Bernard Shaw's 'Man and Superman'
ACT I
Roebuck Ramsden is in his study, opening the morning letters. The study,
handsomely and solidly furnished, proclaims the man of means. Not a speck of
dust is visible: it is clear that there are at least two housemaids and a
parlormaid downstairs, and a housekeeper upstairs who does not let them spare
elbow-grease. Even the top of Roebuck's head is polished: on a sunshiny day he
could heliograph his orders to distant camps by merely nodding. In no other
respect, however, does he suggest the military man. It is in active civil life
that men get his broad air of importance, his dignified expectation of
deference, his determinate mouth disarmed and refined since the hour of his
success by the withdrawal of opposition and the concession of comfort and
precedence and power. He is more than a highly respectable man: he is marked
out as a president of highly respectable men, a chairman among directors, an
alderman among councillors, a mayor among aldermen. Four tufts of iron-grey
hair, which will soon be as white as isinglass, and are in other respects not
at all unlike it, grow in two symmetrical pairs above his ears and at the
angles of his spreading jaws. He wears a black frock coat, a white waistcoat
(it is bright spring weather), and trousers, neither black nor perceptibly
blue, of one of those indefinitely mixed hues which the modern clothier has
produced to harmonize with the religions of respectable men. He has not been
out of doors yet to-day; so he still wears his slippers, his boots being ready
for him on the hearthrug. Surmising that he has no valet, and seeing that he
has no secretary with a shorthand notebook and a typewriter, one meditates on
how little our great burgess domesticity has been disturbed by new fashions and
methods, or by the enterprise of the railway and hotel companies which sell you
a Saturday to Monday of life at Folkestone as a real gentleman for two guineas,
first class fares both ways included.
How old is Roebuck? The question is important on the threshold of a
drama of ideas; for under such circumstances everything depends on whether his
adolescence belonged to the sixties or to the eighties. He was born, as a
matter of fact, in 1839, and was a Unitarian and Free Trader from his boyhood,
and an Evolutionist from the publication of the Origin of Species. Consequently
he has always classed himself as an advanced thinker and fearlessly outspoken
reformer.
Sitting at his writing table, he has on his right the windows giving on
A chair stands near the writing table for the convenience of business
visitors. Two other chairs are against the wall between the busts.
A parlormaid enters with a visitor's card. Roebuck takes it, and nods,
pleased. Evidently a welcome caller.
RAMSDEN. Show him up.
The parlormaid goes out and returns with the visitor.
THE MAID. Mr Robinson.
Mr Robinson is really an uncommonly nice looking young fellow. He must,
one thinks, be the jeune premier; for it is not in reason to suppose that a
second such attractive male figure should appear in one story. The slim shapely
frame, the elegant suit of new mourning, the small head and regular features,
the pretty little moustache, the frank clear eyes, the wholesome bloom and the
youthful complexion, the well brushed glossy hair, not curly, but of
fine texture and good dark color, the arch of good nature in the eyebrows, the
erect forehead and neatly pointed chin, all announce the man who will love and
suffer later on. And that he will not do so without sympathy is guaranteed by
an engaging sincerity and eager modest serviceableness which stamp him as a man
of amiable nature. The moment he appears, Ramsden's face expands into fatherly
liking and welcome, an expression which drops into one of decorous grief as the
young man approaches him with sorrow in his face as well as in his black
clothes. Ramsden seems to know the nature of the bereavement. As the visitor
advances silently to the writing table, the old man rises and shakes his hand
across it without a word: a long, affectionate shake which tells the story of a
recent sorrow common to both.
RAMSDEN. [concluding the handshake and cheering up] Well, well, Octavius,
it's the common lot. We must all face it someday. Sit down.
Octavius takes the visitor's chair. Ramsden replaces himself in his own.
OCTAVIUS. Yes: we must face it, Mr Ramsden. But I owed him a great deal.
He did everything for me that my father could have done if he had lived.
RAMSDEN. He had no son of his own, you see.
OCTAVIUS. But he had daughters; and yet he was as good to my sister as
to me. And his death was so sudden! I always intended to thank him—to let him
know that I had not taken all his care of me as a matter of course, as any boy
takes his father's care. But I waited for an opportunity and now he is
dead—dropped without a moment's warning. He will never know what I felt. [He
takes out his handkerchief and cries unaffectedly].
RAMSDEN. How do we know that, Octavius? He may know it: we cannot tell. Come! Don't grieve. [Octavius masters himself and puts up his handkerchief]. That's right. Now let me tell you something to console you. The last time I saw him—it was in this very room—he said to me: "Tavy is a generous lad and the soul of honor; and when I see how little consideration other men get from their sons, I realize how much better than a son he's been to me." There! Doesn't that do you good?