Arms and the Man - George Bernard Shaw (black male authors txt) 📗

explanation of the Napoleonic tradition, which has so

powerfully influenced generation after generation for a century. However

the man may be regarded, he was a miracle. Shaw shows that he achieved

his extraordinary career by suspending, for himself, the pressure of the

moral and conventional atmosphere, while leaving it operative for

others. Those who study this play—extravaganza, that it is—will attain

a clearer comprehension of Napoleon than they can get from all the

biographies.

“You Never Can Tell” offers an amusing study of the play of social

conventions. The “twins” illustrate the disconcerting effects of that

perfect frankness which would make life intolerable. Gloria demonstrates

the powerlessness of reason to overcome natural instincts. The idea that

parental duties and functions can be fulfilled by the light of such

knowledge as man and woman attain by intuition is brilliantly lampooned.

Crampton, the father, typifies the common superstition that among the

privileges of parenthood are inflexibility, tyranny, and respect, the

last entirely regardless of whether it has been deserved.

The waiter, William, is the best illustration of the man “who knows his

place” that the stage has seen. He is the most pathetic figure of the

play. One touch of verisimilitude is lacking; none of the guests gives

him a tip, yet he maintains his urbanity. As Mr. Shaw has not yet

visited America he may be unaware of the improbability of this

situation.

To those who regard literary men merely as purveyors of amusement for

people who have not wit enough to entertain themselves, Ibsen and Shaw,

Maeterlinck and Gorky must remain enigmas. It is so much pleasanter to

ignore than to face unpleasant realities—to take Riverside Drive and

not Mulberry Street as the exponent of our life and the expression of

our civilization. These men are the sappers and miners of the advancing

army of justice. The audience which demands the truth and despises the

contemptible conventions that dominate alike our stage and our life is

daily growing. Shaw and men like him—if indeed he is not absolutely

unique—will not for the future lack a hearing.

M.

ARMS AND THE MAN

ACT I

Night. A lady’s bedchamber in Bulgaria, in a small town near the Dragoman Pass. It is late in November in the year 1885, and through an open window with a little balcony on the left can be seen a peak of the Balkans, wonderfully white and beautiful in the starlit snow. The interior of the room is not like anything to be seen in the east of Europe. It is half rich Bulgarian, half cheap Viennese. The counterpane and hangings of the bed, the window curtains, the little carpet, and all the ornamental textile fabrics in the room are oriental and gorgeous: the paper on the walls is occidental and paltry. Above the head of the bed, which stands against a little wall cutting off the right hand corner of the room diagonally, is a painted wooden shrine, blue and gold, with an ivory image of Christ, and a light hanging before it in a pierced metal ball suspended by three chains. On the left, further forward, is an ottoman. The washstand, against the wall on the left, consists of an enamelled iron basin with a pail beneath it in a painted metal frame, and a single towel on the rail at the side. A chair near it is Austrian bent wood, with cane seat. The dressing table, between the bed and the window, is an ordinary pine table, covered with a cloth of many colors, but with an expensive toilet mirror on it. The door is on the right; and there is a chest of drawers between the door and the bed. This chest of drawers is also covered by a variegated native cloth, and on it there is a pile of paper backed novels, a box of chocolate creams, and a miniature easel, on which is a large photograph of an extremely handsome officer, whose lofty bearing and magnetic glance can be felt even from the portrait. The room is lighted by a candle on the chest of drawers, and another on the dressing table, with a box of matches beside it. The window is hinged doorwise and stands wide open, folding back to the left. Outside a pair of wooden shutters, opening outwards, also stand open. On the balcony, a young lady, intensely conscious of the romantic beauty of the night, and of the fact that her own youth and beauty is a part of it, is on the balcony, gazing at the snowy Balkans. She is covered by a long mantle of furs, worth, on a moderate estimate, about three times the furniture of her room. Her reverie is interrupted by her mother, Catherine Petkoff, a woman over forty, imperiously energetic, with magnificent black hair and eyes, who might be a very splendid specimen of the wife of a mountain farmer, but is determined to be a Viennese lady, and to that end wears a fashionable tea gown on all occasions.

CATHERINE (entering hastily, full of good news). Raina—(she

pronounces it Rah-eena, with the stress on the ee) Raina—(she

goes to the bed, expecting to find Raina there.) Why,

where—(Raina looks into the room.) Heavens! child, are you out

in the night air instead of in your bed? You’ll catch your

death. Louka told me you were asleep.

RAINA (coming in). I sent her away. I wanted to be alone. The

stars are so beautiful! What is the matter?

CATHERINE. Such news. There has been a battle!

RAINA (her eyes dilating). Ah! (She throws the cloak on the

ottoman, and comes eagerly to Catherine in her nightgown, a

pretty garment, but evidently the only one she has on.)

CATHERINE. A great battle at Slivnitza! A victory! And it was

won by Sergius.

RAINA (with a cry of delight). Ah! (Rapturously.) Oh, mother!

(Then, with sudden anxiety) Is father safe?

CATHERINE. Of course: he sent me the news. Sergius is the hero

of the hour, the idol of the regiment.

RAINA. Tell me, tell me. How was it! (Ecstatically) Oh, mother,

mother, mother! (Raina pulls her mother down on the ottoman; and

they kiss one another frantically.)

CATHERINE (with surging enthusiasm). You can’t guess how

splendid it is. A cavalry charge—think of that! He defied our

Russian commanders—acted without orders—led a charge on his

own responsibility—headed it himself—was the first man to

sweep through their guns. Can’t you see it, Raina; our gallant

splendid Bulgarians with their swords and eyes flashing,

thundering down like an avalanche and scattering the wretched

Servian dandies like chaff. And you—you kept Sergius waiting a

year before you would be betrothed to him. Oh, if you have a

drop of Bulgarian blood in your veins, you will worship him when

he comes back.

RAINA. What will he care for my poor little worship after the

acclamations of a whole army of heroes? But no matter: I am so

happy—so proud! (She rises and walks about excitedly.) It

proves that all our ideas were real after all.

CATHERINE (indignantly). Our ideas real! What do you mean?

RAINA. Our ideas of what Sergius would do—our patriotism—our

heroic ideals. Oh, what faithless little creatures girls are!—I

sometimes used to doubt whether they were anything but dreams.

When I buckled on Sergius’s sword he looked so noble: it was

treason to think of disillusion or humiliation or failure. And

yet—and yet—(Quickly.) Promise me you’ll never tell him.

CATHERINE. Don’t ask me for promises until I know what I am

promising.

RAINA. Well, it came into my head just as he was holding me in

his arms and looking into my eyes, that perhaps we only had our

heroic ideas because we are so fond of reading Byron and

Pushkin, and because we were so delighted with the opera that

season at Bucharest. Real life is so seldom like that—indeed

never, as far as I knew it then. (Remorsefully.) Only think,

mother, I doubted him: I wondered whether all his heroic

qualities and his soldiership might not prove mere imagination

when he went into a real battle. I had an uneasy fear that he

might cut a poor figure there beside all those clever Russian

officers.

CATHERINE. A poor figure! Shame on you! The Servians have

Austrian officers who are just as clever as our Russians; but we

have beaten them in every battle for all that.

RAINA (laughing and sitting down again). Yes, I was only a

prosaic little coward. Oh, to think that it was all true—that

Sergius is just as splendid and noble as he looks—that the

world is really a glorious world for women who can see its glory

and men who can act its romance! What happiness! what

unspeakable fulfilment! Ah! (She throws herself on her knees

beside her mother and flings her arms passionately round her.

They are interrupted by the entry of Louka, a handsome, proud

girl in a pretty Bulgarian peasant’s dress with double apron, so

defiant that her servility to Raina is almost insolent. She is

afraid of Catherine, but even with her goes as far as she dares.

She is just now excited like the others; but she has no sympathy

for Raina’s raptures and looks contemptuously at the ecstasies

of the two before she addresses them.)

LOUKA. If you please, madam, all the windows are to be closed

and the shutters made fast. They say there may be shooting in

the streets. (Raina and Catherine rise together, alarmed.) The

Servians are being chased right back through the pass; and they

say they may run into the town. Our cavalry will be after them;

and our people will be ready for them you may be sure, now that

they are running away. (She goes out on the balcony and pulls

the outside shutters to; then steps back into the room.)

RAINA. I wish our people were not so cruel. What glory is there

in killing wretched fugitives?

CATHERINE (business-like, her housekeeping instincts aroused).

I must see that everything is made safe downstairs.

RAINA (to Louka). Leave the shutters so that I can just close

them if I hear any noise.

CATHERINE (authoritatively, turning on her way to the door).

Oh, no, dear, you must keep them fastened. You would be sure to

drop off to sleep and leave them open. Make them fast, Louka.

LOUKA. Yes, madam. (She fastens them.)

RAINA. Don’t be anxious about me. The moment I hear a shot, I

shall blow out the candles and roll myself up in bed with my

ears well covered.

CATHERINE. Quite the wisest thing you can do, my love.

Good-night.

RAINA. Good-night. (They kiss one another, and Raina’s emotion

comes back for a moment.) Wish me joy of the happiest night of

my life—if only there are no fugitives.

CATHERINE. Go to bed, dear; and don’t think of them. (She goes

out.)

LOUKA (secretly, to Raina). If you would like the shutters

open, just give them a push like