by Dan Laurence
THE JUDGE. Then you have risen by sheer natural ordinary superiority. However, do not be alarmed: all I claim for the purposes of my argument is that you are not a born fool.
SIR O. Very good of you to say so. Well, I will let it go at that.
THE JUDGE. At the other extreme, take the case of this passionate and attractive lady, whose name I have not the pleasure of knowing.
THE JEW. Try Dolores.
THE WIDOW. I suppose you think you are insulting me. You are simply making a fool of yourself. My name is Dolores.
SIR O. I guessed it, señora. In my undergraduate days I used to quote Oscar Wilde’s famous poem.
“We are fain of thee still, we are fain.
O sanguine and subtle Dolores
Our Lady of pain.”
THE JOURNALIST. Swinburne, Sir Orpheus.
SIR O. Was it Swinburne ? Well, it does not matter: it was one of the literary set.
THE WIDOW. It sounds well; but English is not my native language. I do not understand the first line. “We are fain of thee still: we are fain.” What does fain mean?
SIR O. Ah well, never mind, señora, never mind. We are interrupting his honor the Judge. [To the Judge] You were about to say—?
THE JUDGE. I was about to point out that whatever is the matter with this lady it is not stupidity. She speaks several languages. Her intelligence is remarkable : she takes a point like lightning. She has in her veins the learning of the Arabs, the courage and enterprise of the Spanish conquistadores, the skyward aspiration of the Aztecs, the selfless devotion to divine purposes of the Jesuit missionaries, and the readiness of them all to face death in what she conceives to be her social duty. If we have been actually obliged to disarm her to prevent her from sacrificing this harmless Jewish gentleman as her ancestors would have sacrificed him to the God Quetzalcoatl on the stepped altars of Mexico, it is not because she is stupid.
THE WIDOW. I hardly follow you, however intelligent you may think me. But I am proud of having Aztec blood in my veins, though I should never dream of insulting Quetzalcoatl by sacrificing a Jew to him.
THE JUDGE. As to the Jewish gentleman himself, I need not dwell on his case as he has been driven out of his native country solely because he is so thoughtful and industrious that his fellow-countrymen are hopelessly beaten by him in the competition for the conduct of business and for official positions. I come to our democratic friend here. I do not know what his business is—
THE NEWCOMER. I’m a retired builder if you want to know.
THE JUDGE. He has had ability enough to conduct a builder’s business with such success that he has been able to retire at his present age, which cannot be far above fifty.
THE NEWCOMER. I am no millionaire, mind you. I have just enough to do my bit on the Borough Council, and fight the enemies of democracy.
THE JUDGE. Precisely. That is the spirit of Geneva. What you lack is not mind but knowledge.
THE NEWCOMER. My wife says I’m pigheaded. How is that for a testimonial?
THE JUDGE. A first rate one, sir. Pigs never waver in their convictions, never give in to bribes, arguments, nor persuasions. At all events you are wise enough to be dissatisfied with the existing world order, and as anxious to change it as anybody in Geneva.
THE NEWCOMER. The world’s good enough for me. Democracy is what I want. We were all for democracy when only the privileged few had votes. But now that everybody has a vote, women and all, where’s democracy ? Dictators all over the place! and me, an elected representative, kept out of parliament by the police!
THE JUDGE. I come to our Russian friend. He must be a man of ability, or he could not be a Commissar in a country where nothing but ability counts. He has no fears for the future, whereas we are distracted by the continual dread of war, of bankruptcy, of poverty. But there is no evidence that he is a superman. Twenty years ago he would have been talking as great nonsense as any of you.
THE REST [except the Russian and Begonia] Nonsense!
THE JUDGE. Perhaps I should have said folly; for folly is not nonsensical: in fact the more foolish it is, the more logical, the more subtle, the more eloquent, the more brilliant.
SIR O. True. True. I have known men who could hold the House of Commons spellbound for hours; but most unsafe. Mere entertainers.
BEGONIA. My turn now, I suppose. I see you are looking at me. Well, all politics are the same to me: I never could make head or tail of them. But I draw the line at Communism and atheism and nationalization of women and doing away with marriage and the family and everybody stealing everybody’s property and having to work like slaves and being shot if you breathe a word against it all.
THE JUDGE. You are intelligent enough, wellmeaning enough, to be against such a state of things, Dame Begonia, are you?
BEGONIA. Well, of course I am. Wouldnt anybody?
THE JUDGE. It does you the greatest credit.
THE COMMISSAR. But allow me to remark—
THE JUDGE. Not now, Mr. Posky, or you will spoil my point, which is that Dame Begonia’s sympathies and intentions are just the same as yours.
BEGONIA. Oh! I never said so. I hate his opinions. THE COMMISSAR. I must protest. The lady is a bourgeoise: I am a Communist. How can there be the smallest sympathy between us? She upholds the dictatorship of the capitalist, I the dictatorship of the proletariat.
THE JUDGE. Never mind your opinions: I am dealing with the facts. It is evident that the lady is wrong as to the facts, because the inhabitants of a country conducted as she supposes Russia to be conducted would all be dead in a fortnight. It is evident also that her ignorance of how her own country is conducted is as complete as her ignorance of Russia. None of you seem to have any idea of the sort of world you are living in. Into the void created by this ignorance has been heaped a groundwork of savage superstitions: human sacrifices, vengeance, wars of conquest and religion, falsehoods called history, and a glorification of vulgar erotics and pugnacity called romance which transforms people who are naturally as amiable, as teachable, as companionable as dogs, into the most ferocious and cruel of all the beasts. And this, they say, is human nature! But it is not natural at all: real human nature is in continual conflict with it; for amid all the clamor for more slaughter and the erection of monuments to the great slaughterers the cry for justice, for mercy, for fellowship, for peace, has never been completely silenced: even the worst villainies must pretend to be committed for its sake.
SIR O. Too true: oh, too true. But we must take the world as we find it.
THE JUDGE. Wait a bit. How do you find the world? You find it sophisticated to the verge of suicidal insanity. This makes trouble for you as Foreign Secretary. Why not cut out the sophistication? Why not bring your economics, your religion, your history, your political philosophy up to date? Russia has made a gigantic effort to do this; and now her politicians are only about fifty years behind her philosophers and saints whilst the rest of the civilized world is from five hundred to five thousand behind it. In the west the vested interests in ignorance and superstition are so overwhelming that no teacher can tell his young pupils the truth without finding himself starving in the street. The result is that here we despair of human nature, whereas Russia has hopes that have carried her through the most appalling sufferings to the forefront of civilization. Then why despair of human nature when it costs us so much trouble to corrupt it? Why not stop telling it lies? Are we not as capable of that heroic feat as the Russians?
THE COMMISSAR. Apparently not. There are qualities which are produced on the Russian soil alone. There may be a future for the western world if it accepts the guidance of Moscow; but left to its childish self it will decline and fall like all the old capitalist civilizations.
SIR O. Let me tell you, Mr Posky, that if ever England takes to Communism, which heaven forbid, it will make a first-rate job of it. Downing Street will not take its orders from Moscow. Moscow took all its ideas from England, as this gentleman has told you. My grandfather bought sherry fr
om John Ruskin’s father; and very good sherry it was. And John Ruskin’s gospel compared with Karl Marx’s was like boiling brandy compared with milk and water.
THE JEW. Yes; but as the British would not listen to Ruskin he produced nothing. The race whose brains will guide the world to the new Jerusalem is the race that produced Karl Marx, who produced Soviet Russia.
THE JUDGE. Race! Nonsense! You are all hopeless mongrels pretending to be thoroughbreds. Why not give up pretending?
SIR O. I am not pretending. I am an Englishman: an Englishman from the heart of England.
THE JUDGE. You mean a British islander from Birmingham, the choicest breed of mongrels in the world. You should be proud of your cross-fertilization.
SIR O. At least I am not a Frenchman nor a negro.
THE JUDGE. At least you are not a Scot, nor an Irishman, nor a man of Kent, nor a man of Devon, nor a Welshman—
SIR O. One of my grandmothers was a Welsh girl. Birmingham is nearer the Welsh border than a Cockney concentration camp like London.
THE JUDGE. In short, you are a mongrel.
THE WIDOW. What is a mongrel? I thought it was a cheap kind of dog.
THE JUDGE. So it is, madam. I applied the word figuratively to a cheap kind of man: that is, to an enormous majority of the human race. It simply indicates mixed ancestry.
THE WIDOW. Ah, that is the secret of the unique distinction of the upper class in the Earthly Paradise. My blood is a blend of all that is noblest in history: the Maya, the Aztec, the Spaniard, the Mexican, the—
THE SECRETARY [flinging away his pen, with which he has been making notes of the discussion]. You see, Judge. If you knock all this nonsense of belonging to superior races out of them, they only begin to brag of being choice blends of mongrel. Talk til you are black in the face: you get no good of them. In China the Manchus have given up binding the women’s feet and making them cripples for life; but we still go on binding our heads and making fools of ourselves for life.
THE JUDGE. Yes, but do not forget that as lately as the nineteenth century the world believed that the Chinese could never change. Now they are the most revolutionary of all the revolutionists.
THE JEW [to the Widow] May I ask have you any engagement for dinner this evening?
THE WIDOW. What is that to you, pray?
THE JEW. Well, would you care to dine with me?
THE WIDOW. Dine with you! Dine with a Jew!
THE JEW. Only a Jew can appreciate your magnificent type of beauty, señora. These Nordics, as they ridiculously call themselves, adore girls who are dolls and women who are cows. But wherever the Jew dominates the theatre and the picture gallery—and he still dominates them in all the great capitals in spite of persecution—your type of beauty is supreme.
THE WIDOW. It is true. You have taste, you Jews. You have appetites. You are vital, in your oriental fashion. And you have boundless ambition and indefatigable pertinacity: you never stop asking for what you want until you possess it. But let me tell you that if you think you can possess me for the price of a dinner, you know neither your own place nor mine.
THE JEW. I ask nothing but the pleasure of your company, the luxury of admiring your beauty and experiencing your sex appeal, and the distinction of being seen in public with you as my guest.
THE WIDOW. You shall not get them. I will not accept your dinner.
THE JEW. Not even if I allow you to pay for it?
THE WIDOW. Is there any end to your impudence? I have never dined with a Jew in my life.
THE JEW. Then you do not know what a good dinner is. Come! Try dining with a Jew for the first time in your life.
THE WIDOW [considering it] It is true that I have nothing else to do this evening. But I must have my gun.
SIR O. [taking the pistol from his pocket] Well, as we seem to have got over the Anti-Semite difficulty I have no further excuse for retaining your property. [He hands her the pistol].
THE WIDOW [replacing it in her handbag] But remember. If you take the smallest liberty—if you hint at the possibility of a more intimate relation, you are a dead man.
THE JEW. You need have no fear. If there are any further advances they must come from yourself.
THE WIDOW. I could never have believed this.
BEGONIA. Geneva is like that. You find yourself dining with all sorts.
SIR O. By the way, Mr. Posky, have you anything particular to do this evening? If not, I should be glad if you would join me at dinner. I want to talk to you about this funny Russian business. You need not dress.
THE COMMISSAR. I will dress if you will allow me. They are rather particular about it now in Moscow.
BEGONIA. Well I never! Fancy a Bolshie dressing!
THE JUDGE. May I suggest, gracious Dame, that you and I dine together?
BEGONIA. Oh, I feel I am imposing on you: I have dined with you three times already. You know, I am a little afraid of you, you are so deep and learned and
what I call mental. I may be a Dame of the British Empire and all that; but I am not the least bit mental; and what attraction you can find in my conversation I cant imagine.
THE SECRETARY. Geneva is so full of mental people that it is an inexpressible relief to meet some cheerful person with absolutely no mind at all. The Judge can have his pick of a hundred clever women in Geneva; but what he needs to give his brain a rest is a soft-bosomed goose without a political idea in her pretty head.
BEGONIA. Go on: I am used to it. I know your opinion of me: I am the only perfect idiot in Geneva. But I got a move on the League; and thats more than you ever could do, you old stick-in-the-mud.
THE WIDOW. Take care, señorita! A woman should not wear her brains on her sleeve as men do. She should keep them up it. Men like to be listened to.
BEGONIA. I have listened here until I am nearly dead. Still, when men start talking you can always think of something else. They are so taken up with themselves that they dont notice it.
THE WIDOW. Do not give away the secrets of our sex, child. Be thankful, as I am, that you have made sure of your next dinner.
THE JOURNALIST. What about my dinner?
THE SECRETARY. You had better dine with me. You can tell me the latest news.
THE JUDGE. I can tell you that. The trial of the dictators by the Permanent Court of International Justice has been fixed for this day fortnight.
THE REST. Where?
THE JUDGE. At the Hague, in the old palace.
THE SECRETARY. But the trial will be a farce. The dictators wont come.
THE JUDGE. I think they will. You, Sir Orpheus, will, I presume, be present with a watching brief from the British Foreign Office.
SIR O. I shall certainly be present. Whether officially or not I cannot say.
THE JUDGE. You will all be present, I hope. May I suggest that you telephone at once to secure rooms at the Hague. If you wait until the news becomes public you may find yourselves crowded out.
All except the Judge and the Secretary rise hastily and disappear in the direction of the hotel bureau.
THE SECRETARY. You really think the dictators will walk into the dock for you?
THE JUDGE. We shall see. There will be no dock. I shall ask you to act as Clerk to the Court.
THE SECRETARY. Impossible.
THE JUDGE. It seems so now; but I think you will.
THE SECRETARY. Well, as Midlander is coming I shall certainly be there to hear what he may say. But the dictators? Bombardone ? Battler? How can you make them come? You have not a single soldier. Not even a policeman.
THE JUDGE. All the soldiers and police on earth could not move them except by the neck and heels. But if the Hague becomes the centre of the European stage all the soldiers and police in the world will not keep them away from it.
THE SECRETARY [musing] Hm! Well—[he shakes his head and gives it up].
THE JUDGE [smiles] They will come. Where the spotlight is, there will the despots be gathered.
[ ACT IV ]
* * *
A salon in the old palace of the Hague. On a spacious dais a chair of State, which is in fact an old throne, is at the head of a table furnished with chairs, writing materials, and buttons connected with telephonic apparatus. The table occupies the centre of the dais. On the floor at both sides chairs are arranged in rows for the accommodation of spectators, litigants, witnesses, etc. The tall windows admit abundance of sunlight and shew up all the gilding and grandeur of the immovables. The door is at the side, on the right of the occupant of the chair of state, at present empty. The formal arrangement of the furniture suggests a sitting or hearing or meeting of some kind. A waste paper basket is available.
The Secretary of the League of Nations has a little central table to himself in front of the other. His profile points towards the door. Behind him, in the front row of chairs are the Jew, the Commissar and the Widow. In the opposite front row are Begonia and a cheerful young gentleman, powerfully built, with an uproarious voice which he subdues to conversational pitch with some difficulty. Next to him is the quondam Newcomer. They are all reading newspapers. Begonia and her young man have one excessively illustrated newspaper between them. He has his arm round her waist and is shamelessly enjoying their physical contact. The two are evidently betrothed.