Бесплатный фрагмент - Pygmalion

CoventGarden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab whistlesblowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians running forshelter into the market and under the portico of St. Paul’s Church, where there are already several people, among them a lady and herdaughter in evening dress. They are all peering out gloomily at therain, except one man with his back turned to the rest, who seemswholly preoccupied with a notebook in which he is writing busily.

Thechurch clock strikes the first quarter.

THEDAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to the oneon her left] I’m getting chilled to the bone. What can Freddy bedoing all this time? He’s been gone twenty minutes.

THEMOTHER [on her daughter’s right] Not so long. But he ought to havegot us a cab by this.

ABYSTANDER [on the lady’s right] He won’t get no cab not untilhalf-past eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping theirtheatre fares.

THEMOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can’t stand here until half-pasteleven. It’s too bad.

THEBYSTANDER. Well, it ain’t my fault, missus.

THEDAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got one atthe theatre door.

THEMOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?

THEDAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn’t he?

Freddyrushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street side, and comesbetween them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a young man oftwenty, in evening dress, very wet around the ankles.

THEDAUGHTER. Well, haven’t you got a cab?

FREDDY.There’s not one to be had for love or money.

THEMOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can’t have tried.

THEDAUGHTER. It’s too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get oneourselves?

FREDDY. I tell you they’re all engaged. The rain was so sudden: nobody wasprepared; and everybody had to take a cab. I’ve been to CharingCross one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other; and they wereall engaged.

THEMOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square?

FREDDY.There wasn’t one at Trafalgar Square.

THEDAUGHTER. Did you try?

FREDDY. I tried as far as Charing Cross Station. Did you expect me to walk toHammersmith?

THEDAUGHTER. You haven’t tried at all.

THEMOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and don’tcome back until you have found a cab.

FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing.

THEDAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in thisdraught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig—

FREDDY. Oh, very well: I’ll go, I’ll go. [He opens his umbrella anddashes off Strandwards, but comes into collision with a flower girl, who is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. A blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattling pealof thunder, orchestrates the incident]

THEFLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh’ y’ gowin, deah.

FREDDY.Sorry [he rushes off].

THEFLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing them inthe basket] There’s menners f’ yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trodinto the mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the column, sorting herflowers, on the lady’s right. She is not at all an attractiveperson. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. Shewears a little sailor hat of black straw that has long been exposedto the dust and soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing rather badly: its mousy color can hardly benatural. She wears a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to herknees and is shaped to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarseapron. Her boots are much the worse for wear. She is no doubt asclean as she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is verydirty. Her features are no worse than theirs; but their conditionleaves something to be desired; and she needs the services of adentist].

THEMOTHER. How do you know that my son’s name is Freddy, pray?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y’ de-ootybawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore gel’sflahrzn than ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f’them? [Here, with apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her dialectwithout a phonetic alphabet must be abandoned as unintelligibleoutside London.]

THEDAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea!

THEMOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies?

THEDAUGHTER. No. I’ve nothing smaller than sixpence.

THEFLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner, kindlady.

THEMOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly]. Now [tothe girl] This is for your flowers.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Thank you kindly, lady.

THEDAUGHTER. Make her give you the change. These things are only a pennya bunch.

THEMOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can keep thechange.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.

THEMOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman’s name.

THEFLOWER GIRL. I didn’t.

THEMOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don’t try to deceive me.

THEFLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who’s trying to deceive you? I called himFreddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you was talking to astranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside herbasket].

THEDAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might have sparedFreddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the pillar].

Anelderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter, and closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight as Freddy, very wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a lightovercoat. He takes the place left vacant by the daughter’sretirement.

THEGENTLEMAN. Phew!

THEMOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its stopping?

THEGENTLEMAN. I’m afraid not. It started worse than ever about twominutes ago. [He goes to the plinth beside the flower girl; puts uphis foot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser ends].

THEMOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter].

THEFLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman’s proximityto establish friendly relations with him]. If it’s worse it’s asign it’s nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off apoor girl.

THEGENTLEMAN. I’m sorry, I haven’t any change.

THEFLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain,

THEGENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I’ve nothing less.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can changehalf-a-crown. Take this for tuppence.

THEGENTLEMAN. Now don’t be troublesome: there’s a good girl. [Tryinghis pockets] I really haven’t any change — Stop: here’s threehapence, if that’s any use to you [he retreats to the otherpillar].

THEFLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence better thannothing] Thank you, sir.

THEBYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for it.There’s a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word you’resaying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes].

THEFLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain’t done nothing wrong byspeaking to the gentleman. I’ve a right to sell flowers if I keepoff the kerb. [Hysterically] I’m a respectable girl: so help me, Inever spoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [Generalhubbub, mostly sympathetic to the flower girl, but deprecating herexcessive sensibility. Cries of Don’t start hollerin. Who’shurting you? Nobody’s going to touch you. What’s the good offussing? Steady on. Easy, easy, etc., come from the elderly staidspectators, who pat her comfortingly. Less patient ones bid her shuther head, or ask her roughly what is wrong with her. A remoter group, not knowing what the matter is, crowd in and increase the noise withquestion and answer: What’s the row? What she do? Where is he? Atec taking her down. What! him? Yes: him over there: Took money offthe gentleman, etc. The flower girl, distraught and mobbed, breaksthrough them to the gentleman, crying mildly] Oh, sir, don’t lethim charge me. You dunno what it means to me. They’ll take away mycharacter and drive me on the streets for speaking to gentlemen.They—

THENOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding after him] There, there, there, there! Who’s hurting you, you silly girl? Whatdo you take me for?

THEBYSTANDER. It’s all right: he’s a gentleman: look at his boots. [Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a copper’s nark, sir.

THENOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What’s a copper’s nark?

THEBYSTANDER [inept at definition] It’s a — well, it’s a copper’snark, as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort ofinformer.

THEFLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said aword—

THENOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut up. Do Ilook like a policeman?

THEFLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down my wordsfor? How do I know whether you took me down right? You just show mewhat you’ve wrote about me. [The note taker opens his book andholds it steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the mobtrying to read it over his shoulders would upset a weaker man].What’s that? That ain’t proper writing. I can’t read that.

THENOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation exactly] «Cheer ap, Keptin; n’ haw ya flahr orf a pore gel.»

THEFLOWER GIRL [much distressed] It’s because I called him Captain. Imeant no harm. [To the gentleman] Oh, sir, don’t let him lay acharge agen me for a word like that. You—

THEGENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker] Really, sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin protecting me againstmolestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see thatthe girl meant no harm.

THEBYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage] Coursethey could. What business is it of yours? You mind your own affairs. He wants promotion, he does. Taking down people’s words! Girl neversaid a word to him. What harm if she did? Nice thing a girl can’tshelter from the rain without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [Sheis conducted by the more sympathetic demonstrators back to herplinth, where she resumes her seat and struggles with her emotion].

THEBYSTANDER. He ain’t a tec. He’s a blooming busybody: that’swhat he is. I tell you, look at his boots.

THENOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your people downat Selsey?

THEBYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from Selsey?

THENOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do you cometo be up so far east? You were born in Lisson Grove.

THEFLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving LissonGrove? It wasn’t fit for a pig to live in; and I had to payfour-and-six a week. [In tears] Oh, boo — hoo — oo—

THENOTE TAKER. Live where you like; but stop that noise.

THEGENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he can’t touch you: you have aright to live where you please.

ASARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker and thegentleman] Park Lane, for instance. I’d like to go into the HousingQuestion with you, I would.

THEFLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her basket, and talking very low-spiritedly to herself] I’m a good girl, I am.

THESARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where I comefrom?

THENOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton.

Titterings. Popular interest in the note taker’s performance increases.

THESARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didn’t? Bly me! You knoweverything, you do.

THEFLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Ain’t no call tomeddle with me, he ain’t.

THEBYSTANDER [to her] Of course he ain’t. Don’t you stand it fromhim. [To the note taker] See here: what call have you to know aboutpeople what never offered to meddle with you? Where’s your warrant?

SEVERALBYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes: where’syour warrant?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I don’t want to have notruck with him.

THEBYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, don’t you? Catchyou taking liberties with a gentleman!

THESARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell HIM where he come from if you want togo fortune-telling.

THENOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.

THEGENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the note taker’sfavor. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him proper. Hearhim tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I ask, sir, do youdo this for your living at a music hall?

THENOTE TAKER. I’ve thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day.

Therain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd beginto drop off.

THEFLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] He’s no gentleman, he ain’t, to interfere with a poor girl.

THEDAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the front anddisplacing the gentleman, who politely retires to the other side ofthe pillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if Istay in this draught any longer.

THENOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her pronunciation of“monia»] Earlscourt.

THEDAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent remarks toyourself?

THENOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean to. I beg yourpardon. Your mother’s Epsom, unmistakeably.

THEMOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker] How verycurious! I was brought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom.

THENOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a name! Excuse me. [To the daughter] You want a cab, do you?

THEDAUGHTER. Don’t dare speak to me.

THEMOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates her withan angry shrug and retires haughtily.] We should be so grateful toyou, sir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker produces a whistle].Oh, thank you. [She joins her daughter]. The note taker blows apiercing blast.

THESARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a plain-clothes copper.

THEBYSTANDER. That ain’t a police whistle: that’s a sportingwhistle.

THEFLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings] He’s noright to take away my character. My character is the same to me asany lady’s.

THENOTE TAKER. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed it; but the rainstopped about two minutes ago.

THEBYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn’t you say so before? and us losingour time listening to your silliness. [He walks off towards theStrand].

THESARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come fromAnwell. Go back there.

THENOTE TAKER [helpfully] Hanwell.

THESARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech] Thenkyou, teacher. Haw haw! So long [he touches his hat with mock respectand strolls off].

THEFLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like ithimself.

THEMOTHER. It’s quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor bus.Come. [She gathers her skirts above her ankles and hurries offtowards the Strand].

THEDAUGHTER. But the cab — [her mother is out of hearing]. Oh, howtiresome! [She follows angrily].

Allthe rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and theflower girl, who sits arranging her basket, and still pitying herselfin murmurs.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without beingworrited and chivied.

THEGENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker’s left] How do you do it, if I may ask?

THENOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That’s myprofession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living byhis hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I can place any man within six miles. I can place him within twomiles in London. Sometimes within two streets.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward!

THEGENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?

THENOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts. Menbegin in Kentish Town with 80 pounds a year, and end in Park Lanewith a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but theygive themselves away every time they open their mouths. Now I canteach them—

THEFLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl—

THENOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooinginstantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship.

THEFLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I’ve a right to be here if Ilike, same as you.

THENOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting soundshas no right to be anywhere — no right to live. Remember that you area human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech: that your native language is the language of Shakespear and Miltonand The Bible; and don’t sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.

THEFLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingledwonder and deprecation without daring to raise her head] Ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — oo!

THENOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [He writes; then holds out the book and reads, reproducing her vowels exactly] Ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — ow — oo!

THEFLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite ofherself] Garn!

THENOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: theEnglish that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess atan ambassador’s garden party. I could even get her a place aslady’s maid or shop assistant, which requires better English.That’s the sort of thing I do for commercial millionaires. And onthe profits of it I do genuine scientific work in phonetics, and alittle as a poet on Miltonic lines.

THEGENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and—

THENOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, theauthor of Spoken Sanscrit?

THEGENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you?

THENOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins’s Universal Alphabet.

PICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you.

HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you.

PICKERING. Where do you live?

HIGGINS.27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow.

PICKERING. I’m at the Carlton. Come with me now and let’s have a jaw oversome supper.

HIGGINS. Right you are.

THEFLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kindgentleman. I’m short for my lodging.

PICKERING. I really haven’t any change. I’m sorry [he goes away].

HIGGINS [shocked at girl’s mendacity] Liar. You said you could changehalf-a-crown.

THEFLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed withnails, you ought. [Flinging the basket at his feet] Take the wholeblooming basket for sixpence.

Thechurch clock strikes the second quarter.

HIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaic wantof charity to the poor girl] A reminder. [He raises his hat solemnly; then throws a handful of money into the basket and followsPickering].

THEFLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah — ow — ooh! [Picking up acouple of florins] Aaah — ow — ooh! [Picking up several coins] Aaaaaah — ow — ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign] Aasaaaaaaaaah — ow — ooh!!!

FREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To the girl] Where are the two ladies that were here?

THEFLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped.

FREDDY.And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation!

THEFLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I’m goinghome in a taxi. [She sails off to the cab. The driver puts his handbehind him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quiteunderstanding his mistrust, she shows him her handful of money].Eightpence ain’t no object to me, Charlie. [He grins and opens thedoor]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, round the corner of Micklejohn’soil shop. Let’s see how fast you can make her hop it. [She gets inand pulls the door to with a slam as the taxicab starts].

FREDDY. Well, I’m dashed!

Nextday at 11 a.m. Higgins’s laboratory in Wimpole Street. It is a roomon the first floor, looking on the street, and was meant for thedrawing-room. The double doors are in the middle of the back hall; and persons entering find in the corner to their right two tall filecabinets at right angles to one another against the walls. In thiscorner stands a flat writing-table, on which are a phonograph, alaryngoscope, a row of tiny organ pipes with a bellows, a set of lampchimneys for singing flames with burners attached to a gas plug inthe wall by an indiarubber tube, several tuning-forks of differentsizes, a life-size image of half a human head, showing in section thevocal organs, and a box containing a supply of wax cylinders for thephonograph.

Furtherdown the room, on the same side, is a fireplace, with a comfortableleather-covered easy-chair at the side of the hearth nearest thedoor, and a coal-scuttle. There is a clock on the mantelpiece.Between the fireplace and the phonograph table is a stand fornewspapers.

Onthe other side of the central door, to the left of the visitor, is acabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a telephone and the telephonedirectory. The corner beyond, and most of the side wall, is occupiedby a grand piano, with the keyboard at the end furthest from thedoor, and a bench for the player extending the full length of thekeyboard. On the piano is a dessert dish heaped with fruit andsweets, mostly chocolates.

Themiddle of the room is clear. Besides the easy chair, the piano bench, and two chairs at the phonograph table, there is one stray chair. Itstands near the fireplace. On the walls, engravings; mostly Piranesisand mezzotint portraits. No paintings.

Pickeringis seated at the table, putting down some cards and a tuning-forkwhich he has been using. Higgins is standing up near him, closing twoor three file drawers which are hanging out. He appears in themorning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of man of forty orthereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat witha white linen collar and black silk tie. He is of the energetic, scientific type, heartily, even violently interested in everythingthat can be studied as a scientific subject, and careless abouthimself and other people, including their feelings. He is, in fact, but for his years and size, rather like a very impetuous baby «takingnotice» eagerly and loudly, and requiring almost as much watchingto keep him out of unintended mischief. His manner varies from genialbullying when he is in a good humor to stormy petulance when anythinggoes wrong; but he is so entirely frank and void of malice that heremains likeable even in his least reasonable moments.

HIGGINS [as he shuts the last drawer] Well, I think that’s the whole show.

PICKERING.It’s really amazing. I haven’t taken half of it in, you know.

HIGGINS. Would you like to go over any of it again?

PICKERING [rising and coming to the fireplace, where he plants himself with hisback to the fire] No, thank you; not now. I’m quite done up forthis morning.

HIGGINS [following him, and standing beside him on his left] Tired oflistening to sounds?

PICKERING. Yes. It’s a fearful strain. I rather fancied myself because I canpronounce twenty-four distinct vowel sounds; but your hundred andthirty beat me. I can’t hear a bit of difference between most ofthem.

HIGGINS [chuckling, and going over to the piano to eat sweets] Oh, that comeswith practice. You hear no difference at first; but you keep onlistening, and presently you find they’re all as different as Afrom B. [Mrs. Pearce looks in: she is Higgins’s housekeeper] What’sthe matter?

MRS.PEARCE [hesitating, evidently perplexed] A young woman wants to seeyou, sir.

HIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want?

MRS.PEARCE. Well, sir, she says you’ll be glad to see her when you knowwhat she’s come about. She’s quite a common girl, sir. Verycommon indeed. I should have sent her away, only I thought perhapsyou wanted her to talk into your machines. I hope I’ve not donewrong; but really you see such queer people sometimes — you’llexcuse me, I’m sure, sir—

HIGGINS. Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has she an interesting accent?

MRS.PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. I don’t know how youcan take an interest in it.

HIGGINS [to Pickering] Let’s have her up. Show her up, Mrs. Pearce [herushes across to his working table and picks out a cylinder to use onthe phonograph].

MRS.PEARCE [only half resigned to it] Very well, sir. It’s for you tosay. [She goes downstairs].

HIGGINS.This is rather a bit of luck. I’ll show you how I make records. We’ll set her talking; and I’ll take it down first in Bell’svisible Speech; then in broad Romic; and then we’ll get her on thephonograph so that you can turn her on as often as you like with thewritten transcript before you.

MRS.PEARCE [returning] This is the young woman, sir.

Theflower girl enters in state. She has a hat with three ostrichfeathers, orange, sky-blue, and red. She has a nearly clean apron, and the shoddy coat has been tidied a little. The pathos of thisdeplorable figure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air, touches Pickering, who has already straightened himself in thepresence of Mrs. Pearce. But as to Higgins, the only distinction hemakes between men and women is that when he is neither bullying norexclaiming to the heavens against some featherweight cross, he coaxeswomen as a child coaxes its nurse when it wants to get anything outof her.

HIGGINS [brusquely, recognizing her with unconcealed disappointment, and atonce, baby-like, making an intolerable grievance of it] Why, this isthe girl I jotted down last night. She’s no use: I’ve got all therecords I want of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I’m not going towaste another cylinder on it. [To the girl] Be off with you: I don’twant you.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Don’t you be so saucy. You ain’t heard what I comefor yet. [To Mrs. Pearce, who is waiting at the door for furtherinstruction] Did you tell him I come in a taxi?

MRS.PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think a gentleman like Mr. Higgins cares what you came in?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He ain’t above giving lessons, nothim: I heard him say so. Well, I ain’t come here to ask for anycompliment; and if my money’s not good enough I can go elsewhere.

HIGGINS. Good enough for what?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Good enough for ye — oo. Now you know, don’t you? I’mcome to have lessons, I am. And to pay for em too: make no mistake.

HIGGINS [stupent] WELL!!! [Recovering his breath with a gasp] What do youexpect me to say to you?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Well, if you was a gentleman, you might ask me to sitdown, I think. Don’t I tell you I’m bringing you business?

HIGGINS. Pickering: shall we ask this baggage to sit down or shall we throwher out of the window?

THEFLOWER GIRL [running away in terror to the piano, where she turns atbay] Ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — ow — oo! [Wounded and whimpering] Iwon’t be called a baggage when I’ve offered to pay like any lady.

Motionless, the two men stare at her from the other side of the room, amazed.

PICKERING [gently] What is it you want, my girl?

THEFLOWER GIRL. I want to be a lady in a flower shop stead of selling atthe corner of Tottenham Court Road. But they won’t take me unless Ican talk more genteel. He said he could teach me. Well, here I amready to pay him — not asking any favor — and he treats me as if Iwas dirt.

MRS.PEARCE. How can you be such a foolish ignorant girl as to think youcould afford to pay Mr. Higgins?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Why shouldn’t I? I know what lessons cost as well asyou do; and I’m ready to pay.

HIGGINS. How much?

THEFLOWER GIRL [coming back to him, triumphant] Now you’re talking! Ithought you’d come off it when you saw a chance of getting back abit of what you chucked at me last night. [Confidentially] You’dhad a drop in, hadn’t you?

HIGGINS [peremptorily] Sit down.

THEFLOWER GIRL. Oh, if you’re going to make a compliment of it—

HIGGINS [thundering at her] Sit down.

MRS.PEARCE [severely] Sit down, girl. Do as you’re told. [She placesthe stray chair near the hearthrug between Higgins and Pickering, andstands behind it waiting for the girl to sit down].

THEFLOWER GIRL. Ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — oo! [She stands, halfrebellious, half bewildered].

PICKERING [very courteous] Won’t you sit down?

LIZA [coyly] Don’t mind if I do. [She sits down. Pickering returns tothe hearthrug].

HIGGINS. What’s your name?

THEFLOWER GIRL. Liza Doolittle.

HIGGINS [declaiming gravely] Eliza, Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess, They went tothe woods to get a bird’s nes’:

PICKERING.They found a nest with four eggs in it:

HIGGINS.They took one apiece, and left three in it.

Theylaugh heartily at their own wit.

LIZA. Oh, don’t be silly.

MRS.PEARCE. You mustn’t speak to the gentleman like that.

LIZA. Well, why won’t he speak sensible to me?

HIGGINS.Come back to business. How much do you propose to pay me for thelessons?

LIZA. Oh, I know what’s right. A lady friend of mine gets French lessonsfor eighteenpence an hour from a real French gentleman. Well, youwouldn’t have the face to ask me the same for teaching me my ownlanguage as you would for French; so I won’t give more than ashilling. Take it or leave it.

HIGGINS [walking up and down the room, rattling his keys and his cash in hispockets] You know, Pickering, if you consider a shilling, not as asimple shilling, but as a percentage of this girl’s income, itworks out as fully equivalent to sixty or seventy guineas from amillionaire.

PICKERING. How so?

HIGGINS.Figure it out. A millionaire has about 150 pounds a day. She earnsabout half-a-crown.

LIZA [haughtily] Who told you I only—

HIGGINS [continuing] She offers me two-fifths of her day’s income for alesson. Two-fifths of a millionaire’s income for a day would besomewhere about 60 pounds. It’s handsome. By George, it’senormous! it’s the biggest offer I ever had.

LIZA [rising, terrified] Sixty pounds! What are you talking about? I neveroffered you sixty pounds. Where would I get—

HIGGINS. Hold your tongue.

LIZA [weeping] But I ain’t got sixty pounds. Oh—

MRS.PEARCE. Don’t cry, you silly girl. Sit down. Nobody is going totouch your money.

HIGGINS.Somebody is going to touch you, with a broomstick, if you don’tstop snivelling. Sit down.

LIZA [obeying slowly] Ah — ah — ah — ow — oo — o! One would think you wasmy father.

HIGGINS. If I decide to teach you, I’ll be worse than two fathers to you. Here [he offers her his silk handkerchief]!

LIZA. What’s this for?

HIGGINS.To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part of your face that feels moist.Remember: that’s your handkerchief; and that’s your sleeve. Don’tmistake the one for the other if you wish to become a lady in a shop.

Liza, utterly bewildered, stares helplessly at him.

MRS.PEARCE. It’s no use talking to her like that, Mr. Higgins: shedoesn’t understand you. Besides, you’re quite wrong: she doesn’tdo it that way at all [she takes the handkerchief].

LIZA [snatching it] Here! You give me that handkerchief. He give it to me, not to you.

PICKERING [laughing] He did. I think it must be regarded as her property, Mrs.Pearce.

MRS.PEARCE [resigning herself] Serve you right, Mr. Higgins.

PICKERING. Higgins: I’m interested. What about the ambassador’s gardenparty? I’ll say you’re the greatest teacher alive if you makethat good. I’ll bet you all the expenses of the experiment youcan’t do it. And I’ll pay for the lessons.

LIZA. Oh, you are real good. Thank you, Captain.

HIGGINS [tempted, looking at her] It’s almost irresistible. She’s sodeliciously low — so horribly dirty—

LIZA [protesting extremely] Ah — ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — oooo!!! I ain’tdirty: I washed my face and hands afore I come, I did.

PICKERING. You’re certainly not going to turn her head with flattery, Higgins.

MRS.PEARCE [uneasy] Oh, don’t say that, sir: there’s more ways thanone of turning a girl’s head; and nobody can do it better than Mr. Higgins, though he may not always mean it. I do hope, sir, you won’tencourage him to do anything foolish.

HIGGINS [becoming excited as the idea grows on him] What is life but a seriesof inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Never losea chance: it doesn’t come every day. I shall make a duchess of thisdraggletailed guttersnipe.

LIZA [strongly deprecating this view of her] Ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — oo!

HIGGINS [carried away] Yes: in six months — in three if she has a good earand a quick tongue — I’ll take her anywhere and pass her off asanything. We’ll start today: now! this moment! Take her away andclean her, Mrs. Pearce. Monkey Brand, if it won’t come off anyother way. Is there a good fire in the kitchen?

MRS.PEARCE [protesting]. Yes; but—

HIGGINS [storming on] Take all her clothes off and burn them. Ring upWhiteley or somebody for new ones. Wrap her up in brown paper tillthey come.

LIZA. You’re no gentleman, you’re not, to talk of such things. I’m agood girl, I am; and I know what the like of you are, I do.

HIGGINS. We want none of your Lisson Grove prudery here, young woman. You’vegot to learn to behave like a duchess. Take her away, Mrs. Pearce. Ifshe gives you any trouble wallop her.

LIZA [springing up and running between Pickering and Mrs. Pearce forprotection] No! I’ll call the police, I will.

MRS.PEARCE. But I’ve no place to put her.

HIGGINS. Put her in the dustbin.

LIZA. Ah — ah — ah — ow — ow — oo!

PICKERING. Oh come, Higgins! be reasonable.

MRS.PEARCE [resolutely] You must be reasonable, Mr. Higgins: really youmust. You can’t walk over everybody like this.

Higgins, thus scolded, subsides. The hurricane is succeeded by a zephyr ofamiable surprise.

HIGGINS [with professional exquisiteness of modulation] I walk overeverybody! My dear Mrs. Pearce, my dear Pickering, I never had theslightest intention of walking over anyone. All I propose is that weshould be kind to this poor girl. We must help her to prepare and fitherself for her new station in life. If I did not express myselfclearly it was because I did not wish to hurt her delicacy, or yours.

Liza, reassured, steals back to her chair.

MRS.PEARCE [to Pickering] Well, did you ever hear anything like that, sir?

PICKERING [laughing heartily] Never, Mrs. Pearce: never.

HIGGINS [patiently] What’s the matter?

MRS.PEARCE. Well, the matter is, sir, that you can’t take a girl uplike that as if you were picking up a pebble on the beach.

HIGGINS. Why not?

MRS.PEARCE. Why not! But you don’t know anything about her. What abouther parents? She may be married.

LIZA.Garn!

HIGGINS.There! As the girl very properly says, Garn! Married indeed! Don’tyou know that a woman of that class looks a worn out drudge of fiftya year after she’s married.

LIZA. Who’d marry me?

HIGGINS [suddenly resorting to the most thrillingly beautiful low tones inhis best elocutionary style] By George, Eliza, the streets will bestrewn with the bodies of men shooting themselves for your sakebefore I’ve done with you.

MRS.PEARCE. Nonsense, sir. You mustn’t talk like that to her.

LIZA [rising and squaring herself determinedly] I’m going away. He’soff his chump, he is. I don’t want no balmies teaching me.

HIGGINS [wounded in his tenderest point by her insensibility to hiselocution] Oh, indeed! I’m mad, am I? Very well, Mrs. Pearce: youneedn’t order the new clothes for her. Throw her out.

LIZA [whimpering] Nah — ow. You got no right to touch me.

MRS.PEARCE. You see now what comes of being saucy. [Indicating the door] This way, please.

LIZA [almost in tears] I didn’t want no clothes. I wouldn’t have takenthem [she throws away the handkerchief]. I can buy my own clothes.

HIGGINS [deftly retrieving the handkerchief and intercepting her on herreluctant way to the door] You’re an ungrateful wicked girl. Thisis my return for offering to take you out of the gutter and dress youbeautifully and make a lady of you.

MRS.PEARCE. Stop, Mr. Higgins. I won’t allow it. It’s you that arewicked. Go home to your parents, girl; and tell them to take bettercare of you.

LIZA. I ain’t got no parents. They told me I was big enough to earn myown living and turned me out.

MRS.PEARCE. Where’s your mother?

LIZA. I ain’t got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixthstepmother. But I done without them. And I’m a good girl, I am.

HIGGINS.Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about? The girldoesn’t belong to anybody — is no use to anybody but me. [He goesto Mrs. Pearce and begins coaxing]. You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce: I’m sure a daughter would be a great amusement to you. Now don’tmake any more fuss. Take her downstairs; and—

MRS.PEARCE. But what’s to become of her? Is she to be paid anything? Dobe sensible, sir.

HIGGINS. Oh, pay her whatever is necessary: put it down in the housekeepingbook. [Impatiently] What on earth will she want with money? She’llhave her food and her clothes. She’ll only drink if you give hermoney.

LIZA [turning on him] Oh you are a brute. It’s a lie: nobody ever sawthe sign of liquor on me. [She goes back to her chair and plantsherself there defiantly].

PICKERING [in good-humored remonstrance] Does it occur to you, Higgins, thatthe girl has some feelings?

HIGGINS [looking critically at her] Oh no, I don’t think so. Not anyfeelings that we need bother about. [Cheerily] Have you, Eliza?

LIZA. I got my feelings same as anyone else.

HIGGINS [to Pickering, reflectively] You see the difficulty?

PICKERING. Eh? What difficulty?

HIGGINS.To get her to talk grammar. The mere pronunciation is easy enough.

LIZA. I don’t want to talk grammar. I want to talk like a lady.

MRS.PEARCE. Will you please keep to the point, Mr. Higgins. I want toknow on what terms the girl is to be here. Is she to have any wages? And what is to become of her when you’ve finished your teaching? You must look ahead a little.

HIGGINS [impatiently] What’s to become of her if I leave her in the gutter? Tell me that, Mrs. Pearce.

MRS.PEARCE. That’s her own business, not yours, Mr. Higgins.

HIGGINS. Well, when I’ve done with her, we can throw her back into thegutter; and then it will be her own business again; so that’s allright.

LIZA. Oh, you’ve no feeling heart in you: you don’t care for nothingbut yourself [she rises and takes the floor resolutely]. Here! I’vehad enough of this. I’m going [making for the door]. You ought tobe ashamed of yourself, you ought.

HIGGINS [snatching a chocolate cream from the piano, his eyes suddenlybeginning to twinkle with mischief] Have some chocolates, Eliza.

LIZA [halting, tempted] How do I know what might be in them? I’ve heardof girls being drugged by the like of you.

Higginswhips out his penknife; cuts a chocolate in two; puts one half intohis mouth and bolts it; and offers her the other half.

HIGGINS.Pledge of good faith, Eliza. I eat one half you eat the other.

[Lizaopens her mouth to retort: he pops the half chocolate into it]. Youshall have boxes of them, barrels of them, every day. You shall liveon them. Eh?

LIZA [who has disposed of the chocolate after being nearly choked by it] Iwouldn’t have ate it, only I’m too ladylike to take it out of mymouth.

HIGGINS.Listen, Eliza. I think you said you came in a taxi.

LIZA. Well, what if I did? I’ve as good a right to take a taxi as anyoneelse.

HIGGINS. You have, Eliza; and in future you shall have as many taxis as youwant. You shall go up and down and round the town in a taxi everyday. Think of that, Eliza.

MRS.PEARCE. Mr. Higgins: you’re tempting the girl. It’s not right.She should think of the future.

HIGGINS.At her age! Nonsense! Time enough to think of the future when youhaven’t any future to think of. No, Eliza: do as this lady does: think of other people’s futures; but never think of your own. Thinkof chocolates, and taxis, and gold, and diamonds.

LIZA.No: I don’t want no gold and no diamonds. I’m a good girl, I am. [She sits down again, with an attempt at dignity].

HIGGINS. You shall remain so, Eliza, under the care of Mrs. Pearce. And youshall marry an officer in the Guards, with a beautiful moustache: theson of a marquis, who will disinherit him for marrying you, but willrelent when he sees your beauty and goodness—

PICKERING. Excuse me, Higgins; but I really must interfere. Mrs. Pearce is quiteright. If this girl is to put herself in your hands for six monthsfor an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughly whatshe’s doing.

HIGGINS. How can she? She’s incapable of understanding anything. Besides, doany of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever doit?

PICKERING.Very clever, Higgins; but not sound sense. [To Eliza] Miss Doolittle—

LIZA [overwhelmed] Ah — ah — ow — oo!

HIGGINS.There! That’s all you get out of Eliza. Ah — ah — ow — oo! No useexplaining. As a military man you ought to know that. Give her herorders: that’s what she wants. Eliza: you are to live here for thenext six months, learning how to speak beautifully, like a lady in aflorist’s shop. If you’re good and do whatever you’re told, youshall sleep in a proper bedroom, and have lots to eat, and money tobuy chocolates and take rides in taxis. If you’re naughty and idleyou will sleep in the back kitchen among the black beetles, and bewalloped by Mrs. Pearce with a broomstick. At the end of six monthsyou shall go to Buckingham Palace in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If the King finds out you’re not a lady, you will be taken by thepolice to the Tower of London, where your head will be cut off as awarning to other presumptuous flower girls. If you are not found out, you shall have a present of seven-and-sixpence to start life with asa lady in a shop. If you refuse this offer you will be a mostungrateful and wicked girl; and the angels will weep for you. [ToPickering] Now are you satisfied, Pickering? [To Mrs. Pearce] Can Iput it more plainly and fairly, Mrs. Pearce?

MRS.PEARCE [patiently] I think you’d better let me speak to the girlproperly in private. I don’t know that I can take charge of her orconsent to the arrangement at all. Of course I know you don’t meanher any harm; but when you get what you call interested in people’saccents, you never think or care what may happen to them or you. Comewith me, Eliza.

HIGGINS.That’s all right. Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. Bundle her off to thebath-room.

LIZA [rising reluctantly and suspiciously] You’re a great bully, youare. I won’t stay here if I don’t like. I won’t let nobodywallop me. I never asked to go to Bucknam Palace, I didn’t. I wasnever in trouble with the police, not me. I’m a good girl—

MRS.PEARCE. Don’t answer back, girl. You don’t understand thegentleman. Come with me. [She leads the way to the door, and holds itopen for Eliza].

LIZA [as she goes out] Well, what I say is right. I won’t go near theking, not if I’m going to have my head cut off. If I’d known whatI was letting myself in for, I wouldn’t have come here. I alwaysbeen a good girl; and I never offered to say a word to him; and Idon’t owe him nothing; and I don’t care; and I won’t be putupon; and I have my feelings the same as anyone else—

Mrs.Pearce shuts the door; and Eliza’s plaints are no longer audible. Pickering comes from the hearth to the chair and sits astride it withhis arms on the back.

PICKERING. Excuse the straight question, Higgins. Are you a man of goodcharacter where women are concerned?

HIGGINS [moodily] Have you ever met a man of good character where women areconcerned?

PICKERING. Yes: very frequently.

HIGGINS [dogmatically, lifting himself on his hands to the level of thepiano, and sitting on it with a bounce] Well, I haven’t. I findthat the moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomesjealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that themoment I let myself make friends with a woman, I become selfish andtyrannical. Women upset everything. When you let them into your life, you find that the woman is driving at one thing and you’re drivingat another.

PICKERING.At what, for example?

HIGGINS [coming off the piano restlessly] Oh, Lord knows! I suppose the womanwants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; and eachtries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to go northand the other south; and the result is that both have to go east, though they both hate the east wind. [He sits down on the bench atthe keyboard]. So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely toremain so.

PICKERING [rising and standing over him gravely] Come, Higgins! You know what Imean. If I’m to be in this business I shall feel responsible forthat girl. I hope it’s understood that no advantage is to be takenof her position.

HIGGINS. What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you. [Rising to explain] You see, she’ll be a pupil; and teaching would be impossible unless pupilswere sacred. I’ve taught scores of American millionairesses how tospeak English: the best looking women in the world. I’m seasoned.They might as well be blocks of wood. I might as well be a block ofwood. It’s—

Mrs.Pearce opens the door. She has Eliza’s hat in her hand. Pickeringretires to the easy-chair at the hearth and sits down.

HIGGINS [eagerly] Well, Mrs. Pearce: is it all right?

MRS.PEARCE [at the door] I just wish to trouble you with a word, if Imay, Mr. Higgins.

HIGGINS. Yes, certainly. Come in. [She comes forward]. Don’t burn that, Mrs.Pearce. I’ll keep it as a curiosity. [He takes the hat].

MRS.PEARCE. Handle it carefully, sir, please. I had to promise her not toburn it; but I had better put it in the oven for a while.

HIGGINS [putting it down hastily on the piano] Oh! thank you. Well, what haveyou to say to me?

PICKERING.Am I in the way?

MRS.PEARCE. Not at all, sir. Mr. Higgins: will you please be veryparticular what you say before the girl?

HIGGINS [sternly] Of course. I’m always particular about what I say. Why doyou say this to me?

MRS.PEARCE [unmoved] No, sir: you’re not at all particular when you’vemislaid anything or when you get a little impatient. Now it doesn’tmatter before me: I’m used to it. But you really must not swearbefore the girl.

HIGGINS [indignantly] I swear! [Most emphatically] I never swear. I detestthe habit. What the devil do you mean?

MRS.PEARCE [stolidly] That’s what I mean, sir. You swear a great dealtoo much. I don’t mind your damning and blasting, and what thedevil and where the devil and who the devil—

HIGGINS.Really! Mrs. Pearce: this language from your lips!

MRS.PEARCE [not to be put off] — but there is a certain word I must askyou not to use. The girl has just used it herself because the bathwas too hot. It begins with the same letter as bath. She knows nobetter: she learnt it at her mother’s knee. But she must not hearit from your lips.

HIGGINS [loftily] I cannot charge myself with having ever uttered it, Mrs.Pearce. [She looks at him steadfastly. He adds, hiding an uneasyconscience with a judicial air] Except perhaps in a moment of extremeand justifiable excitement.

MRS.PEARCE. Only this morning, sir, you applied it to your boots, to thebutter, and to the brown bread.

HIGGINS. Oh, that! Mere alliteration, Mrs. Pearce, natural to a poet.

MRS.PEARCE. Well, sir, whatever you choose to call it, I beg you not tolet the girl hear you repeat it.

HIGGINS. Oh, very well, very well. Is that all?

MRS.PEARCE. No, sir. We shall have to be very particular with this girlas to personal cleanliness.

HIGGINS. Certainly. Quite right. Most important.

MRS.PEARCE. I mean not to be slovenly about her dress or untidy inleaving things about.

HIGGINS [going to her solemnly] Just so. I intended to call your attention tothat [He passes on to Pickering, who is enjoying the conversationimmensely]. It is these little things that matter, Pickering. Takecare of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves is astrue of personal habits as of money. [He comes to anchor on thehearthrug, with the air of a man in an unassailable position].

MRS.PEARCE. Yes, sir. Then might I ask you not to come down to breakfastin your dressing-gown, or at any rate not to use it as a napkin tothe extent you do, sir. And if you would be so good as not to eateverything off the same plate, and to remember not to put theporridge saucepan out of your hand on the clean tablecloth, it wouldbe a better example to the girl. You know you nearly choked yourselfwith a fishbone in the jam only last week.

HIGGINS [routed from the hearthrug and drifting back to the piano] I may dothese things sometimes in absence of mind; but surely I don’t dothem habitually. [Angrily] By the way: my dressing-gown smells mostdamnably of benzine.

MRS.PEARCE. No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins. But if you will wipe yourfingers—

HIGGINS [yelling] Oh very well, very well: I’ll wipe them in my hair infuture.

MRS.PEARCE. I hope you’re not offended, Mr. Higgins.

HIGGINS [shocked at finding himself thought capable of an unamiablesentiment] Not at all, not at all. You’re quite right, Mrs. Pearce: I shall be particularly careful before the girl. Is that all?

MRS.PEARCE. No, sir. Might she use some of those Japanese dresses youbrought from abroad? I really can’t put her back into her oldthings.

HIGGINS. Certainly. Anything you like. Is that all?

MRS.PEARCE. Thank you, sir. That’s all. [She goes out].

HIGGINS. You know, Pickering, that woman has the most extraordinary ideasabout me. Here I am, a shy, diffident sort of man. I’ve never beenable to feel really grown-up and tremendous, like other chaps. Andyet she’s firmly persuaded that I’m an arbitrary overbearingbossing kind of person. I can’t account for it.

Mrs.Pearce returns.

MRS.PEARCE. If you please, sir, the trouble’s beginning already.There’s a dustman downstairs, Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you. He says you have his daughter here.

PICKERING [rising] Phew! I say! [He retreats to the hearthrug].

HIGGINS [promptly] Send the blackguard up.

MRS.PEARCE. Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out].

PICKERING. He may not be a blackguard, Higgins.

HIGGINS.Nonsense. Of course he’s a blackguard.

PICKERING. Whether he is or not, I’m afraid we shall have some trouble withhim.

HIGGINS [confidently] Oh no: I think not. If there’s any trouble he shallhave it with me, not I with him. And we are sure to get somethinginteresting out of him.

PICKERING. About the girl?

HIGGINS.No. I mean his dialect.

PICKERING. Oh!

MRS.PEARCE [at the door] Doolittle, sir. [She admits Doolittle andretires].

AlfredDoolittle is an elderly but vigorous dustman, clad in the costume ofhis profession, including a hat with a back brim covering his neckand shoulders. He has well marked and rather interesting features, and seems equally free from fear and conscience. He has a remarkablyexpressive voice, the result of a habit of giving vent to hisfeelings without reserve. His present pose is that of wounded honorand stern resolution.

DOOLITTLE [at the door, uncertain which of the two gentlemen is his man] Professor Higgins?

HIGGINS. Here. Good morning. Sit down.

DOOLITTLE.Morning, Governor. [He sits down magisterially] I come about a veryserious matter, Governor.

HIGGINS [to Pickering] Brought up in Hounslow. Mother Welsh, I should think. [Doolittle opens his mouth, amazed. Higgins continues] What do youwant, Doolittle?

DOOLITTLE [menacingly] I want my daughter: that’s what I want. See?

HIGGINS. Of course you do. You’re her father, aren’t you? You don’tsuppose anyone else wants her, do you? I’m glad to see you havesome spark of family feeling left. She’s upstairs. Take her away atonce.

DOOLITTLE [rising, fearfully taken aback] What!

HIGGINS. Take her away. Do you suppose I’m going to keep your daughter foryou?

DOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, look here, Governor. Is this reasonable? Isit fair to take advantage of a man like this? The girl belongs to me. You got her. Where do I come in? [He sits down again].

HIGGINS. Your daughter had the audacity to come to my house and ask me toteach her how to speak properly so that she could get a place in aflower-shop. This gentleman and my housekeeper have been here all thetime. [Bullying him] How dare you come here and attempt to blackmailme? You sent her here on purpose.

DOOLITTLE [protesting] No, Governor.

HIGGINS. You must have. How else could you possibly know that she is here?

DOOLITTLE.Don’t take a man up like that, Governor.

HIGGINS.The police shall take you up. This is a plant — a plot to extortmoney by threats. I shall telephone for the police [he goesresolutely to the telephone and opens the directory].

DOOLITTLE. Have I asked you for a brass farthing? I leave it to the gentlemanhere: have I said a word about money?

HIGGINS [throwing the book aside and marching down on Doolittle with a poser] What else did you come for?

DOOLITTLE [sweetly] Well, what would a man come for? Be human, governor.

HIGGINS [disarmed] Alfred: did you put her up to it?

DOOLITTLE.So help me, Governor, I never did. I take my Bible oath I ain’tseen the girl these two months past.

HIGGINS.Then how did you know she was here?

DOOLITTLE [«most musical, most melancholy»] I’ll tell you, Governor, ifyou’ll only let me get a word in. I’m willing to tell you. I’mwanting to tell you. I’m waiting to tell you.

HIGGINS. Pickering: this chap has a certain natural gift of rhetoric. Observethe rhythm of his native woodnotes wild. «I’m willing to tellyou: I’m wanting to tell you: I’m waiting to tell you.«Sentimental rhetoric! That’s the Welsh strain in him. It alsoaccounts for his mendacity and dishonesty.

PICKERING. Oh, PLEASE, Higgins: I’m west country myself. [To Doolittle] Howdid you know the girl was here if you didn’t send her?

DOOLITTLE.It was like this, Governor. The girl took a boy in the taxi to givehim a jaunt. Son of her landlady, he is. He hung about on the chanceof her giving him another ride home. Well, she sent him back for herluggage when she heard you was willing for her to stop here. I metthe boy at the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street.

HIGGINS. Public house. Yes?

DOOLITTLE.The poor man’s club, Governor: why shouldn’t I?

PICKERING.Do let him tell his story, Higgins.

DOOLITTLE. He told me what was up. And I ask you, what was my feelings and myduty as a father? I says to the boy, «You bring me the luggage,«I says—

PICKERING. Why didn’t you go for it yourself?

DOOLITTLE.Landlady wouldn’t have trusted me with it, Governor. She’s thatkind of woman: you know. I had to give the boy a penny afore hetrusted me with it, the little swine. I brought it to her just tooblige you like, and make myself agreeable. That’s all.

HIGGINS. How much luggage?

DOOLITTLE.Musical instrument, Governor. A few pictures, a trifle of jewelry, and a bird-cage. She said she didn’t want no clothes. What was I tothink from that, Governor? I ask you as a parent what was I to think?

HIGGINS.So you came to rescue her from worse than death, eh?

DOOLITTLE [appreciatively: relieved at being understood] Just so, Governor.That’s right.

PICKERING. But why did you bring her luggage if you intended to take her away?

DOOLITTLE. Have I said a word about taking her away? Have I now?

HIGGINS [determinedly] You’re going to take her away, double quick. [Hecrosses to the hearth and rings the bell].

DOOLITTLE [rising] No, Governor. Don’t say that. I’m not the man to standin my girl’s light. Here’s a career opening for her, as you mightsay; and—

Mrs.Pearce opens the door and awaits orders.

HIGGINS.Mrs. Pearce: this is Eliza’s father. He has come to take her away.Give her to him. [He goes back to the piano, with an air of washinghis hands of the whole affair].

DOOLITTLE.No. This is a misunderstanding. Listen here—

MRS.PEARCE. He can’t take her away, Mr. Higgins: how can he? You toldme to burn her clothes.

DOOLITTLE.That’s right. I can’t carry the girl through the streets like ablooming monkey, can I? I put it to you.

HIGGINS. You have put it to me that you want your daughter. Take yourdaughter. If she has no clothes go out and buy her some.

DOOLITTLE [desperate] Where’s the clothes she come in? Did I burn them or didyour missus here?

MRS.PEARCE. I am the housekeeper, if you please. I have sent for someclothes for your girl. When they come you can take her away. You canwait in the kitchen. This way, please.

Doolittle, much troubled, accompanies her to the door; then hesitates; finallyturns confidentially to Higgins.

DOOLITTLE.Listen here, Governor. You and me is men of the world, ain’t we?

HIGGINS. Oh! Men of the world, are we? You’d better go, Mrs. Pearce.

MRS.PEARCE. I think so, indeed, sir. [She goes, with dignity].

PICKERING.The floor is yours, Mr. Doolittle.

DOOLITTLE [to Pickering] I thank you, Governor. [To Higgins, who takes refugeon the piano bench, a little overwhelmed by the proximity of hisvisitor; for Doolittle has a professional flavor of dust about him].Well, the truth is, I’ve taken a sort of fancy to you, Governor; and if you want the girl, I’m not so set on having her back homeagain but what I might be open to an arrangement. Regarded in thelight of a young woman, she’s a fine handsome girl. As a daughtershe’s not worth her keep; and so I tell you straight. All I ask ismy rights as a father; and you’re the last man alive to expect meto let her go for nothing; for I can see you’re one of the straightsort, Governor. Well, what’s a five pound note to you? And what’sEliza to me? [He returns to his chair and sits down judicially].

PICKERING. I think you ought to know, Doolittle, that Mr. Higgins’s intentionsare entirely honorable.

DOOLITTLE.Course they are, Governor. If I thought they wasn’t, I’d askfifty.

HIGGINS [revolted] Do you mean to say, you callous rascal, that you wouldsell your daughter for 50 pounds?

DOOLITTLE.Not in a general way I wouldn’t; but to oblige a gentleman like youI’d do a good deal, I do assure you.

PICKERING. Have you no morals, man?

DOOLITTLE [unabashed] Can’t afford them, Governor. Neither could you if youwas as poor as me. Not that I mean any harm, you know. But if Liza isgoing to have a bit out of this, why not me too?

HIGGINS [troubled] I don’t know what to do, Pickering. There can be noquestion that as a matter of morals it’s a positive crime to givethis chap a farthing. And yet I feel a sort of rough justice in hisclaim.

DOOLITTLE.That’s it, Governor. That’s all I say. A father’s heart, as itwere.

PICKERING. Well, I know the feeling; but really it seems hardly right—

DOOLITTLE.Don’t say that, Governor. Don’t look at it that way. What am I, Governors both? I ask you, what am I? I’m one of the undeservingpoor: that’s what I am. Think of what that means to a man. It meansthat he’s up agen middle class morality all the time. If there’sanything going, and I put in for a bit of it, it’s always the samestory: «You’re undeserving; so you can’t have it.» But myneeds is as great as the most deserving widow’s that ever got moneyout of six different charities in one week for the death of the samehusband. I don’t need less than a deserving man: I need more. Idon’t eat less hearty than him; and I drink a lot more. I want abit of amusement, cause I’m a thinking man. I want cheerfulness anda song and a band when I feel low. Well, they charge me just the samefor everything as they charge the deserving. What is middle classmorality? Just an excuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, Iask you, as two gentlemen, not to play that game on me. I’m playingstraight with you. I ain’t pretending to be deserving. I’mundeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; andthat’s the truth. Will you take advantage of a man’s nature to dohim out of the price of his own daughter what he’s brought up andfed and clothed by the sweat of his brow until she’s growed bigenough to be interesting to you two gentlemen? Is five poundsunreasonable? I put it to you; and I leave it to you.

HIGGINS [rising, and going over to Pickering] Pickering: if we were to takethis man in hand for three months, he could choose between a seat inthe Cabinet and a popular pulpit in Wales.

PICKERING. What do you say to that, Doolittle?

DOOLITTLE.Not me, Governor, thank you kindly. I’ve heard all the preachersand all the prime ministers — for I’m a thinking man and game forpolitics or religion or social reform same as all the otheramusements — and I tell you it’s a dog’s life anyway you look atit. Undeserving poverty is my line. Taking one station in societywith another, it’s — it’s — well, it’s the only one that hasany ginger in it, to my taste.

HIGGINS. I suppose we must give him a fiver.

PICKERING. He’ll make a bad use of it, I’m afraid.

DOOLITTLE.Not me, Governor, so help me I won’t. Don’t you be afraid thatI’ll save it and spare it and live idle on it. There won’t be apenny of it left by Monday: I’ll have to go to work same as if I’dnever had it. It won’t pauperize me, you bet. Just one good spreefor myself and the missus, giving pleasure to ourselves andemployment to others, and satisfaction to you to think it’s notbeen throwed away. You couldn’t spend it better.

HIGGINS [taking out his pocket book and coming between Doolittle and thepiano] This is irresistible. Let’s give him ten. [He offers twonotes to the dustman].

DOOLITTLE.No, Governor. She wouldn’t have the heart to spend ten; and perhapsI shouldn’t neither. Ten pounds is a lot of money: it makes a manfeel prudent like; and then goodbye to happiness. You give me what Iask you, Governor: not a penny more, and not a penny less.

PICKERING. Why don’t you marry that missus of yours? I rather draw the line atencouraging that sort of immorality.

DOOLITTLE.Tell her so, Governor: tell her so. I’m willing. It’s me thatsuffers by it. I’ve no hold on her. I got to be agreeable to her. Igot to give her presents. I got to buy her clothes something sinful. I’m a slave to that woman, Governor, just because I’m not herlawful husband. And she knows it too. Catch her marrying me! Take myadvice, Governor: marry Eliza while she’s young and don’t know nobetter. If you don’t you’ll be sorry for it after. If you do, she’ll be sorry for it after; but better you than her, becauseyou’re a man, and she’s only a woman and don’t know how to behappy anyhow.

HIGGINS. Pickering: if we listen to this man another minute, we shall have noconvictions left. [To Doolittle] Five pounds I think you said.

DOOLITTLE.Thank you kindly, Governor.

HIGGINS. You’re sure you won’t take ten?

DOOLITTLE.Not now. Another time, Governor.

HIGGINS [handing him a five-pound note] Here you are.

DOOLITTLE.Thank you, Governor. Good morning.

[Hehurries to the door, anxious to get away with his booty. When heopens it he is confronted with a dainty and exquisitely clean youngJapanese lady in a simple blue cotton kimono printed cunningly withsmall white jasmine blossoms. Mrs. Pearce is with her. He gets out ofher way deferentially and apologizes]. Beg pardon, miss.

THEJAPANESE LADY. Garn! Don’t you know your own daughter?

DOOLITTLE {exclaiming Bly me! it’s Eliza!
HIGGINS {simul- What’s that! This!
PICKERING {taneously By Jove!

LIZA.Don’t I look silly?

HIGGINS.Silly?

MRS.PEARCE [at the door] Now, Mr. Higgins, please don’t say anything tomake the girl conceited about herself.

HIGGINS [conscientiously] Oh! Quite right, Mrs. Pearce. [To Eliza] Yes: damned silly.

MRS.PEARCE. Please, sir.

HIGGINS [correcting himself] I mean extremely silly.

LIZA. I should look all right with my hat on. [She takes up her hat; putsit on; and walks across the room to the fireplace with a fashionableair].

HIGGINS. A new fashion, by George! And it ought to look horrible!

DOOLITTLE [with fatherly pride] Well, I never thought she’d clean up as goodlooking as that, Governor. She’s a credit to me, ain’t she?

LIZA. I tell you, it’s easy to clean up here. Hot and cold water on tap, just as much as you like, there is. Woolly towels, there is; and atowel horse so hot, it burns your fingers. Soft brushes to scrubyourself, and a wooden bowl of soap smelling like primroses. Now Iknow why ladies is so clean. Washing’s a treat for them. Wish theysaw what it is for the like of me!

HIGGINS. I’m glad the bath-room met with your approval.

LIZA.It didn’t: not all of it; and I don’t care who hears me say it.Mrs. Pearce knows.

HIGGINS. What was wrong, Mrs. Pearce?

MRS.PEARCE [blandly] Oh, nothing, sir. It doesn’t matter.

LIZA. I had a good mind to break it. I didn’t know which way to look. ButI hung a towel over it, I did.

HIGGINS. Over what?

MRS.PEARCE. Over the looking-glass, sir.

HIGGINS.Doolittle: you have brought your daughter up too strictly.

DOOLITTLE.Me! I never brought her up at all, except to give her a lick of astrap now and again. Don’t put it on me, Governor. She ain’taccustomed to it, you see: that’s all. But she’ll soon pick upyour free-and-easy ways.

LIZA. I’m a good girl, I am; and I won’t pick up no free and easy ways.

HIGGINS. Eliza: if you say again that you’re a good girl, your father shalltake you home.

LIZA.Not him. You don’t know my father. All he come here for was totouch you for some money to get drunk on.

DOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I want money for? To put into the plate inchurch, I suppose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is so incensedby this that Pickering presently finds it necessary to step betweenthem]. Don’t you give me none of your lip; and don’t let me hearyou giving this gentleman any of it neither, or you’ll hear from meabout it. See?

HIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go, Doolittle? Your blessing, for instance.

DOOLITTLE.No, Governor: I ain’t such a mug as to put up my children to all Iknow myself. Hard enough to hold them in without that. If you wantEliza’s mind improved, Governor, you do it yourself with a strap.So long, gentlemen. [He turns to go].

HIGGINS [impressively] Stop. You’ll come regularly to see your daughter.It’s your duty, you know. My brother is a clergyman; and he couldhelp you in your talks with her.

DOOLITTLE [evasively] Certainly. I’ll come, Governor. Not just this week, because I have a job at a distance. But later on you may depend onme. Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, ma’am. [He takes off his hatto Mrs. Pearce, who disdains the salutation and goes out. He winks atHiggins, thinking him probably a fellow sufferer from Mrs. Pearce’sdifficult disposition, and follows her].

LIZA.Don’t you believe the old liar. He’d as soon you set a bull-dogon him as a clergyman. You won’t see him again in a hurry.

HIGGINS. I don’t want to, Eliza. Do you?

LIZA.Not me. I don’t want never to see him again, I don’t. He’s adisgrace to me, he is, collecting dust, instead of working at histrade.

PICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza?

LIZA. Talking money out of other people’s pockets into his own. Hisproper trade’s a navvy; and he works at it sometimes too — forexercise — and earns good money at it. Ain’t you going to call meMiss Doolittle any more?

PICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. It was a slip of the tongue.

LIZA. Oh, I don’t mind; only it sounded so genteel. I should just like totake a taxi to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and get out thereand tell it to wait for me, just to put the girls in their place abit. I wouldn’t speak to them, you know.

PICKERING.Better wait til we get you something really fashionable.

HIGGINS.Besides, you shouldn’t cut your old friends now that you have risenin the world. That’s what we call snobbery.

LIZA. You don’t call the like of them my friends now, I should hope.They’ve took it out of me often enough with their ridicule whenthey had the chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my own back. Butif I’m to have fashionable clothes, I’ll wait. I should like tohave some. Mrs. Pearce says you’re going to give me some to wear inbed at night different to what I wear in the daytime; but it do seema waste of money when you could get something to show. Besides, Inever could fancy changing into cold things on a winter night.

MRS.PEARCE [coming back] Now, Eliza. The new things have come for you totry on.

LIZA. Ah — ow — oo — ooh! [She rushes out].

MRS.PEARCE [following her] Oh, don’t rush about like that, girl [Sheshuts the door behind her].

HIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job.

PICKERING [with conviction] Higgins: we have.

Itis Mrs. Higgins’s at-home day. Nobody has yet arrived. Herdrawing-room, in a flat on Chelsea embankment, has three windowslooking on the river; and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would bein an older house of the same pretension. The windows are open, giving access to a balcony with flowers in pots. If you stand withyour face to the windows, you have the fireplace on your left and thedoor 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, whichis very unlike her son’s room in Wimpole Street, is not crowdedwith furniture and little tables and nicknacks. In the middle of theroom there is a big ottoman; and this, with the carpet, the Morriswall-papers, and the Morris chintz window curtains and brocade coversof the ottoman and its cushions, supply all the ornament, and aremuch too handsome to be hidden by odds and ends of useless things. Afew good oil-paintings from the exhibitions in the Grosvenor Gallerythirty years ago (the Burne Jones, not the Whistler side of them) areon the walls. The only landscape is a Cecil Lawson on the scale of aRubens. There is a portrait of Mrs. Higgins as she was when shedefied fashion in her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettiancostumes which, when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism in theeighteen-seventies.

Inthe corner diagonally opposite the door Mrs. Higgins, now over sixtyand long past taking the trouble to dress out of the fashion, sitswriting at an elegantly simple writing-table with a bell buttonwithin reach of her hand. There is a Chippendale chair further backin the room between her and the window nearest her side. At the otherside of the room, further forward, is an Elizabethan chair roughlycarved in the taste of Inigo Jones. On the same side a piano in adecorated case. The corner between the fireplace and the window isoccupied by a divan cushioned in Morris chintz.

Itis between four and five in the afternoon.

Thedoor is opened violently; and Higgins enters with his hat on.

MRS. HIGGINS [dismayed] Henry [scolding him]! What are you doing hereto-day? It is my at home day: you promised not to come. [As he bendsto 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 mustn’t. I’m serious, Henry. You offend all myfriends: they stop coming whenever they meet you.

HIGGINS.Nonsense! I know I have no small talk; but people don’t mind. [Hesits on the settee].

MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! don’t they? Small talk indeed! What about your largetalk? Really, dear, you mustn’t stay.

HIGGINS. I must. I’ve a job for you. A phonetic job.

MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. I’m sorry; but I can’t get round yourvowels; and though I like to get pretty postcards in your patentshorthand, I always have to read the copies in ordinary writing youso thoughtfully send me.

HIGGINS. Well, this isn’t a phonetic job.

MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was.

HIGGINS.Not your part of it. I’ve picked up a girl.

MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl has picked you up?

HIGGINS.Not at all. I don’t 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 youngwomen about?

HIGGINS. Oh, I can’t be bothered with young women. My idea of a loveablewoman is something as like you as possible. I shall never get intothe way of seriously liking young women: some habits lie too deep tobe changed. [Rising abruptly and walking about, jingling his moneyand his keys in his trouser pockets] Besides, they’re 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]. That’s agood boy. Now tell me about the girl.

HIGGINS.She’s coming to see you.

MRS. HIGGINS. I don’t remember asking her.

HIGGINS. You didn’t. I asked her. If you’d known her you wouldn’t haveasked her.

MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why?

HIGGINS. Well, it’s like this. She’s a common flower girl. I picked heroff the kerbstone.

MRS. HIGGINS. And invited her to my at-home!

HIGGINS [rising and coming to her to coax her] Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ve taught her to speak properly; and she has strict orders as toher behavior. She’s to keep to two subjects: the weather andeverybody’s health — Fine day and How do you do, you know — and notto let herself go on things in general. That will be safe.

MRS. HIGGINS. Safe! To talk about our health! about our insides! perhapsabout our outsides! How could you be so silly, Henry?

HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, she must talk about something. [He controlshimself and sits down again]. Oh, she’ll be all right: don’t youfuss. Pickering is in it with me. I’ve a sort of bet on that I’llpass her off as a duchess in six months. I started on her some monthsago; and she’s getting on like a house on fire. I shall win my bet.She has a quick ear; and she’s been easier to teach than mymiddle-class pupils because she’s had to learn a complete newlanguage. She talks English almost as you talk French.

MRS. HIGGINS. That’s satisfactory, at all events.

HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isn’t.

MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean?

HIGGINS. You see, I’ve got her pronunciation all right; but you have toconsider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she pronounces; andthat’s where—

Theyare interrupted by the parlor-maid, announcing guests.

THEPARLOR-MAID. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill. [She withdraws].

HIGGINS. Oh Lord! [He rises; snatches his hat from the table; and makes forthe door; but before he reaches it his mother introduces him].

Mrs.and Miss Eynsford Hill are the mother and daughter who sheltered fromthe rain in Covent Garden. The mother is well bred, quiet, and hasthe habitual anxiety of straitened means. The daughter has acquired agay air of being very much at home in society: the bravado of genteelpoverty.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] How do you do? [They shake hands].

MISSEYNSFORD HILL. How d’you 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 backsagainst the piano and bows brusquely].

MissEYNSFORD HILL [going to him with confident familiarity] How do youdo?

HIGGINS [staring at her] I’ve seen you before somewhere. I haven’t theghost of a notion where; but I’ve heard your voice. [Drearily] Itdoesn’t matter. You’d better sit down.

MRS. HIGGINS. I’m sorry to say that my celebrated son has no manners. You mustn’t mind him.

MISSEYNSFORD HILL [gaily] I don’t. [She sits in the Elizabethan chair].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [a little bewildered] Not at all. [She sits on theottoman between her daughter and Mrs. Higgins, who has turned herchair away from the writing-table].

HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didn’t mean to be. [He goes to the centralwindow, through which, with his back to the company, he contemplatesthe river and the flowers in Battersea Park on the opposite bank asif they were a frozen dessert.]

Theparlor-maid returns, ushering in Pickering.

THEPARLOR-MAID. Colonel Pickering [She withdraws].

PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins?

MRS. HIGGINS. So glad you’ve come. Do you know Mrs. Eynsford Hill — MissEynsford Hill? [Exchange of bows. The Colonel brings the Chippendalechair a little forward between Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Higgins, and sitsdown].

PICKERING. Has Henry told you what we’ve come for?

HIGGINS [over his shoulder] We were interrupted: damn it!

MRS. HIGGINS. Oh Henry, Henry, really!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [half rising] Are we in the way?

MRS. HIGGINS [rising and making her sit down again] No, no. You couldn’thave come more fortunately: we want you to meet a friend of ours.

HIGGINS [turning hopefully] Yes, by George! We want two or three people. You’ll do as well as anybody else.

Theparlor-maid returns, ushering Freddy.

THEPARLOR-MAID. Mr. Eynsford Hill.

HIGGINS [almost audibly, past endurance] God of Heaven! another of them.

FREDDY [shaking hands with Mrs. Higgins] Ahdedo?

MRS. HIGGINS. Very good of you to come. [Introducing] Colonel Pickering.

FREDDY [bowing] Ahdedo?

MRS. HIGGINS. I don’t think you know my son, Professor Higgins.

FREDDY [going to Higgins] Ahdedo?

HIGGINS [looking at him much as if he were a pickpocket] I’ll take my oathI’ve met you before somewhere. Where was it?

FREDDY. I don’t think so.

HIGGINS [resignedly] It don’t matter, anyhow. Sit down. He shakes Freddy’shand, and almost slings him on the ottoman with his face to thewindows; then comes round to the other side of it.

HIGGINS. Well, here we are, anyhow! [He sits down on the ottoman next Mrs. Eynsford Hill, on her left.] And now, what the devil are we going totalk about until Eliza comes?

MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: you are the life and soul of the Royal Society’ssoirees; but really you’re rather trying on more commonplaceoccasions.

HIGGINS.Am I? Very sorry. [Beaming suddenly] I suppose I am, you know. [Uproariously] Ha, ha!

MISSEYNSFORD HILL [who considers Higgins quite eligible matrimonially] Isympathize. I haven’t any small talk. If people would only be frankand say what they really think!

HIGGINS [relapsing into gloom] Lord forbid!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [taking up her daughter’s cue] But why?

HIGGINS. What they think they ought to think is bad enough, Lord knows; butwhat they really think would break up the whole show. Do you supposeit would be really agreeable if I were to come out now with what Ireally think?

MISSEYNSFORD HILL [gaily] Is it so very cynical?

HIGGINS.Cynical! Who the dickens said it was cynical? I mean it wouldn’t bedecent.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [seriously] Oh! I’m sure you don’t mean that, Mr. Higgins.

HIGGINS. You see, we’re all savages, more or less. We’re supposed to becivilized and cultured — to know all about poetry and philosophy andart and science, and so on; but how many of us know even the meaningsof these names? [To Miss Hill] What do you know of poetry? [To Mrs. Hill] What do you know of science? [Indicating Freddy] What does heknow of art or science or anything else? What the devil do youimagine I know of philosophy?

MRS. HIGGINS [warningly] Or of manners, Henry?

THEPARLOR-MAID [opening the door] Miss Doolittle. [She withdraws].

HIGGINS [rising hastily and running to Mrs. Higgins] Here she is, mother. [Hestands on tiptoe and makes signs over his mother’s head to Eliza toindicate to her which lady is her hostess].

Eliza, who is exquisitely dressed, produces an impression of such remarkabledistinction and beauty as she enters that they all rise, quiteflustered. Guided by Higgins’s signals, she comes to Mrs. Higginswith studied grace.

LIZA [speaking with pedantic correctness of pronunciation and great beautyof tone] How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? [She gasps slightly in makingsure of the H in Higgins, but is quite successful]. Mr. Higgins toldme I might come.

MRS. HIGGINS [cordially] Quite right: I’m very glad indeed to see you.

PICKERING. How do you do, Miss Doolittle?

LIZA [shaking hands with him] Colonel Pickering, is it not?

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I feel sure we have met before, Miss Doolittle. Iremember your eyes.

LIZA. How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman gracefully in the placejust left vacant by Higgins].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My daughter Clara.

LIZA. How do you do?

CLARA [impulsively] How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman besideEliza, devouring her with her eyes].

FREDDY [coming to their side of the ottoman] I’ve certainly had thepleasure.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My son Freddy.

LIZA. How do you do?

Freddybows and sits down in the Elizabethan chair, infatuated.

HIGGINS [suddenly] By George, yes: it all comes back to me! [They stare athim]. Covent Garden! [Lamentably] What a damned thing!

MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, please! [He is about to sit on the edge of thetable]. Don’t sit on my writing-table: you’ll break it.

HIGGINS [sulkily] Sorry.

Hegoes to the divan, stumbling into the fender and over the fire-ironson his way; extricating himself with muttered imprecations; andfinishing his disastrous journey by throwing himself so impatientlyon the divan that he almost breaks it. Mrs. Higgins looks at him, butcontrols herself and says nothing.

Along and painful pause ensues.

MRS. HIGGINS [at last, conversationally] Will it rain, do you think?

LIZA.The shallow depression in the west of these islands is likely to moveslowly in an easterly direction. There are no indications of anygreat change in the barometrical situation.

FREDDY. Ha! ha! how awfully funny!

LIZA. What is wrong with that, young man? I bet I got it right.

FREDDY.Killing!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I’m sure I hope it won’t turn cold. There’s somuch influenza about. It runs right through our whole familyregularly every spring.

LIZA [darkly] My aunt died of influenza: so they said.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [clicks her tongue sympathetically]!!!

LIZA [in the same tragic tone] But it’s my belief they done the oldwoman in.

MRS. HIGGINS [puzzled] Done her in?

LIZA. Y-e-e-e-es, Lord love you! Why should she die of influenza? She comethrough diphtheria right enough the year before. I saw her with myown eyes. Fairly blue with it, she was. They all thought she wasdead; but my father he kept ladling gin down her throat til she cameto so sudden that she bit the bowl off the spoon.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [startled] Dear me!

LIZA [piling up the indictment] What call would a woman with that strengthin her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hatthat should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. What does doing her in mean?

HIGGINS [hastily] Oh, that’s the new small talk. To do a person in means tokill them.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Eliza, horrified] You surely don’t believe thatyour aunt was killed?

LIZA.Do I not! Them she lived with would have killed her for a hat-pin, let alone a hat.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. But it can’t have been right for your father to pourspirits down her throat like that. It might have killed her.

LIZA.Not her. Gin was mother’s milk to her. Besides, he’d poured somuch down his own throat that he knew the good of it.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Do you mean that he drank?

LIZA. Drank! My word! Something chronic.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. How dreadful for you!

LIZA.Not a bit. It never did him no harm what I could see. But then he didnot keep it up regular. [Cheerfully] On the burst, as you might say, from time to time. And always more agreeable when he had a drop in. When he was out of work, my mother used to give him fourpence andtell him to go out and not come back until he’d drunk himselfcheerful and loving-like. There’s lots of women has to make theirhusbands drunk to make them fit to live with. [Now quite at her ease] You see, it’s like this. If a man has a bit of a conscience, italways takes him when he’s sober; and then it makes himlow-spirited. A drop of booze just takes that off and makes himhappy. [To Freddy, who is in convulsions of suppressed laughter] Here! what are you sniggering at?

FREDDY.The new small talk. You do it so awfully well.

LIZA. If I was doing it proper, what was you laughing at? [To Higgins] HaveI said anything I oughtn’t?

MRS. HIGGINS [interposing] Not at all, Miss Doolittle.

LIZA. Well, that’s a mercy, anyhow. [Expansively] What I always say is—

HIGGINS [rising and looking at his watch] Ahem!

LIZA [looking round at him; taking the hint; and rising] Well: I must go. [They all rise. Freddy goes to the door]. So pleased to have met you. Good-bye. [She shakes hands with Mrs. Higgins].

MRS. HIGGINS. Good-bye.

LIZA. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering.

PICKERING. Good-bye, Miss Doolittle. [They shake hands].

LIZA [nodding to the others] Good-bye, all.

FREDDY [opening the door for her] Are you walking across the Park, MissDoolittle? If so—

LIZA. Walk! Not bloody likely. [Sensation]. I am going in a taxi. [She goesout].

Pickeringgasps and sits down. Freddy goes out on the balcony to catch anotherglimpse of Eliza.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [suffering from shock] Well, I really can’t get usedto the new ways.

CLARA [throwing herself discontentedly into the Elizabethan chair]. Oh, it’s all right, mamma, quite right. People will think we never goanywhere or see anybody if you are so old-fashioned.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I daresay I am very old-fashioned; but I do hope youwon’t begin using that expression, Clara. I have got accustomed tohear you talking about men as rotters, and calling everything filthyand beastly; though I do think it horrible and unladylike. But thislast is really too much. Don’t you think so, Colonel Pickering?

PICKERING.Don’t ask me. I’ve been away in India for several years; andmanners have changed so much that I sometimes don’t know whetherI’m at a respectable dinner-table or in a ship’s forecastle.

CLARA.It’s all a matter of habit. There’s no right or wrong in it.Nobody means anything by it. And it’s so quaint, and gives such asmart emphasis to things that are not in themselves very witty. Ifind the new small talk delightful and quite innocent.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [rising] Well, after that, I think it’s time for usto go.

Pickeringand Higgins rise.

CLARA [rising] Oh yes: we have three at homes to go to still. Good-bye, Mrs. Higgins. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. Good-bye, ProfessorHiggins.

HIGGINS [coming grimly at her from the divan, and accompanying her to thedoor] Good-bye. Be sure you try on that small talk at the threeat-homes. Don’t be nervous about it. Pitch it in strong.

CLARA [all smiles] I will. Good-bye. Such nonsense, all this earlyVictorian prudery!

HIGGINS [tempting her] Such damned nonsense!

CLARA.Such bloody nonsense!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [convulsively] Clara!

CLARA. Ha! ha! [She goes out radiant, conscious of being thoroughly up todate, and is heard descending the stairs in a stream of silverylaughter].

FREDDY [to the heavens at large] Well, I ask you [He gives it up, and comesto Mrs. Higgins]. Good-bye.

MRS. HIGGINS [shaking hands] Good-bye. Would you like to meet MissDoolittle again?

FREDDY [eagerly] Yes, I should, most awfully.

MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you know my days.

FREDDY. Yes. Thanks awfully. Good-bye. [He goes out].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Good-bye, Mr. Higgins.

HIGGINS. Good-bye. Good-bye.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Pickering] It’s no use. I shall never be able tobring myself to use that word.

PICKERING.Don’t. It’s not compulsory, you know. You’ll get on quite wellwithout it.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Only, Clara is so down on me if I am not positivelyreeking with the latest slang. Good-bye.

PICKERING. Good-bye [They shake hands].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] You mustn’t mind Clara. [Pickering, catching from her lowered tone that this is not meant for him tohear, discreetly joins Higgins at the window]. We’re so poor! andshe gets so few parties, poor child! She doesn’t quite know. [Mrs. Higgins, seeing that her eyes are moist, takes her handsympathetically and goes with her to the door]. But the boy is nice.Don’t you think so?

MRS. HIGGINS. Oh, quite nice. I shall always be delighted to see him.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Thank you, dear. Good-bye. [She goes out].

HIGGINS [eagerly] Well? Is Eliza presentable [he swoops on his mother anddrags her to the ottoman, where she sits down in Eliza’s place withher son on her left]?

Pickeringreturns to his chair on her right.

MRS. HIGGINS. You silly boy, of course she’s not presentable. She’s atriumph of your art and of her dressmaker’s; but if you suppose fora moment that she doesn’t give herself away in every sentence sheutters, you must be perfectly cracked about her.

PICKERING. But don’t you think something might be done? I mean something toeliminate the sanguinary element from her conversation.

MRS. HIGGINS. Not as long as she is in Henry’s hands.

HIGGINS [aggrieved] Do you mean that my language is improper?

MRS. HIGGINS. No, dearest: it would be quite proper — say on a canalbarge; but it would not be proper for her at a garden party.

HIGGINS [deeply injured] Well I must say—

PICKERING [interrupting him] Come, Higgins: you must learn to know yourself. Ihaven’t heard such language as yours since we used to review thevolunteers in Hyde Park twenty years ago.

HIGGINS [sulkily] Oh, well, if you say so, I suppose I don’t always talklike a bishop.

MRS. HIGGINS [quieting Henry with a touch] Colonel Pickering: will youtell me what is the exact state of things in Wimpole Street?

PICKERING [cheerfully: as if this completely changed the subject] Well, I havecome to live there with Henry. We work together at my IndianDialects; and we think it more convenient—

MRS. HIGGINS. Quite so. I know all about that: it’s an excellentarrangement. But where does this girl live?

HIGGINS. With us, of course. Where would she live?

MRS. HIGGINS. But on what terms? Is she a servant? If not, what is she?

PICKERING [slowly] I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Higgins.