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Title:      On the Rocks
Author:     George Bernard Shaw
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      On the Rocks
Author:     George Bernard Shaw





Period--The Present.

  ACT I. The Cabinet Room at No. 10 Downing Street, London, S.W.1.

  ACT II. The Same. 10 November, 9.30 a.m.

Shaw Answers Some Questions




  Killing as a Political Function

  The Sacredness of Human Life

  Present Exterminations

  Previous Attempts miss the Point

  King Charles's Head

  Right to Exterminate conferred by Private Property

  Disguises under which Private Extermination operates

  Private Powers of Life and Death

  Cruelty's Excuses

  Leading Case of Jesus Christ


  Christianity and the Sixth Commandment

  The Russian Experiment

  Inadequacy of Penal Codes

  Limited Liability in Morals

  Natural Limit to Extermination

  Incompatibility of Peasantry with Modern Civilization

  A Peasant Victory is a Victory for Private Property

  Preventive Extermination: its Difficulties

  Temperamental Difficulties

  Importance of Laziness for Fallowing

  Standard Religion Indispensable

  Eclectic Religions

  Importance of Free Thought

  Toleration Mostly Illusory

  Leading Cases: Socrates and Jesus

  The Case of Galileo

  Figment of the Selfregarding Action

  Incompleteness of the Great Trials

  A Modern Passion Play Impossible

  Difference Between Reader and Spectator

  The Sacredness of Criticism


In this play a reference is made by a Chief of Police to the
political necessity for killing people: a necessity so distressing
to the statesmen and so terrifying to the common citizen that
nobody except myself (as far as I know) has ventured to examine it
directly on its own merits, although every Government is obliged to
practise it on a scale varying from the execution of a single
murderer to the slaughter of millions of quite innocent persons.
Whilst assenting to these proceedings, and even acclaiming and
celebrating them, we dare not tell ourselves what we are doing
or why we are doing it; and so we call it justice or capital
punishment or our duty to king and country or any other convenient
verbal whitewash for what we instinctively recoil from as from a
dirty job.  These childish evasions are revolting.  We must strip
off the whitewash and find out what is really beneath it.
Extermination must be put on a scientific basis if it is ever to be
carried out humanely and apologetically as well as thoroughly.


That killing is a necessity is beyond question by any thoughtful
person.  Unless rabbits and deer and rats and foxes are killed, or
"kept down" as we put it, mankind must perish; and that section of
mankind which lives in the country and is directly and personally
engaged in the struggle with Nature for a living has no sentimental
doubts that they must be killed.  As to tigers and poisonous
snakes, their incompatibility with human civilization is
unquestioned.  This does not excuse the use of cruel steel traps,
agonizing poisons, or packs of hounds as methods of extermination.
Killing can be cruelly or kindly done; and the deliberate choice of
cruel ways, and their organization as popular pleasures, is sinful;
but the sin is in the cruelty and the enjoyment of it, not in the


In law we draw a line between the killing of human animals and non-
human ones, setting the latter apart as brutes.  This was founded
on a general belief that humans have immortal souls and brutes
none.  Nowadays more and more people are refusing to make this
distinction.  They may believe in The Life Everlasting and The Life
to Come; but they make no distinction between Man and Brute,
because some of them believe that brutes have souls, whilst
others refuse to believe that the physical materializations
and personifications of The Life Everlasting are themselves
everlasting.  In either case the mystic distinction between Man and
Brute vanishes; and the murderer pleading that though a rabbit
should be killed for being mischievous he himself should be spared
because he has an immortal soul and a rabbit has none is as
hopelessly out of date as a gentleman duellist pleading his clergy.
When the necessity for killing a dangerous human being arises, as
it still does daily, the only distinction we make between a man and
a snared rabbit is that we very quaintly provide the man with a
minister of religion to explain to him that we are not killing him
at all, but only expediting his transfer to an eternity of bliss.

The political necessity for killing him is precisely like that for
killing the cobra or the tiger: he is so ferocious or unscrupulous
that if his neighbors do not kill him he will kill or ruin his
neighbors; so that there is nothing for it but to disable him once
for all by making an end of him, or else waste the lives of useful
and harmless people in seeing that he does no mischief, and caging
him cruelly like a lion in a show.

Here somebody is sure to interject that there is the alternative of
teaching him better manners; but I am not here dealing with such
cases: the real necessity arises only in dealing with untameable
persons who are constitutionally unable to restrain their violent
or acquisitive impulses, and have no compunction about sacrificing
others to their own immediate convenience.  To punish such persons
is ridiculous: we might as reasonably punish a tile for flying off
a roof in a storm and knocking a clergyman on the head.  But to
kill them is quite reasonable and very necessary.


All this so far is mere elementary criminology, already dealt with
very fully by me in my Essay on Prisons, which I recommend to those
readers who may feel impelled to ramble away at this point into the
prosings about Deterrence beloved by our Prison commissioners and
judges.  It disposes of the dogma of the unconditional sacredness
of human life, or any other incarnation of life; but it covers only
a corner of the field opened up by modern powers of extermination.
In Germany it is suggested that the Nordic race should exterminate
the Latin race.  As both these lingual stocks are hopelessly
interbred by this time, such a sacrifice to ethnological sciolism
is not practicable; but its discussion familiarizes the idea and
clears the way for practicable suggestions.  The extermination of
whole races and classes has been not only advocated but actually
attempted.  The extirpation of the Jew as such figured for a few
mad moments in the program of the Nazi party in Germany.  The
extermination of the peasant is in active progress in Russia, where
the extermination of the class of ladies and gentlemen of so-called
independent means has already been accomplished; and an attempt to
exterminate the old Conservative professional class and the kulak
or prosperous farmer class has been checked only by the discovery
that they cannot as yet be done without.  Outside Russia the
extermination of Communists is widely advocated; and there is a
movement in the British Empire and the United States for the
extermination of Fascists.  In India the impulse of Moslems and
Hindus to exterminate one another is complicated by the impulse of
the British Empire to exterminate both when they happen to be
militant Nationalists.


The novelty and significance of these instances consists in the
equal status of the parties.  The extermination of what the
exterminators call inferior races is as old as history.  "Stone
dead hath no fellow" said Cromwell when he tried to exterminate the
Irish.  "The only good nigger is a dead nigger" say the Americans
of the Ku-Klux temperament.  "Hates any man the thing he would not
kill?" said Shylock naively.  But we white men, as we absurdly call
ourselves in spite of the testimony of our looking glasses, regard
all differently colored folk as inferior species.  Ladies and
gentlemen class rebellious laborers with vermin.  The Dominicans,
the watchdogs of God, regarded the Albigenses as the enemies of
God, just as Torquemada regarded the Jews as the murderers of God.
All that is an old story: what we are confronted with now is a
growing perception that if we desire a certain type of civilization
and culture we must exterminate the sort of people who do not fit
into it.  There is a difference between the shooting at sight of
aboriginal natives in the back blocks of Australia and the
massacres of aristocrats in the terror which followed the foreign
attacks on the French Revolution.  The Australian gunman pots the
aboriginal natives to satisfy his personal antipathy to a black man
with uncut hair.  But nobody in the French Republic had this
feeling about Lavoisier, nor can any German Nazi have felt that way
about Einstein.  Yet Lavoisier was guillotined; and Einstein has
had to fly for his life from Germany.  It was silly to say that the
Republic had no use for chemists; and no Nazi has stultified his
party to the extent of saying that the new National Socialist
Fascist State in Germany has no use for mathematician-physicists.
The proposition is that aristocrats (Lavoisier's class) and Jews
(Einstein's race) are unfit to enjoy the privilege of living in a
modern society founded on definite principles of social welfare as
distinguished from the old promiscuous aggregations crudely policed
by chiefs who had no notion of social criticism and no time to
invent it.


It was, by the way, the English Revolution which introduced the
category of Malignant or Man of Blood, and killed the King as an
affirmation that even kings must not survive if they are malignant.
This was much more advanced than the execution in the following
century of Louis XVI as an ordinary traitor, or of the Tsar in our
own time to prevent his being captured by the Tchekoslovakian
contingent and used as a standard to rally the royalist reaction.
Charles affirmed a divine personal right to govern as against the
parliament and would keep no bargain with it.  Parliament denied
his right, and set up against it a divine right of election winners
to govern.  They fought it out; and the victorious election winners
exterminated the king, very logically.  Finding that their
authority still needed a royal disguise they drove a hard bargain
for a crown with his son, and, after ejecting the next king who
broke it, a still harder one with his Dutch grandson before they
allowed the title of king, with nine tenths of the meaning knocked
out of it, to be used as a matter of convenience again in England.
Nobody had a word to say against Charles's private character.  It
was solely for incompatibility of politics that he was eliminated,
or "liquidated" as we say now.  There was a real novelty in the
transaction.  The Church had for centuries before compelled the
secular State to liquidate heretics; and the slaughter of rebels
who tried to substitute one dynasty for another, or to seize the
throne for themselves, was common routine.  But Charles was neither
a heretic nor a rebel.  He was the assertor of a divine right to
govern without winning elections; and because that right could not
co-exist with the supremacy of a much richer and more powerful
plutocracy off went his head.

Charles was only the first victim.  After Culloden the defeated
Highland chiefs and their clansmen were butchered like sheep on the
field.  Had they been merely prisoners of war, this would have been
murder.  But as they were also Incompatibles with British
civilization, it was only liquidation.


Having disposed of the divine right of kings the political
liquidators turned their attention slowly to its derivatory the
divine right of landlords, which had gradually disguised itself as
private property in land.  For when a tract of land becomes the
private property of an individual who has to depend on it for his
subsistence, the relation between him and the inhabitants of that
tract becomes an economic one; and if they become economically
superfluous or wasteful, he must exterminate them.  This is
continually happening wherever private property in land exists.  If
I possess land and find it profitable to grow wheat on it, I need
many agricultural laborers to enable me to do it; and I tolerate
their existence accordingly.  If I presently find that it is more
profitable to cover my land with sheep and sell their wool, I have
to tolerate the existence of the sheep; but I no longer need
tolerate the existence of the laborers; so I drive them off my
land, which is my legal method of extermination, retaining only a
few to act as shepherds.  Later on I find that it is more
profitable to cover my land with wild deer, and collect money from
gentlemen and ladies who enjoy shooting them.  I then exterminate
my shepherds and keep only a few gamekeepers.  But I may do much
better by letting my land to industrialists for the erection of
factories.  They exterminate the sheep and the deer; but they need
far more men than I needed even when I grew wheat.  The driven-offs
crowd into the factories and multiply like rabbits; and for the
moment population grows instead of diminishing.  But soon machines
come along and make millions of proletarians economically
superfluous.  The factory owner accordingly sacks them, which is
his legal method of extermination.  During these developments the
exterminated, or, as we call them, the evicted and sacked, try to
avoid starvation partly by emigration, but mostly by offering
themselves for all sorts of employment as soldiers, servants,
prostitutes, police officers, scavengers, and operators of the
immense machinery of amusement and protection for the idle rich
classes created by the private property system.  By organization in
trade unions, municipal and parliamentary Labor Parties, and the
like, and maintaining a sort of continual civil war consisting of
strikes and riots, they extort from the proprietors enough to
reduce the rate of extermination (shewn by the actuarial
expectation of life of the unpropertied) for periods described as
progressive, until the proprietors, by engaging in suicidal wars,
are forced to intensify their economies, and the rate of
extermination rises again.


Note that during all this the Registrar General's returns do not
give us the deaths of the exterminated as such, because the
exterminated do not starve as lost travellers starve in the desert.
Their starvation is more or less protracted; and when the final
catastrophe arrives, it is disguised under an imposing array of
doctors' names for moribundity.  The victims die mostly in their
first year, and subsequently at all ages short of the age at which
properly nourished people die.  Sometimes they are starved into
attaining an age at which people with well filled pockets eat
themselves to death.  Either way and all ways the extermination is
a real and permanent feature of private property civilization,
though it is never mentioned as such, and ladies and gentlemen
are carefully educated to be unconscious of its existence and
to talk nonsense about its facts when they are too obvious or
become too scandalous to be ignored, when they often advocate
emigration or Birth Control or war as remedies.  And against the
facts there is a chronic humanitarian revolt expressing itself
either underground or overground in revolutionary movements;
making our political constitutions very unstable; and imposing
an habitual disingenuousness on conservative statesmen.


Now the central fact of all these facts is that the private
proprietors have irresponsible powers of life and death in the
State.  Such powers may be tolerated as long as the Government is
in effect a committee of private proprietors; yet if such a
committee be widened into or superseded by a Government acting in
the interest of the whole people, that Government will not suffer
any private class to hold the lives of the citizens at its mercy
and thereby become their real masters.  A popular Government,
before it fully grasps the situation, usually begins by attempting
to redistribute property in such a manner as to make everyone a
petty proprietor, as in the French Revolution.  But when the
impossibility of doing this (except in the special case of
agricultural land) becomes apparent, and the question is probed to
the bottom by unpropertied political philosophers like Proudhon and
Marx, private property is sooner or later excommunicated and
abolished; and what was formerly called "real property" is replaced
by ordinary personal property and common property administrated by
the State.

All modern progressive and revolutionary movements are at bottom
attacks on private property.  A Chancellor of the Exchequer
apologizing for an increase in the surtax, a Fascist dictator
organizing a Corporate State, a Soviet Commissar ejecting a kulak
and adding his acres to a collective farm, are all running the same
race, though all of them except the Commissar may be extremely
reluctant to win it.  For in the long run the power to exterminate
is too grave to be left in any hands but those of a thoroughly
Communist Government responsible to the whole community.  The
landlord with his writ of ejectment and the employer with his sack,
must finally go the way of the nobleman with his sword and his
benefit of clergy, and of Hannibal Chollop with his bowie knife and

Let us then assume that private property, already maimed by factory
legislation, surtax, and a good deal of petty persecution in
England, and in Russia tolerated only provisionally as a
disgraceful necessity pending its complete extirpation, is finally
discarded by civilized communities, and the duty of maintaining it
at all costs replaced by the duty of giving effect to the dogma
that every ablebodied and ableminded and ablesouled person has an
absolute right to an equal share in the national dividend.  Would
the practice of extermination thereupon disappear?  I suggest
that, on the contrary, it might continue much more openly and
intelligently and scientifically than at present, because the
humanitarian revolt against it would probably become a humanitarian
support of it; and there would be an end of the hypocrisy, the
venal special pleading, and the concealment or ignoring of facts
which are imposed on us at present because extermination for the
benefit of a handful of private persons against the interests of
the race is permitted and practised.  The old doctrine of the
sacredness of human life, which in our idiot asylums at Darenth and
elsewhere still terrifies us into wasting the lives of capable
people in preserving the lives of monsters, was a crude expedient
for beginning civilization.  At present we discard it in dealing
with murderers, heretics, traitors, and (in Scotland) vitriol
throwers, who can be legally killed.  A runaway convict can also be
summarily shot by a warder to save the trouble of pursuing and
recapturing him; and although the convict is not under capital
sentence and the case is therefore clearly one of wilful murder,
coroners' juries persist in treating it as a harmless and necessary
incident in prison routine.

Unfortunately the whole question is bedevilled by our anti-
Christian vice of punishment, expiation, sacrifice, and all the
cognate tribal superstitions which are hammered into us in our
childhood by barbarous scripturists, irascible or sadist parents,
and a hideous criminal code.  When the horrors of anarchy force us
to set up laws that forbid us to fight and torture one another for
sport, we still snatch at every excuse for declaring individuals
outside the protection of law and torturing them to our hearts


There have been summits of civilization at which heretics like
Socrates, who was killed because he was wiser than his neighbors,
have not been tortured, but ordered to kill themselves in the most
painless manner known to their judges.  But from that summit there
was a speedy relapse into our present savagery.  For Wallace, whom
the Scots adored as a patriot and the English executed as a
traitor, the most cruel and obscene method of killing that the
human imagination could conceive at its vilest was specially
invented to punish him for being a traitor (or "larn him to be a
toad"); and this sentence has been passed, though not carried out,
within the memory of persons now living.  John of Leyden, for being
a Communist, was tortured so frightfully before being hung up in a
cage on the church tower to starve to death in sight of all the
citizens and their little children, that the bishop who was
officially obliged to witness it died of horror.  Joan of Arc, for
wearing men's clothes and being a Protestant and a witch, was burnt
alive, after a proposal to torture her had been barely defeated.
The people who saw her burnt were quite accustomed to such
spectacles, and regarded them as holiday attractions.  A woman's
sex was made an excuse for burning her instead of more mercifully
hanging her.  Male criminals were broken on the wheel: that is,
battered to death with iron bars, until well into the nineteenth
century.  This was a public spectacle; and the prolongation of the
victim's suffering was so elaborately studied and arranged that
Cartouche, one of the kings of scoundrelism, was bribed to betray
his accomplices by the promise that he should be killed by the
sixth blow of the bar.  The wheel and the stake have lately gone
out of use; but the Sadist mania for flogging seems ineradicable;
for after a partially successful attempt to discard it in Victorian
times it has revived again with redoubled ferocity: quite recently
a criminal was sentenced to a flogging and ten years penal
servitude; and although the victim escaped his punishment and gave
a sensational advertisement to its savagery by committing suicide,
nobody protested, though thirty years ago there would have been a
strenuous outcry against it, raised by the old Humanitarian League,
and voiced in Parliament by the Irish Nationalists.  Alas! the
first thing the Irish did when they at last enjoyed self-government
was to get rid of these sentimental Nationalists and put flogging
on their statute book in a series of Coercion Acts that would have
horrified Dublin Castle.  In a really civilized state flogging
would cease because it would be impossible to induce any decent
citizen to flog another.  Among us a perfectly respectable official
will do it for half a crown, and probably enjoy the job.


I dislike cruelty, even cruelty to other people, and should
therefore like to see all cruel people exterminated.  But I should
recoil with horror from a proposal to punish them.  Let me
illustrate my attitude by a very famous, indeed far too famous,
example of the popular conception of criminal law as a means of
delivering up victims to the normal popular lust for cruelty which
has been mortified by the restraint imposed on it by civilization.
Take the case of the extermination of Jesus Christ.  No doubt there
was a strong case for it.  Jesus was from the point of view of the
High Priest a heretic and an impostor.  From the point of view of
the merchants he was a rioter and a Communist.  From the Roman
Imperialist point of view he was a traitor.  From the commonsense
point of view he was a dangerous madman.  From the snobbish point
of view, always a very influential one, he was a penniless
vagrant.  From the police point of view he was an obstructor of
thoroughfares, a beggar, an associate of prostitutes, an apologist
of sinners, and a disparager of judges; and his daily companions
were tramps whom he had seduced into vagabondage from their regular
trades.  From the point of view of the pious he was a Sabbath
breaker, a denier of the efficacy of circumcision and the advocate
of a strange rite of baptism, a gluttonous man and a winebibber.
He was abhorrent to the medical profession as an unqualified
practitioner who healed people by quackery and charged nothing for
the treatment.  He was not anti-Christ: nobody had heard of such a
power of darkness then; but he was startlingly anti-Moses.  He was
against the priests, against the judiciary, against the military,
against the city (he declared that it was impossible for a rich man
to enter the kingdom of heaven), against all the interests,
classes, principalities and powers, inviting everybody to abandon
all these and follow him.  By every argument, legal, political,
religious, customary, and polite, he was the most complete enemy of
the society of his time ever brought to the bar.  He was guilty on
every count of the indictment, and on many more that his accusers
had not the wit to frame.  If he was innocent then the whole world
was guilty.  To acquit him was to throw over civilization and all
its institutions.  History has borne out the case against him; for
no State has ever constituted itself on his principles or made it
possible to live according to his commandments: those States who
have taken his name have taken it as an alias to enable them to
persecute his followers more plausibly.

It is not surprising that under these circumstances, and in the
absence of any defence, the Jerusalem community and the Roman
government decided to exterminate Jesus.  They had just as much
right to do so as to exterminate the two thieves who perished with
him.  But there was neither right nor reason in torturing him.  He
was entitled to the painless death of Socrates.  We may charitably
suppose that if the death could have been arranged privately
between Pilate and Caiaphas Jesus would have been dispatched as
quickly and suddenly as John the Baptist.  But the mob wanted the
horrible fun of seeing somebody crucified: an abominably cruel
method of execution.  Pilate only made matters worse by trying to
appease them by having Jesus flogged.  The soldiers, too, had to
have their bit of sport, to crown him with thorns and, when they
buffeted him, challenge him ironically to guess which of them had
struck the blow.


All this was cruelty for its own sake, for the pleasure of it.  And
the fun did not stop there.  Such was and is the attraction of
these atrocities that the spectacle of them has been reproduced in
pictures and waxworks and exhibited in churches ever since as an
aid to piety.  The chief instrument of torture is the subject of a
special Adoration.  Little models of it in gold and ivory are worn
as personal ornaments; and big reproductions in wood and marble are
set up in sacred places and on graves.  Contrasting the case with
that of Socrates, one is forced to the conclusion that if Jesus had
been humanely exterminated his memory would have lost ninetynine
per cent of its attraction for posterity.  Those who were specially
susceptible to his morbid attraction were not satisfied with
symbolic crosses which hurt nobody.  They soon got busy with "acts
of faith" which consisted of great public shows at which Jews and
Protestants or Catholics, and anyone else who could be caught out
on a point of doctrine, were burnt alive.  Cruelty is so infectious
that the very compassion it rouses is infuriated to take revenge by
still viler cruelties.

The tragedy of this--or, if you will, the comedy--is that it was
his clearness of vision on this very point that set Jesus so high
above his persecutors.  He taught that two blacks do not make a
white; that evil should not be countered by worse evil but by good;
that revenge and punishment only duplicate wrong; that we should
conceive God, not as an irascible and vindictive tyrant but as an
affectionate father.  No doubt many private amiabilities have been
inspired by this teaching; but politically it has received no more
quarter than Pilate gave it.  To all Governments it has remained
paradoxical and impracticable.  A typical acknowledgement of it was
the hanging of a crucifix above the seat of the judge who was
sentencing evildoers to be broken on the wheel.


Now it is not enough to satirize this.  We must examine why it
occurred.  It is not enough to protest that evildoers must not be
paid in their own coin by treating them as cruelly as they have
treated others.  We still have to stop the mischief they do.  What
is to be done with them?  It is easy to suggest that they should be
reformed by gentleness and shamed by non-resistance.  By all means,
if they respond to that treatment.  But if gentleness fails to
reform them and non-resistance encourages them to further
aggression, what then?  A month spent in a Tolstoyan community will
convince anybody of the soundness of the nearest police inspector's
belief that every normal human group contains not only a percentage
of saints but also a percentage of irreclaimable scoundrels and
good-for-noughts who will wreck any community unless they are
expensively restrained or cheaply exterminated.  Our Mosaic system
of vindictive punishment, politely called "retributory" by Prison
Commissioners, disposes of them temporarily; but it wastes the
lives of honest citizens in guarding them; sets a horrible example
of cruelty and malicious injury; costs a good deal of money that
might be better spent; and, after all, sooner or later lets the
scoundrel loose again to recommence his depredations.  It would be
much more sensible and less cruel to treat him as we treat mad dogs
or adders, without malice or cruelty, and without reference to
catalogues of particular crimes.  The notion that persons should be
safe from extermination as long as they do not commit wilful
murder, or levy war against the Crown, or kidnap, or throw vitriol,
is not only to limit social responsibility unnecessarily, and to
privilege the large range of intolerable misconduct that lies
outside them, but to divert attention from the essential
justification for extermination, which is always incorrigible
social incompatibility and nothing else.


The only country which has yet awakened to this extension of social
responsibility is Russia.  When the Soviet Government undertook to
change over from Capitalism to Communism it found itself without
any instruments for the maintenance of order except a list of
crimes and punishments administered through a ritual of criminal
law.  And in the list of crimes the very worst offences against
Communist society had no place: on the contrary they were highly
honored and rewarded.  As our English doggerel runs, the courts
could punish a man for stealing the goose from off the common, but
not the man who stole the common from the goose.  The idler, that
common enemy of mankind who robs everybody all the time, though he
is so carefully protected from having his own pocket picked,
incurred no penalty, and had actually passed the most severe laws
against any interference with his idling.  It was the business of
the Soviet to make all business public business and all persons
public servants; but the view of the ordinary Russian citizen was
that a post in a public service was an exceptional stroke of good
luck for the holder because it was a sinecure carrying with it the
privilege of treating the public insolently and extorting bribes
from it.  For example, when the Russian railways were communized,
some of the local stationmasters interpreted the change as meaning
that they might now be as lazy and careless as they pleased,
whereas in fact it was of life-or-death importance that they should
redouble their activity and strain every nerve to make the service
efficient.  The unfortunate Commissar who was Minister of Transport
found himself obliged to put a pistol in his pocket and with his
own hand shoot stationmasters who had thrown his telegrams into the
dustbin instead of attending to them, so that he might the more
impressively ask the rest of the staff whether they yet grasped the
fact that orders are meant to be executed.


Now being Minister of Transport, or Minister of any other public
service, is a whole time job: it cannot be permanently combined
with that of amateur executioner, carrying with it the reputation
in all the capitalist papers of the west of being a ferocious and
coldblooded murderer.  And no conceivable extension of the criminal
code nor of the service disciplines, with their lists of specific
offences and specific penalties, could have provided for instant
exemplary exterminations of this kind, any more than for the
growing urgency of how to dispose of people who would not or could
not fit themselves into the new order of things by conforming to
its new morality.  It would have been easy to specify certain
offences and certain penalties in the old fashion: as, for
instance, if you hoard money you will be shot; if you speculate in
the difference in purchasing power of the rouble in Moscow and
Berlin you will be shot; if you buy at the Co-operative to sell at
the private trader's shop you will be shot; if you take bribes you
will be shot; if you falsify farm or factory balance sheets you
will be shot; if you exploit labor you will be shot; and it will be
useless to plead that you have been brought up to regard these as
normal business activities, and that the whole of respectable
society outside Russia agrees with you.  But the most elaborate
code of this sort would still have left unspecified a hundred ways
in which wreckers of Communism could have sidetracked it without
ever having to face the essential questions: are you pulling your
weight in the social boat? are you giving more trouble than you are
worth? have you earned the privilege of living in a civilized
community?  That is why the Russians were forced to set up an
Inquisition or Star Chamber, called at first the Cheka and now the
Gay Pay Oo (Ogpu), to go into these questions and "liquidate"
persons who could not answer them satisfactorily.  The security
against the abuse of this power of life and death was that the
Cheka had no interest in liquidating anybody who could be made
publicly useful, all its interests being in the opposite direction.


Such a novelty is extremely terrifying to us, who are still working
on a system of limited liability in morals.  Our "free" British
citizens can ascertain exactly what they may do and what they may
not do if they are to keep out of the hands of the police.  Our
financiers know that they must not forge share certificates nor
overstate their assets in the balance sheets they send to their
shareholders.  But provided they observe a few conditions of this
kind they are free to enter upon a series of quite legitimate but
not the less nefarious operations.  For example, making a corner in
wheat or copper or any other cornerable commodity and forcing up
prices so as to make enormous private fortunes for themselves, or
making mischief between nations through the Press to stimulate the
private trade in armaments.  Such limited liability no longer
exists in Russia, and is not likely to exist in the future in any
highly civilized state.  It may be quite impossible to convict a
forestaller or regrator under a criminal code of having taken a
single illegal step, but quite easy to convince any reasonable body
of judges that he is what the people call "a wrong one."  In Russia
such a conviction would lead to his disappearance and the receipt
by his family of a letter to say that they need not wait up for
him, as he would not return home any more.*  In our country he
would enjoy his gains in high honor and personal security, and
thank his stars that he lived in a free country and not in
Communist Russia.

* Note, however, that a sentence of extermination should never be
so certain as to make it worth the delinquent's while to avoid
arrest by murdering his or her pursuers.

But as the new tribunal has been forced on Russia by pressure of
circumstances and not planned and thought out at leisure, the two
institutions, the Ogpu and the ordinary police administering the
criminal code, work side by side, with the odd result that the
surest way to escape the Ogpu is to commit an ordinary crime and
take refuge in the arms of the police and the magistrate, who
cannot exterminate you because capital punishment has been
abolished in Russia (liquidation by the Ogpu is not punishment: it
is only "weeding the garden"); and the sentence of imprisonment,
though it may seem severe to us in view of the cruelty of our
treatment of criminals, will be carried out with comparative
leniency, and probably, if the culprit behaves well be remitted
after a while.  As four years imprisonment is considered enough for
any reasonable sort of murder, a cornerer who finds himself in
imminent danger of detection and liquidation by the Ogpu would be
well advised to lose his temper and murder his mother-in-law,
thereby securing a lease of life for at least four years.

Sooner or later this situation will have to be thoroughly studied
and thought out to its logical conclusion in all civilized
countries.  The lists of crimes and penalties will obsolesce like
the doctors' lists of diseases and medicines; and it will become
possible to be a judge without ceasing to be a Christian.  And
extermination, my present subject, will become a humane science
instead of the miserable mixture of piracy, cruelty, vengeance,
race conceit, and superstition it now is.


Fortunately the more frankly and realistically it is faced the more
it detaches itself from the associations with crude slaughter which
now make it terrible.  When Charlemagne founded the Holy Roman
Empire (as far as anyone can be said to have founded it) he
postulated that all its subjects must be Catholic Christians, and
made an amateurish attempt to secure this condition of social
stability by killing everyone who fell into his power and refused
to be baptized.  But he cannot ever have got very far with it,
because there is one sort of bird you must not kill on any pretext
whatever: namely, the goose that lays the golden eggs.  In Russia
the Soviet Government began by a Charlemagnesque attempt to
exterminate the bourgeoisie by classing them as intelligentsia,
restricting their rations, and putting their children at the foot
of the overcrowded educational list.  They also proscribed the
kulak, the able, hardheaded, hardfisted farmer who was richer than
his neighbors and liked to see them poorer than himself.  Him they
rudely took by the shoulders and threw destitute into the lane.
There were plausible reasons for this beginning of selection in
population; for the moral outlook of the bourgeoisie and the kulaks
was dangerously antisocial.  But the results were disastrous.  The
bourgeoisie contained the professional class and the organizing
business class.  Without professional men and business organizers
nothing could be done in the industries; and the hope that picked
members of the proletariat could take up professional and
organizing work on the strength of their native talent in
sufficient numbers was crushingly disappointed.  When the kulak was
thrown out of his farm, and his farming ability paralyzed, food ran
short.  Very soon the kulak had to be thrown back into his farm and
told to carry on until his hour had come; and a pleasant convention
was established whereby all educated persons, however obviously
ladies or gentlemen, who were willing to assure the authorities
that their fathers had "worked on the land with their hands" were
accepted as genuine proletarians, and transferred from the infamous
category of intelligentsia to the honourable one of "the
intellectual proletariat."  Even Lenin and his colleagues, all
ultra-bourgeois (otherwise they would never have so absurdly
overestimated the intellectual resources of the proletariat and
been so contemptuous of the pretension of their own class to be
indispensable), allowed their parents to be described as
hornyhanded cultivators of the soil.  The pretence has now become a
standing joke; but you will still come up against it if you accuse
any Russian of being a lady or gentleman.


These, however, are merely expedients of transition.  The Russian
proletariat is now growing its own professional and organizing
class; and the ex-bourgeois is dying out, after seeing his children
receive a sound Communist education and being lectured by them on
his oldfashioned prejudices.  And the planners of the Soviet State
have no time to bother about moribund questions; for they
are confronted with the new and overwhelming necessity for
exterminating the peasants, who still exist in formidable numbers.
The notion that a civilized State can be made out of any sort of
human material is one of our old Radical delusions.  As to building
Communism with such trash as the Capitalist system produces it is
out of the question.  For a Communist Utopia we need a population
of Utopians; and Utopians do not grow wild on the bushes nor are
they to be picked up in the slums: they have to be cultivated very
carefully and expensively.  Peasants will not do; yet without the
peasants the Communists could never have captured the Russian
Revolution.  Nominally it was the Soviets of peasants and soldiers
who backed Lenin and saved Communism when all Western Europe set on
him like a pack of hounds on a fox.  But as all the soldiers were
peasants, and all the peasants hungry for property, the military
element only added to the peasants' cry of Give us land, the
soldiers' cry of Give us peace.  Lenin said, in effect, Take the
land; and if feudally minded persons obstruct you, exterminate
them; but do not burn their houses, as you will need them to live
in.  And it was the resultant legions of petty landed proprietors
that made Lenin's position impregnable, and provided Trotsky
and Stalin with the Red soldiers who defeated the counter-
revolutionists of 1918.  For the counter-revolution, in which we,
to our eternal shame, took part (England sets the example of
revolution and then attacks all other countries which presume to
follow it), meant bringing the old landlords back; and the peasant
fought against that as the mercenaries and conscripts of the
Capitalist armies would not fight in favour of it.


So far so good for Lenin; but the war against the counter-
revolutionists, when it ended in victory for the peasant
proprietor, was really a victory for private property, and was
therefore succeeded by a fiercer struggle between the fanatically
Communist Government and the fiercely individualist peasant
proprietor, who wanted the produce of his plot for himself, and
had no notion of pooling it with anybody, least of all with the
urban proletarians who seemed like another species to him.  Left
to themselves the moujiks would have reproduced Capitalist
civilization at its American worst in ten years.  Thus the most
urgent task before the victorious Communist Government was the
extermination of the moujik; and yet the moujik, being still the
goose that laid the golden eggs, could not be exterminated
summarily without incidentally exterminating the whole Russian

The way out of this deadlock was obvious enough, though very
expensive and tedious.  You can exterminate any human class not
only by summary violence but by bringing up its children to be
different.  In the case of the Russian peasantry the father lives
in a lousy kennel, at no man's call but his own, and extracts a
subsistence by primitive methods from a strip of land on which a
tractor could hardly turn even if he could afford such a luxury,
but which is his very own.  His book is a book of Nature, from
which all wisdom can be gathered by those who have been taught to
read it by due practice on printed books; but he has not been so
practised, and for cultural purposes has to be classed as ignorant,
though he knows things that university professors do not know.  He
is brutalized by excessive muscular labor; he is dirty; his freedom
from civilized control leaves him so unprotected from the tyranny
of Nature that it becomes evident to his children that the highly
regulated people in the nearest collectivist farm, where thousands
of acres are cultivated by dozens of tractors, and nobody can put
his foot on one of the acres or his hand on one of the tractors and
say "This is my own to do what I like with," are better fed and
housed, nicer, and much more leisured, and consequently free, than
he ever is.


In short, you exterminate the peasant by bringing up his children
to be scientifically mechanized farmers and to live a collegiate
life in cultivated society.  It sounds simple; but the process
requires better planning than is always forthcoming (with local
famines and revolts as the penalty); for while the grass grows the
steed starves; and when education means not only schools and
teachers, but giant collective farms equipped with the most
advanced agricultural machinery, which means also gigantic
engineering works for the production of the machinery, you may
easily find that you have spent too much on these forms of
capitalization and are running short of immediately consumable
goods, presenting the spectacle of the nation with the highest
level of general culture running short of boots and tightening its
belt for lack of sufficient food.

I must not suggest that this has occurred all over Russia; for I
saw no underfed people there; and the children were remarkably
plump.  And I cannot trust the reports; for I have no sooner read
in The Times a letter from Mr Kerensky assuring me that in the
Ukraine the starving people are eating one another, than M.
Herriot, the eminent French statesman, goes to Russia and insists
on visiting the Ukraine so that he may have ocular proof of the
alleged cannibalism, but can find no trace of it.  Still, between
satiety and starvation mitigated by cannibalism there are many
degrees of shortage; and it is no secret that the struggle of the
Russian Government to provide more collective farms and more giant
factories to provide agricultural machinery for them has to be
carried on against a constant clamor from the workers for new boots
and clothes, and more varied food and more of it: in short, less
sacrifice of the present to the future.  As Stalin said quaintly
"They will be demanding silver watches next."  The constant
correction of the inevitable swerves towards one extreme or the
other, analogous to the control of the Bank rate by the Bank of
England (only enormously more laborious), strains all the wit and
industry of the Russian rulers; and occasional sideslips must be
inevitable during these years when the ablest and oldest Communists
are still learners.


Even when the extinction of the bourgeoisie and the kulaks and the
old aristocracy is complete, and the Russian population consists of
citizens educated as Communists, there will still be questions to
settle which are bottom questions as to the sort of civilization
that is desirable; and this involves a decision as to the sort of
people that are desirable and undesirable.  Some of us, believing
that a more primitive life than ours would be happier and better,
advocate "a return to nature."  Others dream of a much more
mechanized, specialized, and complicated life.  Some of us value
machinery because it makes a shorter working day possible for us:
others value it because it enriches us by increasing the product
per hour.  Some of us would like to take things easy and retire at
60: others would like to work their utmost and retire at 40.  Some
of us will say Let us be content with £200 a year: others No: let
us live at the rate of £20,000 a year and strain every faculty to
earn it.  Some of us want a minimum of necessary work and a maximum
of liberty to think and discover and experiment in the extension of
science and art, philosophy and religion, sport and exploration:
others, caring for none of these things, and desiring nothing more
than to be saved the trouble of thinking and to be told what to do
at every turn, would prefer thoughtless and comfortable tutelage
and routine, not knowing what to do with themselves when at
liberty.  A life filled with scientific curiosity would be hell for
the people who would not cross the street to find out whether the
earth is flat or round; and a person with no ear for music would
strenuously object to work for the support of municipal bands,
whilst people of Shakespear's tastes would agitate for the
extermination of the unmusical.


Some of these differences could be settled on give-and-take lines.
The division of society into classes with different tastes and
capacities--different natures, as folks call it--would not shake
social stability provided everyone had an equal share of the
national dividend.  It is not true that it takes all sorts to make
a world; for there are some sorts that would destroy any world very
soon if they were suffered to live and have their way; but it is
true that in the generations of men continuous high cultivation is
not expedient; there must be fallows, or at least light croppings,
between the intense cultivations; for we cannot expect the very
energetic and vital Napoleon to be the son of an equally energetic
father or the father of an equally vital son.  Nobody has yet
calculated how many lazy ancestors it takes to produce an
indefatigable prodigy; but it is certain that dynasties of geniuses
do not occur, and that this is the decisive objection to hereditary
rulers (though not, let me hasten to add, to hereditary figure
heads).  There is a large field for toleration here: the clever
people must suffer fools gladly, and the easygoing ones find out
how to keep the energetic ones busy.  There may be as good
biological reasons for the existence of the workshy as of the
workmad.  Even one and the same person may have spells of intense
activity and slackness varying from weeks to years.


Nevertheless there will be conflicts to the death in the creation
of artificial humanity.  There is nothing that can be changed more
completely than human nature when the job is taken in hand early
enough.  Such artificial products as our agricultural laborers and
urban mechanics, our country gentlemen and city plutocrats, though
they are from the same human stock, are so different that they
cannot live together without great discomfort, and are practically
not intermarriageable.  It is possible to get rid of their social
incompatibility by giving them all the same education and income,
and ranking them all in the same class.  For example, Lord Lonsdale
is not in the least socially incompatible with Dean Inge, though a
really critical naturalist would as soon class Shetland ponies with
zebras as lump these two gentlemen under the same heading.  But the
question remains, what is this same education to be?  The training
of the scholar and the sportsman may split and diverge as they
adolesce; but they must start from a common training and a common
morality as children.  And when the state has to prescribe a
uniform moral curriculum the variety of our temperaments makes it
impossible to please everybody.  The Quaker and the Ritualist, the
Fundamentalist and the Freethinker, the Vegetarian and the flesh
eater, the missionary and the cannibal, the humanitarian and the
sportsman-hunter, the military terrorist and the Christian, will
not agree as to the faiths and habits to be inculcated upon the
children of the community in order that they may be good citizens.
Each temperament will demand the extermination of the other
through the schools and nurseries, and the establishment of its
temperamental faith and habits as standard in these factories of
future citizens.  All will agree to exterminate illiteracy by
compulsory reading, writing, and arithmetic: indeed they have
already done so.  But all will not agree on a standard religion.
Yet a standard religion is indispensable, however completely it may
shed the old theologies.  Every attempt to banish religion from the
schools proves that in this respect Nature abhors a vacuum, and
that the community must make up its mind, or have its mind made up
for it by its official thinkers, as to what its children are to be
taught to believe and how they should be trained to behave.
Compromise is ruled out by the nature of the case.  What compromise
is possible between myself, for instance, who believe in the
religion of Creative Evolution, the economics of Socialism, and a
diet from which the dead bodies of men, fish, fowls, and animals
are rigidly excluded, and my Fundamentalist neighbors who believe
that all Evolutionists go to hell; that children languish and die
without beefsteaks; and that without private property civilization
must perish?  We cannot exterminate oneanother at present; but the
time cannot be very far off when the education authorities will
have to consider which set of beliefs is the better qualification
for citizenship in Utopia.


They will probably pigeon-hole both, and proceed eclectically to
compile several creeds suitable to the several capacities and ages
of the children.  For there is clearly no sense in offering the
religion of a mature and scholarly philosopher to a child of five,
nor attempting to bring the cosmogonies of Dante and Aquinas, Hegel
and Marx, within the comprehension of a village dunce.  Nurses rule
their little charges by threatening them with bogies in whose
existence no nurse believes, exactly as Mahomet ruled his Arabs by
promises of a paradise and threats of a hell the details of which
he must have known to be his own invention even if he did believe
generally in a post mortem life of rewards and punishments for
conduct in this world.  Therefore I do not suggest that the
education authorities in Utopia will seek for absolute truth in
order to inculcate it though the heavens fall.  Nor do I advise a
return to Queen Elizabeth's plan of 39 Articles to please everybody
by alternately affirming and denying all the disputed beliefs.  The
likeliest outcome is an elaborate creed of useful illusions, to be
discarded bit by bit as the child is promoted from standard to
standard or form to form, except such of them as adults may be
allowed to comfort themselves with for the sake of the docility
they produce.

There would be nothing new in this: it is what our authorities
do at present, except that they do it unsystematically and
unconsciously, being mostly more or less duped themselves by the
illusions.  Unfortunately they allow the illusions to fall behind
the times and become incredible, at which point they become
exceedingly dangerous; for when people are brought up on creeds
which they cannot believe, they are left with no creeds at all, and
are apt to buy pistols and take to banditry bag snatching and
racketeering when employment fails and they find themselves short
of money.  It is the importance of keeping our inculcated illusions
up to date that throws our higher professional classes into wild
alarm when the individual liberty of thought, speech, and
conscience which they think they possess (this is one of their
inculcated illusions) is threatened by the dictatorships which
are springing up all over the world as our pseudo-democratic
parliamentary institutions reduce themselves more and more
disastrously to absurdity.


Let me try to straighten this out for them.  It was very generally
believed as lately as in Victorian times that religious education
consisted in imparting to children certain eternal, final, and
absolute truths.  I, for instance, being the son of an Irish
Protestant gentleman, found myself, at the dawn of my infant
conscience, absolutely convinced that all Roman Catholics go to
hell when they die, a conviction which involved not only a belief
in the existence of hell but a whole series of implications as to
the nature and character of God.  Now that I am older I cannot
regard this as anything more than a provisional hypothesis which,
on consideration, I must definitely reject.  As the more pious of
my uncles would have put it, I have lost my religious faith and am
in peril of damnation as an Apostate.  But I do not present my
creed of Creative Evolution as anything more than another
provisional hypothesis.  It differs from the old Dublin brimstone
creed solely in its greater credibility: that is, its more exact
conformity to the facts alleged by our scientific workers, who have
somehow won that faith in their infallibility formerly enjoyed by
our priests.  No future education authority, unless it is as badly
educated as our present ones, will imagine that it has any final
and eternal truths to inculcate: it can only select the most useful
working hypotheses and inculcate them very much as it inculcates
standard behaviour throughout that vast field of civilized conduct
in which it does not matter in the least how people act in
particular situations provided they all act in the same way, as in
the rule of the road.  All the provisional hypotheses may be
illusions; but if they conduce to beneficial conduct they must be
inculcated and acted on by Governments until better ones arrive.


But, cry the professors, are the hypotheses never to be questioned?
Is disillusion to be punished as a crime?  That will always depend
a good deal on circumstances.  One of the best religious brains in
England has said that the war of 1914-18 was foolish and
unnecessary; and nobody now dreams of prosecuting him; but he would
not have been allowed to go through the trenches from platoon to
platoon saying so just before zero hour, with or without the
addition "Sirs, ye are brethren: why do ye wrong one to another?"
I have no illusion of being free to say and write what I please.  I
went round the world lately preaching that if Russia were thrust
back from Communism into competitive Capitalism, and China
developed into a predatory Capitalist State, either independently
or as part of a Japanese Asiatic hegemony, all the western States
would have to quintuple their armies and lie awake at nights in
continual dread of hostile aeroplanes, the obvious moral being that
whether we choose Communism for ourselves or not, it is our clear
interest, even from the point of view of our crudest and oldest
militarist diplomacy, to do everything in our power to sustain
Communism in Russia and extend it in China, where at present
provinces containing at the least of many conflicting estimates
eighteen millions of people, have adopted it.  Now I was not
physically prevented from saying this, nor from writing and
printing it.  But in a western world suffering badly from
Marxphobia, and frantically making itself worse like a shrew in a
bad temper, I could not get a single newspaper to take up my point
or report my utterance.  When I say anything silly, or am reported
as saying anything reactionary, it runs like wildfire through the
Press of the whole world.  When I say anything that could break the
carefully inculcated popular faith in Capitalism the silence is so
profound as to be almost audible.  I do not complain, because I do
not share the professorial illusion that there is any more freedom
for disillusionists in the British Empire and the United States of
North America than in Italy, Germany, and Russia.  I have seen too
many newspapers suppressed and editors swept away, not only in
Ireland and India but in London in my time, to be taken in by
Tennyson's notion that we live in a land where a man can say the
thing he will.  There is no such country.  But this is no excuse
for the extravagances of censorship indulged in by jejune
governments of revolutionists, and by Churches who imagine they
possess the eternal truth about everything, to say nothing of
hereditary autocrats who conceive that they are so by divine right.
Our papers are silent about the suppression of liberty in
Imperialist Japan, though in Japan it is a crime to have "dangerous
thoughts."  In my native Ireland, now nominally a Free State, one
of my books is on the index; and I have no doubt all the rest will
follow as soon as the clerical censorship discovers their
existence.  In Austria my chronicle play St Joan had to be altered
to please Catholic authorities who know much less about Catholicism
than I do.  In America books which can be bought anywhere in Europe
are forbidden.  The concentration of British and American attention
on the intolerances of Fascism and Communism creates an illusion
that they do not exist elsewhere; but they exist everywhere, and
must be met, not with ridiculous hotheaded attacks on Germany,
Italy, and Russia, but by a restatement of the case for Toleration
in general.


It is a historical misfortune that the most world-famous victims of
persecution made no valid defence.  Socrates and Jesus are the most
talked of in Christian countries.  Socrates at his trial was in
full possession of his faculties, and was allowed to say everything
he had to say in his defence; but instead of defending his right to
criticize he infuriated his accusers by launching at them a damning
contrast between their infamous corruption and mendacity and his
own upright disinterestedness and blameless record as citizen and
soldier.  Jesus made no defence at all.  He did not regard himself
as a prisoner being tried for a vulgar offence and using all his
wit to escape condemnation.  He believed that he was going through
a sacrificial rite in which he should be slain, after which he
should rise from the dead and come again in glory to establish his
kingdom on earth for ever.  It does not matter to our present
purpose whether this was the delusion of a madman or a hard and
holy fact: in either case the question of toleration was not at
issue for him; therefore he did not raise it.


In the epoch which Jesus inaugurated, or at least in which his name
was habitually taken in vain, we have Joan of Arc and John of
Leyden, Giordano Bruno and Galileo, Servetus and John Hus and the
heroes of Foxe's Book of Martyrs standing out in our imagination
from thousands of forgotten martyrdoms.  Galileo is a favoured
subject with our scientists; but they miss the point because they
think that the question at issue at his trial was whether the earth
went round the sun or was the stationary centre round which the sun
circled.  Now that was not the issue.  Taken by itself it was a
mere question of physical fact without any moral significance, and
therefore no concern of the Church.  As Galileo was not burnt and
certainly not abhorred, it is quite credible that both his
immediate judges and the Pope believed with at least half their
minds that he was right about the earth and the sun.  But what they
had to consider was whether the Christian religion, on which to the
best of their belief not only the civilization of the world but its
salvation depended, and which had accepted the Hebrew scriptures
and the Greek testament as inspired revelations, could stand the
shock of the discovery that many of its tales, from the tactics of
Joshua in the battle of Gibeon to the Ascension, must have been
written by somebody who did not know what the physical universe was
really like.  I am quite familiar with the pre-Galileo universe of
the Bible and St Augustine.  As a child I thought of the earth as
being an immense ground floor with a star studded ceiling which was
the floor of heaven, and a basement which was hell.  That Jesus
should be taken up into the clouds as the shortest way to heaven
seemed as natural to me as that, at the Opera, Mephistopheles
should come up from hell through a trap in the floor.  But if
instead of telling me that Jesus was taken up into the clouds and
that the disciples saw him no more, which still makes me feel quite
holy, you tell me that he went up like a balloon into the
stratosphere, I do not feel holy: I laugh obstreperously.  The
exalting vision has suddenly become a ribald joke.  That is what
the Church feared; and that is what has actually happened.  Is it
any wonder that the Pope told Galileo that he really must keep his
discoveries to himself, and that Galileo consented to deny them?
Possibly it was the Pope who, to console him, whispered "E pur se


St Joan did not claim toleration: she was so far from believing in
it that she wanted to lead a crusade of extermination against the
Husites, though she was burnt for sharing their heresy.  That is
how all the martyrs have missed the point of their defence.  They
all claimed to possess absolute truth as against the error of their
persecutors, and would have considered it their duty to persecute
for its sake if they had had the power.  Real toleration: the
toleration of error and falsehood, never occurred to them as a
principle possible for any sane government.  And so they have left
us no model defence.  And there is no modern treatise known to me
which quite supplies this need.  Stuart Mill's Essay on Liberty
satisfied the nineteenth century, and was my own first textbook on
the subject; but its conclusion that selfregarding actions should
not be interfered with by the authorities carries very little
weight for socialists who perceive that in a complex modern
civilization there are no purely selfregarding actions in the
controversial sphere.  The color of a man's braces or a woman's
garters may concern the wearers alone; but people have never been
burnt for wearing black underclothes instead of white; and the
notion that preaching a sermon or publishing a pamphlet can be
classed as a selfregarding action is manifestly absurd.  All great
Art and Literature is propaganda.  Most certainly the heresies of
Galileo were not selfregarding actions: his feat of setting the
earth rolling was as startling as Joshua's feat of making the sun
stand still.  The Church's mistake was not in interfering with his
liberty, but in imagining that the secret of the earth's motion
could be kept, and fearing that religion could not stand the shock
of its disclosure, or a thousand such.  It was idiotic to try to
adapt Nature to the Church instead of continually adapting the
Church to Nature by changing its teaching on physical matters with
every advance made in our knowledge of Nature.  In treating the
legend of Joshua's victory as a religious truth instead of
insisting that it did not make the smallest difference to religion
whether Joshua was any more real than Jack the Giant Killer, and
that Galileo might play skittles with the whole solar system
without moving the Eternal Throne and the Papal Chair which was its
visible tangible symbol on earth a single inch, it lost a great
opportunity, as it has since lost many others, leaving itself open
to the reproach of stupidity in not understanding Galileo's
argument, of pride in not having humility enough to admit that it
had been wrong in its astronomy, and of feebleness of faith and
confusion of the temporal with the spiritual as aforesaid, laying
itself open to much damaging Protestant and scientific disparagement,
both mostly open to precisely the same reproaches.


No doubt Galileo missed the real point at issue as completely as
Socrates or Jesus.  For this we need not blame him: he was a
physicist and not a politician; and to him the only questions at
issue were whether the earth moved or not, and whether a ten pound
cannon ball would fall twice as fast as a five pound one or only
just as fast and no faster.  But Socrates was by vocation and habit
a solver of problems of conduct, both personal and political; and
Jesus, who had spent his life in propounding the most staggering
paradoxes on the same subject, not by any means always in the
abstract, but as personal directions to his followers, must, if he
had any sense of moral responsibility, have been challenged by his
own conscience again and again as to whether he had any right to
set men on a path which was likely to lead the best of them to the
cross and the worst of them to the moral destruction described by
St Augustine.  No man could expressly admit that his word would
bring not peace but a sword without having satisfied himself that
he was justified in doing so.  He must have been told as frequently
as I have been told that he was giving pain to many worthy people;
and even with the fullest allowance for the strain of impishness
with which the Life Force endows those of us who are destined by it
to épater le bourgeois, he cannot have believed that the mere
satisfaction of this Punchesque Schadenfreude could justify him in
hurting anyone's feelings.  What, then, would have been his defence
if, at his trial, he had been his old self, defending himself as an
accused man threatened with a horrible penalty, instead of a god
going through an inevitable ordeal as a prelude to the establishment
of his kingdom on earth?


The question is of such importance at the present crisis, when the
kingdoms are breaking up, and upstart rulers are sowing their wild
oats by such grotesque persecutions that Galileo's great successor
Einstein is a plundered fugitive from officially threatened
extermination, that I must endeavor to dramatize the trial of Jesus
as it might have proceeded had it taken place before Peter uttered
his momentous exclamation "Thou art the Christ."  I have been asked
repeatedly to dramatize the Gospel story, mostly by admirers of my
dramatization of the trial of St Joan.  But the trial of a dumb
prisoner, at which the judge who puts the crucial question to him
remains unanswered, cannot be dramatized unless the judge is to be
the hero of the play.  Now Pilate, though perhaps a trifle above
the average of colonial governors, is not a heroic figure.  Joan
tackled her judges valiantly and wittily: her trial was a drama
ready made, only needing to be brought within theatrical limits of
time and space to be a thrilling play.  But Jesus would not defend
himself.  It was not that he had not a word to say for himself, nor
that he was denied the opportunity of saying it.  He was not only
allowed but challenged to defend himself.  He was an experienced
public speaker, able to hold multitudes with his oratory, happy and
ready in debate and repartee, full of the illustrative hypothetical
cases beloved of lawyers (called parables in the Gospels), and
never at a loss when plied with questions.  If ever there was a
full dress debate for the forensic championship to be looked
forward to with excited confidence by the disciples of the
challenged expert it was this trial of Christ.  Yet their champion
put up no fight: he went like a lamb to the slaughter, dumb.  Such
a spectacle is disappointing on the stage, which is the one thing
that a drama must not be; and when the disappointment is followed
by scourging and crucifixion it is unbearable: not even the genius
of our Poet Laureate, with all the magic of Canterbury Cathedral
for scenery, can redeem it except for people who enjoy horror and
catastrophe for their own sake and have no intellectual
expectations to be disappointed.


It may be asked why the incident of the trial and execution must
fail on the stage, seeing that the gospel narrative is so pathetic,
and so many of us have read it without disappointment.  The answer
is very simple: we have read it in childhood; and children go on
from horror to horror breathlessly, knowing nothing of the
constitutional questions at issue.  Some of them remain in this
condition of intellectual innocence to the end of their lives,
whilst the cleverer ones seldom reconsider the impressions they
have received as little children.  Most Christians, I suspect, are
afraid to think about it critically at all, having been taught to
consider criticism blasphemous when applied to Bible stories.
Besides, there are a thousand things that will pass in a well told
story that will not bear being brought to actuality on the stage.
The evangelists can switch off our attention from Jesus to Peter
hearing the cock crow (or the bugle blow) or to Pilate chaffering
with the crowd about Barabbas; but on the stage the dumb figure
cannot be got rid of: it is to him that we look for a speech that
will take us up to heaven, and not to the weeping of Peter and the
bawling of the mob, which become unbearable interruptions instead
of skilful diversions.

For my part, when I read the story over again as an adult and as a
professional critic to boot, I felt the disappointment so keenly
that I have been ever since in the condition of the musician who,
when he had gone to bed, heard somebody play an unresolved discord,
and could not go to sleep until he had risen to play the resolution
on his piano.  What follows is my attempt to resolve Pilate's
discord.  I began with the narrative of St John, the only one of
the four which represents Jesus as saying anything more than any
crazy person might in the same circumstances.

PILATE.  Are you the king of the Jews?

JESUS.  Do you really want to know? or have those people outside
put it into your head to ask me?

PILATE.  Am I a Jew that I should trouble myself about you?  Your
own people and their priests have brought you to me for judgment.
What have you done?

JESUS.  My kingdom is not of this world: if it were, my followers
would have fought the police and rescued me.  But that sort of
thing does not happen in my kingdom.

PILATE.  Then you are a king?

JESUS.  You say so.  I came into this world and was born a common
man for no other purpose than to reveal the truth.  And everyone
capable of receiving the truth recognizes it in my voice.

PILATE.  What is truth?

JESUS.  You are the first person I have met intelligent enough to
ask me that question.

PILATE.  Come on! no flattery.  I am a Roman, and no doubt seem
exceptionally intelligent to a Jew.  You Jews are always talking
about truth and righteousness and justice: you feed on words when
you are tired of making money, or too poor to have anything else to
feed on.  They want me to nail you up on a cross; but as I do not
yet see what particular harm you have done I prefer to nail you
down to an argument.  Fine words butter no parsnips in Rome.  You
say your vocation is to reveal the truth.  I take your word for it;
but I ask you what is truth?

JESUS.  It is that which a man must tell even if he be stoned or
crucified for telling it.  I am not offering you the truth at a
price for my own profit: I am offering it freely to you for your
salvation at the peril of my own life.  Would I do that if I were
not driven by God to do it against all the protests of my shrinking

PILATE.  You Jews are a simple folk.  You have found only one god.
We Romans have found many; and one of them is a God of Lies.  Even
you Jews have to admit a Father of Lies whom you call the devil,
deceiving yourselves with words as usual.  But he is a very potent
god, is he not?  And as he delights not only in lies but in all
other mischief such as stonings and crucifixions of innocent men,
how am I to judge whether it is he who is driving you to sacrifice
yourself for a lie, or Minerva driving you to be sacrificed for the
truth?  I ask you again, what is truth?

JESUS.  It is what you know by your experience to be true or feel
in your soul must be true.

PILATE.  You mean that truth is a correspondence between word and
fact.  It is true that I am sitting in this chair; but I am not the
truth and the chair is not the truth: we are only the facts.  My
perception that I am sitting here may be only a dream; therefore my
perception is not the truth.

JESUS.  You say well.  The truth is the truth and nothing else.
That is your answer.

PILATE.  Aye; but how far is it discoverable?  We agree that it is
true that I am sitting in this chair because our senses tell us so;
and two men are not likely to be dreaming the same dream at the
same moment.  But when I rise from my chair this truth is no longer
true.  Truth is of the present, not of the future.  Your hopes for
the future are not the truth.  Even in the present your opinions
are not the truth.  It is true that I sit in this chair.  But is it
true that it is better for your people that I should sit in this
chair and impose on them the peace of Rome than that they should be
left to slaughter oneanother in their own native savagery, as they
are now clamoring to me to slaughter you?

JESUS.  There is the peace of God that is beyond our understanding;
and that peace shall prevail over the peace of Rome when God's hour

PILATE.  Very pretty, my friend; but the hour of the gods is now
and always; and all the world knows what the peace of your Jewish
God means.  Have I not read it in the campaigns of Joshua?  We
Romans have purchased the pax Romano, with our blood; and we prefer
it as a plain understandable thing which keeps men's knives off
oneanother's throats to your peace which is beyond understanding
because it slaughters man woman and child in the name of your God.
But that is only our opinion.  It is not yours.  Therefore it is
not necessarily the truth.  I must act on it, because a governor
must act on something: he cannot loaf round the roads and talk
beautifully as you do.  If you were a responsible governor instead
of a poetic vagrant, you would soon discover that my choice must
lie, not between truth and falsehood, neither of which I can ever
ascertain, but between reasonable and well informed opinion and
sentimental and ill informed impulse.

JESUS.  Nevertheless, opinion is a dead thing and impulse a live
thing.  You cannot impose on me with your reasonable and well
informed opinion.  If it is your will to crucify me, I can find you
a dozen reasons for doing so; and your police can supply you with a
hundred facts to support the reasons.  If it is your will to spare
me I can find you just as many reasons for that; and my disciples
will supply you with more facts than you will have time or patience
to listen to.  That is why your lawyers can plead as well for one
side as another, and can therefore plead without dishonor for the
side that pays them, like the hackney charioteer who will drive you
north as readily as south for the same fare.

PILATE.  You are cleverer than I thought; and you are right.  There
is my will; and there is the will of Caesar to which my will must
give way; and there is above Caesar the will of the gods.  But
these wills are in continual conflict with oneanother; therefore
they are not truth; for truth is one, and cannot conflict with
itself.  There are conflicting opinions and conflicting wills; but
there is no truth except the momentary truth that I am sitting in
this chair.  You tell me that you are here to bear witness to the
truth!  You, a vagrant, a talker, who have never had to pass a
sentence nor levy a tax nor issue an edict!  What have you to say
that I should not have the presumption scourged out of you by my

JESUS.  Scourging is not a cure for presumption, nor is it justice,
though you will perhaps call it so in your report to Caesar: it is
cruelty; and that cruelty is wicked and horrible because it is the
weapon with which the sons of Satan slay the sons of God is part of
the eternal truth you seek.

PILATE.  Leave out cruelty: all government is cruel; for nothing is
so cruel as impunity.  A salutary severity--

JESUS.  Oh please!  You must excuse me, noble Governor; but I am so
made by God that official phrases make me violently sick.  Salutary
severity is ipecacuanha to me.  I have spoken to you as one man to
another, in living words.  Do not be so ungrateful as to answer me
in dead ones.

PILATE.  In the mouth of a Roman words mean something: in the mouth
of a Jew they are a cheap substitute for strong drink.  If we
allowed you you would fill the whole world with your scriptures and
psalms and talmuds; and the history of mankind would become a tale
of fine words and villainous deeds.

JESUS.  Yet the word came first, before it was made flesh.  The
word was the beginning.  The word was with God before he made us.
Nay, the word was God.

PILATE.  And what may all that mean, pray?

JESUS.  The difference between man and Roman is but a word; but it
makes all the difference.  The difference between Roman and Jew is
only a word.

PILATE.  It is a fact.

JESUS.  A fact that was first a thought; for a thought is the
substance of a word.  I am no mere chance pile of flesh and bone:
if I were only that, I should fall into corruption and dust before
your eyes.  I am the embodiment of a thought of God: I am the Word
made flesh: that is what holds me together standing before you in
the image of God.

PILATE.  That is well argued; but what is sauce for the goose is
sauce for the gander; and it seems to me that if you are the Word
made flesh so also am I.

JESUS.  Have I not said so again and again?  Have they not stoned
me in the streets for saying it?  Have I not sent my apostles to
proclaim this great news to the Gentiles and to the very ends of
the world?  The Word is God.  And God is within you.  It was when I
said this that the Jews--my own people--began picking up stones.
But why should you, the Gentile, reproach me for it?

PILATE.  I have not reproached you for it.  I pointed it out to

JESUS.  Forgive me.  I am so accustomed to be contradicted--

PILATE.  Just so.  There are many sorts of words; and they are all
made flesh sooner or later.  Go among my soldiers and you will hear
many filthy words and witness many cruel and hateful deeds that
began as thoughts.  I do not allow those words to be spoken in my
presence.  I punish those deeds as crimes.  Your truth, as you call
it, can be nothing but the thoughts for which you have found words
which will take effect in deeds if I set you loose to scatter your
words broadcast among the people.  Your own people who bring you to
me tell me that your thoughts are abominable and your words
blasphemous.  How am I to refute them?  How am I to distinguish
between the blasphemies of my soldiers reported to me by my
centurions and your blasphemies reported to me by your High Priest?

JESUS.  Woe betide you and the world if you do not distinguish!

PILATE.  So you think.  I am not frightened.  Why do you think so?

JESUS.  I do not think: I know.  I have it from God.

PILATE.  I have the same sort of knowledge from several gods.

JESUS.  In so far as you know the truth you have it from my God,
who is your heavenly father and mine.  He has many names and his
nature is manifold.  Call him what you will: he is still Our
Father.  Does a father tell his children lies?

PILATE.  Yes: many lies.  You have an earthly father and an earthly
mother.  Did they tell you what you are preaching?

JESUS.  Alas! no.

PILATE.  Then you are defying your father and mother.  You are
defying your Church.  You are breaking your God's commandments, and
claiming a right to do so.  You are pleading for the poor, and
declaring that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of
a needle than for a rich man to enter your God's paradise.  Yet you
have feasted at the tables of the rich, and encouraged harlots to
spend on perfume for your feet money that might have been given to
the poor, thereby so disgusting your treasurer that he has betrayed
you to the High Priest for a handful of silver.  Well, feast as
much as you please: I do not blame you for refusing to play the
fakir and make yourself a walking exhibition of silly austerities;
but I must draw the line at your making a riot in the temple and
throwing the gold of the moneychangers to be scrambled for by your
partizans.  I have a law to administer.  The law forbids obscenity,
sedition, and blasphemy.  You are accused of sedition and
blasphemy.  You do not deny them: you only talk about the truth,
which turns out to be nothing but what you like to believe.  Your
blasphemy is nothing to me: the whole Jewish religion is blasphemy
from beginning to end from my Roman point of view; but it means a
great deal to the High Priest; and I cannot keep order in Jewry
except by dealing with Jewish fools according to Jewish folly.  But
sedition concerns me and my office very closely; and when you
undertook to supersede the Roman Empire by a kingdom in which you
and not Caesar are to occupy the throne, you were guilty of the
uttermost sedition.  I am loth to have you crucified; for though
you are only a Jew, and a half baked young one at that, yet I
perceive that you are in your Jewish way a man of quality; and it
makes me uneasy to throw a man of quality to the mob, even if his
quality be only a Jewish quality.  For I am a patrician and
therefore myself a man of quality; and hawks should not pick out
hawks' eyes.  I am actually condescending to parley with you at
this length in the merciful hope of finding an excuse for
tolerating your blasphemy and sedition.  In defence you offer me
nothing but an empty phrase about the truth, I am sincere in
wishing to spare you; for if I do not release you I shall have to
release that blackguard Barabbas, who has gone further than you and
killed somebody, whereas I understand that you have only raised a
Jew from the dead.  So for the last time set your wits to work, and
find me a sound reason for letting a seditious blasphemer go free.

JESUS.  I do not ask you to set me free; nor would I accept my life
at the price of Barabbas's death even if I believed that you could
countermand the ordeal to which I am predestined.  Yet for the
satisfaction of your longing for the truth I will tell you that the
answer to your demand is your own argument that neither you nor the
prisoner whom you judge can prove that he is in the right;
therefore you must not judge me lest you be yourself judged.
Without sedition and blasphemy the world would stand still and the
Kingdom of God never be a stage nearer.  The Roman Empire began
with a wolf suckling two human infants.  If these infants had not
been wiser than their fostermother your empire would be a pack of
wolves.  It is by children who are wiser than their fathers,
subjects who are wiser than their emperors, beggars and vagrants
who are wiser than their priests, that men rise from being beasts
of prey to believing in me and being saved.

PILATE.  What do you mean by believing in you?

JESUS.  Seeing the world as I do.  What else could it mean?

PILATE.  And you are the Christ, the Messiah, eh?

JESUS.  Were I Satan, my argument would still hold.

PILATE.  And I am to spare and encourage every heretic, every
rebel, every lawbreaker, every rapscallion lest he should turn out
to be wiser than all the generations who made the Roman law and
built up the Roman Empire on it?

JESUS.  By their fruits ye shall know them.  Beware how you kill a
thought that is new to you.  For that thought may be the foundation
of the kingdom of God on earth.

PILATE.  It may also be the ruin of all kingdoms, all law, and all
human society.  It may be the thought of the beast of prey striving
to return.

JESUS.  The beast of prey is not striving to return: the kingdom of
God is striving to come.  The empire that looks back in terror
shall give way to the kingdom that looks forward with hope.  Terror
drives men mad: hope and faith give them divine wisdom.  The men
whom you fill with fear will stick at no evil and perish in their
sin: the men whom I fill with faith shall inherit the earth.  I say
to you Cast out fear.  Speak no more vain things to me about the
greatness of Rome.  The greatness of Rome, as you call it, is
nothing but fear: fear of the past and fear of the future, fear of
the poor, fear of the rich, fear of the High Priests, fear of the
Jews and Greeks who are learned, fear of the Gauls and Goths and
Huns who are barbarians, fear of the Carthage you destroyed to save
you from your fear of it and now fear worse than ever, fear of
imperial Caesar, the idol you have yourself created, and fear of
me, the penniless vagrant, buffeted and mocked, fear of everything
except the rule of God: faith in nothing but blood and iron and
gold.  You, standing for Rome, are the universal coward: I,
standing for the kingdom of God, have braved everything, lost
everything, and won an eternal crown.

PILATE.  You have won a crown of thorns; and you shall wear it on
the cross.  You are a more dangerous fellow than I thought.  For
your blasphemy against the god of the high priests I care nothing:
you may trample their religion into hell for all I care; but you
have blasphemed against Caesar and against the Empire; and you mean
it, and have the power to turn men's hearts against it as you have
half turned mine.  Therefore I must make an end of you whilst there
is still some law left in the world.

JESUS.  Law is blind without counsel.  The counsel men agree with
is vain: it is only the echo of their own voices.  A million echoes
will not help you to rule righteously.  But he who does not fear
you and shews you the other side is a pearl of the greatest price.
Slay me and you go blind to your damnation.  The greatest of God's
names is Counsellor; and when your Empire is dust and your name a
byword among the nations the temples of the living God shall still
ring with his praise as Wonderful! Counsellor! the Everlasting
Father, the Prince of Peace.


And so the last word remains with Christ and Handel; and this must
stand as the best defence of Tolerance until a better man than I
makes a better job of it.

Put shortly and undramatically the case is that a civilization
cannot progress without criticism, and must therefore, to save
itself from stagnation and putrefaction, declare impunity for
criticism.  This means impunity not only for propositions which,
however novel, seem interesting, statesmanlike, and respectable,
but for propositions that shock the uncritical as obscene,
seditious, blasphemous, heretical, and revolutionary.  That sound
Catholic institution, the Devil's Advocate, must be privileged as
possibly the Herald of the World to Come.  The difficulty is to
distinguish between the critic and the criminal or lunatic, between
liberty of precept and liberty of example.  It may be vitally
necessary to allow a person to advocate Nudism; but it may not be
expedient to allow that person to walk along Piccadilly stark
naked.  Karl Marx writing the death warrant of private property in
the reading room of the British Museum was sacred; but if Karl Marx
had sent the rent of his villa in Maitland Park to the Chancellor
of the Exchequer, and shot the landlord's agents when they came to
distrain on his furniture or execute a writ of ejectment, he could
hardly have escaped hanging by pleading his right to criticize.
Not until the criticism changes the law can the magistrate allow
the critic to give effect to it.  We are so dangerously uneducated
in citizenship that most of us assume that we have an unlimited
right to change our conduct the moment we have changed our minds.
People who have a vague notion that Socialism is a state of society
in which everyone gives away everything he possesses to everybody
else occasionally reproach me because I, being a Socialist, do not
immediately beggar myself in this fashion.  People who imagined,
more specifically, that a Socialist could not consistently keep a
motor car, almost succeeded in making a public question of the
possession of such a vehicle by a Prime Minister who at that time
professed Socialism.  But even if these idiots had really
understood what they were talking about, they would have been wrong
in supposing that a hostile critic of the existing social order
either could or should behave as if he were living in his own
particular Utopia.  He may, at most, be a little eccentric at the
cost of being indulged as slightly cracked.

On the other hand the Government, too, has not only a right but a
duty of criticism.  If it is to abandon once for all its savage
superstition that whoever breaks the law is fair game for the
torturers, and that the wrong wrought by the evildoer can be
expiated and undone by a worse wrong done to him by judges and
priests: if it is to substitute the doctrine of Jesus that
punishment is only a senseless attempt to make a white out of two
blacks, and to abolish the monstrous list of crimes and punishments
by which these superstitions have been reduced to practice for
routine officials, then there must be a stupendous extension of
governmental criticism; for every crime will raise the essential
critical question whether the criminal is fit to live at all, and
if so whether he is fit to live under more or less tutelage and
discipline like a soldier, or at normal liberty under an obligation
to make good the damage he has cost.

For such functions as these we shall need critics educated
otherwise than our judges of today; but the same may be said of all
whose public functions transcend the application of a routine.

I have no doubt that the eradication of malice, vindictiveness, and
Sadist libido on these terms from the personal contacts of citizens
with their rulers, far from having a reassuring effect, is likely
to be rather terrifying at first, as all people with any tenderness
of conscience will feel the deepest misgivings as to whether they
are really worth keeping alive in a highly civilized community; but
that will wear off as standards of worth get established and known
by practice.  In the meantime the terror will act as a sort of
social conscience which is dangerously lacking at present and which
none of our model educational establishments ever dreams of

AYOT ST LAWRENCE, 22nd October, 1933



The Cabinet Room in number ten Downing Street, Westminster, the
official residence of the British Prime Minister.  The illustrious
holder of that office, Sir Arthur Chavender, is reading The Times
on the hearth under the portrait of Walpole.  The fireplace wall is
covered with bookshelves; but one bit of it, on Walpole's right, is
a masked door, painted with sham books and shelves, leading to the
Minister's private apartments; and in the end of the same wall, on
Walpole's left, is a door leading to the office of Sir Arthur's
private secretary Miss Hilda Hanways.  The main door is in the side
wall on Walpole's right.  In the opposite wall on his left are the
spacious windows.  Everything is on an imposing scale, including an
oblong table across the middle of the room, with fourteen leather
upholstered chairs, six at each side and one at each end, pushed in
all along it.  The presidential chair is the central one next the
cold fireplace (it is mid-July); and there is a telephone and a
switchboard on the table within reach of it.

Sir Arthur has pulled it round and is making himself comfortable
in it as he reads.  At the end of the table nearest the window a
silver tray, with coffee and milk for one person, indicates Sir
Arthur's unofficial seat.  In the corner farthest from Walpole, on
his right, is a writing bureau and chair for the secretary.  In the
corresponding corner on his left, an armchair.  There is a bluebook
lying, neglected and dusty, on a half empty shelf of the bookcase
within reach of the Prime Minister's seat.

Sir Arthur can hardly be much less than fifty; but his natural
buoyancy makes him look younger.  He has an orator's voice of
pleasant tone; and his manners are very genial.  In oldish clothes
he has the proper aristocratic air of being carelessly but well
dressed, an easy feat for him, as he is so trimly built that any
clothes would look well cut on him.  On the whole, a very engaging

He reads The Times until his secretary hurries in from her office,
with her notebook and a sheaf of letters in her hand.  Her age is
unknown; but she is made up to pass as reasonably young and
attractive.  She looks capable; but she does not carry the burden
of State affairs as easily as the Prime Minister.  Both are
worried; but with a difference.  She is worried not only by an
excess of business but a sense of responsibility.  He is equally
worried by the excess of business; but in him enjoyment of his
position leaves no doubt in his mind as to his own entire adequacy
to it.

HILDA.  I hear you have been asking for me, Sir Arthur.  I'm so
sorry to be late; but really the streets are becoming quite
impassable with the crowds of unemployed.  I took a taxi; but it
was no use: we were blocked by a procession; and I had to get out
and push my way through.  [She goes to her bureau].

SIR ARTHUR [rising]  What on earth good do they think they can do
themselves by crowding aimlessly about Westminster and the public

HILDA.  Thank Goodness the police wont let them into Downing
Street.  [She sits down].  They would be all over the doorstep.

SIR ARTHUR.  It's all so foolish--so ignorant, poor chaps!  [He
throws The Times on the table and moves to the end chair, where his
coffee is].  They think because I'm Prime Minister I'm Divine
Providence and can find jobs for them before trade revives.  [He
sits down and fidgets with his papers].

HILDA.  Trafalgar Square's full.  The Horse Guards parade is full.
The Mall is full all the way down to Marlborough House and
Buckingham Palace.

SIR ARTHUR.  They have no right to be there.  Trafalgar Square is
not a public place: it belongs to the Commissioner of Woods and
Forests.  The Horse Guards parade is reserved for the military.
The Mall is a thoroughfare: anyone stopping there is guilty of
obstruction.  What are the police thinking of?  Why dont they clear
them out?

HILDA.  I asked the policeman who got me through to the gates why
they didnt.  He said "We're only too glad to have them where they
cant break any windows, and where the mounted men can have a fair
whack at the Hooligan Fringe when they get too obstreperous."

SIR ARTHUR.  Hooligan Fringe!  He got that out of the papers.  It
only encourages them to write them up like that.

HILDA.  Sir Broadfoot Basham has come over from Scotland Yard.  He
is talking to Lady Chavender.

SIR ARTHUR [rising and making for the telephone]  Yes: I telephoned
for him.  He really must do something to stop these meetings.
It was a mistake to make a man with a name like that Chief
Commissioner of Police.  People think him a trampling, bashing,
brutal terrorist no matter how considerately the police behave.
What we need is a thoroughly popular figure.  [He takes up the
telephone]  Ask Sir Broadfoot Basham to come up.

HILDA.  I dont think any chief of police could be popular at
present.  Every day they are bludgeoning deputations of the
unemployed.  [She sits down and busies herself with letters].

SIR ARTHUR.  Poor devils!  I hate that part of the business.  But
what are the police to do?  We cant have the sittings of the local
authorities threatened by deputations.  Deputations are frightful
nuisances even in the quietest times; but just now they are a
public danger.

The Chief Commissioner of Police enters by the main door.  A
capable looking man from the military point of view.  He is a
gentleman: and his manners are fairly pleasant; but they are not in
the least conciliatory.

Hilda rises and pulls out a chair for him at the end of the table
nearest to her and farthest from Sir Arthur; then returns to her
work at her desk.  Sir Arthur comes round to his side of the table.

SIR ARTHUR.  Morning, Basham.  Sit down.  I'm devilishly busy; but
you are always welcome to your ten minutes.

BASHAM [coolly, sitting down]  Thank you.  You sent for me.
[Anxiously]  Anything new?

SIR ARTHUR.  These street corner meetings are going beyond all

BASHAM [relieved]  What harm do they do?  Crowds are dangerous when
theyve nothing to listen to or look at.  The meetings keep them
amused.  They save us trouble.

SIR ARTHUR.  Thats all very well for you, Basham; but think of the
trouble they make for me!  Remember: this is a National Government,
not a party one.  I am up against my Conservative colleagues all
the time; and they cant swallow the rank sedition that goes on
every day at these meetings.  Sir Dexter Rightside--you know what a
regular old Diehard he is--heard a speaker say that if the police
used tear gas the unemployed would give old Dexy something to cry
for without any tear gas.  That has brought matters to a head in
the Cabinet.  We shall make an Order in Council to enable you to
put a stop to all street meetings and speeches.

BASHAM [unimpressed--slowly]  If you dont mind, P.M., I had rather
you didnt do that.

SIR ARTHUR.  Why not?

BASHAM.  Crowd psychology.

SIR ARTHUR.  Nonsense!  Really, Basham, if you are going to come
this metaphysical rot over me I shall begin to wonder whether your
appointment wasnt a mistake.

BASHAM.  Of course it was a mistake.  Dealing with the unemployed
is not a soldier's job; and I was a soldier.  If you want these
crowds settled on soldierly lines, say so; and give me half a dozen
machine guns.  The streets will be clear before twelve o'clock.

SIR ARTHUR.  Man: have you considered the effect on the bye-

BASHAM.  A soldier has nothing to do with elections.  You shew me a
crowd and tell me to disperse it.  All youll hear is a noise like a
watchman's rattle.  Quite simple.

SIR ARTHUR.  Far too simple.  You soldiers never understand the
difficulties a statesman has to contend with.

BASHAM.  Well, whats your alternative?

SIR ARTHUR.  I have told you.  Arrest the sedition mongers.  That
will shut old Dexy's mouth.

BASHAM.  So that Satan may find mischief still for idle hands to
do.  No, P.M.: the right alternative is mine: keep the crowd
amused.  You ought to know that, I think, better than most men.

SIR ARTHUR.  I!  What do you mean?

BASHAM.  The point is to prevent the crowd doing anything, isnt it?

SIR ARTHUR.  Anything mischievous: I suppose so.  But--

BASHAM.  An English crowd will never do anything, mischievous or
the reverse, while it is listening to speeches.  And the fellows
who make the speeches can be depended on never to do anything else.
In the first place, they dont know how.  In the second, they are
afraid.  I am instructing my agents to press all the talking
societies, the Ethical Societies, the Socialist societies, the
Communists, the Fascists, the Anarchists, the Syndicalists, the
official Labor Party, the Independent Labor Party, the Salvation
Army, the Church Army and the Atheists, to send their best tub-
thumpers into the streets to seize the opportunity.

SIR ARTHUR.  What opportunity?

BASHAM.  They dont know.  Neither do I.  It's only a phrase that
means nothing: just what they are sure to rise at.  I must keep
Trafalgar Square going night and day.  A few Labor M.P.s would
help.  You have a rare lot of gasbags under your thumb in the
House.  If you could send half a dozen of them down to the Yard, I
could plant them where they would be really useful.

SIR ARTHUR [incensed]  Basham: I must tell you that we are quite
determined to put a stop to this modern fashion of speaking
disrespectfully of the House of Commons.  If it goes too far we
shall not hesitate to bring prominent offenders to the bar of the
House, no matter what their position is.

BASHAM.  Arthur: as responsible head of the police, I am up against
the facts all day and every day; and one of the facts is that
nowadays nobody outside the party cliques cares a brass button for
the House of Commons.  [Rising]  You will do what I ask you as to
letting the speaking go on, wont you?

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, I--er--

BASHAM.  Unless you are game to try the machine guns.

SIR ARTHUR.  Oh do drop that, Basham [he returns to his chair and
sits moodily].

BASHAM.  Righto!  We'll let them talk.  Thanks ever so much.  Sorry
to have taken up so much of your time: I know it's priceless.  [He
hurries to the door; then hesitates and adds]  By the way, I know
it's asking a lot; but if you could give us a turn in Trafalgar
Square yourself--some Sunday afternoon would be best--it--

SIR ARTHUR [springing up, thoroughly roused]  I!!!!

BASHAM [hurriedly]  No: of course you couldnt.  Only, it would do
such a lot of good--keep the crowd quiet talking about it for a
fortnight.  However, of course it's impossible: say no more: so
long.  [He goes out].

SIR ARTHUR [collapsing into his chair]  Well, really!  Basham's
losing his head.  I wonder what he meant by saying that I ought to
know better than most men.  What ought I to know better than most

HILDA.  I think he meant that you are such a wonderful speaker you
ought to know what a magical effect a fine speech has on a crowd.

SIR ARTHUR [musing]  Do you know, I am not at all sure that there
is not something in his idea of my making a speech in Trafalgar
Square.  I have not done such a thing for many many years; but I
have stood between the lions in my time; and I believe that if I
were to tackle the unemployed face to face, and explain to them
that I intend to call a conference in March next on the prospects
of a revival of trade, it would have a wonderfully soothing effect.

HILDA.  But it's impossible.  You have a conference every month
until November.  And think of the time taken by the travelling!
One in Paris!  Two in Geneva!  One in Japan!  You cant possibly do
it: you will break down.

SIR ARTHUR.  And shall I be any better at home here leading the
House? sitting up all night in bad air listening to fools insulting
me?  I tell you I should have been dead long ago but for the relief
of these conferences: the journeys and the change.  And I look
forward to Japan.  I shall be able to pick up some nice old bric-a-
brac there.

HILDA.  Oh well!  You know best.

SIR ARTHUR [energetically]  And now to work.  Work! work! work!
[He rises and paces the floor in front of the table].  I want you
to take down some notes for my speech this afternoon at the Church
House.  The Archbishop tells me that the Anglo-Catholics are going
mad on what they call Christian Communism, and that I must head
them off.

HILDA.  There are those old notes on the economic difficulties of
Socialism that you used at the British Association last year.

SIR ARTHUR.  No: these parsons know too much about that.  Besides,
this is not the time to talk about economic difficulties: we're up
to the neck in them.  The Archbishop says "Avoid figures; and stick
to the fact that Socialism would break up the family."  I believe
he is right: a bit of sentiment about the family always goes down
well.  Just jot this down for me.  [Dictating]  Family.  Foundation
of civilization.  Foundation of the empire.

HILDA.  Will there be any Hindus or Mahometans present?

SIR ARTHUR.  No.  No polygamists at the Church House.  Besides,
everybody knows that The Family means the British family.  By the
way, I can make a point of that.  Put down in a separate line, in
red capitals, "One man one wife."  Let me see now: can I work that
up?  "One child one father."  How would that do?

HILDA.  I think it would be safer to say "One child one mother."

SIR ARTHUR.  No: that might get a laugh--the wrong sort of laugh.
I'd better not risk it.  Strike it out.  A laugh in the wrong place
in the Church House would be the very devil.  Where did you get
that necklace? it's rather pretty.  I havnt seen it before.

HILDA.  Ive worn it every day for two months.  [Striking out the
"one child" note]  Yes?

SIR ARTHUR.  Then--er--what subject are we on?  [Testily]  I wish
you wouldnt interrupt me: I had the whole speech in my head
beautifully; and now it's gone.

HILDA.  Sorry.  The family.

SIR ARTHUR.  The family?  Whose family?  What family?  The Holy
Family?  The Royal Family?  The Swiss Family Robinson?  Do be a
little more explicit, Miss Hanways.

HILDA [gently insistent]  Not any particular family.  THE family.
Socialism breaking up the family.  For the Church House speech this

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes yes yes, of course.  I was in the House yesterday
until three in the morning; and my brains are just so much tripe.

HILDA.  Why did you sit up?  The business didnt matter.

SIR ARTHUR [scandalized]  Not matter!  You really must not say
these things, Miss Hanways.  A full dress debate on whether Jameson
or Thompson was right about what Johnson said in the Cabinet!

HILDA.  Ten years ago.

SIR ARTHUR.  What does that matter?  The real question: the
question whether Jameson or Thompson is a liar, is a vital question
of the first importance.

HILDA.  But theyre both liars.

SIR ARTHUR.  Of course they are; but the division might have
affected their inclusion in the next Cabinet.  The whole House rose
at it.  Look at the papers this morning!  Full of it.

HILDA.  And three lines about the unemployed, though I was twenty
minutes late trying to shove my way through them.  Really, Sir
Arthur, you should have come home to bed.  You will kill yourself
if you try to get through your work and attend so many debates as
well: you will indeed.

SIR ARTHUR.  Miss Hanways: I wish I could persuade you to remember
occasionally that I happen to be the leader of the House of

HILDA.  Oh, what is the use of leading the House if it never goes
anywhere?  It just breaks my heart to see the state you come home
in.  You are good for nothing next morning.

SIR ARTHUR [yelling at her]  Dont remind me of it: do you think I
dont know?  My brain is overworked: my mental grasp is stretched
and strained to breaking point.  I shall go mad.  [Pulling himself
together]  However, it's no use grousing about it: I shall have a
night off going to Geneva, and a week-end at Chequers.  But it is
hard to govern a country and do fifty thousand other things every
day that might just as well be done by the Beadle of Burlington
Arcade.  Well, well, we mustnt waste time.  Work! work! work!  [He
returns to his chair and sits down resolutely].  Get along with it.
What were we talking about?

HILDA.  The family.

SIR ARTHUR [grasping his temples distractedly]  Oh dear!  Has Lady
Chavender's sister-in-law been making a fuss again?

HILDA.  No, no.  The family.  Not any real family.  THE family.
Socialism breaking up the family.  Your speech this afternoon at
the Church House.

SIR ARTHUR.  Ah, of course.  I am going dotty.  Thirty years in
Parliament and ten on the Front Bench would drive any man dotty.
I have only one set of brains and I need ten.  I--

HILDA [urgently]  We must get on with the notes for your speech,
Sir Arthur.  The morning has half gone already; and weve done

SIR ARTHUR [again infuriated]  How can the busiest man in England
find time to do anything?  It is you who have wasted the morning
interrupting me with your silly remarks about your necklace.  What
do I care about your necklace?

HILDA.  You gave it to me, Sir Arthur.

SIR ARTHUR.  Did I?  Ha ha ha!  Yes: I believe I did.  I bought it
in Venice.  But come along now.  What about that speech?

HILDA.  Yes.  The family.  It was about the family.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, I know that: I have not yet become a complete
idiot.  You keep saying the family, the family, the family.

HILDA.  Socialism and the family.  How Socialism will break up the

SIR ARTHUR.  Who says Socialism will break up the family?  Dont be a

HILDA.  The Archbishop wants you to say it.  At the Church House.

SIR ARTHUR.  Decidedly I am going mad.

HILDA.  No: you are only tired.  You were getting along all right.
One man one wife: that is where you stopped.

SIR ARTHUR.  One man one wife is one wife too many, if she has a
lot of brothers who cant get on with the women they marry.  Has it
occurred to you, Miss Hanways, that the prospect of Socialism
destroying the family may not be altogether unattractive?

HILDA [despairingly]  Oh, Sir Arthur, we must get on with the
notes: we really must.  I have all the letters to do yet.  Do try
to pick up the thread.  The family the foundation of the empire.
The foundation of Christianity.  Of civilization.  Of human

SIR ARTHUR.  Thats enough about the foundation: it wont bear any
more.  I must have another word to work up.  Let me see.  I have
it.  Nationalization of women.

HILDA [remonstrating]  Oh, Sir Arthur!

SIR ARTHUR.  Whats the matter now?

HILDA.  Such bunk!

SIR ARTHUR.  Miss Hanways: when a statesman is not talking bunk he
is making trouble for himself; and Goodness knows I have trouble
enough without making any more.  Put this down.  [He rises and
takes his platform attitude at the end of the table].  "No, your
Grace, my lords and gentlemen.  Nationalize the land if you will;
nationalize our industries if we must; nationalize education,
housing, science, art, the theatre, the opera, even the cinema; but
spare our women."

HILDA [having taken it down]  Is that the finish?

SIR ARTHUR [abandoning the attitude and pacing about]  No: write in
red capitals under it "Rock of Ages."

HILDA.  I think Rock of Ages will be rather a shock unless in
connexion with something very sincere.  May I suggest "The Church's
One Foundation"?

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes.  Much better.  Thank you.  The family the Church's
one foundation.  Splendid.

Miss Flavia Chavender, 19, bursts violently into the room through
the masked door and dashes to her father.

FLAVIA.  Papa: I will not stand Mamma any longer.  She interferes
with me in every possible way out of sheer dislike of me.  I refuse
to live in this house with her a moment longer.

Lady Chavender follows her in, speaking as she enters, and comes
between the Prime Minister and his assailant.

LADY CHAVENDER.  I knew you were coming here to make a scene and
disturb your father, though he has had hardly six hours sleep this
week, and was up all night.  I am so sorry, Arthur: she is

David Chavender, 18, slight, refined, rather small for his age,
charges in to the table.

DAVID [in a childish falsetto]  Look here, Mamma.  Cant you let
Flavia alone?  I wont stand by and see her nagged at and treated
like a child of six.  Nag! nag! nag! everything she does.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Nag!!  I control myself to the limit of human
endurance with you all.  But Flavia makes a study of annoying me.

FLAVIA.  It's not true: I have considered you and given up all the
things I wanted for you until I have no individuality left.  If I
take up a book you want me to read something else.  If I want to
see anybody you want me to see somebody else.  If I choose the
color of my own dress you want something different and dowdy.  I
cant sit right nor stand right nor do my hair right nor dress
myself right: my life here is a hell.


FLAVIA [passionately]  Yes, hell.

DAVID.  Quite true.  [Fortissimo]  Hell.

LADY CHAVENDER [quietly]  Miss Hanways: would you mind--

HILDA.  Yes, Lady Chavender [she rises to go].

FLAVIA.  You neednt go, Hilda.  You know what I have to endure.

DAVID.  Damn all this paralyzing delicacy!  Damn it!


SIR ARTHUR [patting her]  Never mind, dear.  They must be let talk.
[He returns placidly to his chair].  It's just like the House of
Commons, except that the speeches are shorter.

FLAVIA.  Oh, it's no use trying to make papa listen to anything.
[She throws herself despairingly into Basham's chair and writhes].

DAVID [approaching Sir Arthur with dignity]  I really think,
father, you might for once in a way take some slight interest in
the family.

SIR ARTHUR.  My dear boy, at this very moment I am making notes for
a speech on the family.  Ask Miss Hanways.

HILDA.  Yes.  Mr Chavender: Sir Arthur is to speak this afternoon
on the disintegrating effect of Socialism on family life.

FLAVIA [irresistible amusement struggling with hysterics and
getting the better of them]  Ha ha!  Ha ha ha!

DAVID [retreating]  Ha ha!  Haw!  Thats the best--ha ha ha!

SIR ARTHUR.  I dont see the joke.  Why this hilarity?

DAVID.  Treat the House to a brief description of this family; and
you will get the laugh of your life.

FLAVIA.  Damn the family!


FLAVIA [bouncing up]  Yes: there you go.  I mustnt say damn.  I
mustnt say anything I feel and think, only what you feel and think.
Thats family life.  Scold, scold, scold!

DAVID.  Squabble, squabble, squabble!

FLAVIA.  Look at the unbearable way you treat me!  Look at the
unbearable way you treat Papa!

SIR ARTHUR [rising in flaming wrath]  How dare you?  Silence.
Leave the room.

After a moment of awestruck silence Flavia, rather dazed by the
avalanche she has brought down on herself, looks at her father in a
lost way; then bursts into tears and runs out through the masked

SIR ARTHUR [quietly]  Youd better go too, my boy.

David, also somewhat dazed, shrugs his shoulders and goes out.  Sir
Arthur looks at Hilda.  She hurries out almost on tiptoe.

SIR ARTHUR [taking his wife in his arms affectionately]  Treat me
badly!  You!!  I could have killed her, poor little devil.

He sits down; and she passes behind him and takes the nearest chair
on his right.

She is a nice woman, and goodlooking; but she is bored; and her
habitual manner is one of apology for being not only unable to take
an interest in people, but even to pretend that she does.

LADY CHAVENDER.  It serves us right, dear, for letting them bring
themselves up in the post-war fashion instead of teaching them to
be ladies and gentlemen.  Besides, Flavia was right.  I do treat
you abominably.  And you are so good!

SIR ARTHUR.  Nonsense!  Such a horrid wicked thing to say.  Dont you
know, my love, that you are the best of wives? the very best as
well as the very dearest?

LADY CHAVENDER.  You are certainly the best of husbands, Arthur.
You are the best of everything.  I dont wonder at the country
adoring you.  But Flavia was quite right.  It is the first time I
have ever known her to be right about anything.  I am a bad wife
and a bad mother.  I dislike my daughter and treat her badly.  I
like you very much; and I treat you abominably.

SIR ARTHUR.  No; no.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Yes, yes.  I suppose it's something wrong in my
constitution.  I was not born for wifing and mothering.  And yet I
am very very fond of you, as you know.  But I have a grudge against
your career.

SIR ARTHUR.  My career!  [Complacently]  Well, theres not much wrong
with that, is there?  Of course I know it keeps me too much away
from home.  That gives you a sort of grudge against it.  All the
wives of successful men are a bit like that.  But it's better to
see too little of a husband than too much of him, isnt it?

LADY CHAVENDER.  I am so glad that you really feel successful.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, it may sound conceited and all that; but after
all a man cant be Prime Minister and go about with a modest cough
pretending to be a nobody.  Facts are facts; and the facts in my
case are that I have climbed to the top of the tree; I am happy in
my work; and--


SIR ARTHUR.  You are getting frightfully deaf, dear.  I said "my

LADY CHAVENDER.  You call it work?

SIR ARTHUR.  Brain work, dear, brain work.  Do you really suppose
that governing the country is not work, but a sort of gentlemanly

LADY CHAVENDER.  But you dont govern the country, Arthur.  The
country isnt governed: it just slummocks along anyhow.

SIR ARTHUR.  I have to govern within democratic limits.  I cannot go
faster than our voters will let me.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Oh, your voters!  What do they know about
government?  Football, prizefighting, war: that is what they like.
And they like war because it isnt real to them: it's only a cinema
show.  War is real to me; and I hate it, as every woman to whom it
is real hates it.  But to you it is only part of your game: one of
the regular moves of the Foreign Office and the War Office.

SIR ARTHUR.  My dear, I hate war as much as you do.  It makes a
Prime Minister's job easy because it brings every dog to heel; but
it produces coalitions; and I believe in party government.

LADY CHAVENDER [rising]  Oh, it's no use talking to you, Arthur.
[She comes behind him and plants her hands on his shoulders].  You
are a dear and a duck and a darling; but you live in fairyland and
I live in the hard wicked world.  Thats why I cant be a good wife
and take an interest in your career.

SIR ARTHUR.  Stuff!  Politics are not a woman's business: thats all
it means.  Thank God I have not a political wife.  Look at
Higginbotham!  He was just ripe for the Cabinet when his wife went
into Parliament and made money by journalism.  That was the end of

LADY CHAVENDER.  And I married a man with a hopelessly parliamentary
mind; and that was the end of me.

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes, yes, my pettums.  I know that you have sacrificed
yourself to keeping my house and sewing on my buttons; and I am not
ungrateful.  I am sometimes remorseful; but I love it.  And now you
must run away, I am very very very busy this morning.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Yes, yes, very very busy doing nothing.  And it
wears you out far more than if your mind had something sensible to
work on!  Youll have a nervous breakdown if you go on like this.
Promise me that you will see the lady I spoke to you about--if you
wont see a proper doctor.

SIR ARTHUR.  But you told me this woman is a doctor!  [He rises and
breaks away from her].  Once for all, I wont see any doctor.  I'm
old enough to do my own doctoring; and I'm not going to pay any
doctor, male or female, three guineas to tell me what I know
perfectly well already: that my brain's overworked and I must take
a fortnight off on the links, or go for a sea voyage.

LADY CHAVENDER.  She charges twenty guineas, Arthur.

SIR ARTHUR [shaken] Oh!  Does she?  What for?

LADY CHAVENDER.  Twenty guineas for the diagnosis and twelve
guineas a week at her sanatorium in the Welsh mountains, where she
wants to keep you under observation for six weeks.  That would
really rest you; and I think you would find her a rather interesting
and attractive woman.

SIR ARTHUR.  Has she a good cook?

LADY CHAVENDER.  I dont think that matters.

SIR ARTHUR.  Not matter!

LADY CHAVENDER.  No.  She makes her patients fast.

SIR ARTHUR.  Tell her I'm not a Mahatma.  If I pay twelve guineas a
week I shall expect three meals a day for it.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Then you will see her?

SIR ARTHUR.  Certainly not, if I have to pay twenty guineas for it.

LADY CHAVENDER.  No, no.  Only a social call, not a professional
visit.  Just to amuse you, and gratify her curiosity.  She wants to
meet you.

SIR ARTHUR.  Very well, dear, very well, very well.  This woman has
got round you, I see.  Well, she shant get round me; but to please
you I'll have a look at her.  And now you really must run away.  I
have a frightful mass of work to get through this morning.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Thank you, darling.  [She kisses him]  May I tell
Flavia she is forgiven?

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes.  But I havnt really forgiven her.  I'll never
forgive her.

LADY CHAVENDER [smiling]  Dearest.  [She kisses his fingers and
goes out, giving him a parting smile as she goes through the masked

Sir Arthur, left alone, looks inspired and triumphant.  He
addresses an imaginary assembly.

SIR ARTHUR.  "My lords and gentlemen: you are not theorists.  You
are not rhapsodists.  You are no longer young"--no, damn it, old
Middlesex wont like that.  "We have all been young.  We have seen
visions and dreamt dreams.  We have cherished hopes and striven
towards ideals.  We have aspired to things that have not been
realized.  But we are now settled experienced men, family men.  We
are husbands and fathers.  Yes, my lords and gentlemen: husbands
and fathers.  And I venture to claim your unanimous consent when I
affirm that we have found something in these realities that was
missing in the ideals.  I thank you for that burst of applause:
which I well know is no mere tribute to my poor eloquence, but the
spontaneous and irresistible recognition of the great natural truth
that our friends the Socialists have left out of their fancy
pictures of a mass society in which regulation is to take the place
of emotion and economics of honest human passion."  Whew! that took
a long breath.  "They never will, gentlemen, I say they never will.
They will NOT [he smites the table and pauses, glaring round at his
imaginary hearers].  I see that we are of one mind, my lords and
gentlemen.  I need not labor the point."  Then labor it for the
next ten minutes.  That will do.  That will do.  [He sits down;
rings the telephone bell; and seizes the milk jug, which he empties
at a single draught].

Hilda appears at the main door.

HILDA.  Did you say you would receive a deputation from the Isle of
Cats this morning?  I have no note of it.

SIR ARTHUR.  Oh, confound it, I believe I did.  I totally forgot it.

HILDA.  Theyve come.

SIR ARTHUR.  Bother them!

HILDA.  By all means.  But how am I to get rid of them?  What am I
to say?

SIR ARTHUR [resignedly]  Oh, I suppose I must see them.  Why do I
do these foolish things?  Tell Burton to shew them in.

HILDA.  Burton is in his shirt sleeves doing something to the
refrigerator.  I'd better introduce them.

SIR ARTHUR.  Oh, bundle them in anyhow.  And tell them I am
frightfully busy.

She goes out, closing the door softly behind her.  He pushes away
the breakfast tray and covers it with The Times, which he opens out
to its fullest extent for that purpose.  Then he collects his
papers into the vacant space, and takes up a big blue one, in the
study of which he immerses himself profoundly.

HILDA [flinging the door open]  The worshipful the Mayor of the
Isle of Cats.

The Mayor, thick and elderly, enters, a little shyly, followed by
(a) an unladylike but brilliant and very confident young woman in
smart factory-made clothes after the latest Parisian models,
(b) a powerfully built loud voiced young man fresh from Oxford
University, defying convention in corduroys, pullover, and unshaven
black beard, (c) a thin, undersized lower middle class young man in
an alderman's gown, evidently with a good conceit of himself, and
(d) a sunny comfortable old chap in his Sunday best, who might be
anything from a working man with a very sedentary job (say a
watchman) to a city missionary of humble extraction.  He is
aggressively modest, or pretends to be, and comes in last with a
disarming smile rather as a poor follower of the deputation than as
presuming to form part of it.  They group themselves at the door
behind the Mayor, who is wearing his chain of office.

SIR ARTHUR [starting from his preoccupation with important State
documents, and advancing past the fireplace to greet the Mayor with
charming affability]  What!  My old friend Tom Humphries!  How have
you been all these years?  Sit down.  [They shake hands, whilst
Hilda deftly pulls out a chair from the end of the table nearest
the door].

The Mayor sits down, rather overwhelmed by the cordiality of his

SIR ARTHUR [continuing]  Well, well! fancy your being Mayor of--of--

HILDA [prompting]  The Isle of Cats.

THE YOUNG WOMAN [brightly, helping her out]  Down the river, Sir
Arthur.  Twenty minutes from your door by Underground.

THE OXFORD YOUTH [discordantly]  Oh, he knows as well as you do,
Aloysia.  [He advances offensively on Sir Arthur, who declines the
proximity by retreating a step or two somewhat haughtily].  Stow
all this fo bunnum business, Chavender.

SIR ARTHUR.  This what?

OXFORD YOUTH.  Oh, chuck it.  You know French as well as I do.

SIR ARTHUR.  Oh, faux bonhomme, of course, yes.  [Looking him up and
down].  I see by your costume that you represent the upper classes
in the Isle of Cats.

OXFORD YOUTH.  There are no upper classes in the Isle of Cats.

SIR ARTHUR.  In that case, since it is agreed that there is to be no
fo bunnum nonsense between us, may I ask what the dickens you are
doing here?

OXFORD YOUTH.  I am not here to bandy personalities.  Whatever the
accident of birth and the humbug of rank may have made me I am here
as a delegate from the Borough Council and an elected representative
of the riverside proletariat.

SIR ARTHUR [suddenly pulling out a chair from the middle of the
table--peremptorily]  Sit down.  Dont break the chair.  [The Youth
scowls at him and flings himself into the chair like a falling
tree].  You are all most welcome.  Perhaps, Tom, you will introduce
your young friends.

THE MAYOR [introducing]  Alderwoman Aloysia Brollikins.

SIR ARTHUR [effusively shaking her hand]  How do you do, Miss
Brollikins?  [He pulls out a chair for her on the Oxford Youth's

ALOYSIA.  Nicely, thank you.  Pleased to meet you, Sir Arthur.
[She sits].

THE MAYOR.  Alderman Blee.

SIR ARTHUR [with flattering gravity, pressing his hand]  Ah, we
have all heard of you, Mr Blee.  Will you sit here?  [He indicates
the presidential chair on the Oxford Youth's left].

BLEE.  Thank you.  I do my best.  [He sits].

THE MAYOR.  Viscount Barking.

SIR ARTHUR [triumphantly]  Ah!  I thought so.  A red Communist:

OXFORD YOUTH.  Red as blood.  Same red as the people's.

SIR ARTHUR.  How did you get the blue out of it?  The Barkings came
over with the Conqueror.

OXFORD YOUTH [rising]  Look here.  The unemployed are starving.  Is
this a time for persiflage?

SIR ARTHUR.  Camouflage, my lad, camouflage.  Do you expect me to
take you seriously in that get-up?

OXFORD YOUTH [hotly]  I shall wear what I damn well please.  I--

ALOYSIA.  Shut up, Toffy.  You promised to behave yourself.  Sit
down; and lets get to business.

BARKING [subsides into his chair with a grunt of disgust]!

SIR ARTHUR [looking rather doubtfully at the old man, who is still
standing]  Is this gentleman a member of your deputation?

THE MAYOR.  Mr Hipney.  Old and tried friend of the working class.

OXFORD YOUTH.  Old Hipney.  Why dont you call him by the name the
East End knows him by?  Old Hipney.  Good old Hipney.

OLD HIPNEY [slipping noiselessly into the secretary's chair at the
bureau]  Dont mind me, Sir Arthur.  I dont matter.

SIR ARTHUR.  At such a crisis as the present, Mr Hipney, every
public-spirited man matters.  Delighted to meet you.  [He returns
to his own chair and surveys them now that they are all seated,
whilst Hilda slips discreetly out into her office].  And now, what
can I do for you, Miss Brollikins?  What can I do for you,

THE MAYOR [slowly]  Well, Sir Arthur, as far as I can make it out
the difficulty seems to be that you cant do anything.  But
something's got to be done.

SIR ARTHUR [stiffening suddenly]  May I ask why, if everything that
is possible has already been done?

THE MAYOR.  Well, the unemployed are--well, unemployed, you know.

SIR ARTHUR.  We have provided for the unemployed.  That provision
has cost us great sacrifices; but we have made the sacrifices
without complaining.

THE OXFORD YOUTH [scornfully]  Sacrifices!  What sacrifices?  Are
you starving?  Have you pawned your overcoat?  Are you sleeping ten
in a room?

SIR ARTHUR.  The noble lord enquires--

OXFORD YOUTH [furiously]  Dont noble lord me: you are only doing it
to rattle me.  Well, you cant rattle me.  But it makes me sick to
see you rolling in luxury and think of what these poor chaps and
their women folk are suffering.

SIR ARTHUR.  I am not rolling, Toffy--I think that is what Miss
Brollikins called you.  [To Aloysia]  Toffy is a diminutive of
Toff, is it not, Miss Brollikins?

OXFORD YOUTH.  Yah!  Now you have something silly to talk about,
youre happy.  But I know what would make you sit up and do

SIR ARTHUR.  Indeed?  Thats interesting.  May I ask what?

OXFORD YOUTH.  Break your bloody windows.

THE MAYOR.  Order! order!

ALOYSIA.  Come, Toffy! you promised not to use any of your West End
language here.  You know we dont like it.

SIR ARTHUR.  Thats right, Miss Brollikins: snub him.  He is
disgracing his class.  As a humble representative of that class I
apologize for him to the Isle of Cats.  I apologize for his dress,
for his manners, for his language.  He must shock you every time he
opens his mouth.

BLEE.  We working folks know too much of bad language and bad
manners to see any fun in them or think they can do any good.

THE MAYOR.  Thats right.

ALOYSIA.  We are as tired of bad manners as Toffy is tired of good
manners.  We brought Toffy here, Sir Arthur, because we knew he'd
speak to you as a dock laborer would speak to you if his good
manners would let him.  And he's right, you know.  He's rude; but
he's right.

OXFORD YOUTH.  Yours devotedly, Brolly.  And what has his Right
Honorable nibs to say to that?

SIR ARTHUR [concentrating himself on his adversary in the House of
Commons manner]  I will tell the noble lord what I have to say.  He
may marshal his friends the unemployed and break every window in
the West End, beginning with every pane of glass in this house.
What will he gain by it?  Next day a score or so of his followers
will be in prison with their heads broken.  A few ignorant and
cowardly people who have still any money to spare will send it to
the funds for the relief of distress, imagining that they are
ransoming their riches.  You, ladies and gentlemen, will have to
put your hands in your pockets to support the wives and children of
the men in prison, and to pay cheap lawyers to put up perfectly
useless defences for them in the police courts.  And then, I
suppose, the noble lord will boast that he has made me do something
at last.  What can I do?  Do you suppose that I care less about the
sufferings of the poor than you?  Do you suppose I would not revive
trade and put an end to it all tomorrow if I could?  But I am like
yourself: I am in the grip of economic forces that are beyond human
control.  What mortal men could do this Government has done.  We
have saved the people from starvation by stretching unemployment
benefit to the utmost limit of our national resources.  We--

OXFORD YOUTH.  You have cut it down to fifteen bob a week and shoved
every man you could off it with your beastly means test.

SIR ARTHUR [fiercely]  What do you propose?  Will you take my place
and put the dole up to five pounds a week without any means test?

THE MAYOR.  Order! order!  Why are we here?  We are here because we
are all sick of arguing and talking, and we want something doing.
And here we are arguing and talking just as if it was an all night
sitting of the Borough Council about an item of three-and-six for
refreshments.  If you, Sir Arthur, tell us that you cant find work
for our people we are only wasting your time and our own, sitting

He rises.  The rest, except Hipney, follow his example.  Sir Arthur
is only too glad to rise too.

SIR ARTHUR.  At least I hope I have convinced you about the
windows, Mr Mayor.

THE MAYOR.  We needed no convincing.  More crockery than windows
will have to be broken if you gentlemen can do nothing to get us
out of our present mess.  But some people will say that a few
thousand more to the relief funds is better than nothing.  And some
of the unemployed are glaziers.

SIR ARTHUR.  Let us close our little talk on a more hopeful note.  I
assure you it has been intensely interesting to me; and I may tell
you that signs of a revival of trade are not wholly wanting.  Some
of the best informed city authorities are of opinion that this year
will see the end of the crisis.  Some of them even hold that trade
is already reviving.  By the last returns the export of Spanish
onions has again reached the 1913 level.

OXFORD YOUTH.  Holy Jerusalem!  Spanish onions!  Come on, Brolly.
[He goes out].

THE MAYOR.  Weve got nothing out of this.  We dont run to Spanish
in the Isle.  [Resignedly]  Good morning.  [He goes out].

SIR ARTHUR [winningly]  And do you, Miss Brollikins, feel that you
have got nothing?

ALOYSIA.  I feel what they feel.  And I dont believe you feel
anything at all.  [She goes out, followed by Blee].

BLEE [turning at the door]  The Mayor's wrong.  Weve got something
all right.

SIR ARTHUR [brightening]  Indeed?  What is it?

BLEE [with intense contempt]  Your measure.  [He goes out].

The Prime Minister, nettled by this gibe, resumes his seat angrily
and pushes the bluebook out of his way.  Then he notices that old
Hipney has not budged from his seat at the secretary's bureau.

SIR ARTHUR.  The deputation has withdrawn.  Mr Hipney.

HIPNEY [rising and coming to a chair at Sir Arthur's elbow, in
which he makes himself comfortable with a disarmingly pleasant air
of beginning the business instead of ending it]  Yes: now we can
talk a bit.  I been at this game now for fifty year.

SIR ARTHUR [interested in spite of himself]  What game?

HIPNEY.  Unemployed deputations.  This is my twelfth.

SIR ARTHUR.  As many as that!  But these crises dont come oftener
than every ten years, do they?

HIPNEY.  Not what you would call a crisis, perhaps.  But
unemployment is chronic.

SIR ARTHUR.  It always blows over, doesnt it?  Trade revives.

HIPNEY.  It used to.  We was the workshop of the world then.  But
you gentlemen went out of the workshop business to make a war.  And
while that was going on our customers had to find out how to make
things for themselves.  Now we shall have to be their customers
when weve any money to buy with.

SIR ARTHUR.  No doubt that has occurred to some extent; but there
is still an immense fringe of the human race growing up to a sense
of the necessity for British goods.

HIPNEY.  All goods is alike to that lot provided theyre the
cheapest.  They tell me the Italians are tapping their volcanoes
for cheap power.  We dont seem able to tap nothing.  The east is
chock full of volcanoes: they think no more of an earthquake there
than you would of a deputation.  A Chinese coolie can live on a
penny a day.  What can we do against labor at a penny a day and
power for next to nothing out of the burning bowels of the earth?

SIR ARTHUR.  Too true, Mr Hipney.  Our workers must make sacrifices.

HIPNEY.  They will if you drive em to it, Srarthur.  But it's you
theyll sacrifice.

SIR ARTHUR.  Oh come, Mr Hipney! you are a man of sense and
experience.  What good would it do them to sacrifice me?

HIPNEY.  Not a bit in the world, sir.  But that wont stop them.
Look at your self.  Look at your conferences!  Look at your
debates!  They dont do no good.  But you keep on holding them.
It's a sort of satisfaction to you when you feel helpless.  Well,
sir, if you come to helplessness there isnt on God's earth a
creature more helpless than what our factories and machines have
made of an English working man when nobody will give him a job and
pay him to do it.  And when he gets it what does he understand of
it?  Just nothing.  Where did the material that he does his little
bit of a job on come from?  He dont know.  What will happen to it
when it goes out of the factory after he and his like have all done
their little bits of jobs on it?  He dont know.  Where could he buy
it if it stopped coming to him?  He dont know.  Where could he sell
it if it was left on his hands?  He dont know.  He dont know
nothing of the business that his life depends on.  Turn a cat loose
and itll feed itself.  Turn an English working man loose and he'll
starve.  You have to buy him off with a scrap of dole to prevent
him saying "Well, if I'm to die I may as well have the satisfaction
of seeing you die first."

SIR ARTHUR.  But--I really must press the point--what good will that
do him?

HIPNEY.  What good does backing horses do him?  What good does
drinking do him?  What good does going to political meetings do
him?  What good does going to church do him?  Not a scrap.  But he
keeps on doing them all the same.

SIR ARTHUR.  But surely you recognize, Mr Hipney, that all this is
thoroughly wrong--wrong in feeling--contrary to English instincts--
out of character, if I may put it that way.

HIPNEY.  Well, Srarthur, whatever's wrong you and your like have
taken on yourselves the job of setting it right.  I havnt: I'm only
a poor man: a nobody, as you might say.

SIR ARTHUR.  I have not taken anything on myself, Mr Hipney.  I have
chosen a parliamentary career, and found it, let me tell you, a
very arduous and trying one: I might almost say a heartbreaking
one.  I have just had to promise my wife to see a doctor for brain
fag.  But that does not mean that I have taken it on myself to
bring about the millennium.

HIPNEY [soothingly]  Just so, Srarthur: just so.  It tries you and
worries you, and breaks your heart and does no good; but you keep
on doing it.  Theyve often wanted me to go into Parliament.  And I
could win the seat.  Put up old Hipney for the Isle of Cats and
your best man wouldnt have a chance against him.  But not me: I
know too much.  It would be the end of me, as it's been the end of
all the Labor men that have done it.  The Cabinet is full of Labor
men that started as red-hot Socialists; and what change has it made
except that theyre in and out at Bucknam Palace like peers of the

SIR ARTHUR.  You ought to be in Parliament, Mr Hipney.  You have the
making of a first-rate debater in you.

HIPNEY.  Psha!  An old street corner speaker like me can debate the
heads off you parliamentary gentlemen.  You stick your thumbs in
your waistcoat holes and wait half an hour between every sentence
to think of what to say next; and you call that debating.  If I did
that in the Isle not a man would stop to listen to me.  Mind you, I
know you mean it as a compliment that I'd make a good parliamentary
debater.  I appreciate it.  But people dont look to Parliament for
talk nowadays: that game is up.  Not like it was in old Gladstone's
time, eh?

SIR ARTHUR.  Parliament, Mr Hipney, is what the people of England
have made it.  For good or evil we have committed ourselves to
democracy.  I am here because the people have sent me here.

HIPNEY.  Just so.  Thats all the use they could make of the vote
when they got it.  Their hopes was in you; and your hopes is in
Spanish onions.  What a world it is, aint it, Srarthur?

SIR ARTHUR.  We must educate our voters, Mr Hipney.  Education will
teach them to understand.

HIPNEY.  Dont deceive yourself, Srarthur: you cant teach people
anything they dont want to know.  Old Dr Marx--Karl Marx they call
him now--my father knew him well--thought that when he'd explained
the Capitalist System to the working classes of Europe theyd unite
and overthrow it.  Fifty years after he founded his Red
International the working classes of Europe rose up and shot one
another down and blew one another to bits, and turned millions and
millions of their infant children out to starve in the snow or
steal and beg in the sunshine, as if Dr Marx had never been born.
And theyd do it again tomorrow if they was set on to do it.  Why
did you set them on?  All they wanted was to be given their job,
and fed and made comfortable according to their notion of comfort.
If youd done that for them you wouldnt be having all this trouble.
But you werent equal to it; and now the fat's in the fire.

SIR ARTHUR.  But the Government is not responsible for that.  The
Government cannot compel traders to buy goods that they cannot
sell.  The Government cannot compel manufacturers to produce goods
that the traders will not buy.  Without demand there can be no

HIPNEY.  Theres a powerful demand just now, if demand is what you
are looking for.

SIR ARTHUR.  Can you point out exactly where, Mr Hipney?

HIPNEY.  In our children's bellies, Srarthur.  And in our own.

SIR ARTHUR.  That is not an effective demand, Mr. Hipney.  I wish I
had time to explain to you the inexorable laws of political
economy.  I--

HIPNEY [interrupting him confidentially]  No use, Srarthur.  That
game is up.  That stuff you learnt at college, that gave you such
confidence in yourself, wont go down with my lot.

SIR ARTHUR [smiling]  What is the use of saying that economic
science and natural laws wont go down, Mr Hipney?  You might as
well say that the cold of winter wont go down.

HIPNEY.  You see, you havnt read Karl Marx, have you?

SIR ARTHUR.  Mr Hipney, when the Astronomer Royal tells me that it
is twelve o'clock by Greenwich time I do not ask him whether he has
read the nonsense of the latest flat earth man.  I have something
better to do with my time than to read the ravings of a half-
educated German Communist.  I am sorry you have wasted your own
time reading such stuff.

HIPNEY.  Me read Marx!  Bless you, Srarthur, I am like you: I talk
about the old doctor without ever having read a word of him.  But I
know what that man did for them as did read him.

SIR ARTHUR.  Turned their heads, eh?

HIPNEY.  Just that, Srarthur.  Turned their heads.  Turned them
right round the other way to yours.  I dont know whether what Marx
said was right or wrong, because I dont know what he said.  But I
know that he puts into every man and woman that does read him a
conceit that they know all about political economy and can look
down on the stuff you were taught at college as ignorant
oldfashioned trash.  Look at that girl Aloysia Brollikins!  Her
father was a basket maker in Spitalfields.  She's full of Marx.
And as to examinations and scholarships and certificates and gold
medals and the like, she's won enough of them to last your whole
family for two generations.  She can win them in her sleep.  Look
at Blee!  His father was a cooper.  But he managed to go through
Ruskin College.  You start him paying out Marx, and proving by the
materialist theory of history that Capitalism is bound to develop
into Communism, and that whoever doesnt know it is an ignorant
nobody or a half-educated college fool; and youll realize that your
college conceit is up against a Marxist conceit that beats anything
you ever felt for cocksureness and despising the people that havnt
got it.  Look across Europe if you dont believe me.  It was that
conceit, sir, that nerved them Russians to go through with their
Communism in 1917.

SIR ARTHUR.  I must read Marx, Mr Hipney.  I knew I had to deal with
a sentimental revolt against unemployment.  I had no idea that it
had academic pretensions.

HIPNEY.  Lord bless you, Srarthur, the Labor movement is rotten
with book learning; and your people dont seem ever to read
anything.  When did an undersecretary ever sit up half the night
after a hard day's work to read Karl Marx or anyone else?  No fear.
Your hearts are not in your education; but our young people lift
themselves out of the gutter with it.  Thats how you can shoot and
you can ride and you can play golf; and some of you can talk the
hind leg off a donkey; but when it comes to book learning Aloysia
and Blee can wipe the floor with you.

SIR ARTHUR.  I find it hard to believe that the Mayor ever burnt
the midnight oil reading Marx.

HIPNEY.  No more he didnt.  But he has to pretend to, same as your
people have to pretend to understand the gold standard.

SIR ARTHUR [laughing frankly]  You have us there, Mr Hipney.  I can
make neither head nor tail of it; and I dont pretend to.

HIPNEY.  Did you know the Mayor well, Srarthur?  You called him
your old friend Tom.

SIR ARTHUR.  He took the chair for me once at an election meeting.
He has an artificial tooth that looks as if it were made of zinc.
I remembered him by that.  [Genially--rising].  What humbugs we
Prime Ministers have to be, Mr Hipney!  You know: dont you?  [He
offers his hand to signify that the conversation is over].

MR HIPNEY [rising and taking it rather pityingly]  Bless your
innocence, Srarthur, you dont know what humbug is yet.  Wait til
youre a Labor leader.  [He winks at his host and makes for the

SIR ARTHUR.  Ha ha!  Ha ha ha!  Goodbye, Mr Hipney: goodbye.  Very
good of you to have given me so much of your time.

HIPNEY.  Youre welcome to it, Srarthur.  Goodbye.  [He goes out].

Sir Arthur presses a button to summon Hilda.  Then he looks at his
watch, and whistles, startled to find how late it is.  Hilda comes
in quickly through the masked door.

SIR ARTHUR.  Do you know how late it is?  To work! work! work!
work!  Come along.

HILDA.  I am afraid you cant do any work before you start for the
Church House lunch.  The whole morning is gone with those people
from the Isle of Cats.

SIR ARTHUR.  But I have mountains of work to get through.  With one
thing and another I havnt been able to do a thing for the last
three weeks; and it accumulates and accumulates.  It will crush me
if I dont clear it off before it becomes impossible.

HILDA.  But I keep telling you, Sir Arthur, that if you will talk
to everybody for half an hour instead of letting me get rid of them
for you in two minutes, what can you expect?  You say you havent
attended to anything for three weeks; but really you havnt attended
to anything since the session began.  I hate to say anything; but
really, when those Isle of Cats people took themselves off your
hands almost providentially, to let that ridiculous old man talk to
you for an hour--!  [She sits down angrily].

SIR ARTHUR.  Nonsense! he didnt stay two minutes; and I got a lot
out of him.  What about the letters this morning?

HILDA.  I have dealt with them: you neednt bother.  There are two
or three important ones that you ought to answer: I have put them
aside for you when you have time.

Flavia and David dash into the room through the masked door even
more excited and obstreperous than before, Flavia to her father's
right, David to his left.

FLAVIA.  Papa: weve been to a meeting of the unemployed with
Aloysia and Toffy.

DAVID.  Such a lark!

FLAVIA.  We saw a police charge.  David was arrested.

SIR ARTHUR.  Do you mean to say that you went with those people who
were here?

FLAVIA.  Yes: theyve come back to lunch with us.

SIR ARTHUR.  To lunch!!!

DAVID.  Yes.  I say: Aloysia's a marvellous girl.

SIR ARTHUR [determinedly]  I dont mind the girl; but if that young
whelp is coming to lunch here he must and shall change his clothes.

DAVID.  He's gone home to change and shave: he's dotty on Flavia.

SIR ARTHUR.  Why am I afflicted with such children?  Tell me at once
what you have been doing.  What happened?

DAVID.  The police brought the Chancellor of the Exchequer to make
a speech to the unemployed to quiet them.  The first thing we heard
him say was "Gentlemen: be patient.  I promise you you will soon
see the one thing that can revive our industries and save our
beloved country: a rise in prices."  The mob just gave one howl and
went for him.  Then the police drew their batons and charged.

FLAVIA.  Davy couldnt stand the way the people were knocked about.
He screamed to them to stand.  The inspector collared him.

SIR ARTHUR.  Of course he did.  Quite right.  Such folly!  [To
David]  How do you come to be here if you were arrested?  Who
bailed you?

DAVID.  I asked the inspector who in hell he thought he was talking
to.  Then Flavia cut in and told him who we were and that old
Basham was like a father to us.  All he said was "You go home, sir;
and take your sister with you.  This is no place for you."  So as I
was rather in a funk by that time we collected Aloysia and Toffy
and bunked for home.

SIR ARTHUR.  I have a great mind to have that inspector severely
reprimanded for letting you go.  Three months would have done you a
lot of good.  Go back to the drawing room, both of you, and
entertain your new friends.  You know you are not allowed to come
in here when I am at work.  Be off with you.  [He goes back to his

FLAVIA.  Well, what are we to do?  Mamma sends us in on purpose to
interrupt you when she thinks you have done enough.

DAVID.  She says it's all we're good for.

SIR ARTHUR.  A Prime Minister should have no children.  Will you
get out, both of you; or must I ring for Burton to throw you out?

FLAVIA.  Mamma says you are to lunch, Hilda.  She wants another
woman to make up the party.

HILDA.  Oh dear!  [rising]  You must excuse me, Sir Arthur: I must
telephone to put off some people who were coming to lunch with me
at The Apple Cart.  And I must change my frock.

FLAVIA [squabbling]  You neednt dress up for Brollikins, need you?

DAVID.  You let Aloysia alone.  You dont want Hilda to dress up for
Barking, I suppose.

SIR ARTHUR [out of patience]  Get out.  Do you hear?  Get out, the
lot of you.

HILDA.  Do come, Miss Chavender.  Your father is very busy.

SIR ARTHUR [furious]  Get OUT.

They retreat precipitately through the masked door.  Sir Arthur,
left alone, rests his wearied head on the table between his arms.

SIR ARTHUR.  At last, a moment's peace.

The word rouses the orator in him.  He raises his head and repeats
it interrogatively; then tries its effect sweetly and solemnly
again and again.

SIR ARTHUR.  Peace? . . .  Peace.  Peace.  Peace.  Peace.  Peace.
[Now perfectly in tune]  "Yes, your Grace, my lords and gentlemen,
my clerical friends.  We need peace.  We English are still what we
were when time-honored Lancaster described us as 'This happy breed
of men.'  We are above all a domestic nation.  On occasion we can
be as terrible in war as we have always been wise and moderate in
counsel.  But here, in this Church House, under the banner of the
Prince of Peace, we know that the heart of England is the English
home.  Not the battlefield but the fireside--yes, your Grace, yes,
my lords and gentlemen, yes, my clerical friends, the fire--"

He starts violently as his eye, sweeping round the imaginary
assembly, lights on a woman in grey robes contemplating him gravely
and pityingly.  She has stolen in noiselessly through the masked

SIR ARTHUR.  Ffffff!!!  Who is that?  Who are you?  Oh, I beg your
pardon.  You gave me such a--Whew!!  [He sinks back into his chair]
I didnt know there was anyone in the room.

The lady neither moves nor speaks.  She looks at him with deepening
pity.  He looks at her, still badly scared.  He rubs his eyes;
shakes himself; looks again.

SIR ARTHUR.  Excuse me; but are you real?


SIR ARTHUR.  I wish youd do something real.  Wont you sit down?

THE LADY.  Thank you.  [She sits down, very uncannily as it seems to
him, in Basham's chair].

SIR ARTHUR.  Will you be so good as to introduce yourself?  Who are

THE LADY.  A messenger.

SIR ARTHUR.  Please do not be enigmatic.  My nerves are all in rags.
I did not see you come in.  You appeared there suddenly looking
like a messenger of death.  And now you tell me you are a

THE LADY.  Yes: a messenger of death.

SIR ARTHUR.  I thought so.  [With sudden misgiving]  You mean my
death, I hope.  Not my wife nor any of the children?

THE LADY [smiling kindly]  No.  Your death.

SIR ARTHUR [relieved]  Well, thats all right.

THE LADY.  You are going to die.

SIR ARTHUR.  So are we all.  The only question is, how soon?

THE LADY.  Too soon.  You are half dead already.  You have been
dying a long time.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, I knew I was overworking: burning the candle at
both ends: killing myself.  It doesnt matter.  I have made my will.
Everything is provided for: my wife will be comfortably off; and
the children will have as much as is good for them.

THE LADY.  You are resigned?

SIR ARTHUR.  No; but I cannot help myself.

THE LADY.  Perhaps I can help you.  I am not only a messenger.  I am
a healer.

SIR ARTHUR.  A what?

THE LADY.  A healer.  One who heals the sick.  One who holds off
death until he is welcome in his proper time.

SIR ARTHUR.  You cannot help me.  I am caught in the wheels of a
merciless political machine.  The political machine will not stop
for you.  It has ground many men to pieces before their time; and
it will grind me.

THE LADY.  My business is with life and death, not with political

SIR ARTHUR.  In that case I am afraid you can be of no use to me; so
will you think it very uncivil of me if I go on with my work?

THE LADY.  Shall I vanish?

SIR ARTHUR.  Not unless you have something else to do.  As you are a
ghost, and therefore not in time but in eternity, another ten
minutes or so wont cost you anything.  Somehow, your presence is
helping me.  A presence is a wonderful thing.  Would you mind
sitting there and reading The Times while I work?

THE LADY.  I never read the newspapers.  I read men and women.  I
will sit here and read you.  Or will that make you self-conscious?

SIR ARTHUR.  My dear ghost, a public man is so accustomed to people
staring at him that he very soon has no self to be conscious of.
You wont upset me in the least.  You may even throw in a round of
applause occasionally; so that I may find out the effective bits to
work up.

THE LADY.  Go on.  I will wait as long as you like.

SIR ARTHUR.  Thank you.  Now let me see where I was when you
appeared.  [He takes up a scrap of paper on which he has made a
memorandum].  Ah yes: Ive got it.  Peace.  Yes: peace.  [Trying to
make out a word]  Ence--ence--what?  Oh, ensue!  Of course: a good
word.  "My friends, lay and clerical, we must ensue peace.  Yes,
ensue peace.  Peace.  Disarmament."  A burst of Pacifist applause
there, perhaps.  "Who says that we need a hundred battleships,
gentlemen?  Christian brotherhood is a safer defence than a
thousand battleships.  You have my pledge that the Government will
be quite content with--with--" oh, well, my secretary will fill
that in with whatever number of ships the Japanese are standing out
for.  By the way, do you think battleships are any real use now?
Kenworthy says theyre not: and he was in the navy.  It would be
such a tremendous score for us at Geneva if we offered to scrap all
our battleships.  We could make up for them in aeroplanes and
submarines.  I should like to have the opinion of an impartial and
disinterested ghost.

THE LADY.  As I listen to you I seem to hear a ghost preparing a
speech for his fellow ghosts, ghosts from a long dead past.  To me
it means nothing, because I am a ghost from the future.

SIR ARTHUR.  Thats a curious idea.  Of course if there are ghosts
from the past there must be ghosts from the future.

THE LADY.  Yes: women and men who are ahead of their time.  They
alone can lead the present into the future.  They are ghosts from
the future.  The ghosts from the past are those who are behind the
times, and can only drag the present back.

SIR ARTHUR.  What an excellent definition of a Conservative!  Thank
Heaven I am a Liberal!

THE LADY.  You mean that you make speeches about Progress and
Liberty instead of about King and Country.

SIR ARTHUR.  Of course I make speeches: that is the business of a
politician.  Dont you like speeches?

THE LADY.  On the Great Day of Judgment the speech-makers will stand
with the seducers and the ravishers, with the traffickers in
maddening drugs, with those who make men drunk and rob them, who
entice children and violate them.

SIR ARTHUR.  What nonsense!  Our sermons and speeches are the
glories of our literature, and the inspired voices of our religion,
our patriotism, and--of course--our politics.

THE LADY.  Sermons and speeches are not religion, not patriotism,
not politics: they are only the gibbering of ghosts from the past.
You are a ghost from a very dead past.  Why do you not die your
bodily death?  Is it fair for a ghost to go about with a live body?

SIR ARTHUR.  This is too personal.  I am afraid I cannot get on
with my speech while you are there ordering my funeral.  Oblige me
by vanishing.  Go.  Disappear.  Shoo!

THE LADY.  I cannot vanish.  [Merrily changing her attitude].  Shall
we stop playing at ghosts, and accept one another for convenience
sake as real people?

SIR ARTHUR [shaking off his dreaminess]  Yes, lets.  [He rises and
comes to her].  We have been talking nonsense.  [He pulls out a
chair.  They sit close together].  You had me half hypnotized.  But
first, shake hands.  I want to feel that you are real.

He offers his right hand.  She seizes both his hands and holds them
vigorously, looking straight into his eyes.

SIR ARTHUR [brightening]  Well, I dont know whether this is real or
not; but it's electric, and very soothing and jolly.  Ah-a-a-ah! [a
deep sighing breath].  And now my dear lady, will you be good
enough to tell me who the devil you are?

THE LADY [releasing him]  Only your wife's lady doctor.  Did she
not tell you to expect me?

SIR ARTHUR.  Of course, of course.  How stupid of me!  Yes, yes,
yes, yes, yes, to be sure.  And now I am going to be frank with
you.  I dont believe in doctors.  Neither does my wife; but her
faith in quacks is unlimited.  And as I am on the verge of a
nervous breakdown, she is planting every possible variety of quack
on me--you will excuse the expression?--

THE LADY.  I excuse everything from my patients.  Go on.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, I receive them all as I am receiving you, just to
gratify her, or rather to prevent her from making my life
miserable.  They all say the same obvious thing; and they are none
of them of the slightest use.  You are going to say it all over
again.  Can you forgive me for saying flatly that I will not pay
you twenty guineas for saying it: not if you said it twenty times

THE LADY.  Not even if I shew you how to cure yourself?  The twenty
guineas is an important part of the cure.  It will make you take it

SIR ARTHUR.  I know perfectly well how to cure myself.  The cure is
as simple as abc.  I am Prime Minister of Great Britain.  That is,
I am an overworked, overworried, overstrained, overburdened,
overdriven man, suffering from late hours, irregular snatched
meals, no time for digestion nor for enough sleep, and having to
keep my mind at full stretch all the time struggling with problems
that are no longer national problems but world problems.  In short,
I am suffering acutely from brain fag.

THE LADY.  And the cure?

SIR ARTHUR.  A fortnight's golf: thats the cure.  I know it all by
heart.  So suppose we drop it, and part friends.  You see, I am
really frightfully busy.

THE LADY.  That is not my diagnosis.  [She rises].  Goodbye.

SIR ARTHUR [alarmed]  Diagnosis!  Have you been diagnosing me?  Do
you mean that there is something else the matter with me?

THE LADY.  Not something else.  Something different.

SIR ARTHUR.  Sit down, pray: I can spare another two minutes.  Whats

THE LADY [resuming her seat]  You are dying of an acute want of
mental exercise.

SIR ARTHUR [unable to believe his ears]  Of--of--of WHAT, did you

THE LADY.  You are suffering from that very common English
complaint, an underworked brain.  To put it in one word, a bad case
of frivolity, possibly incurable.

SIR ARTHUR.  Frivolity!  Did I understand you to say that frivolity
is a common English failing?

THE LADY.  Yes.  Terribly common.  Almost a national characteristic.

SIR ARTHUR.  Do you realize that you are utterly mad?

THE LADY.  Is it you or I who have piloted England on to the rocks?

SIR ARTHUR.  Come come!  No politics.  What do you prescribe for me?

THE LADY.  I take my patients into my retreat in the Welsh
mountains, formerly a monastery, now much stricter and perfectly
sanitary.  No newspapers, no letters, no idle ladies.  No books
except in the afternoon as a rest from thinking.

SIR ARTHUR.  How can you think without books?

THE LADY.  How can you have thoughts of your own when you are
reading other people's thoughts?

SIR ARTHUR [groaning]  Oh, do talk sense.  What about golf?

THE LADY.  Games are for people who can neither read nor think.  Men
trifle with their business and their politics; but they never
trifle with their games.  Golf gives them at least a weekend of
earnest concentration.  It brings truth home to them.  They cannot
pretend that they have won when they have lost, nor that they made
a magnificent drive when they foozled it.  The Englishman is at
his best on the links, and at his worst in the Cabinet.  But what
your country needs is not your body but your mind.  And I solemnly
warn you that unless you exercise your mind you will lose it.  A
brain underexercised is far more injurious to health than an 
underexercised body.  You know how men become bone lazy for want of
bodily exercise.  Well, they become brain lazy for want of mental
exercise; and if nature meant them to be thinkers the results are
disastrous.  All sorts of bodily diseases are produced by half used
minds; for it is the mind that makes the body: that is my secret,
and the secret of all the true healers.  I am sorry you will not
allow me to take you a little on the way back to health with me.
Good morning.  [She rises].

SIR ARTHUR.  Must you go?

THE LADY.  Well, you are so busy--

SIR ARTHUR [rising]  Ah yes: I forgot.  I am frightfully busy.
Still, if you could spare another minute--

THE LADY.  If you wish.  [She sits down].

SIR ARTHUR [sitting down]  You see, what makes your diagnosis so
pricelessly funny to me is that as a matter of fact my life has
been a completely intellectual life, and my training the finest
intellectual training in the world.  First rate preparatory school.
Harrow.  Oxford.  Parliament.  An Undersecretaryship.  The Cabinet.
Finally the Leadership of the House as Prime Minister.  Intellect,
intellect, all the time.

THE LADY.  At Harrow you wrote Latin verses, did you not?

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes, of Course.

THE LADY.  Do you write any now?

SIR ARTHUR.  No, of course not.  You dont understand.  We learnt to
write Latin verses not because the verses are any good--after all,
it's only a trick of stringing old tags together--but because it's
such a splendid training for the mind.

THE LADY.  Have all the boys who made Latin verses at Harrow
splendidly trained minds?

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes.  I unhesitatingly say yes.  I dont mean, of
course, that they are all geniuses; but if you go into the best
society you will see that their minds are far superior to those of
persons who have had no classical training.

THE LADY.  You mean that they can all be trusted to say the same
thing in the same way when they discuss public affairs.

SIR ARTHUR.  Precisely.  They are an educated class, you see.

THE LADY [coldly, rising]  Yes: I see.  I have really nothing more
to say, Sir Arthur.  [She takes a card from her bag and puts it on
the table]  That is the address of my retreat in Wales.

SIR ARTHUR [rising, rather disappointed at having produced no
effect]  But surely you cannot deny that a man is the better for
having been put through the mill of our great educational system.

THE LADY.  If a man is born with a hopelessly bad set of teeth I
think it is better for him, and kinder to him, to pull them all out
and replace them with a good set of artificial teeth.  If some of
your political colleagues had not been provided with artificial
political minds in the manner you described they would have been
left without any political minds at all.  But in that case they
would not have meddled in politics; and that, I think, would have
been a public advantage.  May I reserve a bedroom and a private
study for you?

SIR ARTHUR.  Pooh!  I am not going to your retreat.

THE LADY [steadfastly]  I think you are.

SIR ARTHUR.  I give you up.  You are factproof.  I am lazy; I am
idle; and I am breaking down from overwork.  How logical!

THE LADY.  All the idlest and laziest of my patients slave from
morning to midnight trifling and tittle-tattling about great
things.  To a retreat, Sir Arthur: get thee to a retreat.  I am
never mistaken in my diagnosis.  I shall telephone to ask whether
my number one suite, with private bath and meditation parlor, is

SIR ARTHUR.  No: I wont be rushed.  Do you hear?  I wont be rushed.
[She is quite unshaken; and he proceeds, much less resolutely]  Of
course I shall have to go somewhere for a rest; and if you could
really recommend it as a bracing place--

THE LADY.  Bracing?  What for?

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, bracing, you know.  Bracing.

THE LADY.  Curious, how idle people are always clamouring to be
braced!  Like trousers.

SIR ARTHUR.  Idle people!  How you stick to your point!  And what a
humbug you are!  Dont think you can impose on me with your
meditation parlor and your dignified airs: I do that sort of thing
myself occasionally; and you know it's no use giving tracts to a
missionary.  But I feel somehow that you are good for me.  You are
a dear delightful bighearted wrong-headed half-educated crazyboots;
but a woman may be all that and yet have the right instinct as to
how to flirt intellectually with a tired thinker.  Will you promise
to talk to me if I come?

THE LADY.  I will even let you talk to me.  I guarantee that in a
fortnight you will begin to think before you talk.  Your dead mind
will come to life.  I shall make a man of you.  Goodbye.  [She goes
out quickly through the main door].

SIR ARTHUR [calling after her gaily]  Ha ha!  Incorrigible,
incorrigible.  [He takes her card from the table, and contemplates
it].  Oh!  I forgot to ask her how much a week she wants for that
meditation parlor.  [He looks tragic].

HILDA [emerging from her office]  Anything the matter, Sir Arthur?

SIR ARTHUR.  I am going into a retreat.  Because my brain is
underworked.  Do you grasp that idea?  Have you ever heard of a
retreat for the mentally underworked?

HILDA.  There is a very nice one at Sevenoaks that my aunt was sent
to.  But that is for inebriates.

SIR ARTHUR.  The one I'm going to is for the mentally underworked,
the thoughtless and brainless, the inveterately lazy and frivolous.
Yes; the frivolous: your ears do not deceive you.

HILDA [going to her desk]  Oh, well, theyll amuse you: you always
get on well with people of that sort.  Shall I pack your usual
holiday books? some detective stories and Wordsworth?

SIR ARTHUR.  No.  You will procure all the books you can find by a
revolutionary German Jew named Harry Marks--

HILDA.  Dont you mean Karl Marx?

SIR ARTHUR.  Thats the man.  Karl Marx.  Get me every blessed book
by Karl Marx that you can find translated into English; and have
them packed for the retreat.

HILDA.  There are much newer books by Marxists: Lenin and Trotsky
and Stalin and people like that.

SIR ARTHUR.  Get them all.  Pack the lot.  By George, I'll teach
Alderwoman Aloysia Brollikins to give herself airs.  I'll teach her
and her rabble of half-baked half-educated intellectual beggars-on-
horseback that any Oxford man can beat them at their own silly
game.  I'll just turn Karl Marx inside-out for them.  [The
household gong sounds].  Lunch!  Come on: that woman's given me an
appetite.  [He goes out impetuously through the masked door].

HILDA [rushing after him]  No, no, Sir Arthur: the Church House!
the Church House! youve forgotten that you have to lunch at [her
voice is lost in the distance].


The same scene on the 10th November at 9.30 in the morning.  There
is a generous fire in the grate; and the visitors wear winter
clothes.  Basham is on the hearthrug, warming his back and reading
The Daily Herald.

BASHAM [amazed by what he reads]  Gosh!  [He reads further]
Wh-e-e-ew!!  [He reads still further]  Well I'll be dashed!!!

Hilda enters through the main door, and announces an explosive
elderly gentleman, evidently a person of consequence, who follows

HILDA.  Sir Dexter Rightside.

SIR DEXTER [joining Basham on the hearth]  Ah!  That you, Basham?
Have you come to arrest him?

BASHAM.  You may well ask.  He isnt up yet.  Miss Hanways: is there
any sign of his getting a move on?

HILDA [much worried]  Lady Chavender wont allow him to be
disturbed.  She says his speech last night at the Guildhall banquet
quite tired him out.  People have been ringing up and calling all
the morning; but she just puts her back to his door and says that
anyone who makes noise enough to waken him leaves her service that

SIR DEXTER.  Nonsense!  He must see me.  Does Lady Chavender suppose
that a Prime Minister can stand the country on its head without a
word of warning to his colleagues and then go to bed as if he was
tired out by a day's fishing?

HILDA [desperate]  Well, what can _I_ do, Sir Dexter?  [She goes to
her bureau].

SIR DEXTER.  Basham: go and break open his bedroom door.

BASHAM.  I cant.  I'm a policeman: I mustnt do it without a
warrant.  Go and do it yourself.

SIR DEXTER.  I have a devilish good mind to.  Can you conceive
anything more monstrous, Basham?  [He sits down in the chair next
the end chair].  But I said that this would happen.  I said so.
When we made this damned coalition that they call a National
Government I was entitled to the Prime Ministership.  I was the
Leader of the Conservative Party.  I had an enormous majority in
the country: the election proved that we could have done quite well
without Chavender.  But I had to give way.  He humbugged us.  He
pretended that without his old guard of Liberals and his ragtag and
bobtail of Labor men and Socialists and lawyers and journalists-on-
the-make and used-up trade union secretaries, and all the rest of
the democratic dregs of human society, we couldnt be sure of a
majority.  His golden voice was to do the trick.  He was the
popular man, the safe man: I was the unpopular Die Hard who couldnt
be trusted to keep my temper.  So I stood down.  I sacrificed
myself.  I took the Foreign Secretaryship.  Well, what price your
safe man now?  How do you like your Bolshy Premier?  Who was right?
the funkers and compromisers or the old Die Hard?

BASHAM.  It's amazing.  I could have sworn that if there was a safe
man in England that could be trusted to talk and say nothing, to
thump the table and do nothing, Arthur Chavender was that man.
Whats happened to him?  What does it mean?  Did he go mad at the
sanatorium, do you think?  Or was he mad before that woman took him

SIR DEXTER.  Mad!  Not a bit of it.  But you had better look up that
woman's record: there may be money from Moscow behind this.

BASHAM.  Arthur take money!  Thats going too far.

SIR DEXTER.  The woman took the money.  It would be waste of money
to bribe Chavender: you could always trust him to say whatever he
thought would please his audience without being paid for it: damned

BASHAM.  But he didnt try to please his audience at the Guildhall.
They wanted some of his best soothing syrup about law and order
after the attack on the Lord Mayor's Show in the afternoon by the
unemployed; but according to The Daily Herald here he gave them a
dose of boiling Socialism instead.

SIR DEXTER [nervously]  By the way, Basham, I hope you have the
unemployed well in hand today.

BASHAM.  Quiet as lambs.  Theyre all reading the papers.  New
editions every half-hour.  Like 1914 over again.

Sir Arthur's voice is heard, singing scales.  Hilda looks in.

HILDA.  I think I hear Sir Arthur singing.  He must have got up.

SIR DEXTER.  Singing!  Is this a moment for minstrelsy?

HILDA.  He always sings scales after his bath [she vanishes].

After a final burst of solfeggi the masked door is opened
vigorously and Chavender enters beaming.

SIR ARTHUR.  Ah, here you are, Dexy [he proffers his hand].

SIR DEXTER [like a baited bull]  Dont attempt to shake hands with
me.  Dont dare call me Dexy.

SIR ARTHUR.  What on earth's the matter?  Got out at the wrong side
of the bed this morning, eh?  Frightfully sorry to have kept you
waiting, Basham.  Whats wrong with the Foreign Secretary this time?

SIR DEXTER.  This time!  What do you mean by this time?

SIR ARTHUR.  Well theres nothing very novel about your turning up
before breakfast in a blazing rage, is there?  What is it, Basham?

BASHAM.  Oh come, P.M.!  If you were too drunk last night at the
Guildhall to know what you were saying, youd better read the papers
[he offers his paper].

SIR ARTHUR [keeping his hands behind his back to warm them]  I
remember perfectly well what I said last night.  And I drank
nothing but barley water.

BASHAM [insisting]  But look at it man.  [Quoting the headlines]
New program for winter session.  Nationalization of ground rents.
Nationalization of banks.  Nationalization of collieries.
Nationalization of transport.

SIR DEXTER [moaning]  Nationalization of women.  Why omit it?  Why
omit it?

BASHAM.  No: nothing about women.  Municipalization of urban land
and the building trade, and consequent extinction of rates.

SIR DEXTER.  Apostate!

BASHAM.  No: nothing about the Church.  Abolition of tariffs and
substitution of total prohibition of private foreign trade in
protected industries.  State imports only, to be sold at State
regulated prices.

SIR DEXTER.  Rot!  Incomprehensible and unheard-of rot.

BASHAM.  Compulsory public service for all, irrespective of income,
as in war time.

SIR DEXTER.  Slavery.  Call it by its proper name.  Slavery.

BASHAM.  Restoration of agriculture.  Collective farming.
Nationalization of fertilizer industries.  Nitrogen from the air.
Power from the tides.  Britain self-supporting and blockade proof.

SIR DEXTER.  Madness.  Ruin to our foreign trade.

BASHAM.  Ruthless extinction of parasitism.

SIR DEXTER.  You dont even know the present law.  You have the
Verminous Persons Act.  What more do you want?

BASHAM.  Doubling of the surtax on unearned incomes.

SIR DEXTER.  Yes: take our last penny!  And when the little that the
present ruinous taxation has left us is gone; when we have closed
our accounts with the last tradesman and turned the last servant
into the streets, where are they to find employment?  Who is to pay
their wages?  What is to become of religion when nobody can afford
pewrents or a penny to put in the plate?  Even sport will not be
safe: our breed of horses will be doomed; our packs of hounds sold
or slaughtered; and our masters of hounds will be caddies on motor
bicycles.  That is to be England's future!

SIR ARTHUR.  But is that all the papers have reported?


BASHAM.  Oh come!  All!  Isnt that about enough?

SIR ARTHUR.  But have they said nothing about our promise to
restore the cuts made in the pay of the army and navy and police?

SIR DEXTER.  Our promise!  Whose promise?

BASHAM [interested]  What was that you said?  Are you going to put
my men's wages up to the old figure?

SIR ARTHUR.  We shall give you another five thousand men; pay the
old wages with a rise of ten per cent; and double your salary.

BASHAM.  Whew!  That alters the case a bit.

SIR DEXTER [rising]  Basham: you are not going to allow yourself to
be corrupted like this!  Are you such a dupe as to imagine that
free Englishmen will tolerate such a monstrous waste of public

BASHAM.  If I have another five thousand men and a rise on the old
wages, I'll answer for the free Englishmen.  If they dont like it
they can lump it.

SIR DEXTER.  You really believe he can keep all the monstrous
promises he has made?

BASHAM.  No: of course he cant.  But he can keep this one.  He can
raise the pay of the ranks and double my salary; and that is all
that concerns me.  I'm a policeman, not a politician.

SIR DEXTER.  Youre a mercenary gangster and a damned fool: thats
what you are.  [He flings himself into the end chair].

BASHAM [calmly]  You seem ruffled, Sir Dexter.

Before Sir Dexter can reply, Hilda returns and announces a new

HILDA.  Admiral Sir Bemrose Hotspot.  [She goes out].

Sir Bemrose is a halfwitted admiral; but the half that has not been
sacrificed to his profession is sound and vigorous.

SIR BEMROSE [in the breeziest spirits]  Morning, Dexy.  Morning,
Basham.  [Slapping Sir Arthur on the back]  Splendid, Arthur!
Never heard you in better form.  Thats the stuff to give em.  [They
shake hands cordially].

SIR DEXTER [sobered by his astonishment]  Rosy: have you gone mad
too?  Have you forgotten that you are a Conservative, and that it
was as a Conservative that you were made First Lord of the
Admiralty, at my personal suggestion and insistence, in this so-
called National Government, which now, thank Heaven, wont last one
day after the next meeting of Parliament?

SIR BEMROSE.  Wont it, by Jove!  It's safe for the next five years.
What the country wants is straight orders, discipline, character,
pluck, a big navy, justice for the British sailor, no sham
disarmaments, and absolute command of the sea.  If that isnt
Conservatism what is Conservatism?  But mind, Arthur, I must have
twelve new aeroplane-carrying battleships.  I have my eye on Japan.
And theres America.  And, of course, Russia.

SIR ARTHUR.  You shall have them, Rosy.  Twenty-four if you say the

SIR BEMROSE.  Good!  Then I'll answer for the House of Commons.

SIR DEXTER.  Dont be silly.  What can you do with the House of
Commons, except empty it whenever you get up to speak?

SIR BEMROSE.  I leave the speaking to Arthur: it's his job, not
mine.  But if there is any further attempt to starve the navy it
can give you a little surprise at Westminster.  How will you feel
when you see a submarine come to the surface off the terrace, and
the commander sends in word that he gives you just five minutes
before he torpedoes the whole damned Front Bench?

SIR DEXTER.  You are talking ridiculous nonsense.  Do you suppose
for a moment that the navy would be allowed to interfere in

SIR BEMROSE.  Who's to stop it?  Where would Lenin and Stalin and
Trotsky and all that Bolshy lot have been without the Baltic fleet
and the Kronstadt sailors?  Do you suppose the British navy, with
its discipline and its respectable Conservative commanders, couldnt
do what these Communist scoundrels did?

SIR DEXTER.  How long would the British navy survive the abolition
of property in this country? tell me that.

SIR BEMROSE.  Dont talk to the navy about property.  We dont live by
property: we live by service.  [He takes the chair next to the
presidential one, and pursues his personal grievance angrily].  You
and your confounded property owners grudge us a clerk's salary for
commanding a battleship, and then dock a quarter off it for income
tax.  We cant set foot on shore without being rented and rated
until we can hardly afford to educate our children.  Thanks to
Arthur, you are pledged now to give us our pay honestly free of
income tax and make these lazy idle lubbers of landlords sweat for
it.  I call that the essence of Conservatism.  Thats the way to
dish these Labor chaps and Red flaggers and all the rest of the
scum you have been pandering to ever since you gave them the vote.
Give them whats good for them; and put their ballot papers behind
the fire: thats what this country needs.

SIR ARTHUR.  You see, Dexy: we have the navy and the police on our

SIR DEXTER.  May I ask who are "we"?

SIR ARTHUR.  Why, the National Government, of course.  You and I,
Dexy: you and I.

SIR DEXTER.  It makes me sick to hear you couple my name with yours.
It always did.

HILDA [announcing]  The President of the Board of Trade.  Mr

Glenmorison is an easy mannered Scottish gentleman, distinctly the
youngest of the party.

SIR ARTHUR.  Hallo, Sandy.  Sit down.  Lets all sit down and have
it out.

They settle themselves at the table with their backs to the fire,
Sir Arthur in the middle, Glenmorison on his left, Sir Bemrose on
his right, and Sir Dexter and Basham right and left respectively.

GLENMORISON.  Well, Sir Arthur, when you were letting yourself go
so recklessly you might have said a word about Home Rule for
Scotland.  We may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.

SIR DEXTER.  We! we! we!  Who are we?  If you mean the Cabinet, it
is not responsible for the Prime Minister's frantic proceedings.
He acted without consulting us.  Do you suppose that if I had heard
a word of this outburst of Bolshevism I should have consented to

SIR ARTHUR.  That was why I didnt consult you.


SIR ARTHUR.  The responsibility is mine and mine alone.

SIR BEMROSE.  Not at all.  I claim my share, Arthur.  You got the
part about the navy from me.

GLENMORISON.  Same here, Sir Dexter.  I claim at least two items.

SIR DEXTER.  Much good may they do you.  Arthur's seat is safe:
anybody named Chavender can get in unopposed in this constituency
because his cunning old father-in-law has every voter in the place
bribed up to the neck.  But your majority at the last election was
seventeen: there were three recounts.  Your seat's gone, anyhow.

GLENMORISON.  On the contrary, Sir Dexter, it's safe for the first
time in the history of Scotland.

SIR DEXTER.  Safe!  How?  You will get the boot as a crazy Bolshevik
unless you come out with me and repudiate Chavender promptly and

GLENMORISON.  Oh, I'm afraid I cant do that, Sir Dexter.  You see,
the balance is held in my constituency by the tradesmen and
shopkeepers.  Their great grievance is the heavy rates.  And though
they are all doing middling well they think they could do better if
they could raise enough capital to extend their businesses a bit.
But the financiers and promoters wont look at small businesses.
They are thinking in millions while my people are thinking in
thousands, and mostly in only four figures at that.  It's easy
enough to get a couple of hundred thousand pounds if you are
willing to call it a quarter of a million and pay interest on that
sum.  But what good is that to a man in the High Street in my
constituency who wants from five to twenty thousand to extend his
little business?

SIR DEXTER.  Nonsense!  The bank will give him an overdraft if his
credit is good.

GLENMORISON.  Yes; and call it in at the next slump and panic on
the Stock Exchange.  I can shew you half a dozen men who were
forced into bankruptcy in the last panic, though they were as
solvent as you or I.  But Sir Arthur's proposal of panic-proof
national and municipal banks, as ready and eager to find five
thousand for the five thousand man as the financiers are to find a
million on condition that enough of it sticks to their own fingers,
is just the thing for my people.  I darent say a word against it.
It's an inspiration as far as my constituents are concerned.
Theyre a canny lot, my people: theyd vote for the devil if he'd
promise to abolish the rates and open a municipal bank.  My
majority fell to seventeen last time because I went to them with
empty hands and a bellyful of advice to economize and make
sacrifices.  This bank nationalization is good business for them:
theyll just jump at it.

SIR DEXTER.  In short, you will make Utopian promises that you know
very well will never be carried out.

GLENMORISON.  You made a lot of Utopian promises, Sir Dexter, when
you formed this National Government.  Instead of carrying them out
you told the voters to tighten their belts and save the Bank of
England.  They tightened their belts; and now the Bank of England
is paying twelve and sixpence in the pound.  Still, I admit, you
pulled down my Liberal majority over my Conservative opponent from
four thousand to seventeen.  Ive got to pull that up again.  I say
nothing about the rest of the program; but I represent the small
man; and on this bank business I am with Sir Arthur all the time.

HILDA [announcing]  Sir Jafna Pandranath.  [She withdraws].

This announcement creates a marked sensation.  All five gentlemen
rise as if to receive a royal personage.  Sir Jafna is an elderly
Cingalese plutocrat, small and slender to the verge of emaciation,
elegantly dressed, but otherwise evidently too much occupied and
worried by making money to get any fun out of spending it.  One
guesses that he must make a great deal of it; for the reverence
with which he is received by the five Britons, compared with their
unceremonious handling of one another, is almost sycophantic.

SIR JAFNA.  Hallo!  Am I breaking into a Cabinet meeting?

SIR ARTHUR.  No: not a bit.  Only a few friendly callers.  Pray sit

SIR DEXTER [offering the end chair to the visitor]  You are
welcome, Sir Jafna: most welcome.  You represent money; and money
brings fools to their senses.

SIR JAFNA.  Money!  Not at all.  I am a poor man.  I never know from
one moment to another whether I am worth thirteen millions or only
three.  [He sits down.  They all sit down].

SIR BEMROSE.  I happen to know, Sir Jafna, that your enterprises
stand at twenty millions today at the very least.


SIR JAFNA.  How do you know?  How do you know?  The way I am
plundered at every turn!  [To Sir Dexter]  Your people take the
shirt off my back.

SIR DEXTER.  My people!  What on earth do you mean?

SIR JAFNA.  Your land monopolists.  Your blackmailers.  Your robber
barons.  Look at my Blayport Docks reconstruction scheme!  Am I a
public benefactor or am I not?  Have I not enough to live on and
die on without troubling myself about Blayport?  Shall I be any the
happier when it has ten square miles of docks instead of a tuppeny-
hapeny fishing harbor?  What have I to gain except the satisfaction
of seeing a big publicly useful thing well done, and the knowledge
that without me it could not be done?  Shall I not be half ruined
if it fails?

SIR BEMROSE.  Well, whats wrong with it, old chap?

SIR JAFNA.  Rosy: you make me puke.  What is wrong with it is that
the owners of all the miles of land that are indispensable to my
scheme, and that without it would not be worth fifteen pounds an
acre, are opening their mouths so wide that they will grab sixty
per cent of the profit without lifting a finger except to pocket
the wealth that I shall create.  I live, I work, I plan, I shatter
my health and risk all I possess only to enrich these parasites,
these vampires, these vermin in the commonwealth.  [Shrieking]
Yes: vermin!  [Subsiding]  You were quite right at the Guildhall
last night, Arthur: you must nationalize the land and put a stop to
this shameless exploitation of the financiers and entrepreneurs by
a useless, idle, and predatory landed class.

SIR ARTHUR [chuckling].  Magnificent!  I have the support of the

SIR JAFNA.  To the last vote, to the last penny.  These pirates
think nothing of extorting a million an acre for land in the city.
A man cannot have an address in London for his letters until he has
agreed to pay them from five hundred to a thousand a year.  He cant
even die without paying them for a grave to lie in.  Make them
disgorge, Arthur.  Skin them alive.  Tax them twenty shillings in
the pound.  Make them earn their own living, damn them.  [He wipes
his brow and adds, rather hysterically]  Excuse me, boys; but if
you saw the Blayport estimates--! [he can no more].

SIR DEXTER.  May I ask you to address yourself to this question not
as an emotional oriental [Sir Jafna chokes convulsively] but as a
sane man of business.  If you destroy the incomes of our landed
gentry where will you find the capital that exists solely through
their prudent saving--their abstinence?

SIR JAFNA.  Bah pooh!  Pooh bah!  I will find it where they find it,
in the product of the labor I employ.  At present I have to pay
exorbitant and unnecessary wages.  Why?  Because out of those wages
the laborer has to pay half or quarter as rent to the landlord.
The laborer is ignorant: he thinks he is robbed by the landlord;
but the robbed victim is me--ME!  Get rid of the landlord and I
shall have all the capital he now steals.  In addition I shall have
cheap labor.  That is not oriental emotion: it is British
Commonsense.  I am with you, Arthur, to the last drop of my
oriental blood.  Nationalized land: compulsory labor: abolition of
rates: strikes made criminal: I heartily endorse them all in the
name of Capital and private enterprise.  I say nothing about the
rest of your program, Arthur; but on these points no true Liberal
can question your magnificent statesmanship.

SIR ARTHUR [delighted]  You hear that, Dexy.  Put that in your pipe
and smoke it.

HILDA [announcing]  His Grace the Duke of Domesday.  [She goes

An elderly delicately built aristocrat comes in.  Well preserved,
but nearer 70 than 60.

THE DUKE [surprised to see so many people]  Do I intrude, Arthur?
I thought you were disengaged.

SIR ARTHUR.  Not at all.  Only a talk over last night.  Make
yourself at home.

SIR DEXTER.  You come in the nick of time.  Sir Jafna here has just
been qualifying you as a bloodsucker, a pirate, a parasite, a
robber baron and finally as vermin.  Vermin!  How do you like it?

THE DUKE [calmly taking the end chair nearest the window, on
Basham's left]  I wonder why the epithet robber is applied only to
barons.  You never hear of robber dukes; yet my people have done
plenty of robbery in their time.  [With a sigh of regret]  Ah,
thats all over now.  The robbers have become the robbed.  I wish
you would create some immediate class of honest folk.  I dislike
your calling me vermin, Arthur.

SIR ARTHUR.  I didnt.  It was Jafna.

THE DUKE.  Ungrateful Jafna!  He is buying up my Blayport estate
for next to nothing.

SIR JAFNA.  Next to nothing!  Holy Brahma!

THE DUKE [continuing]  He will make millions out of it.  After
paying off the mortgages I shall get three and a half per cent on
what is left to me out of the beggarly price he offers; and on that
three and a half I shall be income-taxed and surtaxed.  Jafna's
grandsons will go to Eton.  Mine will go to a Polytechnic.

SIR BEMROSE.  Send them to Dartmouth, old chap.  Theres a career for
them in the navy now that Arthur is at the helm.

SIR DEXTER.  A lieutenant's pay and pension for the future Duke of
Domesday!  Thats the proposition, is it?

THE DUKE.  He will be lucky to have any pay at all.  But I shall
support you in any case, Arthur.  You have at last publicly
admitted that the death duties are unsound in principle, and
promised to abolish them.  That will save us from utter extinction
in three generations; and the landed classes are with you to the
last man for it.  Accept the humble gratitude of a pauperized duke.

SIR DEXTER.  And the rest of the program.  Do you swallow that too?

THE DUKE.  I doubt if the rest of the program will come off.
Besides, I dont pretend to understand it.  By the way, Sir Jafna, I
wish you would take Domesday Towers off my hands for a while.  I
cant afford to live in it.  I cant afford even to keep it dusted.
You can have it for a hundred a year.

SIR JAFNA.  Too far from town.

THE DUKE.  Not by aeroplane.  Do think it over.

Sir Jafna shrugs his shoulders and intimates that it is hopeless.
The Duke resigns himself to the expected.

SIR ARTHUR.  Dexy: you are in a minority of one.  The landlords are
on my side.  The capitalists, big and little, are on my side.  The
fighting services are on my side.  The police are on my side.  If
you leave us you go out into the wilderness alone.  What have you
to say?

SIR DEXTER.  I have to say that you are a parcel of blind fools.
You are trying to scuttle the ship on the chance of each of you
grabbing a share of the insurance money.  But the Country will deal
with you.  The Country does not want change.  The Country never has
wanted change.  The Country never will want change.  And because I
will resist change while I have breath in my body I shall not be
alone in England.  You have all deserted me and betrayed your
party; but I warn you that though I am utterly alone in this
room . . .

HILDA [reappearing]  The deputation, Sir Arthur.  Theyve come back.
[She vanishes].

The deputation enters.  Hipney is not with them.  Barking shaved,
brilliantly dressed, and quite transfigured, is jubilant.  Aloysia
glows indignation.  Blee and the Mayor, doggedly wearing their hats
and overcoats, are gloomy, angry, and resolute.  They group
themselves just inside the door, glowering at the Prime Minister
and his colleagues.

SIR ARTHUR [beaming]  Gentlemen: a Labor deputation from the Isle
of Cats.  The one element that was lacking in our councils.  You
have heard the voice of the peerage, of the city, of the King's
forces.  You will now hear the voice of the proletariat.  Sit down,
ladies and gentlemen.

THE MAYOR [rudely]  Who are you calling the proletariat?  Do you
take us for Communists?  [He remains standing].

ALOYSIA.  What you are going to hear, Sir Arthur, is the voice of
Labor.  [She remains standing].

BLEE.  The verdict of democracy.  [He remains standing].

EARL OF BARKING.  The bleating of a bloody lot of fools.  I am with
you, Chavender.  [He detaches himself from the group and flings
himself into Hilda' s chair with intense disgust].

SIR ARTHUR [surprised]  Am I to understand that your colleagues are
against me?

THE MAYOR.  Of course we're against you.  Do you expect me to go
back to my people and tell them they should vote for compulsory
labor and doing away with strikes?

BLEE.  Arnt the workers enslaved enough already without your
depriving them of that last scrap of their liberty? the only weapon
they have against the capitalists?

SIR ARTHUR.  My dear Mr Mayor, what is the right to strike?  The
right to starve on your enemy's doorstep and set the whole public
against you.  Which of you starves first when it comes to the

THE MAYOR.  I am not going to argue.  You can beat me at that.  But
if you think that the British working-man will listen to compulsory
labor and putting down strikes you dont know the world youre living
in; and thats all about it.

SIR ARTHUR.  But we need not compel the workers to work: they are
working already.  We shall compel the idlers.  Not only your idlers
but our idlers: all the idle young gentlemen who do nothing but
waste their own time and your labor.

BLEE.  We know.  Keep all the soft jobs for your lot and the hard
ones for us.  Do you take us for fools?

BARKING.  He does.  And you are fools.

SIR ARTHUR.  I am glad to have your lordship's support.

ALOYSIA.  Support your grandparents!  He wants to marry your

BARKING [springing up]  Oh!  You can hit below the belt, Aloysia.
But as a matter of fact, I do want to marry your daughter,

SIR ARTHUR.  Hardly the moment to go into that now, is it?

BARKING.  It was Aloysia and not I who let the cat out of the bag.
Being a cat herself she had a fellow-feeling for the animal.  [He
resumes his seat].

BLEE.  Youre an aristocrat, young-fellow-me-lad.  I always said
that when things got serious youd turn on us and side with your

BARKING.  Rot!  Youre always bragging that you are descended from
the Blee of Blayport, whoever he may have been.  I shouldnt have
tuppence in my pocket if my grandfather hadnt made a fortune in
pork pies and bought my father's Norman title for his daughter with
it.  The blue blood is in your skimpy little veins: the proletarian
red's in mine.

ALOYSIA.  Youve too much money, Toffy.

BARKING.  I havnt had all the pluck taken out of me by poverty,
like you chaps.  And what good will it do me to have a lot of money
when I have to work like anyone else?

SIR DEXTER.  Why should a man work like anyone else if he has money?

BARKING.  My brother had heaps of money; but he had to go into the
trenches and fight like anyone else in the war.  Thats how I came
into the property.

BLEE.  So we're all to be slaves for the sake of setting a few
loafers to work.  The workers will die sooner than put up with it.
I want my liberty--

BARKING.  Liberty to work fourteen hours a day and bring up three
children on thirtyfour shillings a week, like your brother the
shopman.  To hell with your filthy liberty!

BLEE [hotly]  I--

THE MAYOR.  Order! order!  Dont argue with him, Blee.  No good ever
comes of arguing with college men.  I'm not arguing with Sir
Arthur: I'm telling him.  The long and the short of it is that if
he dont withdraw that silly new program he'll lose every vote in
the Isle of Cats.  And what the Isle of Cats thinks today, all
England thinks tomorrow.

SIR JAFNA.  May I speak to this gentleman?  Will you introduce me,

SIR ARTHUR [introducing]  Sir Jafna Pandranath.  The Mayor of the
Isle of Cats.

SIR JAFNA.  You have heard of me, Mr Mayor.  You know that I am a
man who knows what he is talking about.  Well, I tell you that the
fundamental question is not the Labor question but the Land

THE MAYOR.  Yes: we all know that.

SIR JAFNA.  Then you will vote for Sir Arthur because he will
nationalize the land for you.

BLEE [scornfully]  Yes, with compensation!  Take the land with one
hand and give back its cash value to the landlords with the other!
Not likely.  I ask again, do you take us for fools?

SIR ARTHUR [introducing]  Mr Alderman Blee.

THE DUKE.  Enchanted.  I happen to be a landlord--a duke, in fact--
and I can assure you, Mr Alderman, that as the compensation will
come out of my own pocket and that of my unfortunate fellow
landlords in the form of income tax, surtax, and estate duties--
what you call death duties--you will get all your cash back and the
land as well.

THE MAYOR.  Blee: I tell you, dont argue.  Stick to your point.  No

BLEE.  Not a penny, by God.

THE DUKE.  You believe in God, Mr Alderman.  I am charmed to hear

Here the Duke is astonished to find Aloysia towering over him and
pointing an accusing finger at him.  At the moment of his
introduction of himself as a duke, her eyes lighted up; and she has
moved menacingly across the hearth towards him until she is now
standing behind the vacant chair between him and Basham.

ALOYSIA.  Have you ever heard of the Domesday clearances?

THE DUKE.  Clearances?  Which clearances do you refer to?  The
latest cleared me out of Domesday Towers.  I can no longer afford
to live there.

ALOYSIA.  Dont prevaricate.  You know very well what I mean.  It is
written in blood and tears on the pages of working class history.

SIR ARTHUR [introducing]  Alderwoman Aloysia Brollikins.  The Duke
of Domesday.

THE DUKE [rising courteously]  Wont you sit down?

ALOYSIA [sternly]  You shall not put me out by these tricks and
ceremonies.  My Lord Duke: I would rather touch the hand of the
most degraded criminal in London than touch yours.

THE DUKE [collapsing into his chair]  Great heavens!  Why?

ALOYSIA.  Do you forget how your family drove a whole countryside
of honest hardworking Scotch crofters into the sea, and turned
their little farms into deer forests because you could get more
shooting rents out of them in that way?  Do you forget that women
in childbirth were carried out by your bailiffs to die by the
roadside because they clung to their ancient homesteads and ignored
your infamous notices to quit?  Would it surprise you to learn that
I am only one of thousands of young women who have read the hideous
story of this monstrous orgy of house-breaking and murder, and
sworn to ourselves that never, if we can help it, will it again be
possible for one wicked rich man to say to a whole population "Get
off the earth."

SIR JAFNA.  Admirable!  What did I tell you?  Hear hear!

ALOYSIA.  I thank you, Sir Jafna, for shewing this man that even
hardened capitalist millionaires shudder when that story is told.
You will not find it in your school histories; but in the new
histories, the histories of the proletariat, it has been written,
not by the venal academic triflers you call historians, but by the
prophets of the new order: the men in whom the word is like a
burning fire shut up in their bones so that they are weary of
forbearing and must speak.

THE MAYOR.  Aye: in the Bible, that is.

ALOYSIA.  The Domesday Clearances filled your pockets with gold to
console you for the horror and remorse of your dreams: but the
vengeance they cried to God for in vain is upon you now that Labor
is coming to its own; and it is your turn now to get off the earth.

BLEE.  And in the face of all this, you come whining for
compensation!  Compensation!!  Compensation from us to you!  From
the oppressed to the oppressor!  What a mockery!

ALOYSIA.  It is from you that we shall exact compensation: aye,
to the uttermost farthing.  You are conspiring here with these
capitalist bloodsuckers to rob us again of the value of what you
have already stolen--to make us give you gilt edged securities in
exchange for the land that no longer brings you in shooting rents;
and you think we cannot see through the plot.  But in vain is the
net spread in sight of the bird.  We shall expose you.  We shall
tell the story of the Domesday Clearances until the country rings
with it if you dare to lift your dishonored head again in English
politics.  Your demand for compensation is dismissed, turned down:
we spit it back in your face.  The crofters whom you drove from
their country to perish in a foreign land would turn in their
graves at the chink of a single penny of public money in your
hungry pocket.  [She tears out a chair from under the table and
flops into it, panting with oratorical emotion].

BLEE        } Good for you, Brolly!
SIR JAFNA   } [enthused]  Hear hear!
SIR BEMROSE } [They hammer on the
GLENMORISON } table with their knuckles].

THE DUKE [very appreciative]  What a magnificent speech, Miss
Brollikins!  I really must insist on your shaking hands with me
before we part.

ALOYSIA.  Never.  How dare you ask me?  [She sweeps away from him
and sits down in the opposite chair at the other side of the

THE DUKE [taking the armchair]  May I not have the privilege of
telling my grandchildren how I once met and shook hands with the
greatest orator of my time?  I assure you all these shocking things
happened before I was born.

BLEE [bawling at him]  Yes; but you still pocket the shooting

THE DUKE [brusquely]  Of course I do; and so would you too if you
were in my place.  [Tenderly, to Aloysia]  I assure you, Miss
Brollikins, the people make much more money out of my shooting
tenants than they could as crofters: they would not go back to
croftering for worlds.  Wont you let bygones be bygones--except
when you are exercising your wonderful gift of eloquence on the
platform?  Think of what your ancestors were doing in those
ruthless old days!

BARKING.  Grabbing all they could get, like yours or mine.  Whats
the good of tubthumping at these johnnies, Brolly?  Theyve
been doing it themselves all their lives.  Cant you see that
compensation makes them share the loss fairly between them?

SIR BEMROSE.  It's no use.  These damned Liberals cant understand
anything but virtuous indignation.

THE MAYOR.  Who are you calling a Liberal?  I represent the Labor

SIR BEMROSE.  Youre a No Compensation man, arnt you?

THE MAYOR.  Of course I am.

SIR BEMROSE.  Then youre a Liberal.

THE MAYOR.  Call me what you like.  I'm not arguing.  I'm telling
you that the Labor Party of the Isle of Cats puts down its foot and
says No Compensation.  Is that plain?

SIR DEXTER.  I am glad we have arrived at the same conclusion from
our opposite points of view, Mr Mayor.  The Party I represent, the
Conservative Party, will withdraw from the Coalition if there is
the slightest wobbling on this point.  We shall defend our
property--and yours: yours, Mr Mayor, to the last drop of our

BASHAM [incisively re-entering the conversation; they had forgotten
him, and now turn to him in some surprise]  Our blood, you mean,
dont you?

SIR DEXTER [puzzled]  Whose blood?

BASHAM.  The police's blood.  You landed gentlemen never do a thing
yourselves: you only call us in.  I have twenty thousand
constables, all full of blood, to shed it in defence of whatever
the Government may decide to be your property.  If Sir Arthur
carries his point theyll shed it for land nationalization.  If you
carry yours theyll stand by your rent collectors as usual.

BLEE.  The police come from the ranks of labor: dont forget that.

BASHAM.  Thats not how they look at it, Blee.  They feel that
theyve escaped from the ranks of labor; and theyre proud of it.
They have a status which they feel to be a part of the status of
the Duke here.

THE DUKE.  I suppose that is why they are always so civil to me.

BASHAM.  In short, Mister Blee, the police are what you Socialists
call class-conscious.  You will find that out if you are foolish
enough to fall out with them.

BLEE.  Who cut their pay?  Tell me that.

SIR ARTHUR.  I shall restore the cuts, Mr Alderman, with a premium.

THE MAYOR.  There!  Now you see what comes of arguing, Blee.  It
only gives him his chance.

ALOYSIA.  You need not warn us, Sir Broadfoot Basham, D.S.O.,
K.C.M.G., O.B.E.  In the Class War your myrmidons will be well

THE DUKE.  Myrmidons!

ALOYSIA.  We know too well what we have to expect from your

BLEE.  Your bludgeoning Bashi-Bazouks.

ALOYSIA.  The Class War is a fact.  We face it.  What we want we
shall have to take; and we know it.  The good of the community is
nothing to you: you care only for surplus value.  You will never
give up your privileges voluntarily.  History teaches us that: the
history you never read.

THE DUKE.  I assure you, my dear Héloise?

ALOYSIA.  Héloise!  Who are you calling Héloise?

THE DUKE.  Pardon.  I could not resist the French form of your
charming name.

ALOYSIA [interjects]  The cheek!

THE DUKE [continuing]  I was merely going to point out, as between
one student of history and another, that in the French Revolution
it was the nobility who voluntarily abolished all their own
privileges at a single sitting, on the sentimental principles they
had acquired from reading the works of Karl Marx's revolutionary
predecessor Rousseau.  That bit of history is repeating itself
today.  Here is Sir Arthur offering us a program of what seems to
me to be first rate Platonic Communism.  I, a Conservative Duke,
embrace it.  Sir Jafna Pandranath here, a Liberal capitalist whose
billions shame my poverty, embraces it.  The Navy embraces it with
the sturdy arms of Sir Bemrose Hotspot.  The police are
enthusiastic.  The Army will be with Sir Arthur to the last man.
He has the whole propertied class on his side.  But the proletariat
rises against him and spews out his Socialism through the eloquent
lips of its Aloysia.  I recall the warning my dear old father gave
me when I was five years old.  Chained dogs are the fiercest
guardians of property; and those who attempt to unchain them are
the first to be bitten.

ALOYSIA.  Your Grace calls us dogs.  We shall not forget that.

THE DUKE.  I have found no friends better than faithful dogs, Miss
Brollikins.  But of course I spoke figuratively.  I should not
dream of calling you a dog.

ALOYSIA.  No.  As I am a female dog I suppose you will call me
something shorter when my back is turned.

THE DUKE.  Oh!  Think of the names you have called me!

THE MAYOR.  Well, if you will argue, Alderwoman Brollikins, there's
no use my staying here.  I wish I could stop your mouth as easy as
I can stop my ears.  Sir Arthur: youve planked down your program
and weve planked down our answer.  Either you drop compulsory labor
and drop compensation or never shew your face in the Isle of Cats
again.  [He goes out resolutely].

BLEE.  Take this from me.  I am no Communist: I am a respectable
Labor man, as law abiding as any man here.  I am what none of you
has mentioned yet: a democrat.  I am just as much against Cabinet
dictatorship as individual dictatorship.  What I want done is the
will of the people.  I am for the referendum.  I am for the
initiative.  When a majority of the people are in favour of a
measure then I am for that measure.

SIR BEMROSE.  Rot!  The majority is never in favour of any measure.
They dont know what a measure is.  What they want is their orders,
and as much comfort as they are accustomed to.  The lower deck
doesnt want to give orders, it looks to the bridge for them.  If I
asked my men to do my job theyd chuck me overboard; and serve me
jolly well right!  You just know nothing about it, because youve
never had to command; and you havnt sense enough to obey and be
thankful to those who have saved you the trouble of thinking for
yourself and keeping you off the rocks.

BLEE.  You havnt kept us off the rocks.  We're on the rocks, the
whole lot of us.  So long, Rosy.  [He goes out].

BARKING.  Silly swine!  When they are offered what they want they
wont have it just because you fellows want it too.  They think
there must be a catch in it somewhere.

THE DUKE.  There generally is.  That is how you feel, Miss
Brollikins, isnt it?

ALOYSIA.  You dont know how I feel; and you never will.  We are
going to save ourselves and not be saved by you and your class.
And I prefer Sir Dexter Rightside's downright outspoken opposition
to your silly-clever cynicism and your sickening compliments.

THE DUKE.  It is only in middle class books, Miss Brollikins, that
noblemen are always cynical and insincere.  I find you a most
brilliant and delightful woman.  May I not tell you so?  And WHAT a
speaker!  Will you spend a quiet week-end with me in some out-of-
the-way place in the country, and let me try to convince you that a
duke is a human being like yourself?

ALOYSIA [rearing]  Are you trying to seduce me?

THE DUKE.  That would be exquisite, Miss Brollikins; but I am an
old and very poor man.  You are young, beautiful, and probably
opulent.  Can you find anything seductive about me?

ALOYSIA.  Yes.  Youre a duke.  And you have the charm of a majestic
ruin, if you understand me.

BARKING [rising]  Come on out of this, Brolly: youre only making a
fool of yourself listening to that old bird buttering you up.  You
just dont know when to go.

ALOYSIA [moving to the hearthrug, behind Sir Arthur]  You can go if
you like.  I have some business with Sir Arthur that doesnt concern
you.  Get out.

SIR ARTHUR.  Some business with me!  Public business?

ALOYSIA.  Not exactly.

SIR ARTHUR.  Oh!  Private business?

ALOYSIA.  I dont care who knows it.  But perhaps you would.

BARKING.  She means to marry your son David.  One below the belt
for you, Brolly.  Ha ha!  Ha ha ha ha ha!  [He goes out roaring
with laughter].

SIR ARTHUR [after a moment of shock]  I congratulate David, Miss
Brollikins.  Have you arranged the date?

ALOYSIA.  I havnt mentioned it to him yet.  I hope all you
gentlemen will remember that I was not the one that blurted this
out: it was your noble viscount.  However, now it's out, I stand by
it: David is a good boy; and his class is not his fault.  Goodbye
all.  [She goes to the door].

THE DUKE [rising]  And that week-end, Miss Brollikins?  Or has
David cut me out?

ALOYSIA.  Right you are.  Your Grace!  I will call for you at
Domesday House on Friday at half past four.  As I shall bring a few
friends we shall hire an omnibus from the London Transport; so you
neednt trouble about a car.  You wont mind my publishing an account
of what happens as a special interview: you know that we Labor
intelligentsia have to live by our brains.  Au revoir.  [She goes

THE DUKE.  There is a frightful unexpectedness about these people.
Where on earth shall I borrow the money to pay for the omnibus and
entertain them all?  [He goes back to his chair at the end of the
table and sits down].

BASHAM.  Your share will only be a few shillings, Duke; and she
will reckon on having to pay for you.  What girl in her class
wouldnt foot the bill if she had a duke to walk out with?

THE DUKE.  You reassure me, Sir Broadfoot.  Thank you.

SIR DEXTER [triumphant]  Well, Chavender?  What have you to say
now?  When these people came in I was saying that though I was
alone in this room, the people of England were on my side and
always would be when it came to the point.  Was I right or wrong?

SIR BEMROSE.  We never meant to desert you, Dexy.  You mustnt think

SIR ARTHUR.  As you have no more intention of consulting the people
of England than I have, the situation is unaltered.

SIR DEXTER.  Than you have!  What do you mean?  Do you think you can
govern in this country without the consent of the English people?

SIR ARTHUR.  No country has ever been governed by the consent of
the people, because the people object to be governed at all.  Even
you, who ought to know better, are always complaining of the income

THE DUKE.  But five shillings in the pound, Arthur!  Five shillings
in the pound!!

SIR DEXTER.  Never mind my income tax.  If what you said just now
means anything it means that you are going to play fast and loose
with democracy: that is, you think you are going to do something
that both the people and the governing class of this country are
determined you shall not do.  The Conservative Party, which is ten
times more really democratic than you Liberals have ever been, will
carry the people with it against you.  How do you propose to get
over that?  What are you banking on?  Put your cards on the table
if you really have any.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, here is my ace of trumps.  The people of this
country, and of all the European countries, and of America, are at
present sick of being told that, thanks to democracy, they are the
real government of the country.  They know very well that they dont
govern and cant govern and know nothing about Government except
that it always supports profiteering, and doesnt really respect
anything else, no matter what party flag it waves.  They are sick
of twaddle about liberty when they have no liberty.  They are sick
of idling and loafing about on doles when they are not drudging for
wages too beggarly to pay the rents of anything better than
overcrowded one-room tenements.  They are sick of me and sick of
you and sick of the whole lot of us.  They want to see something
done that will give them decent employment.  They want to eat and
drink the wheat and coffee that the profiteers are burning because
they cant sell it at a profit.  They want to hang people who burn
good food when people are going hungry.  They cant set matters
right themselves; so they want rulers who will discipline them and
make them do it instead of making them do the other thing.  They
are ready to go mad with enthusiasm for any man strong enough to
make them do anything, even if it is only Jew baiting, provided
it's something tyrannical, something coercive, something that we
all pretend no Englishman would submit to, though weve known ever
since we gave them the vote that theyd submit to anything.

SIR DEXTER [impatiently]  Yes, yes: we know the cant of all the
tuppeny-hapeny dictators who think themselves Mussolinis.  Come
down to tin tacks.  How are you going to get it through Parliament?

SIR ARTHUR.  I am not going to get it through Parliament: I am going
to prorogue Parliament and then do it.  When it is done I shall
call a meeting of Parliament to pass an Act of Indemnity for all my

SIR DEXTER.  You cannot prorogue Parliament.  Only the King can
prorogue Parliament.

SIR ARTHUR.  Precisely.  Kings always have prorogued Parliament and
governed without them until money ran short.

GLENMORISON.  But, man alive, it is not His Majesty alone that you
have to consider.  The law courts will not enforce your decisions
if they are illegal.  The civil servants will sabotage you even if
they dont flatly disobey you.

SIR ARTHUR.  We shall sidetrack them quite easily by setting up new
tribunals and special commissions manned by officials we can depend

SIR DEXTER.  That was how Cromwell cut off King Charles's head.  His
commissioners found out afterwards that they were doing it with
ropes round their rascally necks.

SIR ARTHUR.  A rope round a statesman's neck is the only
constitutional safeguard that really safeguards.  But never fear
the rope.  As long as we give the people an honest good time we can
do just what seems good to us.  The proof of the pudding will be in
the eating.  That will be really responsible government at last.

SIR DEXTER.  So that is your game, is it?  Has it occurred to you
that two can play at it?  What can you do that I cannot do if you
drive me to it: tell me that.

SIR ARTHUR.  Nothing, if you are willing to take on my job.  Are

SIR DEXTER.  The job of ruining the country and destroying the
empire?  My job is to prevent you from doing that.  And I will
prevent you.

SIR ARTHUR.  Your job is to prevent me or anybody else from doing
anything.  Your job is to prevent the world from moving.  Well, it
is moving; and if you dont get out of the way something will break;
and it wont be the world.

SIR DEXTER.  Nothing has broken so far except the heads of the
unemployed when they are encouraged by your seditious rot to rebel
against the laws of nature.  England is not breaking.  She stands
foursquare where she always stood and always will stand: the
strongest and greatest land, and the birthplace of the noblest
imperial race, that ever God created.

SIR ARTHUR.  Loud and prolonged cheering.  Come! let us both stop
tub thumping and talk business.  The real master of the situation
is Basham here, with his fifteen thousand police.

BASHAM.  Twenty thousand.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, twenty thousand.  They dont stop functioning when
Parliament is prorogued, do they?

BASHAM.  No.  At Scotland Yard we look to the Home Secretary as far
as we look to anybody.

SIR ARTHUR.  I can make myself Home Secretary.  So that will be all

SIR DEXTER.  Will it, by George?  If you and Basham dare to try your
twenty thousand police on me, do you know what I will do?


SIR DEXTER.  I will put fifty thousand patriotic young Londoners
into Union Jack shirts.  You say they want discipline and action.
They shall have them.  They shall have machine guns and automatic
pistols and tear gas bombs.  My Party has the money.  My Party has
the newspapers.  My Party has the flag, the traditions, the glory
that is England, the pluck, the breed, the fighting spirit.  One of
us is worth ten of your half starved guttersnipes and their leaders
that never could afford more than a shilling for a dinner until
they voted themselves four hundred a year out of our pockets.

SIR BEMROSE [carried away]  Thats the stuff, Dexy.  Now you are
talking, by Jiminy.

BASHAM [taking command of the discussion coolly]  You are all
talking through your hats.  The police can do nothing unless the
people are on the side of the police.  The police cant be
everywhere: there arnt enough of them.  As long as the people will
call the police when anything goes wrong, and stop the runaway
criminal and give evidence against him, then twenty thousand
constables can keep eight million citizens in order.  But if the
citizens regard the policeman as their enemy--if the man who snipes
a policeman in the back is not given in charge by the bystanders--
if he is helped to get away--if the police cannot get a single
citizen to go into the box and witness against him, where are you
then?  You have to double your force because the police must patrol
in pairs: otherwise the men will be afraid to patrol at all.  Your
twenty thousand have to be reinforced up to forty thousand for
their own protection; but that doesnt protect you.  You would have
to put two policemen standing over every ablebodied man and woman
in the town to see that they behaved themselves as you want them to
behave.  You would need not thousands of constables but millions.

SIR DEXTER.  My Union Jack men would keep order, or theyd know the
reason why.

BASHAM.  And who would keep them in order, I should like to know:
silly amateurs.  And let me remind you of one thing.  It seems easy
to buy a lot of black shirts, or brown shirts, or red shirts, and
give one to every hooligan who is out for any sort of mischief and
every suburban out-of-work who fancies himself a patriot.  But dont
forget that the colored shirt is a uniform.

GLENMORISON.  What harm is there in that?  It enables a man to
recognize his friends.

BASHAM.  Yes; but it marks him out as an enemy in uniform; and to
kill an enemy in uniform at sight is not murder: it's legitimate

SIR DEXTER.  Monstrous!  I should give no quarter to such an
outrageous piece of sophistry.

BASHAM.  In war you have to give quarter because you have to ask
for it as often as to give it.  It's easy to sit here and think of
exterminating your opponents.  But a war of extermination is a
massacre.  How long do you think a massacre would last in England
today?  Just as long as it takes a drunken man to get sick and

GLENMORISON.  Easy, Sir Broadfoot, easy, easy.  Who is talking of
extermination?  I dont think you will ever induce respectable
Britons to wear red-white-and-blue shirts; but surely you can have
volunteers, special constables, auxiliary forces--

BASHAM [flinching violently]  Auxiliary forces!  I was in command
of them in Ireland when you tried that game on the Irish, who were
only a little handful of peasants in their cabbage patch.  I have
seen these things.  I have done them.  I know all about it: you
know nothing about it.  It means extermination; and when it comes
to the point you cant go through with it.  I couldnt.  I resigned.
You couldnt: you had to back down.  And I tell you, Dexy, if you
try any colored shirt hooliganism on me, I'll back the P.M. and
shew you what Scotland Yard can do when it's put to it.

SIR DEXTER.  Traitor!

BASHAM.  Liar!  Now weve called one another names how much farther
has it got us?

GLENMORISON.  Easy, easy: dont let us quarrel.  I must support the
Prime Minister, Sir Dexter, to secure my seat in Parliament.  But
I am a Liberal, and, as such, bound by Liberal principles.
Whatever we do must be done through Parliament if I am to be a
party to it.  I am all for the new program; but we must draw up
a parliamentary timetable for it.  To carry out the program will
involve the introduction of at least twelve bills.  They are highly 
controversial bills: everyone of them will be resisted and
obstructed to the very last clause.  You may have to go to the
country on several of them.  The committee stages will last for
weeks and weeks, no matter how hard you work the guillotine: there
will be thousands of amendments.  Then, when you have got through
what is left of your Bill and carried it, the House of Lords will
turn it down; and you will have to wait two years and go through
the whole job again before you can get your Bill on the statute
book as an Act of Parliament.  This program is not a matter of
today or tomorrow.  I calculate that at the very least it will take
fifty years to get it through.

SIR ARTHUR.  And you think the world will wait for that, Sandy?

GLENMORISON [naïvely]  What else can it do?

SIR ARTHUR.  It wont wait.  Unless we can find a shorter way, the
program will be fought out in the streets.

SIR DEXTER.  And you think that in the streets you will win?  You
think the mob will be on your side?  "Ye are many: they are few"
eh?  The Class War!  Well, you will find out your mistake.

SIR ARTHUR.  I dont believe in the Class War any more than you do,
Dexy.  I know that half the working class is slaving away to pile
up riches, only to be smoked out like a hive of bees and plundered
of everything but a bare living by our class.  But what is the
other half doing?  Living on the plunder at second hand.
Plundering the plunderers.  As fast as we fill our pockets with
rent and interest and profits theyre emptied again by West End
tradesmen and hotel keepers, fashionable doctors and lawyers and
parsons and fiddlers and portrait painters and all sorts, to say
nothing of huntsmen and stablemen and gardeners, valets and
gamekeepers and jockeys, butlers and housekeepers and ladies' maids
and scullery maids and deuce knows who not.

THE DUKE.  How true, Arthur! how profoundly true!  I am with you
there to the last drop of my blood.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, these parasites will fight for the rights of
property as they would fight for their own skins.  Can you get a
Labor member into Parliament in the places where they are in a
majority?  No: there is no class war: the working class is
hopelessly divided against itself.  But I will tell you what there
is.  There is the gulf between Dexy's view of the world and mine.
There is the eternal war between those who are in the world for
what they can get out of it and those who are in the world to make
it a better place for everybody to live in.

SIR DEXTER [rising]  I will not sit here listening to this
disgusting ungentlemanly nonsense.  Chavender: the coalition is
dissolved.  I resign.  I shall take with me three quarters of the
Cabinet.  I shall expose the shamelessly corrupt motives of those
who have supported you here today.  Basham: you will get the sack
the day after the King sends for me.  Domesday: you have gone gaga:
go home to bed and drivel where your dotage can do no harm.  Rosy:
you are a damned fool; and you ought to know it by this time.
Pandranath: you are only a silly nigger pretending to be an English
gentleman: you are found out.  Good afternoon, gentlemen.

He goes out, leaving an atmosphere of awe behind him, in which the
Indian is choking with indignation, and for the moment inarticulate.

SIR BEMROSE.  This is awful.  We cannot do without him.

SIR JAFNA [finding his tongue]  I am despised.  I am called nigger
by this dirty faced barbarian whose forefathers were naked savages
worshipping acorns and mistletoe in the woods whilst my people were
spreading the highest enlightenment yet reached by the human race
from the temples of Brahma the thousandfold who is all the gods in
one.  This primitive savage dares to accuse me of imitating him:
me, with the blood in my veins of conquerors who have swept through
continents vaster than a million dogholes like this island of
yours.  They founded a civilization compared to which your little
kingdom is no better than a concentration camp.  What you have of
religion came from the east; yet no Hindu, no Parsee, no Jain,
would stoop to its crudities.  Is there a mirror here?  Look at
your faces and look at the faces of my people in Ceylon, the cradle
of the human race.  There you see Man as he came from the hand of
God, who has left on every feature the unmistakeable stamp of the
great original creative artist.  There you see Woman with eyes in
her head that mirror the universe instead of little peepholes
filled with faded pebbles.  Set those features, those eyes, those
burning colors beside the miserable smudged lumps of half baked
dough, the cheap commercial copies of a far away gallery of
masterpieces that you call western humanity, and tell me, if you
dare, that you are the original and I the imitation.  Do you not
fear the lightning? the earthquake? the vengeance of Vishnu?  You
call me nigger, sneering at my color because you have none.  The
jackdaw has lost his tail and would persuade the world that his
defect is a quality.  You have all cringed to me, not for my
greater nearness to God, but for my money and my power of making
money and ever more money.  But today your hatred, your envy, your
insolence has betrayed itself.  I am nigger.  I am bad imitation of
that eater of unclean foods, never sufficiently washed in his
person or his garments, a British islander.  I will no longer bear
it.  The veil of your hypocrisy is rent by your own mouths: I
should dishonor my country and my race by remaining here where both
have been insulted.  Until now I have supported the connection
between India and England because I knew that in the course of
nature and by the justice of Brahma it must end in India ruling
England just as I, by my wealth and my brains, govern this roomful
of needy imbeciles.  But I now cast you off.  I return to India to
detach it wholly from England, and leave you to perish in your
ignorance, your vain conceit, and your abominable manners.  Good
morning, gentlemen.  To hell with the lot of you.  [He goes out and
slams the door].

SIR ARTHUR.  That one word nigger will cost us India.  How could
Dexy be such a fool as to let it slip!

SIR BEMROSE [very serious--rising solemnly]  Arthur: I feel I
cannot overlook a speech like that.  After all, we are white men.

SIR ARTHUR.  You are not, Rosy, I assure you.  You are walnut color,
with a touch of claret on the nose.  Glenmorison is the color of
his native oatmeal: not a touch of white on him.  The fairest man
present is the Duke.  He's as yellow as a Malayan headhunter.  The
Chinese call us Pinks.  They flatter us.

SIR BEMROSE.  I must tell you, Arthur, that frivolity on a vital
point like this is in very bad taste.  And you know very well that
the country cannot do without Dexy.  Dexy was at school with me
before I went to Dartmouth.  To desert him would be for me not only
an act of political bad faith but of personal bad feeling.  I must
go and see him at once.  [He goes very sadly to the door].

SIR ARTHUR.  Make my apologies to Sir Jafna if you overtake him.
How are we to hold the empire together if we insult a man who
represents nearly seventy per cent of its population?

SIR BEMROSE.  I dont agree with you, Arthur.  It is for Pandy to
apologize.  Dexy really shares the premiership with you; and if a
Conservative Prime Minister of England may not take down a heathen
native when he forgets himself there is an end of British

SIR ARTHUR.  For Heaven's sake dont call him a native.  You are a

SIR BEMROSE [very solemnly]  Of Kent, Arthur: of Kent.  Not of
Ceylon.  [He goes out].

GLENMORISON.  I think I'd better clear out too.  I can make
allowances for Sir Dexter: he is an Englishman, and has not been
trained to use his mind like us in Scotland.  But that is just what
gives him such a hold on the Country.  We must face it: he's
indispensable.  I'll just go and assure him that we have no
intention of breaking with him.  Ta ta.  Good morning, Duke.
[He goes out].

SIR ARTHUR [rising and strolling round to the other side of the
table like a cleaned-out gambler]  That finishes me, I'm afraid.

He throws himself into the middle chair.  Basham rises moodily and
goes to the window to contemplate the street.  The Duke comes
sympathetically to Sir Arthur and sits down beside him.

THE DUKE.  Oh Arthur, my dear Arthur, why didnt you play golf on
your holiday instead of thinking?  Didnt you know that English
politics wont bear thinking about?  Didnt you know that as a nation
we have lost the trick of thinking?  Hadnt you noticed that though
in our great British Constitution there is a department for
everything else in the world almost--for agriculture and health and
fisheries, for home affairs and foreign affairs and education, for
the exchequer and the Treasury and even the Chiltern Hundreds and
the Duchy of Lancaster--we have no department for thinking?  The
Russians have a special Cabinet for it; and it has knocked the
whole place to pieces.  Where should you and I be in Russia today?
[He resumes his seat with a hopeless shrug].

SIR ARTHUR.  In our proper place, the dustbin.  Yet they got their
ideas from us.  Karl Marx thought it all out in Bloomsbury.  Lenin
learnt his lesson in Holford Square, Islington.  Why can we never
think out anything, nor learn any lessons?  I see what has to be
done now; but I dont feel that I am the man to do it.

THE DUKE.  Of course not.  Not a gentleman's job.

SIR ARTHUR.  It might be a duke's job, though.  Why not have a try
at it?

THE DUKE.  For three reasons, Arthur.  First, I'm not built that
way.  Second, I'm so accustomed as a duke to be treated with the
utmost deference that I simply dont know how to assert myself and
bully people.  Third, I'm so horribly hard up for pocket money
without knowing how to do without it that Ive lost all my self-
respect.  This job needs a man with nothing to lose, plenty of hard
driving courage, and a complete incapacity for seeing any side of a
question but his own.  A mere hereditary duke would be no use.
When Domesday Towers is sold to an American I shall have no family
seat left, and must fall back on my political seat, which is at
present on the fence.  From that eminence I shall encourage the
dictator when he arrives as far as I can without committing myself
dangerously.  Sorry I can be of no use to you, my dear Arthur.

SIR ARTHUR.  What about you, Basham?  You are a man of action.

BASHAM.  I have a jolly good mind to go to the King and make him
take the bit between his teeth and arrest the lot of you.

SIR ARTHUR.  Do, Basham, do.  You couldnt make a worse hash of
things than we have.

THE DUKE.  Theres nothing to prevent you.  Look at Kemal Pasha!
Look at Mussolini!  Look at Hitler!  Look at De Valera!  Look at
Franklin Roosevelt!

BASHAM.  If only I had ambition enough I'd think very seriously
over it.  As it is, I'll go back quietly to Scotland Yard.  [He is
going out when he is confronted in the doorway by Hipney]  Hallo!
What the devil are you doing here?

SIR ARTHUR.  I am afraid you are late, Mr Hipney.  The deputation
has been here.  They have all gone.

HIPNEY [seating himself beside Sir Arthur with his usual calm]  I
came with them, Srarthur.  I been listening on the quiet as
you might say.  I just came in to tell you not to mind that
parliamentary lot.  Theyre all the same, west end or east end,
parkside or riverside.  Theyll never do anything.  They dont want
to do anything.

BASHAM [sitting down again in Hilda's chair]  Hipney: I may as well
tell you that I have had my eye on you for some time.  Take care I
have no objection to your calling yourself a revolutionary
Socialist: they all do that.  But I suspect you of really meaning

HIPNEY.  I do, Sir Broadfoot: I do.  And if Srarthur means
business, then let him come out of Parliament and keep out.  It
will take the life out of him and leave him a walking talking shell
of a man with nothing inside.  The only man that ever had a proper
understanding of Parliament was old Guy Fawkes.

SIR ARTHUR.  But even if he had blown that Parliament up, they
would just have elected another.

HIPNEY.  Yes; but it was a sort of gesture as you might say.
Symbolic, I call it.  Mark my words: some day there will be a
statue to old Guy in Westminster on the site of the present House
of Commons.

THE DUKE.  Democracy, Arthur, democracy.  This is what it ends in.

SIR ARTHUR [introducing]  His Grace the Duke of Domesday, Mr

HIPNEY.  Bless you, I know his Grace.  About town, as you might
say, though weve never been introduced.

THE DUKE.  Very much honored, Mr Hipney.

HIPNEY.  No great honor, your Grace.  But old Hipney can tell you
something about Democracy at first hand.  Democracy was a great
thing when I was young and we had no votes.  We talked about public
opinion and what the British people would stand and what they
wouldnt stand.  And it had weight, I tell you, sir: it held
Governments in check: it frightened the stoutest of the tyrants and
the bosses and the police: it brought a real reverence into the
voices of great orators like Bright and Gladstone.  But that was
when it was a dream and a vision, a hope and a faith and a promise.
It lasted until they dragged it down to earth, as you might say,
and made it a reality by giving everybody votes.  The moment they
gave the working men votes they found that theyd stand anything.
They gave votes to the women and found they were worse than the
men; for men would vote for men--the wrong men, but men all the
same--but the women wouldnt even vote for women.  Since then
politics have been a laughing stock.  Parliamentary leaders say one
thing on Monday and just the opposite on Wednesday; and nobody
notices any difference.  They put down the people in Egypt, in
Ireland, and in India with fire and sword, with floggings and
hangings, burning the houses over their heads and bombing their
little stores for the winter out of existence; and at the next
election theyd be sent back to Parliament by working class
constituencies as if they were plaster saints, while men and women
like me, that had spent their lives in the service of the people,
were booted out at the polls like convicted criminals.  It wasnt
that the poor silly sheep did it on purpose.  They didnt notice:
they didnt remember: they couldnt understand: they were taken in by
any nonsense they heard at the meetings or read in the morning
paper.  You could stampede them by crying out that the Russians
were coming, or rally them by promising them to hang the Kaiser, or
Lord knows what silliness that shouldnt have imposed on a child of
four.  That was the end of democracy for me; though there was no
man alive that had hoped as much from it, nor spoke deeper from his
heart about all the good things that would happen when the people
came to their own and had votes like the gentry.  Adult suffrage:
that was what was to save us all.  My God!  It delivered us into
the hands of our spoilers and oppressors, bound hand and foot by
our own folly and ignorance.  It took the heart out of old Hipney;
and now I'm for any Napoleon or Mussolini or Lenin or Chavender
that has the stuff in him to take both the people and the spoilers
and oppressors by the scruffs of their silly necks and just sling
them into the way they should go with as many kicks as may be
needful to make a thorough job of it.

BASHAM.  A dictator: eh?  Thats what you want.

HIPNEY.  Better one dictator standing up responsible before the
world for the good and evil he does than a dirty little dictator in
every street responsible to nobody, to turn you out of your house
if you dont pay him for the right to exist on the earth, or to fire
you out of your job if you stand up to him as a man and an equal.
You cant frighten me with a word like dictator.  Me and my like has
been dictated to all our lives by swine that have nothing but a
snout for money, and think the world is coming to an end if anybody
but themselves is given the power to do anything.

SIR ARTHUR.  Steady, Mr Hipney, steady!  Dont empty the baby out
with the bath.  If the people are to have no voice in the
government and no choice of who is to govern them, it will be bad
for the people.

HIPNEY.  Let em have a voice.  Let em have a choice.  Theyve
neither at present.  But let it be a voice to squeal with when
theyre hurt, and not to pretend they know more than God Almighty
does.  Give em a choice between qualified men: there's always more
than one pebble on the beach; but let them be qualified men and not
windbags and movie stars and soldiers and rich swankers and lawyers
on the make.  How are they to tell the difference between any cheap
Jack and Solomon or Moses?  The Jews didnt elect Moses: he just
told them what to do and they did it.  Look at the way they went
wrong the minute his back was turned!  If you want to be a leader
of the people, Srarthur, youve got to elect yourself by giving us a
lead.  Old Hipney will follow anyone that will give him a good
lead; and to blazes with your elections and your Constitution and
your Democracy and all the rest of it!

THE DUKE.  The police wont let him, Mr Hipney.

BASHAM [rising and planting himself between Hipney and Sir Arthur]
Ha ha ha!  Dont be too sure of that.  I might come down on your
side, Arthur, if I spotted you as a winner.  Meanwhile, Hipney, I
have my eye on you as a dangerous character.

SIR ARTHUR.  And on me?

BASHAM.  You dont matter: he does.  If the proletariat comes to the
top things will be more comfortable for Hipney; but they wont be
more comfortable for you.  His heart is in the revolution: you have
only your head in it.  Your wife wouldnt like it: his would, if he
has one.

HIPNEY.  Not me.  I'm under no woman's thumb.  She's dead; and the
children are grown up and off my hands.  I'm free at last to put my
neck in a noose if I like.

BASHAM.  I wonder should I find any bombs in your house if I
searched it.

HIPNEY.  You would if you put them there first, Sir Broadfoot.
What good would a police chief be if he couldnt find anything he
wanted to find?

BASHAM.  Thats a suggestion, Hipney, certainly.  Isnt it rather
rash of you to put it into my head?

HIPNEY.  There's plenty to put it into your head if I didnt.  You
could do it if you liked; and you know it, Sir Broadfoot.  But
perhaps your conscience wouldnt let you.

BASHAM.  Perhaps.

HIPNEY [rising with a chuckle]  Aha!  [Impressively]  You take it
from me, you three gentlemen: all this country or any country has
to stand between it and blue hell is the consciences of them that
are capable of governing it.

THE DUKE [rising]  Mr Hipney: I find myself in complete agreement
with you.  Will you lunch with me at the Carlton?

HIPNEY.  No: them big clubs is too promiscuous for the like of you
and me.  You come and lunch with me: I know a nice little place
where the cooking's good and the company really select.  You wont
regret it: come along.  Morning, Srarthur.  Morning, Boss.  [He
goes out, greatly pleased].

SIR ARTHUR AND BASHAM [simultaneously]  Morning.  Morning.

THE DUKE.  You would never have got rid of him, Arthur, if I hadnt
made that move.  Goodbye.  Goodbye, Sir Broadfoot.  [He goes to the
door]  Basham, Goodbye.  I wish you joy of your host.

THE DUKE.  You dont appreciate him.  He is absolutely unique.

BASHAM.  In what way, pray?

THE DUKE.  He is the only politician I ever met who had learnt
anything from experience [he goes out].

BASHAM [making for the door]  Well, I must be off to the Yard.  The
unemployed are going to have a general election to amuse them.  I
suppose youll be off to your constituency right away.

SIR ARTHUR [rising]  No.  I am not going to stand.

BASHAM [returning to him in amazement]  Not stand!  What do you
mean?  You cant chalk up a program like that and then run away.

SIR ARTHUR.  I am through with parliament.  It has wasted enough of
my life.

BASHAM.  Dont tell me you are going to take your politics into the
street.  You will only get your head broken.

SIR ARTHUR.  Never fear: your fellows wont break my head: they have
too much respect for an ex-Prime Minister.  But I am not going into
the streets.  I am not a man of action, only a talker.  Until the
men of action clear out the talkers we who have social consciences
are at the mercy of those who have none; and that, as old Hipney
says, is blue hell.  Can you find a better name for it?

BASHAM.  Blackguardocracy.  I should call it.

SIR ARTHUR.  Do you believe in it?  I dont.

BASHAM.  It works all right up to a point.  Dont run your head
against it until the men of action get you past that point.  Bye

SIR ARTHUR.  Bye bye.  I wont.

Basham goes out through the main door.  Sir Arthur drops into his
chair again and looks rather sick, with his elbows on his knees and
his temples on his fists.  Barking and Miss Brollikins break into
the room simultaneously by the private door, struggling for
precedence, Sir Arthur straightens up wearily.

BARKING.  I was here first.  You get out and wait for your turn.

ALOYSIA.  Ladies first, if you please.  Sir Arthur--

BARKING [barring her way with an arm of iron]  Ladies be damned!
youre no lady.  [He comes past the table to Sir Arthur's right].

SIR ARTHUR: I have proposed for the hand of your daughter Flavia;
and all I can get out of her is that she is not a gold digger, and
wouldnt be seen at a wedding with a lousy viscount.  She wants to
marry a poor man.  I said I'd go over her head straight to you.
You cant let her miss so good a match.  Exert your authority.  Make
her marry me.

SIR ARTHUR.  Certainly.  I'll order her to marry you if you think
that will get you any further.  Go and tell her so, like a good
boy.  I'm busy.

BARKING.  Righto!  [He dashes out through the masked door].

SIR ARTHUR.  Sit down, Miss Brollikins.  [She comes round to
Hipney's chair; and Sir Arthur takes the Duke's chair].  Have you
consulted David?

ALOYSIA [sitting down rather forlornly]  Of course I have.  But
he's obstinate.  He wont look at it the right way.

SIR ARTHUR.  Did he object?  He should have jumped at it.

ALOYSIA.  Its very nice of you to say so if you really mean it, Sir
Arthur.  But he has no sense.  He objects to my name.  He says it's

SIR ARTHUR.  But your marriage will change it.

ALOYSIA.  Yes; but he says it would be in The Times in the births
marriages and deaths: Chavender and Brollikins.  My name's not good
enough for him.  You should have heard what he said about it.

SIR ARTHUR.  I hope he did not use the adjective his sister applied
to poor young Barking's title.

ALOYSIA.  Yes he did.  The language you West End people use!  I'm
sure I dont know where you pick it up.

SIR ARTHUR.  It doesnt mean anything, Miss Brollikins.  You mustnt

ALOYSIA.  Would you mind calling me Aloysia, Sir Arthur?  You can
call me Brolly if you like; but I prefer Aloysia.

SIR ARTHUR.  Certainly, Aloysia.

ALOYSIA.  Thank you.  I wish I could get rid of Brollikins.  I'd
never stoop to be ashamed of my name; but I cant deny there's
something funny about it.  I'm not to blame for that, am I?

SIR ARTHUR.  But you can get rid of it quite easily.  You can take a
new name: any name you like, by deed poll.  It costs only ten
pounds; and David would have to pay it if it was on his account you
changed.  What about Bolingbroke [he pronounces it Bullingbrook]?
Bolingbroke would be rather a nice name for The Times; and you
wouldnt have to change your initials.  No bother about your clothes
at the laundry, for instance.

ALOYSIA.  Thank you, Sir Arthur: thats a practical suggestion.  At
any rate it will shut David up if he talks about my name again.

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, now you can run off and marry him.

ALOYSIA.  But thats not all, Sir Arthur.  He's such a queer boy.
He says he's never loved anyone but his sister, and that he hates
his mother.

SIR ARTHUR.  He had no right to tell you that he hates his mother,
because as a matter of fact he doesnt.  Young people nowadays read
books about psycho-analysis and get their heads filled with

ALOYSIA.  Of course I know all about psycho-analysis.  I explained
to him that he was in love with his mother and was jealous of you.
The Edipus complex, you know.

SIR ARTHUR.  And what did he say to that?

ALOYSIA.  He told me to go to Jericho.  But I shall teach him

SIR ARTHUR.  Do, Aloysia.  Did he make any further objection?

ALOYSIA.  Well, he says his people couldnt stand my relatives.

SIR ARTHUR.  Tut! the young snob!  Still, snobbery is a very real
thing: he made a point there, Aloysia.  How did you meet it?

ALOYSIA.  I said my people couldnt stand his relatives; and no more
they could.  I said I wasnt asking him to marry my relatives; nor
was I proposing to marry his.

SIR ARTHUR.  And what did he say to that?

ALOYSIA.  He told me to go to hell.  He's like that, you know.

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes, a hasty boy.

ALOYSIA.  He is, just that.  But I shall cure him of it.

SIR ARTHUR [gravely]  Take care, Aloysia.  All young women begin by
believing they can change and reform the men they marry.  They
cant.  If you marry David he will remain David and nobody else til
death do you part.  If he tells you to go to hell today instead of
trying to argue with you, he will do the same on the morning of
your silver wedding.

ALOYSIA [grimly]  We shall see.

SIR ARTHUR.  May I ask whether this match is your idea or David's?
So far I do not gather that he has expressed any strong feeling of--
of--shall I say devotion?--to you.

ALOYSIA.  We have discussed all that.

SIR ARTHUR.  Satisfactorily?

ALOYSIA.  I suppose so.  You see, Sir Arthur, I am not like David.
I am a reading thinking modern woman; and I know how to look at
these things objectively and scientifically.  You know the way you
meet thousands of people and they mean nothing to you sexually: you
wouldnt touch one of them with a barge pole.  Then all of a sudden
you pick out one, and feel sexy all over.  If he's not nice you
feel ashamed of yourself and run away.  But if he is nice you say
"Thats the man for me."  You have had that experience yourself,
havnt you?

SIR ARTHUR.  Quite.  The moment I saw Lady Chavender I said "Thats
the woman for me."

ALOYSIA.  Well, the moment I laid eyes on David I went all over
like that.  You cant deny that he is a nice boy in spite of his
awful language.  So I said--

SIR ARTHUR.  "David's the man for me"?

ALOYSIA.  No.  I said "Evolution is telling me to marry this
youth."  That feeling is the only guide I have to the evolutionary

SIR ARTHUR.  The what??

ALOYSIA.  The evolutionary appetite.  The thing that wants to
develop the race.  If I marry David we shall develop the race.  And
thats the great thing in marriage, isnt it?

SIR ARTHUR.  My dear Aloysia, the evolutionary appetite may be a
guide to developing the race; but it doesnt care a rap for domestic
happiness.  I have known the most remarkable children come of the
most dreadfully unsuitable and unhappy marriages.

ALOYSIA.  We have to take our chance of that, Sir Arthur.  Marriage
is a lottery.  I think I can make David as happy as anybody ever is
in this--

SIR ARTHUR.  In this wicked world.  Ah yes.  Well, I wont press

ALOYSIA.  I was about to say "in the capitalist phase of social
development."  I dont talk like your grandmother, if you will
excuse me saying so.

SIR ARTHUR.  I beg your pardon.  I suppose I do.  Have you
explained this evolutionary view of the situation to David?

ALOYSIA.  Of course I have.  I dont treat him as a child.

SIR ARTHUR.  And what did he say?

ALOYSIA.  He told me to go and--Oh, I really cannot repeat what he
told me to go and do.  But you see how familiar we are together.  I
couldnt bear his being distant with me.  He talks just as if we
were married already.

SIR ARTHUR.  Quite.  But does he feel about you as you feel about
him?  Has he picked you out from among the thousand ladies to whom
he is indifferent?  To use your own expression, does he come all
over like that in your presence?

ALOYSIA.  He does when I get hold of him.  He needs educating in
these matters.  I have to awaken David.  But he's coming along

SIR ARTHUR.  Well, if it must be it must be.  I shall not withhold
my blessing.  That is all I can say.  [He rises: she does the same
and prepares to go].  You see, Aloysia, the effete society in which
I move is based on the understanding that we shall speak and behave
in the manner in which we are expected to behave.  We are hopeless
when this understanding is violated.  We dont know what to say or
what to do.  Well, you have violated it recklessly.  What you have
said has been unexpected to the last possible degree--

ALOYSIA.  It has been true.

SIR ARTHUR.  That is the climax of unexpectedness in polite society.
Therefore I am at a loss.  Apparently my son was not at a loss.  He
knows how to deal with you: I do not.  I must really refer you back
to him for further consideration and report.

They are about to shake hands when Lady Chavender comes in through
the masked door.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Still here, Miss Brollikins!  I thought you had
gone.  [She comes past the table to Sir Arthur's right].

SIR ARTHUR.  She wants to marry David, my dear.

LADY CHAVENDER [calmly]  Very naturally.  I think if I were in Miss
Brollikins' position I should want to marry David.

ALOYSIA.  I know your class point of view, Lady Chavender.  You
think it would be a big catch for me and a come-down for him.

LADY CHAVENDER.  We both know that point of view, Miss Brollikins;
but it is you, not I, that have mentioned it.  Wont you sit down?
[She sits down herself in the nearest chair].

ALOYSIA [murmurs]  I was just going.  [She resumes her seat].

Sir Arthur also sits.

LADY CHAVENDER.  I daresay a match with you might be a very good
thing for David.  You seem to have all the qualities in which he is
deficient.  And he has been declaring for some months past that if
he ever marries he will marry a factory girl.

ALOYSIA.  Well, I have been a factory girl.  I started as a school
teacher; but when they cut my salary I went into the factory.  I
organized the girls there, and became a trade union secretary.
Wherever I went I rose because I couldnt keep down.  But I am
proletarian, bone and blood, if thats what David wants.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Nobody is that in England, Miss Brollikins.  We
have never had a noble caste: our younger sons have always been

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes, Aloysia: all British blood is blue.

ALOYSIA.  Well, call it what you like.  All I say is that I belong
to the common working people and am proud of it; and that is what
David wants, isnt it?

LADY CHAVENDER.  What I said was that he wants to marry a factory
girl.  But I do not know what his attitude will be when a factory
girl wants to marry him.  Have you proposed to him?

SIR ARTHUR.  Yes.  He told her to go to hell.

LADY CHAVENDER.  David has rather a habit of telling people to go
to hell when he is too lazy to think of anything better to say.
Miss Brollikins is a resolute and successful young woman.  David is
an irresolute and unsuccessful young man.  If she has made up her
mind to marry him she will probably succeed.  She will have to
support him; but I daresay she can do that as easily as she can
support herself.

ALOYSIA.  I shall expect him to work for his living.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Marriage seldom fulfils all our expectations.  You
dont know David yet.

ALOYSIA.  I will find him a job and see that he does it.  I will
interest him in it.

SIR ARTHUR.  Splendid!

ALOYSIA [puzzled]  But I cant make out you two.  You havnt flared
up as I thought you might; but are you for me or against me?

LADY CHAVENDER.  Miss Brollikins: I am sorry; but there are two
things that I cannot bring myself to take the smallest interest in:
parliamentary affairs and love affairs.  They both bore me to

ALOYSIA [to Sir Arthur]  Well, dont you take an interest in David?

SIR ARTHUR.  David is at the age at which young men have to break
loose from their fathers.  They are very sensitive about being
interfered with at that age.  He would regard my taking an interest
in him as parental tyranny.  Therefore I am particularly careful
not to take any interest in him.

ALOYSIA [rising]  Well, you preach at me because my conversation is
unexpected; but you two are the most unexpected lot I have ever
been up against.  What am I to understand?  Will you play fair and
let David take his own way?

SIR ARTHUR [rising]  We will even let him take your way if he
wishes, Aloysia.

LADY CHAVENDER [rising]  You may leave me out of the question, Miss
Brollikins.  It is not my business, but my son's.  I am neither his
enemy nor yours.

ALOYSIA [perplexed]  But do you think I ought to marry him?

LADY CHAVENDER.  Nobody ought to marry anybody, Aloysia.  But they

ALOYSIA.  Well, thank you for calling me Aloysia, anyhow.  It's
about all the satisfaction I have got here.

She is about to go when David breaks in obstreperously through the
masked door, and strides between the table and the window to
Aloysia's left.

DAVID.  Look here, Aloysia.  What are you up to here?  If you think
you can get round me by getting round my parents, youre very much
mistaken.  My parents dont care a damn what I do as long as I take
myself off their hands.  And I wont be interfered with.  Do you
hear?  I wont be interfered with.

ALOYSIA.  Your parents are too good for you, you uncivilized lout.
Youve put me right off it by talking that way in front of your
mother.  If I was your mother I'd smack some manners into you.

DAVID [appalled and imploring]  Aloysia!  [He tries to take her in
his arms].

ALOYSIA.  Take your dirty hands off me [she flings him off].  It's
off, I tell you, off.  Goodbye all.  [She storms out through the
main door].

DAVID [in loud lament to his mother]  Youve ruined my whole life.
[He goes in pursuit, crying]  Aloysia, Aloysia, wait a moment.
[With anguished intensity]  Aloysia.  [His cries recede in the

LADY CHAVENDER } [simultaneously] {He might do worse.

SIR ARTHUR     }                  {He might do worse.

LADY CHAVENDER.  I beg your pardon.  What did you say?

SIR ARTHUR.  I said he might do worse.

LADY CHAVENDER.  That is what I said.  David is overbred: he is so
fine-drawn that he is good for nothing; and he is not strong enough
physically.  Our breed needs to be crossed with the gutter or the
soil once in every three or four generations.  Uncle Theodore
married his cook on principle; and his wife was my favourite aunt.
Brollikins may give me goose flesh occasionally; but she wont bore
me as a lady daughter-in-law would.  I shall be always wondering
what she will say or do next.  If she were a lady I'd always know.
I am so tired of wellbred people, and party politics, and the
London season, and all the rest of it.

SIR ARTHUR.  I sometimes think you are the only really revolutionary
revolutionist I have ever met.

LADY CHAVENDER.  Oh, lots of us are like that.  We were born into
good society; and we are through with it: we have no illusions
about it, even if we are fit for nothing better.  I dont mind
Brollikins one bit.

SIR ARTHUR.  What about Barking?


Barking enters through the masked door, jubilant.  He comes between
the pair as they rise, and claps them both on the shoulders right
and left simultaneously.  They flinch violently, and stare at him
in outraged amazement.

BARKING.  Good news, old dears!  It's all right about Flavia.  We
may put up the banns.  Hooray!  [He rubs hands gleefully].

SIR ARTHUR.  May I ask how you have got over her craze for marrying
a poor man?

BARKING.  Oh, that was a girlish illusion.  You see, she had a
glimpse today, at the unemployment meeting, of what poor men are
really like.  They were awfully nice to her.  That did the trick.
You see, what she craved for before was their rough manners, their
violence, their brutality and filthy language, their savage
treatment of their women folk.  That was her ideal of a delightful
husband.  She found today that the working man doesnt realize it.
I do.  I am a real he-man.  I called her the foulest names until
she gave in.  She's a dear.  We shall be perfectly happy.  Good old
mother-in-law.  [He kisses Lady Chavender, who is too astounded to
resist or speak].  Tootle loo, Chavender.  [He slaps him on the
shoulder].  I am off to buy her a lot of presents.  [He dashes out
through the main door].

SIR ARTHUR.  So thats that.

LADY CHAVENDER.  The brute!  How dare he kiss me?  [She rubs the
place with her handkerchief].

SIR ARTHUR.  Do you realize that we two are free at last?  Free,
dearest: think of that!  No more children.  Free to give up living
in a big house and to spend the remainder of our lives as we
please.  A cottage near a good golf links seems to be indicated.
What would you like?

LADY CHAVENDER.  But your political career?  Are you really going to
give up that?

SIR ARTHUR.  It has given me up, dearest.  Arnt you glad?

LADY CHAVENDER.  Arthur: I cant bear this.

SIR ARTHUR.  Cant bear what?

LADY CHAVENDER.  To see you discouraged.  You have never been
discouraged before: you have always been so buoyant.  If this new
departure is to do nothing for you but take away your courage and
high spirits and selfconfidence, then in Heaven's name go back to
your old way of life.  I will put up with anything rather than see
you unhappy.  That sort of unhappiness kills; and if you die I'll
die too.  [She throws herself into a chair and hides her face on
the table].

SIR ARTHUR.  Dont fuss, dearest: I'm not unhappy.  I am enjoying
the enormous freedom of having found myself out and got myself off
my mind.  That looks like despair; but it is really the beginning
of hope, and the end of hypocrisy.  Do you think I didnt know, in
the days of my great speeches and my roaring popularity, that I
was only whitewashing the slums?  I did it very well--I dont
care who hears me say so--and there is always a sort of artistic
satisfaction in doing a thing very well, whether it's getting a big
Bill through the House, or carrying a big meeting off its feet, or
winning a golf championship.  It was all very jolly; and I'm still
a little proud of it.  But even if I had not had you here to remind
me that it was all hot air, I couldnt help knowing as well as any
of those damned Socialists that though the West End of London was
chockful of money and nice people all calling one another by their
Christian names, the lives of the millions of people whose labor
was keeping the whole show going were not worth living.  I knew it
quite well; but I was able to put it out of my mind because I
thought it couldnt be helped and I was doing the best that could be
done.  I know better now: I know that it can be helped, and how it
can be helped.  And rather than go back to the old whitewashing
job, I'd seize you tight round the waist and make a hole in the
river with you.

LADY CHAVENDER [rising]  Then why, dearest love, dont you--

SIR ARTHUR.  Why dont I lead a revolt against it all?  Because I'm
not the man for the job, darling; and nobody knows that better than
you.  And I shall hate the man who will carry it through for his
cruelty and the desolation he will bring on us and our like.

Shouting, as of an excited mob suddenly surging into the street;
and a sound of breaking glass and police whistling.

LADY CHAVENDER.  What on earth is that?

Hilda comes from her office and runs to the window.

LADY CHAVENDER [joining her]  What is going on, Hilda?

HILDA.  The unemployed have broken into Downing Street; and theyre
breaking the windows of the Colonial Office.  They think this side
is only private houses.

SIR ARTHUR [going to see]  Yes: they always break the wrong
windows, poor devils!

HILDA.  Oh! here come the mounted police.

SIR ARTHUR.  Theyve splendid horses, those fellows.

HILDA.  The people are all running away.  And they cant get out:
theyre in a cul-de-sac.  Oh, why dont they make a stand, the

LADY CHAVENDER.  Indeed I hope they wont.  What are you thinking
of, Hilda?

SIR ARTHUR.  Men are like that, Hilda.  They always run away when
they have no discipline and no leader.

HILDA.  Well, but cant the police let them run away without
breaking their heads?  Oh look: that policeman has just clubbed a
quite old man.

SIR ARTHUR.  Come away: it's not a nice sight.  [He draws her away,
placing himself between her and the window].

HILDA.  It's all right when you only read about it in the papers;
but when you actually see it you want to throw stones at the

Defiant singing through the tumult.

LADY CHAVENDER [looking out]  Someone has opened the side gate and
let them through into the Horse Guards Parade.  They are trying to

SIR ARTHUR.  What are they singing?  The Red Flag?

LADY CHAVENDER.  No.  I dont know the tune.  I caught the first two
words.  "England, arise."

HILDA [suddenly hysterical]  Oh, my God!  I will go out and join
them [she rushes out through the main door].

LADY CHAVENDER.  Hilda!  Hilda!

SIR ARTHUR.  Never mind, dear: the police all know her: she'll come
to no harm.  She'll be back for tea.  But what she felt just now
other girls and boys may feel tomorrow.  And just suppose--!


SIR ARTHUR.  Suppose England really did arise!

Unemployed England, however, can do nothing but continue to sing,
as best it can to a percussion accompaniment of baton thwacks,
Edward Carpenter's verses:

      England, arise! the long, long night is over,
      Faint in the east, behold the dawn appear;
      Out of your evil dream of toil and sorrow--
      Arise, O England, for the day is here;
      From your fields and hills,
      Hark! the answer swells--
      Arise, O England, for the day is here!

Shaw Answers Some Questions

(Replies to a questionnaire by Andrew E. Malone, from the holograph
manuscript in the Humanities Research Center of the University of
Texas at Austin.  Published as an interview in the Sunday
Chronicle, Manchester, 19 August 1934)

In On The Rocks, which was staged a few weeks ago at the Abbey
Theatre, The Prime Minister capitulates when he had, apparently,
won over all his more important colleagues in the Cabinet to his
programme.  If Prime Ministers consistently behaved like this
government, as we know it now, political power must inevitably pass
to militant Dictators everywhere.  Do you believe that Militant
Dictatorship is the only form of government which will get the
nations off the rocks?

The P.M. in On the Rocks did not win over anybody.  The
proletarians attacked and repudiated him at once; and the
Conservatives, though quite approving of the items in his program
which favored their private affairs, deserted him and followed
their Die Hard leader the moment he called them to heel.

As to militant Dictatorship, it means no more than Gas and Gaiters.
At present all the countries which are not, like England, merely
sticking in the mud, are dominated by dictators: Stalin, Hitler,
Mussolini, Kemal, Roosevelt, Pilsudski, and De Valera.  But none of
these dictatorships is like any of the others.  The only feature
they have in common is the abolition of party government and of
Oppositions.  The notion that the only alternative to the party
system is a Tsardom masquerading as a Republican Dictatorship is
only a symptom of political ignorance and thoughtlessness, which is
unfortunately an almost universal disease at present.

Do you believe that your stage Prime Minister's way, of conceding
everything to the powerful ones, or that of your King Magnus, of
threatening to make an appeal to the country, is the better way of
preserving and continuing the system of Representative Government?

A Prime Minister cannot help himself within the limits of the
Constitution.  Power is to the powerful.  King Magnus outwitted his
ministers at the party game, but was left entirely helpless in the
face of Big Business and the threatened absorption of England by
the United States under cover of Re-Union.  Representative
government is not at stake.  It existed before party government (a
dodge hit upon by a Scottish adviser of William III of glorious,
pious and immortal memory) existed; and it will exist long after
party government has ceased in England as completely as in Russia.

Do you think that a limitation of the franchise to those who really
desire it, and take some trouble to secure it, would be of
assistance in making parliamentary government really effective?

There should be no limitation of the franchise.  Everybody who is
capable of suffering by misgovernment must have a means of
squealing loudly when he is hurt.  Otherwise the Government cannot
possibly tell whether it is doing harm or good.  It is only when
fools and robbers pretend that the man in the street can legislate
and administer and govern that it becomes necessary to bind the man
in the street hand and foot and gag him, which is exactly what the
robbers want.  Parliament is for the ventilation of grievances.  An
organ for that purpose is an indispensable part of any stable
political structure; and it should be available for everybody, even
for children--perhaps especially for children.

F. S. Oliver holds that a parliament "Where none was for a party,
But all were for the State" would be "no more than an impotent
Babel of virtuous voices."  What is your opinion on the subject?

What is wanted is a parliament in which no one is for a party and
everyone for his own fireside.  Then the Government will be able to
find out what is wrong with the firesides.  If it is an honest
Government it will set its wits to work to right the wrong.  If it
is a Gombeen Government it will study to maintain the wrong and, if
possible, to intensify it.

In Ireland Mr. de Valera has expressed the opinion that when once
the electorate has given a decision by electing a majority of any
party to be the government all opposition to the policy of the
victorious party should cease.  All vocal opposition is then merely
factious, and all active opposition treachery.  Would you agree
that this should be so?

Of course Mr de Valera is only talking the plainest common sense.
He is exactly and finally right.  The business of an Opposition is
to oppose, even when it is opposing measures of the desirability of
which it is so convinced that it passes them itself when it gets
into power.  How could any sane business be conducted on such a
principle?  Let the Irish people by all means choose whether they
will be governed by Mr A or Mr B, or if you prefer it, by Mr de V.
or Mr O'D (or their wives); but to ask Mr A to govern the country
and then send in Mr B to prevent his doing it is an act of
political lunacy which can be advocated by people who want to
prevent the country being governed at all.  Mr de Valera is forced
by the very nature of things to refuse to govern under such
impossible conditions.

Do you think that Ireland, or the Irish Free State, is on the
rocks?  Or, Is it heading for the rocks?  Or, Do you think that it
has escaped the rocks?

Yes: of course she is on the rocks, the same old rocks.  And when a
Catholic Irishman tries to get her off, a Protestant Irishman
immediately tries to keep her on; and vice versa.  Contrairyness is
the curse of Ireland, as fatheaded snobbery is the curse of

If we are on the rocks, with most of the world, do you think we are
on the same rocks?  Or, Have we struck a specially national reef of
our own?

Just the same old rock, on which idleness and parasitism are
idolized, subsidized, and glorified, whilst useful labor and honest
self-support are starved and despised. . . .

If we are all on the rocks--What must we do to get refloated?  What
must we do to be saved?  You cannot, like your Prime Minister, just
wave your hands ineffectively and vanish from the stage.

My Prime Minister vanished because he was fit for nothing but being
Prime Minister in a party government.  But his program remains.
There is no longer any doubt or obscurity or indefiniteness as to
what needs to be done.  Of course it is not clear to muddleheads:
nothing is clear to muddleheads.  And it is not known to invincible
ignorance.  But the muddleheads and incurable ignoramuses will have
to do just what they are told or they will be the ruin of us.  Good


Great Malvern

25th July 1934


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