Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

old ones and young ones. I’ve served fourteen years: half of your fellows never smelt powder before. Why, how is it that you’ve just beaten us? Sheer ignorance of the art of war, nothing else. [Indignantly.] I never saw anything so unprofessional.

      RAINA. [Ironically.] Oh, was it unprofessional to beat you?

      MAN. Well, come, is it professional to throw a regiment of cavalry on a battery of machine guns, with the dead certainty that if the guns go off not a horse or man will ever get within fifty yards of the fire? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it.

      RAINA. [Eagerly turning to him, as all her enthusiasm and her dream of glory rush back on her.] Did you see the great cavalry charge? Oh, tell me about it. Describe it to me.

      MAN. You never saw a cavalry charge, did you?

      RAINA. How could I?

      MAN. Ah, perhaps not—of course. Well, it’s a funny sight. It’s like slinging a handful of peas against a window pane: first one comes; then two or three close behind him; and then all the rest in a lump.

      RAINA. [Her eyes dilating as she raises her clasped hands ecstatically.] Yes, first One!—the bravest of the brave!

      MAN. [Prosaically.] Hm! you should see the poor devil pulling at his horse.

      RAINA. Why should he pull at his horse?

      MAN. [Impatient of so stupid a question.] It’s running away with him, of course: do you suppose the fellow wants to get there before the others and be killed? Then they all come. You can tell the young ones by their wildness and their slashing. The old ones come bunched up under the number one guard: they know that they are mere projectiles, and that it’s no use trying to fight. The wounds are mostly broken knees, from the horses cannoning together.

      RAINA. Ugh! But I don’t believe the first man is a coward. I believe he is a hero!

      MAN. [Good-humoredly.] That’s what you’d have said if you’d seen the first man in the charge to-day.

      RAINA. [Breathless.] Ah, I knew it! Tell me—tell me about him.

      MAN. He did it like an operatic tenor—a regular handsome fellow, with flashing eyes and lovely moustache, shouting a war-cry and charging like Don Quixote at the windmills. We nearly burst with laughter at him; but when the sergeant ran up as white as a sheet, and told us they’d sent us the wrong cartridges, and that we couldn’t fire a shot for the next ten minutes, we laughed at the other side of our mouths. I never felt so sick in my life, though I’ve been in one or two very tight places. And I hadn’t even a revolver cartridge—nothing but chocolate. We’d no bayonets—nothing. Of course, they just cut us to bits. And there was Don Quixote flourishing like a drum major, thinking he’d done the cleverest thing ever known, whereas he ought to be courtmartialled for it. Of all the fools ever let loose on a field of battle, that man must be the very maddest. He and his regiment simply committed suicide—only the pistol missed fire, that’s all.

      RAINA. [Deeply wounded, but steadfastly loyal to her ideals.] Indeed! Would you know him again if you saw him?

      MAN. Shall I ever forget him. [She again goes to the chest of drawers. He watches her with a vague hope that she may have something else for him to eat. She takes the portrait from its stand and brings it to him.]

      RAINA. That is a photograph of the gentleman—the patriot and hero—to whom I am betrothed.

      MAN. [Looking at it.] I’m really very sorry. [Looking at her.] Was it fair to lead me on? [He looks at the portrait again.] Yes: that’s him: not a doubt of it. [He stifles a laugh.]

      RAINA. [Quickly.] Why do you laugh?

      MAN. [Shamefacedly, but still greatly tickled.] I didn’t laugh, I assure you. At least I didn’t mean to. But when I think of him charging the windmills and thinking he was doing the finest thing—[Chokes with suppressed laughter.]

      RAINA. [Sternly.] Give me back the portrait, sir.

      MAN. [With sincere remorse.] Of course. Certainly. I’m really very sorry. [She deliberately kisses it, and looks him straight in the face, before returning to the chest of drawers to replace it. He follows her, apologizing.] Perhaps I’m quite wrong, you know: no doubt I am. Most likely he had got wind of the cartridge business somehow, and knew it was a safe job.

      RAINA. That is to say, he was a pretender and a coward! You did not dare say that before.

      MAN. [With a comic gesture of despair.] It’s no use, dear lady: I can’t make you see it from the professional point of view. [As he turns away to get back to the ottoman, the firing begins again in the distance.]

      RAINA. [Sternly, as she sees him listening to the shots.] So much the better for you.

      MAN. [Turning.] How?

      RAINA. You are my enemy; and you are at my mercy. What would I do if I were a professional soldier?

      MAN. Ah, true, dear young lady: you’re always right. I know how good you have been to me: to my last hour I shall remember those three chocolate creams. It was unsoldierly; but it was angelic.

      RAINA. [Coldly.] Thank you. And now I will do a soldierly thing. You cannot stay here after what you have just said about my future husband; but I will go out on the balcony and see whether it is safe for you to climb down into the street. [She turns to the window.]

      MAN. [Changing countenance.] Down that water-pipe! Stop! Wait! I can’t! I daren’t! The very thought of it makes me giddy. I came up it fast enough with death behind me. But to face it now in cold blood!—[He sinks on the ottoman.] It’s no use: I give up: I’m beaten. Give the alarm. [He drops his head in his hands in the deepest dejection.]

      RAINA. [Disarmed by pity.] Come, don’t be disheartened. [She stoops over him almost maternally: he shakes his head.] Oh, you are a very poor soldier—a chocolate cream soldier. Come, cheer up: it takes less courage to climb down than to face capture—remember that.

      MAN. [Dreamily, lulled by her voice.] No, capture only means death; and death is sleep—oh, sleep, sleep, sleep, undisturbed sleep! Climbing down the pipe means doing something—exerting myself—thinking! Death ten times over first.

      RAINA. [Softly and wonderingly, catching the rhythm of his weariness.] Are you so sleepy as that?

      MAN. I’ve not had two hours’ undisturbed sleep since the war began. I’m on the staff: you don’t know what that means. I haven’t closed my eyes for thirty-six hours.

      RAINA. [Desperately.] But what am I to do with you?

      MAN. [Staggering up.] Of course I must do something. [He shakes himself; pulls himself together; and speaks with rallied vigour and courage.] You see, sleep or no sleep, hunger or no hunger, tired or not tired, you can always do a thing when you know it must be done. Well, that pipe must be got down—[He hits himself on the chest, and adds.]—Do you hear that, you chocolate cream soldier? [He turns to the window.]

      RAINA. [Anxiously.] But if you fall?

      MAN. I shall sleep as if the stones were a feather bed. Good-bye. [He makes boldly for the window, and his hand is on the shutter when there is a terrible burst of firing in the street beneath.]

      RAINA. [Rushing to him.] Stop! [She catches him by the shoulder, and turns him quite round.] They’ll kill you.

      MAN. [Coolly, but attentively.] Never mind: this sort of thing is all in my day’s work. I’m bound to take my chance. [Decisively.] Now do what I tell you. Put out the candles, so that they shan’t see the light when I open the shutters. And keep away from the window, whatever you do. If they see me, they’re sure to have a shot at me.

      RAINA. [Clinging to him.] They’re sure to see you: it’s bright moonlight. I’ll save you—oh, how can you be so indifferent? You want me to save you, don’t you?

      MAN. I really don’t want to be troublesome. [She shakes him in her impatience.] I am not indifferent, dear young lady, I assure you. But how is it to be done?

      RAINA. Come