The Complete Works. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ certainly not a grownup child playing at being somebody out of Mrs. Markham’s history of England. I wear whatever becomes me. I cannot act when I feel dowdy.”

      “But what will the manager say?”

      “I doubt if he will say anything. He will hardly venture to press on me anything copied from that old parchment. As he will wear a suit of armor obviously made the other day in Birmingham, why — !” Mrs. Byron shrugged her shoulders, and did not take sufficient interest in the manager’s opinion to finish her sentence.

      “After all, Shakespeare concerned himself very little about such matters,” said Lydia, conversationally.

      “No doubt. I seldom read him.”

      “Is this part of Lady Constance a favorite one of yours?”

      “Troublesome, my dear,” said Mrs. Byron, absently. “The men look ridiculous in it; and it does not draw.”

      “No doubt,” said Lydia, watching her face. “But I spoke rather of your personal feeling towards the character. Do you, for instance, like portraying maternal tenderness on the stage?”

      “Maternal tenderness,” said Mrs. Byron with sudden nobleness, “is far too sacred a thing to be mimicked. Have you any children?”

      “No,” said Lydia, demurely. “I am not married.”

      “Of course not. You should get married. Maternity is a liberal education in itself.”

      “Do you think that it suits every woman?”

      “Undoubtedly. Without exception. Only think, dear Miss Carew, of the infinite patieuce with which you must tend a child, of the necessity of seeing with its little eyes and with your own wise ones at the same time, of bearing without reproach the stabs it innocently inflicts, of forgiving its hundred little selfishnesses, of living in continual fear of wounding its exquisite sensitiveness, or rousing its bitter resentment of injustice and caprice. Think of how you must watch yourself, check yourself, exercise and develop everything in you that can help to attract and retain the most jealous love in the world! Believe me, it is a priceless trial to be a mother. It is a royal compensation for having been born a woman.”

      “Nevertheless,” said Lydia, “I wish I had been born a man. Since you seem to have thought deeply into these problems, I will venture to ask you a question. Do you not think that the acquirement of an art demanding years of careful self-study and training — such as yours, for example — is also of great educational value? Almost a sufficient discipline to make one a good mother?”

      “Nonsense!” said Mrs. Byron, decidedly. “People come into the world readymade. I went on the stage when I was eighteen, and succeeded at once. Had I known anything of the world, or been four years older, I should have been weak, awkward, timid, and flat; it would have taken me twelve years to crawl to the front. But I was young, passionate, beautiful, and indeed terrible; for I had run away from home two years before, and been cruelly deceived. I learned the business of the stage as easily and thoughtlessly as a child learns a prayer; the rest came to me by nature. I have seen others spend years in struggling with bad voices, uncouth figures, and diffidence; besides a dozen defects that existed only in their imaginations. Their struggles may have educated them; but had they possessed sufficient genius they would have had neither struggle nor education. Perhaps that is why geniuses are such erratic people, and mediocrities so respectable. I grant you that I was very limited when I first came out; I was absolutely incapable of comedy. But I never took any trouble about it; and by and by, when I began to mature a little, and to see the absurdity of most of the things I had been making a fuss about, comedy came to me unsought, as romantic tragedy had come before. I suppose it would have come just the same if I had been laboring to acquire it, except that I would have attributed its arrival to my own exertions. Most of the laborious people think they have made themselves what they are — much as if a child should think it had made itself grow.”

      “You are the first artist I ever met,” said Lydia, “who did not claim art as the most laborious of all avocations. They all deny the existence of genius, and attribute everything to work.”

      “Of course one picks up a great deal from experience; and there is plenty of work on the stage. But it in my genius which enables me to pick up things, and to work on the stage instead of in a kitchen or laundry.”

      “You must be very fond of your profession.”

      “I do not mind it now; I have shrunk to fit it. I began because I couldn’t help myself; and I go on because, being an old woman, I have nothing else to do. Bless me, how I hated it after the first month! I must retire soon, now. People are growing weary of me.”

      “I doubt that. I am bound to assume that you are an old woman, since you say so; but you must be aware, flattery apart, that you hardly seem to have reached your prime yet.”

      “I might be your mother, my dear. I might be a grand mother. Perhaps I am.” There was a plaintive tone in the last sentence; and Lydia seized the opportunity.

      “You spoke of maternity then from experience, Miss Gisborne?”

      “I have one son — a son who was sent to me in my eighteenth year.”

      “I hope he inherits his mother’s genius and personal grace.”

      “I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Byron, pensively. “He was a perfect devil. I fear I shock you, Miss Carew; but really I did everything for him that the most devoted mother could do; and yet he ran away from me without making a sign of farewell. Little wretch!”

      “Boys do cruel things sometimes in a spirit of adventure,” said Lydia, watching her visitor’s face narrowly.

      “It was not that. It was his temper, which was ungovernable. He was sulky and vindictive. It is quite impossible to love a sulky child. I kept him constantly near me when he was a tiny creature; and when he got too big for that I spent oceans of money on his education. All in vain! He never showed any feeling towards me except a sense of injury that no kindness could remove. And he had nothing to complain of. Never was there a worse son.”

      Lydia remained silent and grave. Mrs. Byron looked rather beside her than at her. Suddenly she added,

      “My poor, darling Cashel” (Lydia suppressed a start), “what a shame to talk of you so! You see, I love him in spite of his wickedness.” Mrs. Byron took out her handkerchief, and Lydia for a moment was alarmed by the prospect of tears. But Miss Gisborne only blew her nose with perfect composure, and rose to take her leave. Lydia, who, apart from her interest in Cashel’s mother, was attracted and amused by the woman herself, induced her to stay for luncheon, and presently discovered from her conversation that she had read much romance of the Werther sort in her youth, and had, since then, employed her leisure in reading every book that came in her way without regard to its quality. Her acquirements were so odd, and her character so unreasonable, that Lydia, whose knowledge was unusually well organized, and who was eminently reasonable, concluded that she was a woman of genius. For Lydia knew the vanity of her own attainments, and believed herself to be merely a patient and well-taught plodder. Mrs. Byron happening to be pleased with the house, the luncheon, and Lydia’s intelligent listening, her unaccountable natural charm became so intensified by her goodhumor that Lydia became conscious of it, and began to wonder what its force might have been if some influence — that of a lover, for instance — had ever made Mrs. Byron ecstatically happy. She surprised herself at last in the act of speculating whether she could ever make Cashel love her as his father must, for a time at least, have loved her visitor.

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