But Miss Julia is also a remnant of the old military nobility which is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain.  She is a victim of the discord which a mother’s “crime” produces in a family, and also a victim of the day’s delusions, of the circumstances, of her defective constitution—­all of which may be held equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law.  The naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out the results of an action—­punishment, prison, or fear—­and for the simple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict.  For fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be without cost to themselves.

Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the father should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take vengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she would be moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which the upper classes inherit—­whence?  From the days of barbarism, from the original home of the Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages?  It is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to the preservation of the race.  It is this, the nobleman’s harakiri—­or the law of the inner conscience compelling the Japanese to cut open his own abdomen at the insult of another—­which survives, though somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility.  For this reason the valet, Jean, continues to live, but Miss Julia cannot live on without honour.  In so far as he lacks this life—­endangering superstition about honour, the serf takes precedence of the earl, and in all of us Aryans there is something of the nobleman, or of Don Quixote, which makes us sympathise with the man who takes his own life because he has committed a dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour.  And we are noblemen to the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with the living corpse of one who was once great—­yes, even if the one thus fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds.

Jean, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock—­one in whom the differentiation is clearly noticeable.  He was a cotter’s child, and he has trained himself up to the point where the future gentleman has become visible.  He has found it easy to learn, having finely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for beauty besides.  He has already risen in the world, and is strong enough not to be sensitive about using other people’s services.  He has already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as so many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them because they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise with envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure.  From this relationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating between love of distinction and hatred of those who have already achieved it.  He says himself that he is an aristocrat, and has learned the secrets of good company.  He is polished on the outside and coarse within.  He knows already how to wear the frock-coat with ease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed.