Collected Works. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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      “We must run away, Hetty,” he said “Hold fast about my neck, and don’t strangle me. Now then.” He lifted her upon his shoulder and ran swiftly through the grounds. When they were stopped by the wall, he placed her atop of it, scrabbled over, and made her jump into his arms. Then he staggered away with her across the fields, gasping out in reply to the inarticulate remonstrances which burst from her as he stumbled and reeled at every hillock, “Your weight is increasing at the rate of a stone a second, my love. If you stoop you will break my back. Oh, Lord, here’s a ditch!”

      “Let me down,” screamed Henrietta in an ecstasy of delight and apprehension. “You will hurt yourself, and—Oh, DO take—”

      He struggled through a dry ditch as she spoke, and came out upon a grassy place that bordered the towpath of the canal. Here, on the bank of a hollow where the moss was dry and soft, he seated her, threw himself prone on his elbows before her, and said, panting:

      “Nessus carrying off Dejanira was nothing to this! Whew! Well, my darling, are you glad to see me?”

      “But—”

      “But me no buts, unless you wish me to vanish again and for ever. Wretch that I am, I have longed for you unspeakably more than once since I ran away from you. You didn’t care, of course?”

      “I did. I did, indeed. Why did you leave me, Sidney?”

      “Lest a worse thing might befall. Come, don’t let us waste in explanations the few minutes we have left. Give me a kiss.”

      “Then you are going to leave me again. Oh, Sidney—”

      “Never mind to-morrow, Hetty. Be like the sun and the meadow, which are not in the least concerned about the coming winter. Why do you stare at that cursed canal, blindly dragging its load of filth from place to place until it pitches it into the sea—just as a crowded street pitches its load into the cemetery? Stare at ME, and give me a kiss.”

      She gave him several, and said coaxingly, with her arm still upon his shoulder: “You only talk that way to frighten me, Sidney; I know you do.”

      “You are the bright sun of my senses,” he said, embracing her. “I feel my heart and brain wither in your smile, and I fling them to you for your prey with exultation. How happy I am to have a wife who does not despise me for doing so—who rather loves me the more!”

      “Don’t be silly,” said Henrietta, smiling vacantly. Then, stung by a half intuition of his meaning, she repulsed him and said angrily, “YOU despise ME.”

      “Not more than I despise myself. Indeed, not so much; for many emotions that seem base from within seem lovable from without.”

      “You intend to leave me again. I feel it. I know it.”

      “You think you know it because you feel it. Not a bad reason, either.”

      “Then you ARE going to leave me?”

      “Do you not feel it and know it? Yes, my cherished Hetty, I assuredly am.”

      She broke into wild exclamations of grief, and he drew her head down and kissed her with a tender action which she could not resist, and a wry face which she did not see.

      “My poor Hetty, you don’t understand me.”

      “I only understand that you hate me, and want to go away from me.”

      “That would be easy to understand. But the strangeness is that I LOVE you and want to go away from you. Not for ever. Only for a time.”

      “But I don’t want you to go away. I won’t let you go away,” she said, a trace of fierceness mingling with her entreaty. “Why do you want to leave me if you love me?”

      “How do I know? I can no more tell you the whys and wherefores of myself than I can lift myself up by the waistband and carry myself into the next county, as some one challenged a speculator in perpetual motion to do. I am too much a pessimist to respect my own affections. Do you know what a pessimist is?”

      “A man who thinks everybody as nasty as himself, and hates them for it.”

      “So, or thereabout. Modern English polite society, my native sphere, seems to me as corrupt as consciousness of culture and absence of honesty can make it. A canting, lie-loving, fact-hating, scribbling, chattering, wealth-hunting, pleasure-hunting, celebrity-hunting mob, that, having lost the fear of hell, and not replaced it by the love of justice, cares for nothing but the lion’s share of the wealth wrung by threat of starvation from the hands of the classes that create it. If you interrupt me with a silly speech, Hetty, I will pitch you into the canal, and die of sorrow for my lost love afterwards. You know what I am, according to the conventional description: a gentleman with lots of money. Do you know the wicked origin of that money and gentility?”

      “Oh, Sidney; have you been doing anything?”

      “No, my best beloved; I am a gentleman, and have been doing nothing. That a man can do so and not starve is nowadays not even a paradox. Every halfpenny I possess is stolen money; but it has been stolen legally, and, what is of some practical importance to you, I have no means of restoring it to the rightful owners even if I felt inclined to. Do you know what my father was?”

      “What difference can that make now? Don’t be disagreeable and full of ridiculous fads, Sidney dear. I didn’t marry your father.”

      “No; but you married—only incidentally, of course—my father’s fortune. That necklace of yours was purchased with his money; and I can almost fancy stains of blood.”

      “Stop, Sidney. I don’t like this sort of romancing. It’s all nonsense. DO be nice to me.”

      “There are stains of sweat on it, I know.”

      “You nasty wretch!”

      “I am thinking, not of you, my dainty one, but of the unfortunate people who slave that we may live idly. Let me explain to you why we are so rich. My father was a shrewd, energetic, and ambitious Manchester man, who understood an exchange of any sort as a transaction by which one man should lose and the other gain. He made it his object to make as many exchanges as possible, and to be always the gaining party in them. I do not know exactly what he was, for he was ashamed both of his antecedents and of his relatives, from which I can only infer that they were honest, and, therefore, unsuccessful people. However, he acquired some knowledge of the cotton trade, saved some money, borrowed some more on the security of his reputation for getting the better of other people in business, and, as he accurately told me afterwards, started FOR HIMSELF. He bought a factory and some raw cotton. Now you must know that a man, by laboring some time on a piece of raw cotton, can turn it into a piece of manufactured cotton fit for making into sheets and shifts and the like. The manufactured cotton is more valuable than the raw cotton, because the manufacture costs wear and tear of machinery, wear and tear of the factory, rent of the ground upon which the factory is built, and human labor, or wear and tear of live men, which has to be made good by food, shelter, and rest. Do you understand that?”

      “We used to learn all about it at college. I don’t see what it has to do with us, since you are not in the cotton trade.”

      “You learned as much as it was thought safe to teach you, no doubt; but not quite all, I should think. When my father started for himself, there were many СКАЧАТЬ