see them. You feel yourself my superior, I know: nay, you are my superior: have I not bowed my knee to you by instinct? Yet I challenge you to a test of our respective powers. Can you calculate what the methematicians call vectors, without putting a single algebraic symbol on paper? Can you launch ten thousand men across a frontier and a chain of mountains and know to a mile exactly where they will be at the end of seven weeks? The rest is nothing: I got it all from the books at my military school. Now this great game of war, this playing with armies as other men play with bowls and skittles, is one which I must go on playing, partly because a man must do what he can and not what he would like to do, and partly because, if I stop, I immediately lose my power and become a beggar in the land where I now make men drunk with glory.
THE ORACLE. No doubt then you wish to know how to extricate yourself from this unfortunate position?
NAPOLEON. It is not generally considered unfortunate, madam. Supremely fortunate rather.
THE ORACLE. If you think so, go on making them drunk with glory. Why trouble me with their folly and your vectors?
NAPOLEON. Unluckily, madam, men are not only heroes: they are also cowards. They desire glory; but they dread death.
THE ORACLE. Why should they? Their lives are too short to be worth living. That is why they think your game of war worth playing.
NAPOLEON. They do not look at it quite in that way. The most worthless soldier wants to live for ever. To make him risk being killed by the enemy I have to convince him that if he hesitates he will inevitably be shot at dawn by his own comrades for cowardice.
THE ORACLE. And if his comrades refuse to shoot him?
NAPOLEON. They will be shot too, of course.
THE ORACLE. By whom?
NAPOLEON. By their comrades.
THE ORACLE. And if they refuse?
NAPOLEON. Up to a certain point they do not refuse.
THE ORACLE. But when that point is reached, you have to do the shooting yourself, eh?
NAPOLEON. Unfortunately, madam, when that point is reached, they shoot me.
THE ORACLE. Mf! It seems to me they might as well shoot you first as last. Why don’t they?
NAPOLEON. Because their love of fighting, their desire for glory, their shame of being branded as dastards, their instinct to test themselves in terrible trials, their fear of being killed or enslaved by the enemy, their belief that they are defending their hearths and homes, overcome their natural cowardice, and make them willing not only to risk their own lives but to kill everyone who refuses to take that risk. But if war continues too long, there comes a time when the soldiers, and also the taxpayers who are supporting and munitioning them, reach a condition which they describe as being fed up. The troops have proved their courage, and want to go home and enjoy in peace the glory it has earned them. Besides, the risk of death for each soldier becomes a certainty if the fighting goes on for ever: he hopes to escape for six months, but knows he cannot escape for six years. The risk of bankruptcy for the citizen becomes a certainty in the same way. Now what does this mean for me?
THE ORACLE. Does that matter in the midst of such calamity?
NAPOLEON. Psha! madam: it is the only thing that matters: the value of human life is the value of the greatest living man. Cut off that infinitesimal layer of grey matter which distinguishes my brain from that of the common man, and you cut down the stature of humanity from that of a giant to that of a nobody. I matter supremely: my soldiers do not matter at all: there are plenty more where they came from. If you kill me, or put a stop to my activity (it is the same thing), the nobler part of human life perishes. You must save the world from that catastrophe, madam. War has made me popular, powerful, famous, historically immortal. But I foresee that if I go on to the end it will leave me execrated, dethroned, imprisoned, perhaps executed. Yet if I stop fighting I commit suicide as a great man and become a common one. How am I to escape the horns of this tragic dilemma? Victory I can guarantee: I am invincible. But the cost of victory is the demoralization, the depopulation, the ruin of the victors no less than of the vanquished. How am I to satisfy my genius by fighting until I die? that is my question to you.
THE ORACLE. Were you not rash to venture into these sacred islands with such a question on your lips? Warriors are not popular here, my friend.
NAPOLEON. If a soldier were restrained by such a consideration, madam, he would no longer be a soldier. Besides [_he produces a pistol_], I have not come unarmed.
THE ORACLE. What is that thing?
NAPOLEON. It is an instrument of my profession, madam. I raise this hammer; I point the barrel at you; I pull this trigger that is against my forefinger; and you fall dead.
THE ORACLE. Shew it to me [_she puts out her hand to take it from him_].
NAPOLEON [_retreating a step_] Pardon me, madam. I never trust my life in the hands of a person over whom I have no control.
THE ORACLE [_sternly_] Give it to me [_she raises her hand to her veil_].
NAPOLEON [_dropping the pistol and covering his eyes_] Quarter! Kamerad! Take it, madam [_he kicks it towards her_]: I surrender.
THE ORACLE. Give me that thing. Do you expect me to stoop for it?
NAPOLEON [_taking his hands from his eyes with an effort_] A poor victory, madam [_he picks up the pistol and hands it to her_]: there was no vector strategy needed to win it. [Making a pose of his humiliation] But enjoy your triumph: you have made me–ME! Cain Adamson Charles Napoleon! Emperor of Turania! cry for quarter.
THE ORACLE. The way out of your difficulty, Cain Adamson, is very simple.
NAPOLEON [_eagerly_] Good. What is it?
THE ORACLE. To die before the tide of glory turns. Allow me [_she shoots him_].
_He falls with a shriek. She throws the pistol away and goes haughtily into the temple._
NAPOLEON [_scrambling to his feet_] Murderess! Monster! She-devil! Unnatural, inhuman wretch! You deserve to be hanged, guillotined, broken on the wheel, burnt alive. No sense of the sacredness of human life! No thought for my wife and children! Bitch! Sow! Wanton! [_He picks up the pistol_]. And missed me at five yards! Thats a woman all over.
_He is going away whence he came when Zoo arrives and confronts him at the head of a party consisting of the British Envoy, the Elderly Gentleman, the Envoy’s wife, and her daughter, aged about eighteen. The envoy, a typical politician, looks like an imperfectly reformed criminal disguised by a good tailor. The dress of the ladies is coeval with that of the Elderly Gentleman, and suitable for public official ceremonies in western capitals at the XVIII-XIX fin de siecle._
_They file in under the portico. Zoo immediately comes out imperiously to Napoleon’s right, whilst the Envoy’s wife hurries effusively to his left. The Envoy meanwhile passes along behind the columns to the door, followed by his daughter. The Elderly Gentleman stops just where he entered, to see why Zoo has swooped so abruptly on the Emperor of Turania._
ZOO [_to Napoleon, severely_] What are you doing here by yourself? You have no business to go about here alone. What was that noise just now? What is that in your hand?
_Napoleon glares at her in speechless fury; pockets the pistol; and produces a whistle._
THE ENVOY’S WIFE. Arnt you coming with us to the oracle, sire?
NAPOLEON. To hell with the oracle, and with you too [_he turns to go_]!
THE ENVOY’S WIFE} [_together_] {Oh, sire!! ZOO} {Where are you going?}
NAPOLEON. To fetch the police. [_He goes out past Zoo, almost jostling her, and blowing piercing blasts on his whistle_].
ZOO [_whipping out her tuning-fork and intoning_] Hallo Galway Central. [_The whistling continues_]. Stand by to isolate. [_To the Elderly Gentleman, who is staring after the whistling Emperor_] How far has he gone?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. To that curious statue of a fat old man.
ZOO [_quickly, intoning_] Isolate the Falstaff monument isolate hard. Paralyze–[_the whistling stops_]. Thank you. [_She puts up her tuning-fork_]. He shall not move a muscle until I come to fetch him.
THE ENVOY’S WIFE. Oh! he will be frightfully angry! Did you hear what he said to me?
ZOO. Much we care for his anger!
THE DAUGHTER [_coming forward between her mother and Zoo_]. Please, madam, whose statue is it? and where can I buy a picture postcard of it? It is so funny. I will take a snapshot when we are coming back; but they come out so badly sometimes.
ZOO. They will give you pictures and toys in the temple to take away with you. The story of the statue is too long. It would bore you [_she goes past them across the courtyard to get rid of them_].
THE WIFE [_gushing_] Oh no, I assure you.
THE DAUGHTER [_copying her mother_] We should be so interested.
ZOO. Nonsense! All I can tell you about it is that a thousand years ago, when the whole world was given over to you shortlived people, there was a war called the War to end War. In the war which followed it about ten years later, hardly any soldiers were killed; but seven of the capital cities of Europe were wiped out of existence. It seems to have been a great joke: for the statesmen who thought they had sent ten million common men to their deaths were themselves blown into fragments with their houses and families, while the ten million men lay snugly in the caves they had dug for themselves. Later on even the houses escaped; but their inhabitants were poisoned by gas that spared no living soul. Of course the soldiers starved and ran wild; and that was the end of pseudo-Christian civilization. The last civilized thing that happened was that the statesmen discovered that cowardice was a great patriotic virtue; and a public monument was erected to its first preacher, an ancient and very fat sage called Sir John Falstaff. Well [_pointing_], thats Falstaff.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_coming from the portico to his granddaughter’s right_] Great Heavens! And at the base of this monstrous poltroon’s statue the War God of Turania is now gibbering impotently.
ZOO. Serve him right! War God indeed!
THE ENVOY [_coming between his wife and Zoo_] I don’t know any history: a modern Prime Minister has something better to do than sit reading books; but–
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_interrupting him encouragingly_] You make history, Ambrose.
THE ENVOY. Well, perhaps I do; and perhaps history makes me. I hardly recognize myself in the newspapers sometimes, though I suppose leading articles are the materials of history, as you might say. But what I want to know is, how did war come back again? and how did they make those poisonous gases you speak of? We should be glad to know; for they might come in very handy if we have to fight Turania. Of course I am all for peace, and don’t hold with the race of armaments in principle; still, we must keep ahead or be wiped out.
ZOO. You can make the gases for yourselves when your chemists find out how. Then you will do as you did before: poison each other until there are no chemists left, and no civilization. You will then begin all over again as half-starved ignorant savages, and fight with boomerangs and poisoned arrows until you work up to the poison gases and high explosives once more, with the same result. That is, unless we have sense enough to make an end of this ridiculous game by destroying you.
THE ENVOY [_aghast_] Destroying us!
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. I told you, Ambrose. I warned you.
THE ENVOY. But–
ZOO [_impatiently_] I wonder what Zozim is doing. He ought to be here to receive you.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Do you mean that rather insufferable young man whom you found boring me on the pier?
ZOO. Yes. He has to dress-up in a Druid’s robe, and put on a wig and a long false beard, to impress you silly people. I have to put on a purple mantle. I have no patience with such mummery; but you expect it from us; so I suppose it must be kept up. Will you wait here until Zozim comes, please [_she turns to enter the temple_].
THE ENVOY. My good lady, is it worth while dressing-up and putting on false beards for us if you tell us beforehand that it is all humbug?
ZOO. One would not think so; but if you wont believe in anyone who is not dressed-up, why, we must dress-up for you. It was you who invented all this nonsense, not we.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. But do you expect us to be impressed after this?
ZOO. I don’t expect anything. I know, as a matter of experience, that you will be impressed. The oracle will frighten you out of your wits. [_She goes into the temple_].
THE WIFE. These people treat us as if we were dirt beneath their feet. I wonder at you putting up with it, Amby. It would serve them right if we went home at once: wouldnt it, Eth?
THE DAUGHTER. Yes, mamma. But perhaps they wouldnt mind.
THE ENVOY. No use talking like that, Molly. Ive got to see this oracle. The folks at home wont know how we have been treated: all theyll know is that Ive stood face to face with the oracle and had the straight tip from her. I hope this Zozim chap is not going to keep us waiting much longer; for I feel far from comfortable about the approaching interview; and thats the honest truth.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. I never thought I should want to see that man again; but now I wish he would take charge of us instead of Zoo. She was charming at first: quite charming; but she turned into a fiend because I had a few words with her. You would not believe: she very nearly killed me. You heard what she said just now. She belongs to a party here which wants to have us all killed.
THE WIFE [_terrified_] Us! But we have done nothing: we have been as nice to them as nice could be. Oh, Amby, come away, come away: there is something dreadful about this place and these people.
THE ENVOY. There is, and no mistake. But youre safe with me: you ought to have sense enough to know that.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. I am sorry to say, Molly, that it is not merely us four poor weak creatures they want to kill, but the entire race of Man, except themselves.
THE ENVOY. Not so poor neither, Poppa. Nor so weak, if you are going to take in all the Powers. If it comes to killing, two can play at that game, longlived or shortlived.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. No, Ambrose: we should have no chance. We are worms beside these fearful people: mere worms.
_Zozim comes from the temple, robed majestically, and wearing a wreath of mistletoe in his flowing white wig. His false beard reaches almost to his waist. He carries a staff with a curiously carved top._
ZOZIM [_in the doorway, impressively_] Hail, strangers!
ALL [_reverently_] Hail!
ZOZIM. Are ye prepared?
THE ENVOY. We are.
ZOZIM [_unexpectedly becoming conversational, and strolling down carelessly to the middle of the group between the two ladies_] Well, I’m sorry to say the oracle is not. She was delayed by some member of your party who got loose; and as the show takes a bit of arranging, you will have to wait a few minutes. The ladies can go inside and look round the entrance hall and get pictures and things if they want them.
{Thank you.}
THE WIFE} [_together_] {I should like to,} [_They go into_] THE DAUGHTER} {very much.} [_the temple_]
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_in dignified rebuke of Zozim’s levity_] Taken in this spirit, sir, the show, as you call it, becomes almost an insult to our common sense.
ZOZIM. Quite, I should say. You need not keep it up with me.
THE ENVOY [_suddenly making himself very agreeable_] Just so: just so. We can wait as long as you please. And now, if I may be allowed to seize the opportunity of a few minutes’ friendly chat–?
ZOZIM. By all means, if only you will talk about things I can understand.
THE ENVOY. Well, about this colonizing plan of yours. My father-in-law here has been telling me something about it; and he has just now let out that you want not only to colonize us, but to–to–to–well, shall we say to supersede us? Now why supersede us? Why not live and let live? Theres not a scrap of ill-feeling on our side. We should welcome a colony of immortals–we may almost call you that–in the British Middle East. No doubt the Turanian Empire, with its Mahometan traditions, overshadows us now. We have had to bring the Emperor with us on this expedition, though of course you know as well as I do that he has imposed himself on my party just to spy on me. I dont deny that he has the whip hand of us to some extent, because if it came to a war none of our generals could stand up against him. I give him best at that game: he is the finest soldier in the world. Besides, he is an emperor and an autocrat; and I am only an elected representative of the British democracy. Not that our British democrats wont fight: they will fight the heads off all the Turanians that ever walked; but then it takes so long to work them up to it, while he has only to say the word and march. But you people would never get on with him. Believe me, you would not be as comfortable in Turania as you would be with us. We understand you. We like you. We are easy-going people; and we are rich people. That will appeal to you. Turania is a poor place when all is said. Five-eighths of it is desert. They dont irrigate as we do. Besides–now I am sure this will appeal to you and to all right-minded men–we are Christians.
ZOZIM. The old uns prefer Mahometans.
THE ENVOY [_shocked_] What!
ZOZIM [_distinctly_] They prefer Mahometans. Whats wrong with that?
THE ENVOY. Well, of all the disgraceful–
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_diplomatically interrupting his scandalized son-in-law_] There can be no doubt, I am afraid, that by clinging too long to the obsolete features of the old pseudo-Christian Churches we allowed the Mahometans to get ahead of us at a very critical period of the development of the Eastern world. When the Mahometan Reformation took place, it left its followers with the enormous advantage of having the only established religion in the world in whose articles of faith any intelligent and educated person could believe.
THE ENVOY. But what about our Reformation? Dont give the show away, Poppa. We followed suit, didnt we?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Unfortunately, Ambrose, we could not follow suit very rapidly. We had not only a religion to deal with, but a Church.
ZOZIM. What is a Church?
THE ENVOY. Not know what a Church is! Well!
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. You must excuse me; but if I attempted to explain you would only ask me what a bishop is; and that is a question that no mortal man can answer. All I can tell you is that Mahomet was a truly wise man; for he founded a religion without a Church; consequently when the time came for a Reformation of the mosques there were no bishops and priests to obstruct it. Our bishops and priests prevented us for two hundred years from following suit; and we have never recovered the start we lost then. I can only plead that we did reform our Church at last. No doubt we had to make a few compromises as a matter of good taste; but there is now very little in our Articles of Religion that is not accepted as at least allegorically true by our Higher Criticism.
THE ENVOY [_encouragingly_] Besides, does it matter? Why, _I_ have never read the Articles in my life; and I am Prime Minister! Come! if my services in arranging for the reception of a colonizing party would be acceptable, they are at your disposal. And when I say a reception I mean a reception. Royal honors, mind you! A salute of a hundred and one guns! The streets lined with troops! The Guards turned out at the Palace! Dinner at the Guildhall!
ZOZIM. Discourage me if I know what youre talking about! I wish Zoo would come: she understands these things. All I can tell you is that the general opinion among the Colonizers is in favor of beginning in a country where the people are of a different color from us; so that we can make short work without any risk of mistakes.
THE ENVOY. What do you mean by short work? I hope–
ZOZIM [_with obviously feigned geniality_] Oh, nothing, nothing, nothing. We are thinking of trying North America: thats all. You see, the Red Men of that country used to be white. They passed through a period of sallow complexions, followed by a period of no complexions at all, into the red characteristic of their climate. Besides, several cases of long life have occurred in North America. They joined us here; and their stock soon reverted to the original white of these islands.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. But have you considered the possibility of your colony turning red?
ZOZIM. That wont matter. We are not particular about our pigmentation. The old books mention red-faced Englishmen: they appear to have been common objects at one time.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_very persuasively_] But do you think you would be popular in North America? It seems to me, if I may say so, that on your own shewing you need a country in which society is organized in a series of highly exclusive circles, in which the privacy of private life is very jealously guarded, and in which no one presumes to speak to anyone else without an introduction following a strict examination of social credentials. It is only in such a country that persons of special tastes and attainments can form a little world of their own, and protect themselves absolutely from intrusion by common persons. I think I may claim that our British society has developed this exclusiveness to perfection. If you would pay us a visit and see the working of our caste system, our club system, our guild system, you would admit that nowhere else in the world, least of all, perhaps in North America, which has a regrettable tradition of social promiscuity, could you keep yourselves so entirely to yourselves.
ZOZIM [_good-naturedly embarrassed_] Look here. There is no good discussing this. I had rather not explain; but it wont make any difference to our Colonizers what sort of short-livers they come across. We shall arrange all that. Never mind how. Let us join the ladies.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_throwing off his diplomatic attitude and abandoning himself to despair_] We understand you only too well, sir. Well, kill us. End the lives you have made miserably unhappy by opening up to us the possibility that any of us may live three hundred years. I solemnly curse that possibility. To you it may be a blessing, because you do live three hundred years. To us, who live less than a hundred, whose flesh is as grass, it is the most unbearable burden our poor tortured humanity has ever groaned under.
THE ENVOY. Hullo, Poppa! Steady! How do you make that out?
ZOZIM. What is three hundred years? Short enough, if you ask me. Why, in the old days you people lived on the assumption that you were going to last out for ever and ever and ever. Immortal, you thought yourselves. Were you any happier then?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. As President of the Baghdad Historical Society I am in a position to inform you that the communities which took this monstrous pretension seriously were the most wretched of which we have any record. My Society has printed an editio princeps of the works of the father of history, Thucyderodotus Macolly-buckle. Have you read his account of what was blasphemously called the Perfect City of God, and the attempt made to reproduce it in the northern part of these islands by Jonhobsnoxius, called the Leviathan? Those misguided people sacrificed the fragment of life that was granted to them to an imaginary immortality. They crucified the prophet who told them to take no thought for the morrow, and that here and now was their Australia: Australia being a term signifying paradise, or an eternity of bliss. They tried to produce a condition of death in life: to mortify the flesh, as they called it.
ZOZIM. Well, you are not suffering from that, are you? You have not a mortified air.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Naturally we are not absolutely insane and suicidal. Nevertheless we impose on ourselves abstinences and disciplines and studies that are meant to prepare us for living three centuries. And we seldom live one. My childhood was made unnecessarily painful, my boyhood unnecessarily laborious, by ridiculous preparations for a length of days which the chances were fifty thousand to one against my ever attaining. I have been cheated out of the natural joys and freedoms of my life by this dream to which the existence of these islands and their oracles gives a delusive possibility of realization. I curse the day when long life was invented, just as the victims of Jonhobsnoxius cursed the day when eternal life was invented.
ZOZIM. Pooh! You could live three centuries if you chose.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. That is what the fortunate always say to the unfortunate. Well, I do not choose. I accept my three score and ten years. If they are filled with usefulness, with justice, with mercy, with good-will: if they are the lifetime of a soul that never loses its honor and a brain that never loses its eagerness, they are enough for me, because these things are infinite and eternal, and can make ten of my years as long as thirty of yours. I shall not conclude by saying live as long as you like and be damned to you, because I have risen for the moment far above any ill-will to you or to any fellow-creature; but I am your equal before that eternity in which the difference between your lifetime and mine is as the difference between one drop of water and three in the eyes of the Almighty Power from which we have both proceeded.
ZOZIM [_impressed_] You spoke that piece very well, Daddy. I couldnt talk like that if I tried. It sounded fine. Ah! here comes the ladies.
_To his relief, they have just appeared on the threshold of the temple._
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_passing from exaltation to distress_] It means nothing to him: in this land of discouragement the sublime has become the ridiculous. [_Turning on the hopelessly puzzled Zozim_] ‘Behold, thou hast made my days as it were a span long; and mine age is even as nothing in respect of thee.’
{Poppa, Poppa: dont look like THE WIFE.} [_running_] {that.
THE DAUGHTER.}[_to him_] {Oh, granpa, whats the matter?
ZOZIM [_with a shrug_] Discouragement!
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_throwing off the women with a superb gesture_] Liar! [_Recollecting himself, he adds, with noble courtesy, raising his hat and bowing_] I beg your pardon, sir; but I am NOT discouraged.
_A burst of orchestral music, through which a powerful gong sounds, is heard from the temple. Zoo, in a purple robe, appears in the doorway._
ZOO. Come. The oracle is ready.
_Zozim motions them to the threshold with a wave of his staff. The Envoy and the Elderly Gentleman take off their hats and go into the temple on tiptoe, Zoo leading the way. The Wife and Daughter, frightened as they are, raise their heads uppishly and follow flatfooted, sustained by a sense of their Sunday clothes and social consequence. Zozim remains in the portico, alone._
ZOZIM [_taking off his wig, beard, and robe, and bundling them under his arm_] Ouf! [He goes home].
ACT III
_Inside the temple. A gallery overhanging an abyss. Dead silence. The gallery is brightly lighted; but beyond is a vast gloom, continually changing in intensity. A shaft of violet light shoots upward; and a very harmonious and silvery carillon chimes. When it ceases the violet ray vanishes._
_Zoo comes along the gallery, followed by the Envoy’s daughter, his wife, the Envoy himself, and the Elderly Gentleman. The two men are holding their hats with the brims near their noses, as if prepared to pray into them at a moment’s notice. Zoo halts: they all follow her example. They contemplate the void with awe. Organ music of the kind called sacred in the nineteenth century begins. Their awe deepens. The violet ray, now a diffused mist, rises again from the abyss._
THE WIFE [_to Zoo, in a reverent whisper_] Shall we kneel?
ZOO [_loudly_] Yes, if you want to. You can stand on your head if you like. [_She sits down carelessly on the gallery railing, with her back to the abyss_].
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_jarred by her callousness_] We desire to behave in a becoming manner.
ZOO. Very well. Behave just as you feel. It doesn’t matter how you behave. But keep your wits about you when the pythoness ascends, or you will forget the questions you have come to ask her.
THE ENVOY} {[[_very nervous, takes out a paper to_] } [[_simul-_] {[_refresh his memory_]] Ahem! THE DAUGHTER} [_taneously_]]{[[_alarmed_]] The pythoness? Is she } {a snake?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Tch-ch! The priestess of the oracle. A sybil. A prophetess. Not a snake.
THE WIFE. How awful!
ZOO. I’m glad you think so.
THE WIFE. Oh dear! Dont you think so?
ZOO. No. This sort of thing is got up to impress you, not to impress me.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. I wish you would let it impress us, then, madam. I am deeply impressed; but you are spoiling the effect.
ZOO. You just wait. All this business with colored lights and chords on that old organ is only tomfoolery. Wait til you see the pythoness.
_The Envoy’s wife falls on her knees, and takes refuge in prayer._
THE DAUGHTER [_trembling_] Are we really going to see a woman who has lived three hundred years?
ZOO. Stuff! Youd drop dead if a tertiary as much as looked at you. The oracle is only a hundred and seventy; and you’ll find it hard enough to stand her.
THE DAUGHTER [_piteously_] Oh! [_she falls on her knees_].
THE ENVOY. Whew! Stand by me, Poppa. This is a little more than I bargained for. Are you going to kneel; or how?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Perhaps it would be in better taste.
_The two men kneel._
_The vapor of the abyss thickens; and a distant roll of thunder seems to come from its depths. The pythoness, seated on her tripod, rises slowly from it. She has discarded the insulating robe and veil in which she conversed with Napoleon, and is now draped and hooded in voluminous folds of a single piece of grey-white stuff. Something supernatural about her terrifies the beholders, who throw themselves on their faces. Her outline flows and waves: she is almost distinct at moments, and again vague and shadowy: above all, she is larger than life-size, not enough to be measured by the flustered congregation, but enough to affect them with a dreadful sense of her supernaturalness._
ZOO. Get up, get up. Do pull yourselves together, you people.
_The Envoy and his family, by shuddering negatively, intimate that it is impossible. The Elderly Gentleman manages to get on his hands and knees._
ZOO. Come on, Daddy: you are not afraid. Speak to her. She wont wait here all day for you, you know.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_rising very deferentially to his feet_] Madam: you will excuse my very natural nervousness in addressing, for the first time in my life, a–a–a–a goddess. My friend and relative the Envoy is unhinged. I throw myself upon your indulgence–
ZOO [_interrupting him intolerantly_] Dont throw yourself on anything belonging to her or you will go right through her and break your neck. She isnt solid, like you.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. I was speaking figuratively–
ZOO. You have been told not to do it. Ask her what you want to know; and be quick about it.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_stooping and taking the prostrate Envoy by the shoulders_] Ambrose: you must make an effort. You cannot go back to Baghdad without the answers to your questions.
THE ENVOY [_rising to his knees_] I shall be only too glad to get back alive on any terms. If my legs would support me I’d just do a bunk straight for the ship.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. No, no. Remember: your dignity–
THE ENVOY. Dignity be damned! I’m terrified. Take me away, for God’s sake.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_producing a brandy flask and taking the cap off_] Try some of this. It is still nearly full, thank goodness!
THE ENVOY [_clutching it and drinking eagerly_] Ah! Thats better. [_He tries to drink again. Finding that he has emptied it, he hands it back to his father-in-law upside down_].
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_taking it_] Great heavens! He has swallowed half-a-pint of neat brandy. [_Much perturbed, he screws the cap on again, and pockets the flask_].
THE ENVOY [_staggering to his feet; pulling a paper from his pocket; and speaking with boisterous confidence_] Get up, Molly. Up with you, Eth.
_The two women rise to their knees._
THE ENVOY. What I want to ask is this. [_He refers to the paper_]. Ahem! Civilization has reached a crisis. We are at the parting of the ways. We stand on the brink of the Rubicon. Shall we take the plunge? Already a leaf has been torn out of the book of the Sybil. Shall we wait until the whole volume is consumed? On our right is the crater of the volcano: on our left the precipice. One false step, and we go down to annihilation dragging the whole human race with us. [_He pauses for breath_].
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_recovering his spirits under the familiar stimulus of political oratory_] Hear, hear!
ZOO. What are you raving about? Ask your question while you have the chance. What is it you want to know?
THE ENVOY [_patronizing her in the manner of a Premier debating with a very young member of the Opposition_] A young woman asks me a question. I am always glad to see the young taking an interest in politics. It is an impatient question; but it is a practical question, an intelligent question. She asks why we seek to lift a corner of the veil that shrouds the future from our feeble vision.
ZOO. I don’t. I ask you to tell the oracle what you want, and not keep her sitting there all day.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_warmly_] Order, order!
ZOO. What does ‘Order, order!’ mean?
THE ENVOY. I ask the august oracle to listen to my voice–
ZOO. You people seem never to tire of listening to your voices; but it doesn’t amuse us. What do you want?
THE ENVOY. I want, young woman, to be allowed to proceed without unseemly interruptions.
_A low roll of thunder comes from the abyss._
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. There! Even the oracle is indignant. [_To the Envoy_] Do not allow yourself to be put down by this lady’s rude clamor, Ambrose. Take no notice. Proceed.
THE ENVOY’S WIFE. I cant bear this much longer, Amby. Remember: I havn’t had any brandy.
HIS DAUGHTER [_trembling_] There are serpents curling in the vapor. I am afraid of the lightning. Finish it, Papa; or I shall die.
THE ENVOY [_sternly_] Silence. The destiny of British civilization is at stake. Trust me. I am not afraid. As I was saying–where was I?
ZOO. I don’t know. Does anybody?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_tactfully_] You were just coming to the election, I think.
THE ENVOY [_reassured_] Just so. The election. Now what we want to know is this: ought we to dissolve in August, or put it off until next spring?
ZOO. Dissolve? In what? [_Thunder_]. Oh! My fault this time. That means that the oracle understands you, and desires me to hold my tongue.
THE ENVOY [_fervently_] I thank the oracle.
THE WIFE [_to Zoo_] Serve you right!
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Before the oracle replies, I should like to be allowed to state a few of the reasons why, in my opinion, the Government should hold on until the spring. In the first–
_Terrific lightning and thunder. The Elderly Gentleman is knocked flat; but as he immediately sits up again dazedly it is clear that he is none the worse for the shock. The ladies cower in terror. The Envoy’s hat is blown off; but he seizes it just as it quits his temples, and holds it on with both hands. He is recklessly drunk, but quite articulate, as he seldom speaks in public without taking stimulants beforehand._
THE ENVOY [_taking one hand from his hat to make a gesture of stilling the tempest_] Thats enough. We know how to take a hint. I’ll put the case in three words. I am the leader of the Potterbill party. My party is in power. I am Prime Minister. The Opposition–the Rotterjacks–have won every bye-election for the last six months. They–
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_scrambling heatedly to his feet_] Not by fair means. By bribery, by misrepresentation, by pandering to the vilest prejudices [_muttered thunder_]–I beg your pardon [_he is silent_].
THE ENVOY. Never mind the bribery and lies. The oracle knows all about that. The point is that though our five years will not expire until the year after next, our majority will be eaten away at the bye-elections by about Easter. We can’t wait: we must start some question that will excite the public, and go to the country on it. But some of us say do it now. Others say wait til the spring. We cant make up our minds one way or the other. Which would you advise?
ZOO. But what is the question that is to excite your public?
THE ENVOY. That doesnt matter. I dont know yet. We will find a question all right enough. The oracle can foresee the future: we cannot. [_Thunder_]. What does that mean? What have I done now?
ZOO. [_severely_] How often must you be told that we cannot foresee the future? There is no such thing as the future until it is the present.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Allow me to point out, madam, that when the Potterbill party sent to consult the oracle fifteen years ago, the oracle prophesied that the Potterbills would be victorious at the General Election; and they were. So it is evident that the oracle can foresee the future, and is sometimes willing to reveal it.
THE ENVOY. Quite true. Thank you, Poppa. I appeal now, over your head, young woman, direct to the August Oracle, to repeat the signal favor conferred on my illustrious predecessor, Sir Fuller Eastwind, and to answer me exactly as he was answered.
_The oracle raises her hands to command silence._
ALL. Sh-sh-sh!
_Invisible trombones utter three solemn blasts in the manner of Die Zauberfloete._
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. May I–
ZOO [_quickly_] Hush. The oracle is going to speak.
THE ORACLE. Go home, poor fool.
_She vanishes; and the atmosphere changes to prosaic daylight. Zoo comes off the railing; throws off her robe; makes a bundle of it; and tucks it under her arm. The magic and mystery are gone. The women rise to their feet. The Envoy’s party stare at one another helplessly._
ZOO. The same reply, word for word, that your illustrious predecessor, as you call him, got fifteen years ago. You asked for it; and you got it. And just think of all the important questions you might have asked. She would have answered them, you know. It is always like that. I will go and arrange to have you sent home: you can wait for me in the entrance hall [_she goes out_].
THE ENVOY. What possessed me to ask for the same answer old Eastwind got?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. But it was not the same answer. The answer to Eastwind was an inspiration to our party for years. It won us the election.
THE ENVOY’S DAUGHTER. I learnt it at school, granpa. It wasn’t the same at all. I can repeat it. [_She quotes_] ‘When Britain was cradled in the west, the east wind hardened her and made her great. Whilst the east wind prevails Britain shall prosper. The east wind shall wither Britain’s enemies in the day of contest. Let the Rotterjacks look to it.’
THE ENVOY. The old man invented that. I see it all. He was a doddering old ass when he came to consult the oracle. The oracle naturally said ‘Go home, poor fool.’ There was no sense in saying that to me; but as that girl said, I asked for it. What else could the poor old chap do but fake up an answer fit for publication? There were whispers about it; but nobody believed them. I believe them now.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Oh, I cannot admit that Sir Fuller Eastwind was capable of such a fraud.
THE ENVOY. He was capable of anything: I knew his private secretary. And now what are we going to say? You don’t suppose I am going back to Baghdad to tell the British Empire that the oracle called me a fool, do you?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. Surely we must tell the truth, however painful it may be to our feelings.
THE ENVOY. I am not thinking of my feelings: I am not so selfish as that, thank God. I am thinking of the country: of our party. The truth, as you call it, would put the Rotterjacks in for the next twenty years. It would be the end of me politically. Not that I care for that: I am only too willing to retire if you can find a better man. Dont hesitate on my account.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. No, Ambrose: you are indispensable. There is no one else.
THE ENVOY. Very well, then. What are you going to do?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. My dear Ambrose, you are the leader of the party, not I. What are you going to do?
THE ENVOY. I am going to tell the exact truth; thats what I’m going to do. Do you take me for a liar?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_puzzled_] Oh. I beg your pardon. I understood you to say–
THE ENVOY [_cutting him short_] You understood me to say that I am going back to Baghdad to tell the British electorate that the oracle repeated to me, word for word, what it said to Sir Fuller Eastwind fifteen years ago. Molly and Ethel can bear me out. So must you, if you are an honest man. Come on.
_He goes out, followed by his wife and daughter._
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN [_left alone and shrinking into an old and desolate figure_] What am I to do? I am a most perplexed and wretched man. [_He falls on his knees, and stretches his hands in entreaty over the abyss_]. I invoke the oracle. I cannot go back and connive at a blasphemous lie. I implore guidance.
_The Pythoness walks in on the gallery behind him, and touches him on the shoulder. Her size is now natural. Her face is hidden by her hood. He flinches as if from an electric shock; turns to her; and cowers, covering his eyes in terror._
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. No: not close to me. I’m afraid I can’t bear it.
THE ORACLE [_with grave pity_] Come: look at me. I am my natural size now: what you saw there was only a foolish picture of me thrown on a cloud by a lantern. How can I help you?
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. They have gone back to lie about your answer. I cannot go with them. I cannot live among people to whom nothing is real. I have become incapable of it through my stay here. I implore to be allowed to stay.
THE ORACLE. My friend: if you stay with us you will die of discouragement.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. If I go back I shall die of disgust and despair. I take the nobler risk. I beg you, do not cast me out.
_He catches her robe and holds her._
THE ORACLE. Take care. I have been here one hundred and seventy years. Your death does not mean to me what it means to you.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. It is the meaning of life, not of death, that makes banishment so terrible to me.
THE ORACLE. Be it so, then. You may stay.
_She offers him her hands. He grasps them and raises himself a little by clinging to her. She looks steadily into his face. He stiffens; a little convulsion shakes him; his grasp relaxes; and he falls dead._
THE ORACLE [_looking down at the body_] Poor shortlived thing! What else could I do for you?
PART V.
As Far as Thought can Reach
_Summer afternoon in the year 31,920 A.D. A sunlit glade at the southern foot of a thickly wooded hill. On the west side of it, the steps and columned porch of a dainty little classic temple. Between it and the hill, a rising path to the wooded heights begins with rough steps of stones in the moss. On the opposite side, a grove. In the middle of the glade, an altar in the form of a low marble table as long as a man, set parallel to the temple steps and pointing to the hill. Curved marble benches radiate from it into the foreground; but they are not joined to it: there is plenty of space to pass between the altar and the benches.
A dance of youths and maidens is in progress. The music is provided by a few fluteplayers seated carelessly on the steps of the temple. There are no children; and none of the dancers seems younger than eighteen. Some of the youths have beards. Their dress, like the architecture of the theatre and the design of the altar and curved seats, resembles Grecian of the fourth century B.C., freely handled. They move with perfect balance and remarkable grace, racing through a figure like a farandole. They neither romp nor hug in our manner.
At the first full close they clap their hands to stop the musicians, who recommence with a saraband, during which a strange figure appears on the path beyond the temple. He is deep in thought, with his eyes closed and his feet feeling automatically for the rough irregular steps as he slowly descends them. Except for a sort of linen kilt consisting mainly of a girdle carrying a sporran and a few minor pockets, he is naked. In physical hardihood and uprightness he seems to be in the prime of life; and his eyes and mouth shew no signs of age; but his face, though fully and firmly fleshed, bears a network of lines, varying from furrows to hairbreadth reticulations, as if Time had worked over every inch of it incessantly through whole geologic periods. His head is finely domed and utterly bald. Except for his eyelashes he is quite hairless. He is unconscious of his surroundings, and walks right into one of the dancing couples, separating them. He wakes up and stares about him. The couple stop indignantly. The rest stop. The music stops. The youth whom he has jostled accosts him without malice, but without anything that we should call manners._
THE YOUTH. Now, then, ancient sleepwalker, why don’t you keep your eyes open and mind where you are going?
THE ANCIENT [_mild, bland, and indulgent_] I did not know there was a nursery here, or I should not have turned my face in this direction. Such accidents cannot always be avoided. Go on with your play: I will turn back.
THE YOUTH. Why not stay with us and enjoy life for once in a way? We will teach you to dance.
THE ANCIENT. No, thank you. I danced when I was a child like you. Dancing is a very crude attempt to get into the rhythm of life. It would be painful to me to go back from that rhythm to your babyish gambols: in fact I could not do it if I tried. But at your age it is pleasant: and I am sorry I disturbed you.
THE YOUTH. Come! own up: arnt you very unhappy? It’s dreadful to see you ancients going about by yourselves, never noticing anything, never dancing, never laughing, never singing, never getting anything out of life. None of us are going to be like that when we grow up. It’s a dog’s life.
THE ANCIENT. Not at all. You repeat that old phrase without knowing that there was once a creature on earth called a dog. Those who are interested in extinct forms of life will tell you that it loved the sound of its own voice and bounded about when it was happy, just as you are doing here. It is you, my children, who are living the dog’s life.
THE YOUTH. The dog must have been a good sensible creature: it set you a very wise example. You should let yourself go occasionally and have a good time.
THE ANCIENT. My children: be content to let us ancients go our ways and enjoy ourselves in our own fashion.
_He turns to go._
THE MAIDEN. But wait a moment. Why will you not tell us how you enjoy yourself? You must have secret pleasures that you hide from us, and that you never get tired of. I get tired of all our dances and all our tunes. I get tired of all my partners.
THE YOUTH [_suspiciously_] Do you? I shall bear that in mind.
_They all look at one another as if there were some sinister significance in what she has said._
THE MAIDEN. We all do: what is the use of pretending we don’t? It is natural.
SEVERAL YOUNG PEOPLE. No, no. We don’t. It is not natural.
THE ANCIENT. You are older than he is, I see. You are growing up.
THE MAIDEN. How do you know? I do not look so much older, do I?
THE ANCIENT. Oh, I was not looking at you. Your looks do not interest me.
THE MAIDEN. Thank you.
_They all laugh._
THE YOUTH. You old fish! I believe you don’t know the difference between a man and a woman.
THE ANCIENT. It has long ceased to interest me in the way it interests you. And when anything no longer interests us we no longer know it.
THE MAIDEN. You havnt told me how I shew my age. That is what I want to know. As a matter of fact I am older than this boy here: older than he thinks. How did you find that out?
THE ANCIENT. Easily enough. You are ceasing to pretend that these childish games–this dancing and singing and mating–do not become tiresome and unsatisfying after a while. And you no longer care to pretend that you are younger than you are. These are the signs of adolescence. And then, see these fantastic rags with which you have draped yourself. [_He takes up a piece of her draperies in his hand_]. It is rather badly worn here. Why do you not get a new one?
THE MAIDEN. Oh, I did not notice it. Besides, it is too much trouble. Clothes are a nuisance. I think I shall do without them some day, as you ancients do.
THE ANCIENT. Signs of maturity. Soon you will give up all these toys and games and sweets.
THE YOUTH. What! And be as miserable as you?
THE ANCIENT. Infant: one moment of the ecstasy of life as we live it would strike you dead. [_He stalks gravely out through the grove_].
_They stare after him, much damped._
THE YOUTH [_to the musicians_] Let us have another dance.
_The musicians shake their heads; get up from their seats on the steps; and troop away into the temple. The others follow them, except the Maiden, who sits down on the altar._
A MAIDEN [_as she goes_] There! The ancient has put them out of countenance. It is your fault, Strephon, for provoking him. [_She leaves, much disappointed_].
A YOUTH. Why need you have cheeked him like that? [_He goes grumbling_].
STREPHON [_calling after him_] I thought it was understood that we are always to cheek the ancients on principle.
ANOTHER YOUTH. Quite right too! There would be no holding them if we didn’t. [_He goes_].
THE MAIDEN. Why don’t you really stand up to them? _I_ did.
ANOTHER YOUTH. Sheer, abject, pusillanimous, dastardly cowardice. Thats why. Face the filthy truth. [_He goes_].
ANOTHER YOUTH [_turning on the steps as he goes out_] And don’t you forget, infant, that one moment of the ecstasy of life as I live it would strike you dead. Haha!
STREPHON [_now the only one left, except the Maiden_] Arnt you coming, Chloe?
THE MAIDEN [_shakes her head_]!
THE YOUTH [_hurrying back to her_] What is the matter?
THE MAIDEN [_tragically pensive_] I dont know.
THE YOUTH. Then there is something the matter. Is that what you mean?
THE MAIDEN. Yes. Something is happening to me. I dont know what.
THE YOUTH. You no longer love me. I have seen it for a month past.
THE MAIDEN. Dont you think all that is rather silly? We cannot go on as if this kind of thing, this dancing and sweethearting, were everything.
THE YOUTH. What is there better? What else is there worth living for?
THE MAIDEN. Oh, stuff! Dont be frivolous.
THE YOUTH. Something horrible is happening to you. You are losing all heart, all feeling. [_He sits on the altar beside her and buries his face in his hands_]. I am bitterly unhappy.
THE MAIDEN. Unhappy! Really, you must have a very empty head if there is nothing in it but a dance with one girl who is no better than any of the other girls.
THE YOUTH. You did not always think so. You used to be vexed if I as much as looked at another girl.
THE MAIDEN. What does it matter what I did when I was a baby? Nothing existed for me then except what I tasted and touched and saw; and I wanted all that for myself, just as I wanted the moon to play with. Now the world is opening out for me. More than the world: the universe. Even little things are turning out to be great things, and becoming intensely interesting. Have you ever thought about the properties of numbers?
THE YOUTH [_sitting up, markedly disenchanted_] Numbers!!! I cannot imagine anything drier or more repulsive.
THE MAIDEN. They are fascinating, just fascinating. I want to get away from our eternal dancing and music, and just sit down by myself and think about numbers.
THE YOUTH [_rising indignantly_] Oh, this is too much. I have suspected you for some time past. We have all suspected you. All the girls say that you have deceived us as to your age: that you are getting flat-chested: that you are bored with us; that you talk to the ancients when you get the chance. Tell me the truth: how old are you?
THE MAIDEN. Just twice your age, my poor boy.
THE YOUTH. Twice my age! Do you mean to say you are four?
THE MAIDEN. Very nearly four.
THE YOUTH [_collapsing on the altar with a groan_] Oh!
THE MAIDEN. My poor Strephon: I pretended I was only two for your sake. I was two when you were born. I saw you break from your shell; and you were such a charming child! You ran round and talked to us all so prettily, and were so handsome and well grown, that I lost my heart to you at once. But now I seem to have lost it altogether: bigger things are taking possession of me. Still, we were very happy in our childish way for the first year, werent we?
STREPHON. I was happy until you began cooling towards me.
THE MAIDEN. Not towards you, but towards all the trivialities of our life here. Just think. I have hundreds of years to live: perhaps thousands. Do you suppose I can spend centuries dancing; listening to flutes ringing changes on a few tunes and a few notes; raving about the beauty of a few pillars and arches; making jingles with words; lying about with your arms round me, which is really neither comfortable nor convenient; everlastingly choosing colors for dresses, and putting them on, and washing; making a business of sitting together at fixed hours to absorb our nourishment; taking little poisons with it to make us delirious enough to imagine we are enjoying ourselves; and then having to pass the nights in shelters lying in cots and losing half our lives in a state of unconsciousness. Sleep is a shameful thing: I have not slept at all for weeks past. I have stolen out at night when you were all lying insensible–quite disgusting, I call it–and wandered about the woods, thinking, thinking, thinking; grasping the world; taking it to pieces; building it up again; devising methods; planning experiments to test the methods; and having a glorious time. Every morning I have come back here with greater and greater reluctance; and I know that the time will soon come–perhaps it has come already–when I shall not come back at all.
STREPHON. How horribly cold and uncomfortable!
THE MAIDEN. Oh, don’t talk to me of comfort! Life is not worth living if you have to bother about comfort. Comfort makes winter a torture, spring an illness, summer an oppression, and autumn only a respite. The ancients could make life one long frowsty comfort if they chose. But they never lift a finger to make themselves comfortable. They will not sleep under a roof. They will not clothe themselves: a girdle with a few pockets hanging to it to carry things about in is all they wear: they will sit down on the wet moss or in a gorse bush when there is dry heather within two yards of them. Two years ago, when you were born, I did not understand this. Now I feel that I would not put myself to the trouble of walking two paces for all the comfort in the world.
STREPHON. But you don’t know what this means to me. It means that you are dying to me: yes, just dying. Listen to me [_he puts his arm around her_].
THE MAIDEN [_extricating herself_] Dont. We can talk quite as well without touching one another.
STREPHON [_horrified_] Chloe! Oh, this is the worst symptom of all! The ancients never touch one another.
THE MAIDEN. Why should they?
STREPHON. Oh, I don’t know. But don’t you want to touch me? You used to.
THE MAIDEN. Yes: that is true: I used to. We used to think it would be nice to sleep in one another’s arms; but we never could go to sleep because our weight stopped our circulations just above the elbows. Then somehow my feeling began to change bit by bit. I kept a sort of interest in your head and arms long after I lost interest in your whole body. And now that has gone.
STREPHON. You no longer care for me at all, then?
THE MAIDEN. Nonsense! I care for you much more seriously than before; though perhaps not so much for you in particular. I mean I care more for everybody. But I don’t want to touch you unnecessarily; and I certainly don’t want you to touch me.
STREPHON [_rising decisively_] That finishes it. You dislike me.
THE MAIDEN [_impatiently_] I tell you again, I do not dislike you; but you bore me when you cannot understand; and I think I shall be happier by myself in future. You had better get a new companion. What about the girl who is to be born today?
STREPHON. I do not want the girl who is to be born today. How do I know what she will be like? I want you.
THE MAIDEN. You cannot have me. You must recognize facts and face them. It is no use running after a woman twice your age. I cannot make my childhood last to please you. The age of love is sweet; but it is short; and I must pay nature’s debt. You no longer attract me; and I no longer care to attract you. Growth is too rapid at my age: I am maturing from week to week.
STREPHON. You are maturing, as you call it–I call it ageing–from minute to minute. You are going much further than you did when we began this conversation.
THE MAIDEN. It is not the ageing that is so rapid. It is the realization of it when it has actually happened. Now that I have made up my mind to the fact that I have left childhood behind me, it comes home to me in leaps and bounds with every word you say.
STREPHON. But your vow. Have you forgotten that? We all swore together in that temple: the temple of love. You were more earnest than any of us.
THE MAIDEN [_with a grim smile_] Never to let our hearts grow cold! Never to become as the ancients! Never to let the sacred lamp be extinguished! Never to change or forget! To be remembered for ever as the first company of true lovers faithful to this vow so often made and broken by past generations! Ha! ha! Oh, dear!
STREPHON. Well, you need not laugh. It is a beautiful and holy compact; and I will keep it whilst I live. Are you going to break it?
THE MAIDEN. Dear child: it has broken itself. The change has come in spite of my childish vow. [_She rises_]. Do you mind if I go into the woods for a walk by myself? This chat of ours seems to me an unbearable waste of time. I have so much to think of.
STREPHON [_again collapsing on the altar and covering his eyes with his hands_] My heart is broken. [_He weeps_].
THE MAIDEN [_with a shrug_] I have luckily got through my childhood without that experience. It shews how wise I was to choose a lover half my age. [_She goes towards the grove, and is disappearing among the trees, when another youth, older and manlier than Strephon, with crisp hair and firm arms, comes from the temple, and calls to her from the threshold_].
THE TEMPLE YOUTH. I say, Chloe. Is there any sign of the Ancient yet? The hour of birth is overdue. The baby is kicking like mad. She will break her shell prematurely.
THE MAIDEN [_looks across to the hill path; then points up it, and says_] She is coming, Acis.
_The Maiden turns away through the grove and is lost to sight among the trees._
Acis [_coming to Strephon_] Whats the matter? Has Chloe been unkind?
STREPHON. She has grown up in spite of all her promises. She deceived us about her age. She is four.
ACIS. Four! I am sorry, Strephon. I am getting on for three myself; and I know what old age is. I hate to say ‘I told you so’; but she was getting a little hard set and flat-chested and thin on the top, wasn’t she?
STREPHON [_breaking down_] Dont.
ACIS. You must pull yourself together. This is going to be a busy day. First the birth. Then the Festival of the Artists.
STREPHON [_rising_] What is the use of being born if we have to decay into unnatural, heartless, loveless, joyless monsters in four short years? What use are the artists if they cannot bring their beautiful creations to life? I have a great mind to die and have done with it all. [_He moves away to the corner of the curved seat farthest from the theatre, and throws himself moodily into it_].
_An Ancient Woman has descended the hill path during Strephon’s lament, and has heard most of it. She is like the He-Ancient, equally bald, and equally without sexual charm, but intensely interesting and rather terrifying. Her sex is discoverable only by her voice, as her breasts are manly, and her figure otherwise not very different. She wears no clothes, but has draped herself rather perfunctorily with a ceremonial robe, and carries two implements like long slender saws. She comes to the altar between the two young men._
THE SHE-ANCIENT [_to Strephon_] Infant: you are only at the beginning of it all. [_To Acis_] Is the child ready to be born?
ACIS. More than ready, Ancient. Shouting and kicking and cursing. We have called to her to be quiet and wait until you come; but of course she only half understands, and is very impatient.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. Very well. Bring her out into the sun.
ACIS [_going quickly into the temple_] All ready. Come along.
_Joyous processional music strikes up in the temple._
THE SHE-ANCIENT [_going close to Strephon_]. Look at me.
STREPHON [_sulkily keeping his face _averted] Thank you; but I don’t want to be cured. I had rather be miserable in my own way than callous in yours.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. You like being miserable? You will soon grow out of that. [_She returns to the altar_].
_The procession, headed by Acis, emerges from the temple. Six youths carry on their shoulders a burden covered with a gorgeous but light pall. Before them certain official maidens carry a new tunic, ewers of water, silver dishes pierced with holes, cloths, and immense sponges. The rest carry wands with ribbons, and strew flowers. The burden is deposited on the altar, and the pall removed. It is a huge egg._
THE SHE-ANCIENT [_freeing her arms from her robe, and placing her saws on the altar ready to her hand in a businesslike manner_] A girl, I think you said?
ACIS. Yes.
THE TUNIC BEARER. It is a shame. Why cant we have more boys?
SEVERAL YOUTHS [_protesting_] Not at all. More girls. We want new girls.
A GIRL’S VOICE FROM THE EGG. Let me out. Let me out. I want to be born. I want to be born. [_The egg rocks_].
ACIS [_snatching a wand from one of the others and whacking the egg with it_] Be quiet, I tell you. Wait. You will be born presently.
THE EGG. No, no: at once, at once. I want to be born: I want to be born. [_Violent kicking within the egg, which rocks so hard that it has to be held on the altar by the bearers_].
THE SHE-ANCIENT. Silence. [_The music stops; and the egg behaves itself_].
_The She-Ancient takes her two saws, and with a couple of strokes rips the egg open. The Newly Born, a pretty girl who would have been guessed as seventeen in our day, sits up in the broken shell, exquisitely fresh and rosy, but with filaments of spare albumen clinging to her here and there._
THE NEWLY BORN [_as the world bursts on her vision_] Oh! Oh!! Oh!!! Oh!!!! [_She continues this ad libitum during the following remonstrances_].
ACIS. Hold your noise, will you?
_The washing begins. The Newly Born shrieks and struggles._
A YOUTH. Lie quiet, you clammy little devil.
A MAIDEN. You must be washed, dear. Now quiet, quiet, quiet: be good.
ACIS. Shut your mouth, or I’ll shove the sponge in it.
THE MAIDEN. Shut your eyes. Itll hurt if you don’t.
ANOTHER MAIDEN. Dont be silly. One would think nobody had ever been born before.
THE NEWLY BORN [_yells_]!!!!!!
ACIS. Serve you right! You were told to shut your eyes.
THE YOUTH. Dry her off quick. I can hardly hold her. Shut it, will you; or I’ll smack you into a pickled cabbage.
_The dressing begins. The Newly Born chuckles with delight._
THE MAIDEN. Your arms go here, dear. Isnt it pretty? Youll look lovely.
THE NEWLY BORN [_rapturously_] Oh! Oh!! Oh!!! Oh!!!!
ANOTHER YOUTH. No: the other arm: youre putting it on back to front. You are a silly little beast.
ACIS. Here! Thats it. Now youre clean and decent. Up with you! Oopsh! [_He hauls her to her feet. She cannot walk at first, but masters it after a few steps_]. Now then: march. Here she is, Ancient: put her through the catechism.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. What name have you chosen for her?
ACIS. Amaryllis.
THE SHE-ANCIENT [_to the Newly Born_] Your name is Amaryllis.
THE NEWLY BORN. What does it mean?
A YOUTH. Love.
A MAIDEN. Mother.
ANOTHER YOUTH. Lilies.
THE NEWLY BORN [_to Acis_] What is your name?
ACIS. Acis.
THE NEWLY BORN. I love you, Acis. I must have you all to myself. Take me in your arms.
ACIS. Steady, young one. I am three years old.
THE NEWLY BORN. What has that to do with it? I love you; and I must have you or I will go back into my shell again.
ACIS. You cant. It’s broken. Look here [_pointing to Strephon, who has remained in his seal without looking round at the birth, wrapped up in his sorrow_]! Look at this poor fellow!
THE NEWLY BORN. What is the matter with him?
ACIS. When he was born he chose a girl two years old for his sweetheart. He is two years old now himself; and already his heart is broken because she is four. That means that she has grown up like this Ancient here, and has left him. If you choose me, we shall have only a year’s happiness before I break your heart by growing up. Better choose the youngest you can find.
THE NEWLY BORN. I will not choose anyone but you. You must not grow up. We will love one another for ever. [_They all laugh_]. What are you laughing at?
THE SHE-ANCIENT. Listen, child–
THE NEWLY BORN. Do not come near me, you dreadful old creature. You frighten me.
ACIS. Just give her another moment. She is not quite reasonable yet. What can you expect from a child less than five minutes old?
THE NEWLY BORN. I think I feel a little more reasonable now. Of course I was rather young when I said that; but the inside of my head is changing very rapidly. I should like to have things explained to me.
ACIS [_to the She-Ancient_] Is she all right, do you think?
_The She-Ancient looks at the Newly Born critically; feels her bumps like a phrenologist; grips her muscles and shakes her limbs; examines her teeth; looks into her eyes for a moment; and finally relinquishes her with an air of having finished her job._
THE SHE-ANCIENT. She will do. She may live.
_They all wave their hands and shout for joy._
THE NEWLY BORN [_indignant_] I may live! Suppose there had been anything wrong with me?
THE SHE-ANCIENT. Children with anything wrong do not live here, my child. Life is not cheap with us. But you would not have felt anything.
THE NEWLY BORN. You mean that you would have murdered me!
THE SHE-ANCIENT. That is one of the funny words the newly born bring with them out of the past. You will forget it tomorrow. Now listen. You have four years of childhood before you. You will not be very happy; but you will be interested and amused by the novelty of the world; and your companions here will teach you how to keep up an imitation of happiness during your four years by what they call arts and sports and pleasures. The worst of your troubles is already over.
THE NEWLY BORN. What! In five minutes?
THE SHE-ANCIENT. No: you have been growing for two years in the egg. You began by being several sorts of creatures that no longer exist, though we have fossils of them. Then you became human; and you passed in fifteen months through a development that once cost human beings twenty years of awkward stumbling immaturity after they were born. They had to spend fifty years more in the sort of childhood you will complete in four years. And then they died of decay. But you need not die until your accident comes.
THE NEWLY BORN. What is my accident?
THE SHE-ANCIENT. Sooner or later you will fall and break your neck; or a tree will fall on you; or you will be struck by lightning. Something or other must make an end of you some day.
THE NEWLY BORN. But why should any of these things happen to me?
THE SHE-ANCIENT. There is no why. They do. Everything happens to everybody sooner or later if there is time enough. And with us there is eternity.
THE NEWLY BORN. Nothing need happen. I never heard such nonsense in all my life. I shall know how to take care of myself.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. So you think.
THE NEWLY BORN. I don’t think: I know. I shall enjoy life for ever and ever.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. If you should turn out to be a person of infinite capacity, you will no doubt find life infinitely interesting. However, all you have to do now is to play with your companions. They have many pretty toys, as you see: a playhouse, pictures, images, flowers, bright fabrics, music: above all, themselves; for the most amusing child’s toy is another child. At the end of four years, your mind will change: you will become wise; and then you will be entrusted with power.
THE NEWLY BORN. But I want power now.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. No doubt you do; so that you could play with the world by tearing it to pieces.
THE NEWLY BORN. Only to see how it is made. I should put it all together again much better than before.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. There was a time when children were given the world to play with because they promised to improve it. They did not improve it; and they would have wrecked it had their power been as great as that which you will wield when you are no longer a child. Until then your young companions will instruct you in whatever is necessary. You are not forbidden to speak to the ancients; but you had better not do so, as most of them have long ago exhausted all the interest there is in observing children and conversing with them. [_She turns to go_].
THE NEWLY BORN. Wait. Tell me some things that I ought to do and ought not to do. I feel the need of education. They all laugh at her, except the She-Ancient.
THE SHE-ANCIENT. You will have grown out of that by tomorrow. Do what you please. [_She goes away up the hill path_].
_The officials take their paraphernalia and the fragments of the egg back into the temple._
ACIS. Just fancy: that old girl has been going for seven hundred years and hasnt had her fatal accident yet; and she is not a bit tired of it all.
THE NEWLY BORN. How could anyone ever get tired of life?
ACIS. They do. That is, of the same life. They manage to change themselves in a wonderful way. You meet them sometimes with a lot of extra heads and arms and legs: they make you split laughing at them. Most of them have forgotten how to speak: the ones that attend to us have to brush up their knowledge of the language once a year or so. Nothing makes any difference to them that I can see. They never enjoy themselves. I don’t know how they can stand it. They don’t even come to our festivals of the arts. That old one who saw you out of your shell has gone off to moodle about doing nothing; though she knows that this is Festival Day?
THE NEWLY BORN. What is Festival Day?
ACIS. Two of our greatest sculptors are bringing us their latest masterpieces; and we are going to crown them with flowers and sing dithyrambs to them and dance round them.
THE NEWLY BORN. How jolly! What is a sculptor?
ACIS. Listen here, young one. You must find out things for yourself, and not ask questions. For the first day or two you must keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. Children should be seen and not heard.
THE NEWLY BORN. Who are you calling a child? I am fully a quarter of an hour old [_She sits down on the curved bench near Strephon with her maturest air_].
VOICES IN THE TEMPLE [_all expressing protest, disappointment, disgust_] Oh! Oh! Scandalous. Shameful. Disgraceful. What filth! Is this a joke? Why, theyre ancients! Ss-s-s-sss! Are you mad, Arjillax? This is an outrage. An insult. Yah! etc. etc. etc. [_The malcontents appear on the steps, grumbling_].
ACIS. Hullo: whats the matter? [_He goes to the steps of the temple_].
_The two sculptors issue from the temple. One has a beard two feet long: the other is beardless. Between them comes a handsome nymph with marked features, dark hair richly waved, and authoritative bearing._
THE AUTHORITATIVE NYMPH [_swooping down to the centre of the glade with the sculptors, between Acis and the Newly Born_] Do not try to browbeat me, Arjillax, merely because you are clever with your hands. Can you play the flute?
ARJILLAX [_the bearded sculptor on her right_] No, Ecrasia: I cannot. What has that to do with it? [_He is half derisive, half impatient, wholly resolved not to take her seriously in spite of her beauty and imposing tone_].
ECRASIA. Well, have you ever hesitated to criticize our best flute players, and to declare whether their music is good or bad? Pray have I not the same right to criticize your busts, though I cannot make images anymore than you can play?
ARJILLAX. Any fool can play the flute, or play anything else, if he practises enough; but sculpture is a creative art, not a mere business of whistling into a pipe. The sculptor must have something of the god in him. From his hand comes a form which reflects a spirit. He does not make it to please you, nor even to please himself, but because he must. You must take what he gives you, or leave it if you are not worthy of it.
ECRASIA [_scornfully_] Not worthy of it! Ho! May I not leave it because it is not worthy of me?
ARJILLAX. Of you! Hold your silly tongue, you conceited humbug. What do you know about it?
ECRASIA. I know what every person of culture knows: that the business of the artist is to create beauty. Until today your works have been full of beauty; and I have been the first to point that out.
ARJILLAX. Thank you for nothing. People have eyes, havnt they, to see what is as plain as the sun in the heavens without your pointing it out?
ECRASIA. You were very glad to have it pointed out. You did not call me a conceited humbug then. You stifled me with caresses. You modelled me as the genius of art presiding over the infancy of your master here [_indicating the other sculptor_], Martellus.
MARTELLUS [_a silent and meditative listener, shudders and shakes his head, but says nothing_].
ARJILLAX [_quarrelsomely_] I was taken in by your talk.
ECRASIA. I discovered your genius before anyone else did. Is that true, or is it not?
ARJILLAX. Everybody knew I was an extraordinary person. When I was born my beard was three feet long.
ECRASIA. Yes; and it has shrunk from three feet to two. Your genius seems to have been in the last foot of your beard; for you have lost both.
MARTELLUS [_with a short sardonic cachinnation_] Ha! My beard was three and a half feet long when I was born; and a flash of lightning burnt it off and killed the ancient who was delivering me. Without a hair on my chin I became the greatest sculptor in ten generations.
ECRASIA. And yet you come to us today with empty hands. We shall actually have to crown Arjillax here because no other sculptor is exhibiting.
ACIS [_returning from the temple steps to behind the curved seat on the right of the three_] Whats the row, Ecrasia? Why have you fallen out with Arjillax?
ECRASIA. He has insulted us! outraged us! profaned his art! You know how much we hoped from the twelve busts he placed in the temple to be unveiled today. Well, go in and look at them. That is all I have to say. [_She sweeps to the curved seat, and sits down just where Acis is leaning over it_].
ACIS. I am no great judge of sculpture. Art is not my line. What is wrong with the busts?
ECRASIA. Wrong with them! Instead of being ideally beautiful nymphs and youths, they are horribly realistic studies of–but I really cannot bring my lips to utter it.
_The Newly Born, full of curiosity, runs to the temple, and peeps in._
ACIS. Oh, stow it, Ecrasia. Your lips are not so squeamish as all that. Studies of what?
THE NEWLY BORN [_from the temple steps_] Ancients.
ACIS [_surprised but not scandalized_] Ancients!
ECRASIA. Yes, ancients. The one subject that is by the universal consent of all connoisseurs absolutely excluded from the fine arts. [_To Arjillax_] How can you defend such a proceeding?
ARJILLAX. If you come to that, what interest can you find in the statues of smirking nymphs and posturing youths you stick up all over the place?
ECRASIA. You did not ask that when your hand was still skilful enough to model them.
ARJILLAX. Skilful! You high-nosed idiot, I could turn such things out by the score with my eyes bandaged and one hand tied behind me. But what use would they be? They would bore me; and they would bore you if you had any sense. Go in and look at my busts. Look at them again and yet again until you receive the full impression of the intensity of mind that is stamped on them; and then go back to the pretty-pretty confectionery you call sculpture, and see whether you can endure its vapid emptiness. [_He mounts the altar impetuously_] Listen to me, all of you; and do you, Ecrasia, be silent if you are capable of silence.
ECRASIA. Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn. Scorn! That is what I feel for your revolting busts.
ARJILLAX. Fool: the busts are only the beginning of a mighty design. Listen.
ACIS. Go ahead, old sport. We are listening.
_Martellus stretches himself on the sward beside the altar. The Newly Born sits on the temple steps with her chin on her hands, ready to devour the first oration she has ever heard. The rest sit or stand at ease._
ARJILLAX. In the records which generations of children have rescued from the stupid neglect of the ancients, there has come down to us a fable which, like many fables, is not a thing that was done in the past, but a thing that is to be done in the future. It is a legend of a supernatural being called the Archangel Michael.
THE NEWLY BORN. Is this a story? I want to hear a story. [_She runs down the steps and sits on the altar at Arjillax’s feet_].
ARJILLAX. The Archangel Michael was a mighty sculptor and painter. He found in the centre of the world a temple erected to the goddess of the centre, called Mediterranea. This temple was full of silly pictures of pretty children, such as Ecrasia approves.
ACIS. Fair play, Arjillax! If she is to keep silent, let her alone.
ECRASIA. I shall not interrupt, Acis. Why should I not prefer youth and beauty to age and ugliness?
ARJILLAX. Just so. Well, the Archangel Michael was of my opinion, not yours. He began by painting on the ceiling the newly born in all their childish beauty. But when he had done this he was not satisfied; for the temple was no more impressive than it had been before, except that there was a strength and promise of greater things about his newly born ones than any other artist had attained to. So he painted all round these newly born a company of ancients, who were in those days called prophets and sybils, whose majesty was that of the mind alone at its intensest. And this painting was acknowledged through ages and ages to be the summit and masterpiece of art. Of course we cannot believe such a tale literally. It is only a legend. We do not believe in archangels; and the notion that thirty thousand years ago sculpture and painting existed, and had even reached the glorious perfection they have reached with us, is absurd. But what men cannot realize they can at least aspire to. They please themselves by pretending that it was realized in a golden age of the past. This splendid legend endured because it lived as a desire in the hearts of the greatest artists. The temple of Mediterranea never was built in the past, nor did Michael the Archangel exist. But today the temple is here [_he points to the porch_]; and the man is here [_he slaps himself on the chest_]. I, Arjillax, am the man. I will place in your theatre such images of the newly born as must satisfy even Ecrasia’s appetite for beauty; and I will surround them with ancients more august than any who walk through our woods.
MARTELLUS [_as before_] Ha!
ARJILLAX [_stung_] Why do you laugh, you who have come empty-handed, and, it seems, empty-headed?
ECRASIA [_rising indignantly_] Oh, shame! You dare disparage Martellus, twenty times your master.
ACIS. Be quiet, will you [_he seizes her shoulders and thrusts her back into her seat_].
MARTELLUS. Let him disparage his fill, Ecrasia. [_Sitting up_] My poor Arjillax, I too had this dream. I too found one day that my images of loveliness had become vapid, uninteresting, tedious, a waste of time and material. I too lost my desire to model limbs, and retained only my interest in heads and faces. I, too, made busts of ancients; but I had not your courage: I made them in secret, and hid them from you all.
ARJILLAX [_jumping down from the altar behind Martellus in his surprise and excitement_] You made busts of ancients! Where are they, man? Will you be talked out of your inspiration by Ecrasia and the fools who imagine she speaks with authority? Let us have them all set up beside mine in the theatre. I have opened the way for you; and you see I am none the worse.
MARTELLUS. Impossible. They are all smashed. [_He rises, laughing_].
ALL. Smashed!
ARJILLAX. Who smashed them?
MARTELLUS. I did. That is why I laughed at you just now. You will smash yours before you have completed a dozen of them. [_He goes to the end of the altar and sits down beside the Newly Born_].
ARJILLAX. But why?
MARTELLUS. Because you cannot give them life. A live ancient is better than a dead statue. [_He takes the Newly Born on his knee: she is flattered and voluptuously responsive_]. Anything alive is better than anything that is only pretending to be alive. [_To Arjillax_] Your disillusion with your works of beauty is only the beginning of your disillusion with images of all sorts. As your hand became more skilful and your chisel cut deeper, you strove to get nearer and nearer to truth and reality, discarding the fleeting fleshly lure, and making images of the mind that fascinates to the end. But how can so noble an inspiration be satisfied with any image, even an image of the truth? In the end the intellectual conscience that tore you away from the fleeting in art to the eternal must tear you away from art altogether, because art is false and life alone is true.
THE NEWLY BORN [_flings her arms round his neck and kisses him enthusiastically_].
MARTELLUS [_rises; carries her to the curved bench on his left; deposits her beside Strephon as if she were his overcoat; and continues without the least change of tone_] Shape it as you will, marble remains marble, and the graven image an idol. As I have broken my idols, and cast away my chisel and modelling tools, so will you too break these busts of yours.
ARJILLAX. Never.
MARTELLUS. Wait, my friend. I do not come empty-handed today, as you imagined. On the contrary, I bring with me such a work of art as you have never seen, and an artist who has surpassed both you and me further than we have surpassed all our competitors.
ECRASIA. Impossible. The greatest things in art can never be surpassed.
ARJILLAX. Who is this paragon whom you declare greater than I?
MARTELLUS. I declare him greater than myself, Arjillax.
ARJILLAX [_frowning_] I understand. Sooner than not drown me, you are willing to clasp me round the waist and jump overboard with me.
ACIS. Oh, stop squabbling. That is the worst of you artists. You are always in little squabbling cliques; and the worst cliques are those which consist of one man. Who is this new fellow you are throwing in one another’s teeth?
ARJILLAX. Ask Martellus: do not ask me. I know nothing of him. [_He leaves Martellus, and sits down beside Ecrasia, on her left_].
MARTELLUS. You know him quite well. Pygmalion.
ECRASIA [_indignantly_] Pygmalion! That soulless creature! A scientist! A laboratory person!
ARJILLAX. Pygmalion produce a work of art! You have lost your artistic senses. The man is utterly incapable of modelling a thumb nail, let alone a human figure.
MARTELLUS. That does not matter: I have done the modelling for him.
ARJILLAX. What on earth do you mean?
MARTELLUS [_calling_] Pygmalion: come forth.
_Pygmalion, a square-fingered youth with his face laid out in horizontal blocks, and a perpetual smile of eager benevolent interest in everything, and expectation of equal interest from everybody else, comes from the temple to the centre of the group, who regard him for the most part with dismay, as dreading that he will bore them. Ecrasia is openly contemptuous._
MARTELLUS. Friends: it is unfortunate that Pygmalion is constitutionally incapable of exhibiting anything without first giving a lecture about it to explain it; but I promise you that if you will be patient he will shew you the two most wonderful works of art in the world, and that they will contain some of my own very best workmanship. Let me add that they will inspire a loathing that will cure you of the lunacy of art for ever. [_He sits down next the Newly Born, who pouts and turns a very cold right shoulder to him, a demonstration utterly lost on him_].
_Pygmalion, with the smile of a simpleton, and the eager confidence of a fanatical scientist, climbs awkwardly on to the altar. They prepare for the worst._
PYGMALION. My friends: I will omit the algebra–
ACIS. Thank God!
PYGMALION [_continuing_]–because Martellus has made me promise to do so. To come to the point, I have succeeded in making artificial human beings. Real live ones, I mean.
INCREDULOUS VOICES. Oh, come! Tell us another. Really, Pyg! Get out. You havnt. What a lie!
PYGMALION. I tell you I have. I will shew them to you. It has been done before. One of the very oldest documents we possess mentions a tradition of a biologist who extracted certain unspecified minerals from the earth and, as it quaintly expresses it, ‘breathed into their nostrils the breath of life.’ This is the only tradition from the primitive ages which we can regard as really scientific. There are later documents which specify the minerals with great precision, even to their atomic weights; but they are utterly unscientific, because they overlook the element of life which makes all the difference between a mere mixture of salts and gases and a living organism. These mixtures were made over and over again in the crude laboratories of the Silly-Clever Ages; but nothing came of them until the ingredient which the old chronicler called the breath of life was added by this very remarkable early experimenter. In my view he was the founder of biological science.
ARJILLAX. Is that all we know about him? It doesnt amount to very much, does it?
PYGMALION. There are some fragments of pictures and documents which represent him as walking in a garden and advising people to cultivate their gardens. His name has come down to us in several forms. One of them is Jove. Another is Voltaire.
ECRASIA. You are boring us to distraction with your Voltaire. What about your human beings?
ARJILLAX. Aye: come to them.
PYGMALION. I assure you that these details are intensely interesting. [_Cries of_ No! They are not! Come to the human beings! Conspuez Voltaire! Cut it short, Pyg! _interrupt him from all sides_]. You will see their bearing presently. I promise you I will not detain you long. We know, we children of science, that the universe is full of forces and powers and energies of one kind and another. The sap rising in a tree, the stone holding together in a definite crystalline structure, the thought of a philosopher holding his brain in form and operation with an inconceivably powerful grip, the urge of evolution: all these forces can be used by us. For instance, I use the force of gravitation when I put a stone on my tunic to prevent it being blown away when I am bathing. By substituting appropriate machines for the stone we have made not only gravitation our slave, but also electricity and magnetism, atomic attraction, repulsion, polarization, and so forth. But hitherto the vital force has eluded us; so it has had to create machinery for itself. It has created and developed bony structures of the requisite strength, and clothed them with cellular tissue of such amazing sensitiveness that the organs it forms will adapt their action to all the normal variations in the air they breathe, the food they digest, and the circumstances about which they have to think. Yet, as these live bodies, as we call them, are only machines after all, it must be possible to construct them mechanically.
ARJILLAX. Everything is possible. Have you done it? that is the question.
PYGMALION. Yes. But that is a mere fact. What is interesting is the explanation of the fact. Forgive my saying so; but it is such a pity that you artists have no intellect.