Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

way, in fact.

      VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. [Someone knocks at the door.]

      FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe’er he be!

      VIVIE. It’s Praed. He’s going to Italy and wants to say goodbye. I asked him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in.

      FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for Italy. I’ll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it.] How are you, Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. [Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.]

      PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand cordially, though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits jars upon her.] I start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to try Italy.

      VIVIE. What for?

      PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of course. [Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the work waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits opposite to her. Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops lazily and carelessly into it, talking at her over his shoulder.]

      FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is indifferent to my romance, and insensible to my beauty.

      VIVIE. Mr. Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance in life for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it as it is.

      PRAED. [Enthusiastically.] You will not say that if you come with me to Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at living in such a beautiful world.

      FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up.

      PRAED. Oh, I assure you I have cried—I shall cry again, I hope—at fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to go so far as Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the mere sight of Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the happy air of Brussels.

      VIVIE. [Springing up with an exclamation of loathing.] Agh!

      PRAED. [Rising.] What’s the matter?

      FRANK. [Rising.] Hallo, Viv!

      VIVIE. [To Praed, with deep reproach.] Can you find no better example of your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me about?

      PRAED. [Puzzled.] Of course it’s very different from Verona. I don’t suggest for a moment that—

      VIVIE. [Bitterly.] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the same in both places.

      PRAED. [Completely sobered and much concerned.] My dear Miss Warren: I—[Looking enquiringly at Frank.] Is anything the matter?

      FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She’s had ever such a serious call.

      VIVIE. [Sharply.] Hold your tongue, Frank. Don’t be silly.

      FRANK. [Sitting down.] Do you call this good manners, Praed?

      PRAED. [Anxious and considerate.] Shall I take him away, Miss Warren? I feel sure we have disturbed you at your work.

      VIVIE. Sit down: I’m not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed sits.] You both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of it. But there are two subjects I want dropped, if you don’t mind. One of them. [To Frank.] is love’s young dream in any shape or form: the other. [To Praed.] is the romance and beauty of life, especially Ostend and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions you may have left on these subjects: I have none. If we three are to remain friends, I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single. [To Frank.] and permanently unromantic. [To Praed.]

      FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change your mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about something else.

      PRAED. [Diffidently.] I’m afraid there’s nothing else in the world that I can talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can preach. I know Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we can’t discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since you are determined not to get on.

      FRANK. Oh, don’t mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice by all means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to make a successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: energy, thrift, foresight, self-respect, character. Don’t you hate people who have no character, Viv?

      VIVIE. [Wincing.] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that horrible cant. Mr. Praed: if there are really only those two gospels in the world, we had better all kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through and through.

      FRANK. [Looking critically at her.] There is a touch of poetry about you today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking.

      PRAED. [Remonstrating.] My dear Frank: aren’t you a little unsympathetic?

      VIVIE. [Merciless to herself.] No: it’s good for me. It keeps me from being sentimental.

      FRANK. [Bantering her.] Checks your strong natural propensity that way, don’t it?

      VIVIE. [Almost hysterically.] Oh yes: go on: don’t spare me. I was sentimental for one moment in my life—beautifully sentimental—by moonlight; and now—

      FRANK. [Quickly.] I say, Viv: take care. Don’t give yourself away.

      VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr. Praed does not know all about my mother? [Turning on Praed.] You had better have told me that morning, Mr. Praed. You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all.

      PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are far beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that account. I respect her more.

      FRANK. [Airily.] Hear! hear!

      VIVIE. [Staring at him.] Is that all you know?

      PRAED. Certainly that is all.

      VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence itself compared with the truth.

      PRAED. [Rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness with an effort.] I hope not. [More emphatically.] I hope not, Miss Warren.

      FRANK. [Whistles.] Whew!

      VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr. Praed.

      PRAED. [His chivalry drooping before their conviction.] If there is anything worse—that is, anything else—are you sure you are right to tell us, Miss Warren?

      VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my life in telling everybody—stamping and branding it into them until they all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is nothing I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these things by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can’t tell you. The two infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my ears and struggling on my tongue; but I can’t utter them: the shame of them is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two men, astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She raises her head again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper and a pen.] Here: let me draft you a prospectus.

      FRANK. Oh, she’s mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull yourself together.

      VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes.] “Paid up capital: not less than forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George Crofts, Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, Ostend, Vienna, and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs. Warren”; and now don’t let us forget her qualifications: the two words. [She writes the words and pushes the paper to them.] There! Oh no: don’t read it: don’t! [She snatches it back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her head in her hands and hides her face on the table. Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened his eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; scribbles the two words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, who reads it with amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.]

      FRANK.