershaft (enigmatically). A will of which I am 
 a part. 
 
 Barbara (startled). Father! Do you know what 
 you are saying; or are you laying a snare for my soul? 
 
 CusiNs. Dont listen to his metaphysics, Barbara. 
 The place is driven by the most rascally part of society, 
 the money hunters, the pleasure hunters, the military 
 promotion himters; and he is their slave. 
 
 Undershaft. Not necessarily. Remember the Ar- 
 morer's Faith. I will take an order from a good man 
 as cheerfully as from a bad one. If you good people 
 prefer preaching and shirking to buying my weapons 
 and fighting the rascals, dont blame me. I can make 
 cannons: I cannot make courage and conviction. Bah! 
 You tire me, Euripides, with your morality monger ing. 
 Ask Barbara : s h e understands. (He suddenly takes 
 Barbara's hands, and looks powerfully into her eyes.) 
 Tell him, my love, what power really means. 
 
 Barbara (hypnotized). Before I joined the Salva- 
 tion Army, I was in my own power; and the consequence 
 was that I never knew what to do with myself. When 
 I joined it, I had not time enough for all the things I 
 had to do. 
 
 Undershaft (approvingly). Just so. And why was 
 that, do you suppose? 
 
Act III Major Barbara 297 
 
 Barbara. Yesterday I should have said, because I 
 was in the power of God. {She resumes her self-pos- 
 session, withdrarving her hands from his with a power 
 equal to his own.) But you came and shewed me that 
 I was in the power of Bodger and Undershaft. Today 
 I feel — oh! how can I put into words.'' Sarah: do you 
 remember the earthquake at Cannes, when we were little 
 children? — how little the surprise of the first shock mat- 
 tered compared to the dread and horror of waiting for 
 the second.'' That is how I feel in this place today. I 
 stood on the rock I thought eternal; and without a word 
 of warning it reeled and crumbled under me. I was 
 safe with an infinite wisdom watching me, an army 
 marching to Salvation with me; and in a moment, at a 
 stroke of your pen in a cheque book, I stood alone; and 
 the heavens were empty. That was the first shock of 
 the earthquake: I am waiting for the second. 
 
 Undershaft. Come, come, my daughter ! dont make 
 too much of your little tinpot tragedy. What do we do 
 here when we spend years of work and thought and 
 thousands of pounds of solid cash on a new gun or an 
 aerial battleship that turns out j ust a hairsbreadth wrong 
 after all.'' Scrap it. Scrap it without wasting another 
 hour or another pound on it. Well, you have made for 
 yourself something that you call a morality or a religion 
 or what not. It doesnt fit the facts. Well, scrap it. 
 Scrap it and get one that does fit. That is what is wrong 
 with the world at present. It scraps its obsolete steam 
 engines and dynamos; but it wont scrap its old preju- 
 dices and its old moralities and its old religions and its 
 old political constitutions. Wliats the result? In ma- 
 chinery it does very well ; but in morals and religion and 
 politics it is working at a loss that brings it nearer 
 bankruptcy every year. Dont persist in that folly. If 
 your old religion broke down yesterday, get a newer and 
 a better one for tomorrow. 
 
 Barbara. Oh how gladly I would take a better one 
 
298 Major Barbara Act m 
 
 to my soul! But you offer me a worse one. {Turning 
 on him with sudden vehemence.) Justify yourself: shew 
 me some light through the darkness of this dreadful 
 place, with its beautifully clean workshops, and respect- 
 able workmen, and model homes. 
 
 Undershaft. Cleanliness and respectability do not 
 need justification, Barbara: they justify themselves. I 
 see no darkness here, no dreadfulness. In your Salva- 
 tion shelter I saw poverty, misery, cold and hvmger. 
 You gave them bread and treacle and dreams of heaven. 
 I give from thirty shillings a week to twelve thousand a 
 year. They find their own dreams; but I look after the 
 drainage. 
 
 Barbara. And their souls? 
 
 Undershaft. I save their souls just as I saved yours. 
 
 Barbara (revolted). You saved my soul! What do 
 you mean.'' 
 
 Undershaft. I fed you and clothed you and housed 
 you. I took care that you should have money enouglf to 
 live handsomely — more than enough; so that you could 
 be wasteful, careless, generous. That saved your soul 
 from the seven deadly sins. 
 
 Barbara (bewildered). The seven deadly sins! 
 
 Undershaft. Yes, the deadly seven. (Counting on 
 his fingers.) Food, clothing, firing, rent, taxes, respecta- 
 bility and children. Nothing can lift those seven mill- 
 stones from Man's neck but money; and the spirit cannot 
 soar until the millstones are lifted. I lifted them from 
 your spirit. I enabled Barbara to become Major Bar- 
 bara ; and I saved her from the crime of poverty, 
 
 CusiNS. Do you call poverty a crime? 
 
 Undershaft. The worst of crimes. All , the other 
 crimes are virtues beside it: all the other dishonors are 
 chivalry itself by comparison. Poverty blights whole 
 cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very 
 souls of all who come within sight, sound or smell of it. 
 What you call crime is nothing : a murder here and a 
 
Act III Major Barbara 299 
 
 theft there, a blow now and a curse then: what do they 
 matter? they are only the accidents and illnesses of life: 
 there are not fifty genuine professional criminals in Lon- 
 don. But there are millions of poor people, abject 
 people, dirty people, ill fed, ill clothed people. They 
 poison us morally and physically : they kill the happiness 
 of society: they force us to do away with our own liber- 
 ties and to organize unnatural cruelties for fear they 
 should rise against us and drag us down into their abyss. 
 Only fools fear crime: we all fear poverty. Pah! (turii- 
 ing on Barbara) you talk of your half-saved ruffian in 
 West Ham: you accuse me of dragging his soul back to 
 perdition. "Well, bring him to me here; and I will drag 
 his soul back again to salvation for you. Nojt, by words 
 and dreams ; but by thirtyeight shillings a week, a sound 
 house in a handsome street, and a permanent job. In 
 three weeks he will have a fancy waistcoat; in three 
 months a tall hat and a^chapel sitting; before the end 
 of the year he will shake hands with a duchess at a 
 Primrose League meeting, and join the Conservative 
 Party. 
 
 Barbara. And will he be the better for that? 
 
 Undershaft. You know he will. Dont be ^a hypo- 
 crite, Barbara. He will be better fed, better housed, 
 better clothed, better behaved; and his children will be 
 pounds heavier and bigger.. That will be better than an 
 American cloth mattress in a shelter, chopping firewood, 
 eating bread and treacle, and being forced to kneel down 
 from time to time to thank heaven for it: knee drill, I 
 think you call it. It is cheap work converting starving 
 men with a Bible in one hand and a slice of bread in 
 the other. I will undertake to convert West Ham to 
 Mahometanism on the same terms. Try your hand on 
 m V men : their souls are hungry because their bodies are 
 full. 
 
 Barbara. And leave the east end to starve? 
 
 Undershaft (his energetic tone dropping into one of 
 
300 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 bitter and brooding remembrance). / was an east ender. I 
 moralized and starved until one day I swore that I would 
 be a full-fed free man at all costs — that nothing should 
 stop me except a bullet^ neither reason nor morals nor 
 the lives of other men. I said " Thou shalt starve ere 
 I starve " ; and with that word I became free and great. 
 I was a dangerous man imtil I had my will: now I am 
 a useful^ beneficent, kindly person. That is the history 
 of most self-made millionaires, I fancy. When it is 
 the history of every Englishman we shall have an Eng- 
 land worth living in. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Stop making speeches, Andrew. 
 This is not the place for them. 
 
 Undershaft (punctured). My dear: I have no other 
 means of conveying my ideas. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Your ideas are nonsense. You got 
 on because you were selfish and unscrupulous. 
 
 Undershaft. Not at all. I had the strongest scruples 
 about poverty and starvation. Your moralists are quite 
 imscrupulous about both: they make virtues of them. I 
 had rather be a thief than a pauj^er. I had rather be a 
 murderer than a slave. I dont want to be either; but if 
 you force the alternative on me, then, by Heaven, I'll 
 choose the braver and more moral one, I hate poverty 
 and slavery worse than any other crimes whatsoever. 
 And let me tell you this. Poverty and slavery have stood 
 up for centuries to your sermons and leading articles: 
 they will not stand up to my machine guns. Dont preach 
 at them: dont reason with them. Kill them. 
 
 Barbara. Killing. Is that your remedy for every- 
 thing } 
 
 Undershaft. It is the final test of conviction, the 
 only lever strong enough to overturn a social system, the 
 only way of saying Must. Let six hundred and seventy 
 fools loose in the street; and three policemen can scatter 
 them. But huddle them together in a certain house in 
 Westminster ; and let them go through certain ceremonies 
 
Act m Major Barbara 301 
 
 and call themselves certain names until at last they get 
 the courage to kill; and your six hundred and seventy 
 fools become a government. Your pious mob fills up 
 ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; 
 but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that 
 has a bullet wrapped up in it. 
 
 CusiNs. That is perhaps why, like most intelligent 
 people, I never vote. 
 
 Undershaft. Vote ! Bah ! When you vote, you only 
 change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you 
 pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish 
 old orders and set up new. Is that historically true, Mr. 
 Learned Man, or is it not? 
 
 CusiNS. It is historically true. I loathe having to 
 admit it. I repudiate your sentiments. I abhor your 
 nature. I defy you in every possible way. Still, it is 
 true. But it ought not to be true^ 
 
 Undershaft. Ought, ought, ought, ought, ought! 
 Are you going to spend your life saying ought, like the 
 rest of our moralists? Turn your oughts into shalls, 
 man. Come and make explosives with me. Whatever 
 can blow men up can blow society up. The history of 
 the world is the history of those who had courage enough 
 to embrace this truth. Have you the courage to embrace 
 it, Barbara? 
 
 Lady Britomart. Barbara, I positively forbid you 
 to listen to your father's abominable wickedness. And 
 you, Adolphus, ought to know better than to go about 
 saying that wrong things are true. What does it matter 
 whether they are true if they are wrong? 
 
 Undershaft. What does it matter whether they are 
 wrong if they are true? 
 
 Lady Britomart (rising). Children: come home in- 
 stantly. Andrew: I am exceedingly sorry I allowed you to 
 call on us. You are wickeder than ever. Come at once. 
 
 Barbara (shaking her head). It's no use running 
 away from wicked people, mamma. 
 
302 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 Lady Britomart. It is e%'^ery use. It shews your 
 disapprobation of them. 
 
 Barbara. It does not save them. 
 
 Lady Britomart. I can see that you are going to 
 disobey me. Sarah: are you coming home or are you 
 not.^ 
 
 Sarah. I daresay it's very wicked of papa to make 
 cannons; but I dont think I shall cut him on that ac- 
 count. 
 
 LoMAx (pouring oil on the troubled waters). The 
 fact is, you know, there is a certain amount of tosh about 
 this notion of wickedness. It doesnt work. You must 
 look at facts. Not that I would say a word in favor of 
 anything wrong; but then, you see, all sorts of chaps 
 are always doing all sorts of things; and we have to 
 fit them in somehow, dont you know. What I mean is 
 that you cant go cutting everybody; and thats about 
 what it comes to. (Their rapt attention to his eloquence 
 makes him nervous.) Perhaps I dont make myself clear. 
 
 Lady Britomart. You are lucidity itself, Charles. 
 Because Andrew is successful and has plenty of money 
 to give to Sarah, you will flatter him and encourage him 
 in his wickedness. 
 
 LoMAX (unruffled). Well, where the carcase is, there 
 will the eagles be gathered, dont you know. (To Under- 
 shaft.) Eh.? What.? 
 
 Undershaft. Precisely. By the way, m a y I call 
 you Charles? 
 
 LoMAx. Delighted. Cholly is the usual ticket. 
 
 Undershaft (to Lady Britomart). Biddy — 
 
 Lady Britomart (violently). Dont dare call me 
 Biddy. Charles Lomax: you are a fool. Adolphus 
 Cusins : you are a Jesuit. Stephen : you are a prig. Bar- 
 bara: you are a lunatic. Andrew: you are a vulgar 
 tradesman. Now you all know my opinion ; and m y 
 conscience is clear, at all events (she sits down again 
 with a vehemence that almost wrecks the chair). 
 
Act III Major Barbara 303 
 
 Undershaft. My dear: you are the incarnation of 
 morality. (She snorts.) Your conscience is clear and 
 your duty done when j'ou have called everybody names. 
 Come, Euripides! it is getting late; and we all want to 
 get home. Make up your mind. 
 
 CusiNs. Understand this, you old demon — 
 
 Lady Britomart. Adolphus ! 
 
 Undershaft. Let him alone, Biddy. Proceed, Eu- 
 ripides. 
 
 CusiNS. You have me in a horrible dilemma. I want 
 Barbara. 
 
 Undershaft. Like all young men, you greatly exag- 
 gerate the difference between one young woman and 
 another. 
 
 Barbara. Quite true, Dolly. 
 
 CusiNs. I also want to avoid being a rascal. 
 
 Undershaft (rvith biting contempt). You lust for 
 personal righteousness, for self-approval, for what you 
 call a good conscience, for what Barbara calls salvation, 
 for what I call patronizing people who are not so lucky 
 as yourself. 
 
 Cusins. I do not: all the poet in me recoils from 
 being a good man. But there are things in me that I 
 must reckon with: pity — 
 
 Undershaft. Pity! The scavenger of misery. 
 
 Cusins. Well, love. 
 
 Undershaft. I know. You love the needy and the 
 outcast : you love the oppressed races, the negro, the Ind- 
 ian ryot, the Pole, the Irishman. Do you love the 
 Japanese .'' Do you love the Germans .'' Do you love the 
 English .'' 
 
 Cusins. No. Every true Englishman detests the 
 English, We are the wickedest nation on earth ; and our 
 success is a moral horror. 
 
 Undershaft. That is what comes of your gospel of 
 love, is it.'' 
 
 Cusins. May I not love even my father-in-law.'* 
 
304 Major Barbara Act m 
 
 Undershaft. Who wants your love, man? By what 
 right do you take the liberty of offering it to me? I 
 will have your due heed and respect, or I will kill you. 
 But your love. Damn your impertinence! 
 
 Cusixs (grinning). I may not be able to control my 
 affections, Mac. 
 
 Undershaft. You are fencing, Euripides. You are 
 weakening: your grip is slipping. Come.' try your last 
 weapon. Pity and love have broken in your hand: for- 
 giveness is still left. 
 
 CusiNS. Xo: forgiveness is a beggar's refuge. I am 
 with you there: we must pay our debts. 
 
 Undershaft. Well said. Come ! you will suit me. 
 Remember the words of Plato. 
 
 CusiNs {starting) . Plato ! You dare quote Plato to 
 me! 
 
 Undershaft. Plato says, my friend, that society 
 cannot be saved until either the Professors of Greek 
 take to making gunpowder, or else the makers of gun- 
 powder become Professors of Greek. 
 
 CusiNs. Oh, tempter, cunning tempter ! 
 
 Undershaft. Come ! choose, man, choose. 
 
 CusiNS. But perhaps Barbara will not marry me if I 
 make the wrong choice. 
 
 Barbara. Perhaps not. 
 
 CusiNs (desperately perplexed). You hear! 
 
 Barbara. Father: do j'ou love nobody? 
 
 Undershaft. I love my best friend. 
 
 Lady Britomart. And who is that, pray? 
 
 Undershaft. My bravest enemy. That is the man 
 who keeps me up to the mark. 
 
 CrsiNs. You know, the creature is really a sort of 
 poet in his way. Suppose he is a great man, after all ! 
 
 Undershaft. Suppose you stop talking and make up 
 your mind, my yovmg friend. 
 
 CusiNS. But you are driving me against my nature. I 
 hate war. 
 
Act III Major Barbara 305 
 
 Undersiiaft. Hatred is the coward's revenge for be- 
 ing intimidated. Dare you make war on war? Here 
 are the means: my friend Mr. Lomax is sitting on them. 
 
 LoMAX {springing up). Oh I say! You dont mean 
 that this thing is loaded, do you? My ownest: come 
 off it. 
 
 Sarah (sitting placidly on the shell). If I am to be 
 blown up, the more thoroughly it is done the better. 
 Dont fuss, Cholly. 
 
 Lomax (to Undershaft, strongly remonstrant). Your 
 own daughter, you know. 
 
 Undershaft. So I see. (To Cusins.) Well, my 
 friend, may we expect you here at six tomorrow morn- 
 ing? 
 
 CusiNs (firmly). Not on any account. I will see the 
 whole establishment blown up with its own dynamite 
 before I will get up at five. My hours are healthy, 
 rational hours: eleven to five. 
 
 Undershaft. Come when you please: before a week 
 you will come at six and stay until I turn you out for 
 the sake of your health. (Calling.) Bilton ! (He turns 
 to Lady Britomart, rvho rises.) My dear: let us leave 
 these two young people to themselves for a moment. 
 (Bilton comes from the shed.) I am going to take you 
 through the gun cotton shed. 
 
 Bilton (barring the way)' You cant take anything 
 explosive in here, sir. 
 
 Lady Britomart. Wliat do you mean? Are you 
 alluding to me? 
 
 Bilton (unmoved). No, maam. Mr. Undershaft has 
 the other gentleman's matches in his pocket. 
 
 Lady Britomart (abruptly). Oh! I beg your par- 
 don. (She goes into the shed.) 
 
 Undershaft. Quite right, Bilton, quite right: here 
 you are. (He gives Bilton the box of matches.) Come, 
 Stephen. Come, Charles. Bring Sarah. (He passes 
 into the shed.) 
 
306 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 Bilton opens the box and deliberately drops the 
 matches into the fire-bucket. 
 
 LoMAX. Oh I say ! (Bilton stolidly hands him the 
 empty box.) Infernal nonsense! Pure scientific igno- 
 rance! (He goes in.) 
 
 Sarah. Am I all right, Bilton? 
 
 Bilton. Youll have to put on list slippers, miss: 
 thats all. Weve got em inside. (She goes in.) 
 
 Stephen (very seriously to Cusins). Dolly, old fel- 
 low, think. Think before you decide. Do you feel that 
 you are a sufficiently practical man.'' It is a huge vmder- 
 taking, an enormous responsibility. All this mass of 
 business will be Greek to you. 
 
 CusiNs. Oh, I think it will be much less difficult than 
 Greek. 
 
 Stephen. Well, I just want to say this before I leave 
 you to yourselves. Dont let anything I have said about 
 right and wrong prejudice you against this great chance 
 in life. I have satisfied myself that the business is one 
 of the highest character and a credit to our country. 
 (Emotionally.) I am very proud of my father. I — 
 (Unable to proceed, he presses Cusins' hand and goes 
 hastily into the shed, followed by Bilton.) 
 
 Barbara and Cusins, left alone together, look at one 
 another silently. 
 
 Cusins. Barbara : I am going to accept this offer. 
 
 Barbara. I thought you would. 
 
 Cusins. You understand, dont you, that I had to 
 decide without consulting you. If I had thrown the 
 burden of the choice on you, you would sooner or later 
 have despised me for it. 
 
 Barbara. Yes: I did not want you to sell your soul 
 for me any more than for this inheritance. 
 
 Cusins. It is not the sale of my soul that troubles 
 me: I have sold it too often to care about that. I have 
 sold it for a professorship. I have sold it for an income. 
 I have sold it to escape being imprisoned for refusing 
 
Act m Major Barbara 307 
 
 to pay taxes for hangmen's ropes and unjust wars and 
 things that I abhor. What is all human conduct but 
 the daily and hourly sale of our souls for trifles ? What 
 I am now selling it for is neither money nor position 
 nor comfort, but for reality and for power. 
 
 Barbara. You know that you will have no power, 
 and that he has none. 
 
 CusiNS. I know. It is not for myself alone. I want 
 to make power for the world. 
 
 Barbara. I want to make power for the world too; 
 but it must be spiritual power. 
 
 CusiNs. I think all power is spiritual: these cannons 
 will not go off by themselves. I have tried to make 
 spiritual power by teaching Greek. But the world can 
 never be really touched by a dead language and a dead 
 civilization. The people must have power; and the 
 people cannot have Greek. Now the power that is made 
 here can be wielded by all men. 
 
 Barbara. Power to burn women's houses down and 
 kill their sons and tear their husbands to pieces. 
 
 CusiNS. You cannot have power for good without hav- 
 ing power for evil too. Even mother's milk nourishes 
 murderers as well as heroes. This power which only 
 tears men's bodies to pieces has never been so horribly 
 abused as the intellectual power, the imaginative power, 
 the poetic, religious power than can enslave men's souls. 
 As a teacher of Greek I gave the intellectual man weap- 
 ons against the common man. I now want to give the 
 common man weapons against the intellectual man. I 
 love the common people. I want to arm them against 
 the lawyer, the doctor, the priest, the literary man, the 
 professor, the artist, and the politician, who, once in 
 authority, are the most dangerous, disastrous, and tyran- 
 nical of all the fools, rascals, and impostors. I want a 
 democratic power strong enough to force the intellectual 
 oligarchy to use its genius for the general good pr else 
 perish, 
 
308 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 Barbara. Is there no higher power than that (point- 
 ing to the shell) ? 
 
 CusiNS. Yes: but that power can destroy the higher 
 powers just as a tiger can destroy a man: therefore man 
 must master that power first. I admitted this when the 
 Turks and Greeks were last at war. Mj best pupil went 
 out to fight for Hellas. My parting gift to him was 
 not a copy of Plato's Republic, but a revolver and a 
 hundred Undershaft cartridges. The blood of every 
 Turk he shot — if he shot any — is on my head as well as 
 on Undershaft's. That act committed me to this place 
 for ever. Your father's challenge has beaten me. Dare 
 I make war on war ? I dare. I must. I will. And now, 
 is it all over between us? 
 
 Barbara (touched by his evident dread of her an- 
 swer). Silly baby Dolly! How could it be? 
 
 CusiNs (overjoyed). Then ypu — you — you — Oh for 
 my drum! (He flourishes imaginary drumsticks.) 
 
 Barbara (angered by his levity). Take care, Dolly, 
 take care. Oh, if only I could get away from you and 
 from father and from it all! if I could have the wings 
 of a dove and fly away to heaven ! 
 
 CusiNS. And leave m e ! 
 
 Barbara. Yes, you, and all the other naughty mis- 
 chievous children of men. But I cant. I was happy 
 in the Salvation Army for a moment. I escaped from \ 
 the world into a paradise of enthusiasm and prayer and 
 soul saving ; but the moment our money ran ^hort, it all j 
 came back to Bodger: it was he who saved our people:! 
 he, and the Prince of Darkness, my papa. Undershaft 
 and Bodger: their hands stretch everywhere: when we 
 feed a starving fellow creature, it is with their bread, 
 because there is no other bread; when we tend the sick, 
 it is in the hospitals they endow; if we turn from the 
 churches they build, we must kneel on the stones of 
 the streets they pave. As long as that lasts, there 
 is no getting away from them. Turning our backs 
 
Act m Major Barbara 309 
 
 on Bodger and Undershaft is turning our backs on 
 life. 
 
 CusiNS. I thought you were determined to turn your 
 back on the wicked side of life. 
 
 Barbara. There is no wicked side: life is all one. 
 And I never wanted to shirk my share in whatever evil 
 must be endured, whether it be sin or suffering. I wish 
 I could cure you of middle-class ideas, Dolly. 
 
 CusiNs (gasping). Middle cl — ! A snub! A social 
 snub to m e ! from the daughter of a f oimdling ! 
 
 Barbara. That is why I have no class, Dolly: I come 
 straight out of the heart of the whole people. If I were 
 middle-class I should turn my back on my father's busi- 
 ness; and we should both live in an artistic drawing- 
 room, with you reading the reviews in one corner, and 
 I in the other at the piano, playing Schumann : both very 
 superior persons, and neither of us a bit of use. Sooner 
 than that, I would sweep out the guncotton shed, or be 
 one of Bodger's barmaids. Do you know what would 
 have happened if you had refused papa's offer.'' 
 
 CusiNS. I wonder ! 
 
 Barbara. I should have given you up and married 
 the man who accepted it. After all, my dear old mother 
 has more sense than any of you. I felt like her when I 
 saw this place — felt that I must have it — that never, 
 never, never could I let it go ; only she thought it was 
 the houses and the kitchen ranges and the linen and 
 china, when it was really all the human souls to be 
 saved: not weak souls in starved bodies, crying with 
 gratitude for a scrap of bread and treacle, but fullfed, 
 quarrelsome, snobbish, uppish creatures, all standing on 
 their little rights and dignities, and thinking that my 
 father ought to be greatly obliged to them for making 
 so much money for him — and so he ought. That is 
 where salvation is really wanted. My father shall never 
 throw it in my teeth again that my converts were bribed 
 with bread. (She is transfigured.) I have got rid of 
 
310 Major Barbara Act III 
 
 the bribe of bread. I have got rid of the bribe of 
 heaven. Let God's work be done for its own sake: the 
 work he had to create us to do because it cannot be done 
 except by living men and women. When I die, let him 
 be in my debt, not I in his; and let me forgive him as 
 becomes a woman of my rank. 
 
 CusiNs. Then the way of life lies through the factory 
 of death? 
 
 Barbara. Yes, through the raising of hell to heaven 
 and of man to God, through the unveiling of an eternal 
 light in the Valley of The Shadow. (Seizing him with 
 both hands.) Oh, did you think my courage would never 
 come back.? did you believe that I was a deserter? that 
 I, who have stood in the streets, and taken my people 
 to my heart, and talked of the holiest and greatest things 
 with them, could ever turn back and chatter foolishly 
 to fashionable people about nothing in a drawingroom? 
 Never, never, never, never: Major Barbara will die with 
 the colors. Oh ! and I have my dear little Dolly boy 
 still; and he has found me my place and my work. 
 Glory Hallelujah! (She kisses him.) 
 
 CusiNs. My dearest: consider my delicate health. I 
 cannot stand as much happiness as you can. 
 
 Barbara. Yes: it is not easy work being in love with 
 me, is it? But it's good for you. (She runs to the shed, 
 and calls, childlike) Mamma ! Mamma ! (Bilton comes 
 out of the shed, followed by Undershaft.) I want 
 Mamma. 
 
 Undershaft. She is taking off her list slippers, 
 dear. (He passes on to Cusins.) Well? What does 
 she say? 
 
 CusiNs. She has gone right up into the skies. 
 
 Lady Britomart (coming from the shed and stopping 
 on the steps, obstructing Sarah, who follows with Lo- 
 max. Barbara clutches like a baby at her mother's skirt.) 
 Barbara: when will you learn to be independent and to 
 act and think for yourself? I know as well as possibly 
 
Act III Major Barbara 311 
 
 what that cry of " Mamma, Mamma," means. Always 
 running to me! 
 
 Sarah (touching Lady Britomart's ribs with her fin- 
 ger tips and imitating a bicycle horn). Pip! pip! 
 
 Lady Britomart (highly indignant). How dare you 
 say Pip ! pip ! to me, Sarah ? You are both very naughty 
 children. What do you want, Barbara? 
 
 Barbara. I want a house in the village to live in 
 with Dolly. {Dragging at the skirt.) Come and tell 
 me which one to take. 
 
 Undershaft (to Cusins). Six o'clock tomorrow 
 morning, my young friend. 
 
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