Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
Читать онлайн книгу.
the door behind him.]
MRS. WARREN. [Resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that the men are gone.] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn’t he a tease? [She sits at the table.] Now that I think of it, dearie, don’t you go encouraging him. I’m sure he’s a regular good-for-nothing.
VIVIE. [Rising to fetch more books.] I’m afraid so. Poor Frank! I shall have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, though he’s not worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good for much either: is he? [She throws the books on the table rather roughly.]
MRS. WARREN. [Galled by Vivie’s indifference.] What do you know of men, child, to talk that way of them? You’ll have to make up your mind to see a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he’s a friend of mine.
VIVIE. [Quite unmoved.] Why? [She sits down and opens a book.] Do you expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean?
MRS. WARREN. [Staring at her.] Of course: until you’re married. You’re not going back to college again.
VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it.
MRS. WARREN. Your way of life! What do you mean?
VIVIE. [Cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her chatelaine.] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I have a way of life like other people?
MRS. WARREN. What nonsense is this you’re trying to talk? Do you want to shew your independence, now that you’re a great little person at school? Don’t be a fool, child.
VIVIE. [Indulgently.] That’s all you have to say on the subject, is it, mother?
MRS. WARREN. [Puzzled, then angry.] Don’t you keep on asking me questions like that. [Violently.] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works on, losing no time, and saying nothing.] You and your way of life, indeed! What next? [She looks at Vivie again. No reply.] Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause.] Ive been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or whatever you call it. If you think I’m going to put up with them, you’re mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering.] All I have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily.] Do you know who you’re speaking to, Miss?
VIVIE. [Looking across at her without raising her head from her book.] No. Who are you? What are you?
MRS. WARREN. [Rising breathless.] You young imp!
VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, pray?
MRS. WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I’ll be sorry for after, and you too.
VIVIE. [Putting aside her books with cool decision.] Well, let us drop the subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her mother.] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty yards uphill today without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists.]
MRS. WARREN. [After looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper.] Vivie—
VIVIE. [Springing up sharply.] Now pray don’t begin to cry. Anything but that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you do.
MRS. WARREN. [Piteously.] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? Have I no rights over you as your mother?
VIVIE. A r e you my mother?
MRS. WARREN. Am I your mother? Oh, Vivie!
VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family friends? You claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of a brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I may as well find out whether they have any real existence.
MRS. WARREN. [Distracted, throwing herself on her knees.] Oh no, no. Stop, stop. I am your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can’t mean to turn on me—my own child! it’s not natural. You believe me, don’t you? Say you believe me.
VIVIE. Who was my father?
MRS. WARREN. You don’t know what you’re asking. I can’t tell you.
VIVIE. [Determinedly.] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right to know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse to tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me tomorrow morning.
MRS. WARREN. Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that. You wouldn’t—you couldn’t leave me.
VIVIE. [Ruthlessly.] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle with me about this. [Shivering with disgust.] How can I feel sure that I may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins?
MRS. WARREN. No, no. On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you have ever met. I’m certain of that, at least. [Vivie’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this flashes on her.]
VIVIE. [Slowly.] You are certain of that, at least. Ah! You mean that that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully.] I see. [Mrs. Warren buries her face in her hands.] Don’t do that, mother: you know you don’t feel it a bit. [Mrs. Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says.] Well, that is enough for tonight. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too early for you?
MRS. WARREN. [Wildly.] My God, what sort of woman are you?
VIVIE. [Coolly.] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done. Come. [Taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty resolutely.] pull yourself together. That’s right.
MRS. WARREN. [Querulously.] You’re very rough with me, Vivie.
VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It’s past ten.
MRS. WARREN. [Passionately.] What’s the use of my going to bed? Do you think I could sleep?
VIVIE. Why not? I shall.
MRS. WARREN. You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in her natural tongue—the dialect of a woman of the people—with all her affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in her.] Oh, I wont bear it: I won’t put up with the injustice of it. What right have you to set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what you are to me—to me, who gave you a chance of being what you are. What chance had I? Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude!
VIVIE. [Sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother.] Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to your own opinions and your own way of life.
MRS. WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to pick and choose my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or thought it right, or wouldn’t rather have gone to college and been a lady if I’d had the chance?
VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may not be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal of Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, according to her taste. People are always blaming circumstances for what they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if