great truth at the bottom of what he says. I believe most intensely in the dignity of labor.
| Straker |
Unimpressed. That’s because you never done any, Mr. Robinson. My business is to do away with labor. You’ll get more out of me and a machine than you will out of twenty laborers, and not so much to drink either. |
| Tanner |
For Heaven’s sake, Tavy, don’t start him on political economy. He knows all about it; and we don’t. You’re only a poetic Socialist, Tavy: he’s a scientific one. |
| Straker |
Unperturbed. Yes. Well, this conversation is very improvin; but I’ve got to look after the car; and you two want to talk about your ladies. I know. He retires to busy himself about the car; and presently saunters off towards the house. |
| Tanner |
That’s a very momentous social phenomenon. |
| Octavius |
What is? |
| Tanner |
Straker is. Here have we literary and cultured persons been for years setting up a cry of the New Woman whenever some unusually old fashioned female came along; and never noticing the advent of the New Man. Straker’s the New Man. |
| Octavius |
I see nothing new about him, except your way of chaffing him. But I don’t want to talk about him just now. I want to speak to you about Ann. |
| Tanner |
Straker knew even that. He learnt it at the Polytechnic, probably. Well, what about Ann? Have you proposed to her? |
| Octavius |
Self-reproachfully. I was brute enough to do so last night. |
| Tanner |
Brute enough! What do you mean? |
| Octavius |
Dithyrambically. Jack: we men are all coarse. We never understand how exquisite a woman’s sensibilities are. How could I have done such a thing! |
| Tanner |
Done what, you maudlin idiot? |
| Octavius |
Yes, I am an idiot. Jack: if you had heard her voice! If you had seen her tears! I have lain awake all night thinking of them. If she had reproached me, I could have borne it better. |
| Tanner |
Tears! that’s dangerous. What did she say? |
| Octavius |
She asked me how she could think of anything now but her dear father. She stifled a sob—He breaks down. |
| Tanner |
Patting him on the back. Bear it like a man, Tavy, even if you feel it like an ass. It’s the old game: she’s not tired of playing with you yet. |
| Octavius |
Impatiently. Oh, don’t be a fool, Jack. Do you suppose this eternal shallow cynicism of yours has any real bearing on a nature like hers? |
| Tanner |
Hm! Did she say anything else? |
| Octavius |
Yes; and that is why I expose myself and her to your ridicule by telling you what passed. |
| Tanner |
Remorsefully. No, dear Tavy, not ridicule, on my honor! However, no matter. Go on. |
| Octavius |
Her sense of duty is so devout, so perfect, so— |
| Tanner |
Yes: I know. Go on. |
| Octavius |
You see, under this new arrangement, you and Ramsden are her guardians; and she considers that all her duty to her father is now transferred to you. She said she thought I ought to have spoken to you both in the first instance. Of course she is right; but somehow it seems rather absurd that I am to come to you and formally ask to be received as a suitor for your ward’s hand. |
| Tanner |
I am glad that love has not totally extinguished your sense of humor, Tavy. |
| Octavius |
That answer won’t satisfy her. |
| Tanner |
My official answer is, obviously, Bless you, my children: may you be happy! |
| Octavius |
I wish you would stop playing the fool about this. If it is not serious to you, it is to me, and to her. |
| Tanner |
You know very well that she is as free to choose as you. |
| Octavius |
She does not think so. |
| Tanner |
Oh, doesn’t she! Just! However, say what you want me to do. |
| Octavius |
I want you to tell her sincerely and earnestly what you think about me. I want you to tell her that you can trust her to me—that is, if you feel you can. |
| Tanner |
I have no doubt that I can trust her to you. What worries me is the idea of trusting you to her. Have you read Maeterlinck’s book about the bee? |
| Octavius |
Keeping his temper with difficulty. I am not discussing literature at present. |
| Tanner |
Be just a little patient with me. I am not discussing literature: the book about the bee is natural history. It’s an awful lesson to mankind. You think that you are Ann’s suitor; that you are the pursuer and she the pursued; that it is your part to woo, to persuade, to prevail, to overcome. Fool: it is you who are the pursued, the marked down quarry, the destined prey. You need not sit looking longingly at the bait through the wires of the trap: the door is open, and will remain so until it shuts behind you forever. |
| Octavius |
I wish I could believe that, vilely as you put it. |
| Tanner |
Why, man, what other work has she in life but to get a husband? It is a woman’s business to get married as soon as possible, and a man’s to keep unmarried as long as he can. You have your poems and your tragedies to work at: Ann has nothing. |
| Octavius |
I cannot write without inspiration. And nobody can give me that except Ann. |
| Tanner |
Well, hadn’t you better get it from her at a safe distance? Petrarch didn’t see half as much of Laura, nor Dante of Beatrice, as you see of Ann now; and yet they wrote first-rate poetry—at least so I’m told. They never exposed their idolatry to the test of domestic familiarity; and it lasted them to their graves. Marry Ann and at the end of a week you’ll find no more inspiration than in a plate of muffins. |
| Octavius |
You think I shall tire of her. |
| Tanner |
Not at all: you don’t get tired of muffins. But you don’t find inspiration in them; and you won’t in her when she ceases to be a poet’s dream and becomes a solid eleven stone wife. You’ll be forced to dream about somebody else; and then there will be a row. |
| Octavius |
This |