Man and Superman: A Comedy and a Philosophy
presently; and then the French Government'll stop it; an our chance will
be gone see? That what makes me fairly mad: Mr Tanner won't do a good
run while he can.
TANNER. Tavy: do you remember my uncle James?
OCTAVIUS. Yes. Why?
TANNER. Uncle James had a first rate cook: he couldn't digest anything
except what she cooked. Well, the poor man was shy and hated society.
But his cook was proud of her skill, and wanted to serve up dinners to
princes and ambassadors. To prevent her from leaving him, that poor
old man had to give a big dinner twice a month, and suffer agonies of
awkwardness. Now here am I; and here is this chap Enry Straker, the New
Man. I loathe travelling; but I rather like Enry. He cares for nothing
but tearing along in a leather coat and goggles, with two inches of dust
all over him, at sixty miles an hour and the risk of his life and mine.
Except, of course, when he is lying on his back in the mud under the
machine trying to find out where it has given way. Well, if I don't give
him a thousand mile run at least once a fortnight I shall lose him. He
will give me the sack and go to some American millionaire; and I shall
have to put up with a nice respectful groom-gardener-amateur, who will
touch his hat and know his place. I am Enry's slave, just as Uncle James
was his cook's slave.
STRAKER. [exasperated] Garn! I wish I had a car that would go as fast
as you can talk, Mr Tanner. What I say is that you lose money by a motor
car unless you keep it workin. Might as well ave a pram and a nussmaid
to wheel you in it as that car and me if you don't git the last inch out
of us both.
TANNER. [soothingly] All right, Henry, all right. We'll go out for half
an hour presently.
STRAKER. [in disgust] Arf an ahr! [He returns to his machine; seats
himself in it; and turns up a fresh page of his paper in search of more
news].
OCTAVIUS. Oh, that reminds me. I have a note for you from Rhoda. [He
gives Tanner a note].
TANNER. [opening it] I rather think Rhoda is heading for a row with Ann.
As a rule there is only one person an English girl hates more than she
hates her mother; and that's her eldest sister. But Rhoda positively
prefers her mother to Ann. She--[indignantly] Oh, I say!
OCTAVIUS. What's the matter?
TANNER. Rhoda was to have come with me for a ride in the motor car. She
says Ann has forbidden her to go out with me.
Straker suddenly begins whistling his favorite air with remarkable
deliberation. Surprised by this burst of larklike melody, and jarred by
a sardonic note in its cheerfulness, they turn and look inquiringly at
him. But he is busy with his paper; and nothing comes of their movement.
OCTAVIUS. [recovering himself] Does she give any reason?
TANNER. Reason! An insult is not a reason. Ann forbids her to be alone
with me on any occasion. Says I am not a fit person for a young girl to
be with. What do you think of your paragon now?
OCTAVIUS. You must remember that she has a very heavy responsibility now
that her father is dead. Mrs Whitefield is too weak to control Rhoda.
TANNER. [staring at him] In short, you agree with Ann.
OCTAVIUS. No; but I think I understand her. You must admit that your
views are hardly suited for the formation of a young girl's mind and
character.
TANNER. I admit nothing of the sort. I admit that the formation of a
young lady's mind and character usually consists in telling her lies;
but I object to the particular lie that I am in the habit of abusing the
confidence of girls.
OCTAVIUS. Ann doesn't say that, Jack.
TANNER. What else does she mean?
STRAKER. [catching sight of Ann coming from the house] Miss Whitefield,
gentlemen. [He dismounts and strolls away down the avenue with the air
of a man who knows he is no longer wanted].
ANN. [coming between Octavius and Tanner]. Good morning, Jack. I have
come to tell you that poor Rhoda has got one of her headaches and cannot
go out with you to-day in the car. It is a cruel disappointment to her,
poor child!
TANNER. What do you say now, Tavy.
OCTAVIUS. Surely you cannot misunderstand, Jack. Ann is showing you the
kindest consideration, even at the cost of deceiving you.
ANN. What do you mean?
TANNER. Would you like to cure Rhoda's headache, Ann?
ANN. Of course.
TANNER. Then tell her what you said just now; and add that you arrived
about two minutes after I had received her letter and read it.
ANN. Rhoda has written to you!
TANNER. With full particulars.
OCTAVIUS. Never mind him, Ann. You were right, quite right. Ann was only
doing her duty, Jack; and you know it. Doing it in the kindest way, too.
ANN. [going to Octavius] How kind you are, Tavy! How helpful! How well
you understand!
Octavius beams.
TANNER. Ay: tighten the coils. You love her, Tavy, don't you?
OCTAVIUS. She knows I do.
ANN. Hush. For shame, Tavy!
TANNER. Oh, I give you leave. I am your guardian; and I commit you to
Tavy's care for the next hour.
ANN. No, Jack. I must speak to you about Rhoda. Ricky: will you go back
to the house and entertain your American friend? He's rather on Mamma's
hands so early in the morning. She wants to finish her housekeeping.
OCTAVIUS. I fly, dearest Ann [he kisses her hand].
ANN. [tenderly] Ricky Ticky Tavy!
He looks at her with an eloquent blush, and runs off.
TANNER. [bluntly] Now look here, Ann. This time you've landed yourself;
and if Tavy were not in love with you past all salvation he'd have found
out what an incorrigible liar you are.
ANN. You misunderstand, Jack. I didn't dare tell Tavy the truth.
TANNER. No: your daring is generally in the opposite direction. What the
devil do you mean by telling Rhoda that I am too vicious to associate
with her? How can I ever have any human or decent relations with her
again, now that you have poisoned her mind in that abominable way?
ANN. I know you are incapable of behaving badly.
TANNER. Then why did you lie to her?
ANN. I had to.
TANNER. Had to!
ANN. Mother made me.
TANNER. [his eye flashing] Ha! I might have known it. The mother! Always
the mother!
ANN. It was that dreadful book of yours. You know how timid mother is.
All timid women are conventional: we must be conventional, Jack, or we
are so cruelly, so vilely misunderstood. Even you, who are a man, cannot
say what you think without being misunderstood and vilified--yes: I
admit it: I have had to vilify you. Do you want to have poor Rhoda
misunderstood and vilified to the same way? Would it be right for mother
to let her expose herself to such treatment before she is old enough to
judge for herself?
TANNER. In short, the way to avoid misunderstanding is for everybody to
lie and slander and insinuate and pretend as hard as they can. That is
what obeying your mother comes to.
ANN. I love my mother, Jack.
TANNER. [working himself up into a sociological rage] Is that any reason
why you are not to call your soul your own? Oh, I protest against this
vile abjection of youth to age! look at fashionable society as you know
it. What does it pretend to be? An exquisite dance of nymphs. What is
it? A horrible procession of wretched girls, each in the claws of a
cynical, cunning, avaricious, disillusioned, ignorantly experienced,
foul-minded old woman whom she calls mother, and whose duty it is
to corrupt her mind and sell her to the highest bidder. Why do these
unhappy slaves marry anybody, however old and vile, sooner than not
marry at all? Because marriage is their only means of escape from these
decrepit fiends who hide their selfish ambitions, their jealous hatreds
of the young rivals who have supplanted them, under the mask of maternal
duty and family affection. Such things are abominable: the voice of
nature proclaims for the daughter a father's care and for the son a
mother's. The law for father and son and mother and daughter is not
the law of love: it is the law of revolution, of emancipation, of final
supersession of the old and worn-out by the young and capable. I
tell you, the first duty of manhood and womanhood is a Declaration of
Independence: the man who pleads his father's authority is no man: the
woman who pleads her mother's authority is unfit to bear citizens to a
free people.
ANN. [watching him with quiet curiosity] I suppose you will go in
seriously for politics some day, Jack.
TANNER. [heavily let down] Eh? What? Wh--? [Collecting his scattered
wits] What has that got to do with what I have been saying?
ANN. You talk so well.
TANNER. Talk! Talk! It means nothing to you but talk. Well, go back
to your mother, and help her to poison Rhoda's imagination as she has
poisoned yours. It is the tame elephants who enjoy capturing the wild
ones.
ANN. I am getting on. Yesterday I was a boa constrictor: to-day I am an
elephant.
TANNER. Yes. So pack your trunk and begone; I have no more to say to
you.
ANN. You are so utterly unreasonable and impracticable. What can I do?
TANNER. Do! Break your chains. Go your way according to your own
conscience and not according to your mother's. Get your mind clean
and vigorous; and learn to enjoy a fast ride in a motor car instead of
seeing nothing in it but an excuse for a detestable intrigue. Come with
me to Marseilles and across to Algiers and to Biskra, at sixty miles
an hour. Come right down to the Cape if you like. That will be a
Declaration of Independence with a vengeance. You can write a book about
it afterwards. That will finish your mother and make a woman of you.
ANN. [thoughtfully] I don't think there would be any harm in that, Jack.
You are my guardian: you stand in my father's place, by his own wish.
Nobody could say a word against our travelling together. It would be
delightful: thank you a thousand times, Jack. I'll come.
TANNER. [aghast] You'll come!!!
ANN. Of course.
TANNER. But-- [he stops, utterly appalled; then resumes feebly] No: look
here, Ann: if there's no harm in it there's no point in doing it.
ANN. How absurd you are! You don't want to compromise me, do you?
TANNER. Yes: that's the whole sense of my proposal.
ANN. You are talking the greatest nonsense; and you know it. You would
never do anything to hurt me.
TANNER. Well, if you don't want to be compromised, don't come.
ANN. [with simple earnestness] Yes, I will come, Jack, since you wish
it. You are my guardian; and think we ought to see more of one another
and come to know one another better. [Gratefully] It's very thoughtful
and very kind of you, Jack, to offer me this lovely holiday, especially
after what I said about Rhoda. You really are good--much better than you
think. When do we start?
TANNER. But--
The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Whitefield from
the house. She is accompanied by the American gentleman, and followed by
Ramsden and Octavius.
Hector Malone is an Eastern American; but he is not at all ashamed of
his nationality. This makes English people of fashion think well of
him, as of a young fellow who is manly enough to confess to an obvious
disadvantage without any attempt to conceal or extenuate it. They feel
that he ought not to be made to suffer for what is clearly not his
fault, and make a point of being specially kind to him. His chivalrous
manners to women, and his elevated moral sentiments, being both
gratuitous and unusual, strike them as being a little unfortunate;
and though they find his vein of easy humor rather amusing when it has
ceased to puzzle them (as it does at first), they have had to make
him understand that he really must not tell anecdotes unless they
are strictly personal and scandalous, and also that oratory is an
accomplishment which belongs to a cruder stage of civilization than that
in which his migration has landed him. On these points Hector is not