Pygmalion - George Bernard Shaw (most life changing books .txt) š
- Author: George Bernard Shaw
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LIZA. Not him. You donāt know my father. All he come here for was to touch you for some money to get drunk on.
DOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I want money for? To put into the plate in church, I suppose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is so incensed by this that Pickering presently finds it necessary to step between them]. Donāt you give me none of your lip; and donāt let me hear you giving this gentleman any of it neither, or youāll hear from me about it. See?
HIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go, Doolittle? Your blessing, for instance.
DOOLITTLE. No, Governor: I aināt such a mug as to put up my children to all I know myself. Hard enough to hold them in without that. If you want Elizaās mind improved, Governor, you do it yourself with a strap. So long, gentlemen. [He turns to go].
HIGGINS [impressively] Stop. Youāll come regularly to see your daughter. Itās your duty, you know. My brother is a clergyman; and he could help you in your talks with her.
DOOLITTLE [evasively] Certainly. Iāll come, Governor. Not just this week, because I have a job at a distance. But later on you may depend on me. Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, maāam. [He takes off his hat to Mrs. Pearce, who disdains the salutation and goes out. He winks at Higgins, thinking him probably a fellow sufferer from Mrs. Pearceās difficult disposition, and follows her].
LIZA. Donāt you believe the old liar. Heād as soon you set a bull-dog on him as a clergyman. You wonāt see him again in a hurry.
HIGGINS. I donāt want to, Eliza. Do you?
LIZA. Not me. I donāt want never to see him again, I donāt. Heās a disgrace to me, he is, collecting dust, instead of working at his trade.
PICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza?
LIZA. Talking money out of other peopleās pockets into his own. His proper tradeās a navvy; and he works at it sometimes tooāfor exerciseāand earns good money at it. Aināt you going to call me Miss Doolittle any more?
PICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. It was a slip of the tongue.
LIZA. Oh, I donāt mind; only it sounded so genteel. I should just like to take a taxi to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and get out there and tell it to wait for me, just to put the girls in their place a bit. I wouldnāt speak to them, you know.
PICKERING. Better wait til we get you something really fashionable.
HIGGINS. Besides, you shouldnāt cut your old friends now that you have risen in the world. Thatās what we call snobbery.
LIZA. You donāt call the like of them my friends now, I should hope. Theyāve took it out of me often enough with their ridicule when they had the chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my own back. But if Iām to have fashionable clothes, Iāll wait. I should like to have some. Mrs. Pearce says youāre going to give me some to wear in bed at night different to what I wear in the daytime; but it do seem a waste of money when you could get something to show. Besides, I never could fancy changing into cold things on a winter night.
MRS. PEARCE [coming back] Now, Eliza. The new things have come for you to try on.
LIZA. Ahāowāooāooh! [She rushes out].
MRS. PEARCE [following her] Oh, donāt rush about like that, girl [She shuts the door behind her].
HIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job.
PICKERING [with conviction] Higgins: we have.
ACT III
It is Mrs. Higginsās at-home day. Nobody has yet arrived. Her drawing-room, in a flat on Chelsea embankment, has three windows looking on the river; and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would be in an older house of the same pretension. The windows are open, giving access to a balcony with flowers in pots. If you stand with your face to the windows, you have the fireplace on your left and the door in the right-hand wall close to the corner nearest the windows.
Mrs. Higgins was brought up on Morris and Burne Jones; and her room, which is very unlike her sonās room in Wimpole Street, is not crowded with furniture and little tables and nicknacks. In the middle of the room there is a big ottoman; and this, with the carpet, the Morris wall-papers, and the Morris chintz window curtains and brocade covers of the ottoman and its cushions, supply all the ornament, and are much too handsome to be hidden by odds and ends of useless things. A few good oil-paintings from the exhibitions in the Grosvenor Gallery thirty years ago (the Burne Jones, not the Whistler side of them) are on the walls. The only landscape is a Cecil Lawson on the scale of a Rubens. There is a portrait of Mrs. Higgins as she was when she defied fashion in her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettian costumes which, when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism in the eighteen-seventies.
In the corner diagonally opposite the door Mrs. Higgins, now over sixty and long past taking the trouble to dress out of the fashion, sits writing at an elegantly simple writing-table with a bell button within reach of her hand. There is a Chippendale chair further back in the room between her and the window nearest her side. At the other side of the room, further forward, is an Elizabethan chair roughly carved in the taste of Inigo Jones. On the same side a piano in a decorated case. The corner between the fireplace and the window is occupied by a divan cushioned in Morris chintz.
It is between four and five in the afternoon.
The door is opened violently; and Higgins enters with his hat on.
MRS. HIGGINS [dismayed] Henry [scolding him]! What are you doing here to-day? It is my at home day: you promised not to come. [As he bends to kiss her, she takes his hat off, and presents it to him].
HIGGINS. Oh bother! [He throws the hat down on the table].
MRS. HIGGINS. Go home at once.
HIGGINS [kissing her] I know, mother. I came on purpose.
MRS. HIGGINS. But you mustnāt. Iām serious, Henry. You offend all my friends: they stop coming whenever they meet you.
HIGGINS. Nonsense! I know I have no small talk; but people donāt mind. [He sits on the settee].
MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! donāt they? Small talk indeed! What about your large talk? Really, dear, you mustnāt stay.
HIGGINS. I must. Iāve a job for you. A phonetic job.
MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. Iām sorry; but I canāt get round your vowels; and though I like to get pretty postcards in your patent shorthand, I always have to read the copies in ordinary writing you so thoughtfully send me.
HIGGINS. Well, this isnāt a phonetic job.
MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was.
HIGGINS. Not your part of it. Iāve picked up a girl.
MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl has picked you up?
HIGGINS. Not at all. I donāt mean a love affair.
MRS. HIGGINS. What a pity!
HIGGINS. Why?
MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you never fall in love with anyone under forty-five. When will you discover that there are some rather nice-looking young women about?
HIGGINS. Oh, I canāt be bothered with young women. My idea of a loveable woman is something as like you as possible. I shall never get into the way of seriously liking young women: some habits lie too deep to be changed. [Rising abruptly and walking about, jingling his money and his keys in his trouser pockets] Besides, theyāre all idiots.
MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know what you would do if you really loved me, Henry?
HIGGINS. Oh bother! What? Marry, I suppose?
MRS. HIGGINS. No. Stop fidgeting and take your hands out of your pockets. [With a gesture of despair, he obeys and sits down again]. Thatās a good boy. Now tell me about the girl.
HIGGINS. Sheās coming to see you.
MRS. HIGGINS. I donāt remember asking her.
HIGGINS. You didnāt. I asked her. If youād known her you wouldnāt have asked her.
MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why?
HIGGINS. Well, itās like this. Sheās a common flower girl. I picked her off the kerbstone.
MRS. HIGGINS. And invited her to my at-home!
HIGGINS [rising and coming to her to coax her] Oh, thatāll be all right. Iāve taught her to speak properly; and she has strict orders as to her behavior. Sheās to keep to two subjects: the weather and everybodyās healthāFine day and How do you do, you knowāand not to let herself go on things in general. That will be safe.
MRS. HIGGINS. Safe! To talk about our health! about our insides! perhaps about our outsides! How could you be so silly, Henry?
HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, she must talk about something. [He controls himself and sits down again]. Oh, sheāll be all right: donāt you fuss. Pickering is in it with me. Iāve a sort of bet on that Iāll pass her off as a duchess in six months. I started on her some months ago; and sheās getting on like a house on fire. I shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; and sheās been easier to teach than my middle-class pupils because sheās had to learn a complete new language. She talks English almost as you talk French.
MRS. HIGGINS. Thatās satisfactory, at all events.
HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isnāt.
MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean?
HIGGINS. You see, Iāve got her pronunciation all right; but you have to consider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she pronounces; and thatās whereā
They are interrupted by the parlor-maid, announcing guests.
THE PARLOR-MAID. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill. [She withdraws].
HIGGINS. Oh Lord! [He rises; snatches his hat from the table; and makes for the door; but before he reaches it his mother introduces him].
Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill are the mother and daughter who sheltered from the rain in Covent Garden. The mother is well bred, quiet, and has the habitual anxiety of straitened means. The daughter has acquired a gay air of being very much at home in society: the bravado of genteel poverty.
MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] How do you do? [They shake hands].
Miss EYNSFORD HILL. How dāyou do? [She shakes].
MRS. HIGGINS [introducing] My son Henry.
MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Your celebrated son! I have so longed to meet you, Professor Higgins.
HIGGINS [glumly, making no movement in her direction] Delighted. [He backs against the piano and bows brusquely].
Miss EYNSFORD HILL [going to him with confident familiarity] How do you do?
HIGGINS [staring at her] Iāve seen you before somewhere. I havenāt the ghost of a notion where; but Iāve heard your voice. [Drearily] It doesnāt matter. Youād better sit down.
MRS. HIGGINS. Iām sorry to say that my celebrated son has no manners. You mustnāt mind him.
MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] I donāt. [She sits in the Elizabethan chair].
MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [a little bewildered] Not at all. [She sits on the ottoman between her daughter and Mrs. Higgins, who has turned her chair away from the writing-table].
HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didnāt mean to be. He goes to the central window, through which, with his back to the company, he contemplates the river and the flowers in Battersea Park on the opposite bank as if they were a frozen dessert.
The parlor-maid returns, ushering in Pickering.
THE PARLOR-MAID. Colonel Pickering [She withdraws].
PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins?
MRS. HIGGINS. So glad youāve come. Do you know Mrs. Eynsford HillāMiss Eynsford Hill? [Exchange of bows. The Colonel brings the
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