Useless Eaters

Shaw on the death of a nobleman foretold

The Glimpse of Reality by George Bernard Shaw

This play is less than it appears.

A woman who is to marry, but is too poor to supply a dowry demanded by her future mother-in-law, asks a favour of an old friar who comes by. An ancient man who has been called upon by her bridegroom-to-be.

I am very, very, very old, the friar says. Oh, so old. You can’t imagine how old. And at my age, of course, the mind begins to wander. I’m blind, too, and my bones are as dust. You cannot imagine how old I am. If you tried, it would confuse you, it would make you wild. Guessing my age, well, no one can, because no one remembers when I was born. No one but I. And sometimes, I forget. And did I tell you my mind tends to wander? Though I’m blind, and though confused on occasion, the saints and particularly Saint Barbara, they minister to me and tend me. Oh, those saints, they take me to where I ought to be. And did I tell you that I was very, very old? I imagine I must have done. It’s relevant, I promise.

As the friar goes on and on, the young woman interrupts him with mounting impatience. She has a sin to confess to him; she wants to get his blessing.

But the old man’s attention keeps wandering, and so she leans closer and closer to his blind face, trying to catch his ear. At one moment, he tells her that even though his mind is not what it was, he has a miracle to show her, to prove his legitimacy.

Once, he said, the hand of Saint Barbara was discovered, and it was left to me — by the pope himself — to carry it from where it was found to Rome. And the hand of mine that carried the hand of Saint Barbara has been preserved as if by miracle. See that it is a young hand, as young as it was most of a century ago, when I performed my office! (And the rest of me so old.)

And the young woman squeezes his hand and discovers that it is as he says, firm and young.

It is a miracle! she says, and is convinced. This must be the right man to make a confession to, though his mind be not of once piece.

And make sure, the friar says, that you lean as close to my ear as you can. My hearing is not the best, you know, and if I seem to wander, if I seem off-topic, just squeeze my hand — the miracle hand — and I will return to it. Lean as close to me as you can, my child, and keep hold of my hand always.

The girl does this and tells the friar that she has a terrible sin she wishes to run by him. The holy man, kept on-topic by regular squeezes of his hand, is all attention.

I have to do something sinful to find the money to marry my intended, she says.

Well, the holy man tells her, really the sin is on the mother-in-law who insists that you bring money into the marriage. She’ll get another eternity in purgatory for it, but you shouldn’t let it trouble you all that much. How do you intend to sin?

The girl tells him that it concerns a local nobleman.

Oh, he would be a good choice, the old man says, if you wished to sell your services.

But I hear he is poor, the girl says. And besides, that’s not what I intend to do. I intend to kill him.

And how would you do that? the friar asks.

By decoying him here under a false pretence, and having my father — an innkeeper and assassin — do the killing. A cardinal will pay us well for the nobleman’s murder.

At which point, of course, the friar throws off his disguise and declares himself to be the nobleman in question, and challenges all comers — the girl and her father — to fight him. He’ll not get taken in by so ignoble a trick, so help him! And he soon after says that his own father has ensured that if the nobleman is killed, the feudal lord of this place will lose money unless he can break the killer on the wheel.

So it really isn’t worthwhile trying to off him in any case.

At this moment, the girl’s intended also appears. He’s naturally in on the conspiracy, and the three peasants (daughter, father, intended) circle the nobleman, and they argue about who is good and who is bad, who deserves to die and who does not, whether murder can look like an accident, and things of that nature.

You castigate us nobles for being cruel, he young aristo says, and yet look at the jobs we’re born to do: to punish criminals, to hunt animals, and to kill men in war. These are not the tasks you give to people you intend to make tender-hearted.

And likewise, the girl says — or perhaps it is her father — we poor have to do rough work with our hands all the time. We kill mad dogs, wild animals, useless eaters among our cattle and household pets. What difference would it make to us to end your life?

This play is about death but its most interesting parts are about class. But none of them are that interesting.