Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
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on in the world before her eyes, there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos to see that you were growing up like Liz: you’ve just her ladylike, determined way. But I can’t stand saying one thing when everyone knows I mean another. What’s the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the world that way for women, there’s no good pretending it’s arranged the other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider I had a right to be proud of how we managed everything so respectably, and never had a word against us, and how the girls were so well taken care of. Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of course now I daren’t talk about such things: whatever would they think of us! [She yawns.] Oh dear! I do believe I’m getting sleepy after all. [She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and placidly ready for her night’s rest.]
VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes to the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, darkening the room a good deal.] Better let in some fresh air before locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is broad moonlight.] What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon rising over Blackdown.]
MRS. WARREN. [With a perfunctory glance at the scene.] Yes, dear; but take care you don’t catch your death of cold from the night air.
VIVIE. [Contemptuously.] Nonsense.
MRS. WARREN. [Querulously.] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, according to you.
VIVIE. [Turning to her quickly.] No: really that is not so, mother. You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I intended it to be the other way. Let us be good friends now.
MRS. WARREN. [Shaking her head a little ruefully.] So it has been the other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the worst of it from Liz; and now I suppose it’ll be the same with you.
VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. [She takes her mother in her arms.]
MRS. WARREN. [Fondly.] I brought you up well, didn’t I, dearie?
VIVIE. You did.
MRS. WARREN. And you’ll be good to your poor old mother for it, won’t you?
VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her.] Good-night.
MRS. WARREN. [With unction.] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a mother’s blessing! [She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward for divine sanction.]
ACT III
In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the Rectory porch. Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the turf, with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through the box hedge, behind the sundial.
Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has placed the morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father comes from the house, red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank’s eye with misgiving.
FRANK. [Looking at his watch.] Half-past eleven. Nice your for a rector to come down to breakfast!
REV. S. Don’t mock, Frank: don’t mock. I am a little—er—[Shivering.]—
FRANK. Off color?
REV. S. [Repudiating the expression.] No, sir: unwell this morning. Where’s your mother?
FRANK. Don’t be alarmed: she’s not here. Gone to town by the 11.13 with Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you feel equal to receiving them now, or shall I wait till you’ve breakfasted?
REV. S. I have breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your mother going to town when we have people staying with us. They’ll think it very strange.
FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if Crofts is going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every night with him until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery youth, it is clearly my mother’s duty, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores and order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons.
REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively.
FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov’nor.
REV. S. Do you mean to say that I—?
FRANK. [Calmly.] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I really don’t think Praed would have passed the night under your roof if it hadn’t been for the way my mother and he took to one another.
REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts’ host. I must talk to him about something; and he has only one subject. Where is Mr. Praed now?
FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station.
REV. S. Is Crofts up yet?
FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasn’t turned a hair: he’s in much better practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. He’s taken himself off somewhere to smoke. [Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately towards the gate; then comes back irresolutely.]
REV. S. Er—Frank.
FRANK. Yes.
REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here after yesterday afternoon?
FRANK. They’ve been asked already.
REV. S. [Appalled.] What!!!
FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs. Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them to make this house their home. My mother then found she must go to town by the 11.13 train.
REV. S. [With despairing vehemence.] I never gave any such invitation. I never thought of such a thing.
FRANK. [Compassionately.] How do you know, gov’nor, what you said and thought last night?
PRAED. [Coming in through the hedge.] Good morning.
REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you at breakfast. I have a touch of—of—
FRANK. Clergyman’s sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic.
PRAED. [Changing the subject.] Well I must say your house is in a charming spot here. Really most charming.
REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr. Praed, if you like. I’ll ask you to excuse me: I must take the opportunity to write my sermon while Mrs. Gardner is away and you are all amusing yourselves. You won’t mind, will you?
PRAED. Certainly not. Don’t stand on the slightest ceremony with me.
REV. S. Thank you. I’ll—er—er—[He stammers his way to the porch and vanishes into the house.]
PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week.
FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He’s gone for some soda water.
PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your father. You know you can be so nice when you like.
FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the governor. When two people live together—it don’t matter whether they’re father and son or husband and wife or brother and sister—they can’t keep up the polite humbug that’s so easy for