GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

Bedford looked on with submissive wonder as his master, transfigured with enthusiasm, went hastily to and fro through the room, occasionally clinching his fist and smiting an imaginary Dutchman. The valet at last ventured to remind him that he had forgotten the letter.

“Oh, hang the letter!” said Lord Worthington. “It’s Mrs. Hoskyn’s writing — an invitation, or some such rot. Here; let’s see it.”

“Campden Hill Road, Saturday.

“My dear Lord Worthington, — I have not forgotten my promise to obtain for you a near view of the famous Mrs. Herbert— ‘Madame Simplicita,’ as you call her. She will be with us tomorrow evening; and we shall be very happy to see you then, if you care to come. At nine o’clock, Herr Abendgasse, a celebrated German art critic and a great friend of mine, will read us a paper on ‘The True in Art’; but I will not pay you the compliment of pretending to believe that that interests you, so you may come at ten or half-past, by which hour all the serious business of the evening will be over.”

“Well, there is nothing like cheek,” said Lord Worthington, breaking off in his perusal. “These women think that because I enjoy life in a rational way I don’t know the back of a picture from the front, or the inside of a book from the cover. I shall go at nine sharp.”

“If any of your acquaintances take an interest in art, I will gladly make them welcome. Could you not bring me a celebrity or two? I am very anxious to have as good an audience as possible for Herr Abendgasse. However, as it is, he shall have no reason to complain, as I flatter myself that I have already secured a very distinguished assembly. Still, if you can add a second illustrious name to my list, by all means do so.”

“Very good, Mrs. Hoskyn,” said Lord Worthington, looking cunningly at the bewildered Bedford. “You shall have a celebrity — a real one — none of your mouldy old Germans — if I can only get him to come. If any of her people don’t like him they can tell him so. Eh, Bedford?”

Table of Contents

Next evening, Lydia and Alice reached Mrs. Hoskyn’s house in Campden Hill Road a few minutes before ten o’clock. They found Lord Worthington in the front garden, smoking and chatting with Mr. Hoskyn. He threw away his cigar and returned to the house with the two ladies, who observed that he was somewhat flushed with wine. They went into a parlor to take off their wraps, leaving him at the foot of the stairs. Presently they heard some one come down and address him excitedly thus,

“Worthington. Worthington. He has begun making a speech before the whole room. He got up the moment old Abendgasse sat down. Why the deuce did you give him that glass of champagne?”

“Sh-sh-sh! You don’t say so! Come with me; and let us try to get him away quietly.”

“Did you hear that?” said Alice. “Something must have happened.”

“I hope so,” said Lydia. “Ordinarily, the fault in these receptions is that nothing happens. Do not announce us, if you please,” she added to the servant, as they ascended the stairs. “Since we have come late, let us spare the feelings of Herr Abendgasse by going in as quietly as possible.”

They had no difficulty in entering unnoticed, for Mrs. Hoskyn considered obscurity beautiful; and her rooms were but dimly lighted by two curious lanterns of pink glass, within which were vaporous flames. In the middle of the larger apartment was a small table covered with garnet-colored plush, with a reading-desk upon it, and two candles in silver candlesticks, the light of which, being brighter than the lanterns, cast strong double shadows from a group of standing figures about the table. The surrounding space was crowded with chairs, occupied chiefly by ladies. Behind them, along the wall, stood a row of men, among whom was Lucian Webber. All were staring at Cashel Byron, who was making a speech to some bearded and spectacled gentlemen at the table. Lydia, who had never before seen him either in evening dress or quite at his ease, was astonished at his bearing. His eyes were sparkling, his confidence overbore the company, and his rough voice created the silence it broke. He was in high goodhumor, and marked his periods by the swing of his extended left arm, while he held his right hand close to his body and occasionally pointed his remarks by slyly wagging his forefinger.

“ — executive power,” he was saying as Lydia entered. “That’s a very good expression, gentlemen, and one that I can tell you a lot about. We have been told that if we want to civilize our neighbors we must do it mainly by the example of our own lives, by each becoming a living illustration of the highest culture we know. But what I ask is, how is anybody to know that you’re an illustration of culture. You can’t go about like a sandwich man with a label on your back to tell all the fine notions you have in your head; and you may be sure no person will consider your mere appearance preferable to his own. You want an executive power; that’s what you want. Suppose you walked along the street and saw a man beating a woman, and setting a bad example to the roughs. Well, you would be bound to set a good example to them; and, if you’re men, you’d like to save the woman; but you couldn’t do it by merely living; for that would be setting the bad example of passing on and leaving the poor creature to be beaten. What is it that you need to know then, in order to act up to your fine ideas? Why, you want to know how to hit him, when to hit him, and where to hit him; and then you want the nerve to go in and do it. That’s executive power; and that’s what’s wanted worse than sitting down and thinking how good you are, which is what this gentleman’s teaching comes to after all. Don’t you see? You want executive power to set an example. If you leave all that to the roughs, it’s their example that will spread, and not yours. And look at the politics of it. We’ve heard a good deal about the French tonight. Well, they’ve got executive power. They know how to make a barricade, and how to fight behind it when they’ve made it. What’s the result? Why, the French, if they only knew what they wanted, could have it tomorrow for the asking — more’s the pity that they don’t know. In this country we can do nothing; and if the lords and the landlords, or any other collection of nobs, were to drive us into the sea, what could we do but go? There’s a gentleman laughing at me for saying that; but I ask him what would he do if the police or the soldiers came this evening and told him to turn out of his comfortable house into the Thames? Tell ’em he wouldn’t vote for their employers at the next election, perhaps? Or, if that didn’t stop them, tell ’em that he’d ask his friends to do the same? That’s a pretty executive power! No, gentlemen. Don’t let yourself be deceived by people that have staked their money against you. The first thing to learn is how to fight. There’s no use in buying books and pictures unless you know how to keep them and your own head as well. If that gentleman that laughed know how to fight, and his neighbors all knew how to fight too, he wouldn’t need to fear police, nor soldiers, nor Russians, nor Prussians, nor any of the millions of men that may be let loose on him any day of the week, safe though he thinks himself. But, says you, let’s have a division of labor. Let’s not fight for ourselves, but pay other men to fight for us. That shows how some people, when they get hold of an idea, will work it to that foolish length that it’s wearisome to listen to them. Fighting is the power of self-preservation; another man can’t do it for you. You might as well divide the labor of eating your dinner, and pay one fellow to take the beef, another the beer, and a third the potatoes. But let us put it for the sake of argument that you do pay others to fight for you. Suppose some one else pays them higher, and they fight a cross, or turn openly against you! You’d have only yourself to blame for giving the executive power to money. And so long as the executive power is money the poor will be kept out of their corner and fouled against the ropes; whereas, by what I understand, the German professor wants them to have their rights. Therefore I say that a man’s first duty is to learn to fight. If he can’t do that he can’t set an example; he can’t stand up for his own rights or his neighbors’; he can’t keep himself in bodily health; and if he sees the weak illused by the strong, the most he can do is to sneak away and tell the nearest policeman, who most likely won’t turn up until the worst of the mischief is done. Coming to this lady’s drawingroom, and making an illustration of himself, won’t make him feel like a man after that. Let me be understood, though, gentlemen: I don’t intend that you should take everything I say too exactly — too literally, as it were. If you see a man beating a woman, I think you should interfere on principle. But don’t expect to be thanked by her for it; and keep your eye on her; don’t let her get behind you. As for him, just give him a good one and go away. Never stay to get yourself into a street fight; for it’s low, and generally turns out badly for all parties. However, that’s only a bit of practical advice. It doesn’t alter the great principle that you should get an executive power. When you get that, you’ll have courage in you; and, what’s more, your courage will be of some use to you. For though you may have courage by nature, still, if you haven’t executive power as well, your courage will only lead you to stand up to be beaten by men that have both courage and executive power; and what good does that do you? People say that you’re a game fellow; but they won’t find the stakes for you unless you can win them. You’d far better put your game in your pocket, and throw up the sponge while you can see to do it.