Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

[Steadily controlling his suspense.] Then?

      MARCHBANKS. [Prosaically slipping down into a quite ordinary attitude in the chair.] Then she couldn’t bear being read to any longer.

      MORELL. And you approached the gate of Heaven at last?

      MARCHBANKS. Yes.

      MORELL. Well? [Fiercely.] Speak, man: have you no feeling for me?

      MARCHBANKS. [Softly and musically.] Then she became an angel; and there was a flaming sword that turned every way, so that I couldn’t go in; for I saw that that gate was really the gate of Hell.

      MORELL. [Triumphantly.] She repulsed you!

      MARCHBANKS. [Rising in wild scorn.] No, you fool: if she had done that I should never have seen that I was in Heaven already. Repulsed me! You think that would have saved me—virtuous indignation! Oh, you are not worthy to live in the same world with her. [He turns away contemptuously to the other side of the room.]

      MORELL. [Who has watched him quietly without changing his place.] Do you think you make yourself more worthy by reviling me, Eugene?

      MARCHBANKS. Here endeth the thousand and first lesson. Morell: I don’t think much of your preaching after all: I believe I could do it better myself. The man I want to meet is the man that Candida married.

      MORELL. The man that—? Do you mean me?

      MARCHBANKS. I don’t mean the Reverend James Mavor Morell, moralist and windbag. I mean the real man that the Reverend James must have hidden somewhere inside his black coat—the man that Candida loved. You can’t make a woman like Candida love you by merely buttoning your collar at the back instead of in front.

      MORELL. [Boldly and steadily.] When Candida promised to marry me, I was the same moralist and windbag that you now see. I wore my black coat; and my collar was buttoned behind instead of in front. Do you think she would have loved me any the better for being insincere in my profession?

      MARCHBANKS. [On the sofa hugging his ankles.] Oh, she forgave you, just as she forgives me for being a coward, and a weakling, and what you call a snivelling little whelp and all the rest of it. [Dreamily.] A woman like that has divine insight: she loves our souls, and not our follies and vanities and illusions, or our collars and coats, or any other of the rags and tatters we are rolled up in. [He reflects on this for an instant; then turns intently to question Morell.] What I want to know is how you got past the flaming sword that stopped me.

      MORELL. [Meaningly.] Perhaps because I was not interrupted at the end of ten minutes.

      MARCHBANKS. [Taken aback.] What!

      MORELL. Man can climb to the highest summits; but he cannot dwell there long.

      MARCHBANKS. It’s false: there can he dwell for ever and there only. It’s in the other moments that he can find no rest, no sense of the silent glory of life. Where would you have me spend my moments, if not on the summits?

      MORELL. In the scullery, slicing onions and filling lamps.

      MARCHBANKS. Or in the pulpit, scrubbing cheap earthenware souls?

      MORELL. Yes, that, too. It was there that I earned my golden moment, and the right, in that moment, to ask her to love me. I did not take the moment on credit; nor did I use it to steal another man’s happiness.

      MARCHBANKS. [Rather disgustedly, trotting back towards the fireplace.] I have no doubt you conducted the transaction as honestly as if you were buying a pound of cheese. [He stops on the brink of the, hearth-rug and adds, thoughtfully, to himself, with his back turned to Morell] I could only go to her as a beggar.

      MORELL. [Starting.] A beggar dying of cold—asking for her shawl?

      MARCHBANKS. [Turning, surprised.] Thank you for touching up my poetry. Yes, if you like, a beggar dying of cold asking for her shawl.

      MORELL. [Excitedly.] And she refused. Shall I tell you why she refused? I CAN tell you, on her own authority. It was because of—

      MARCHBANKS. She didn’t refuse.

      MORELL. Not!

      MARCHBANKS. She offered me all I chose to ask for, her shawl, her wings, the wreath of stars on her head, the lilies in her hand, the crescent moon beneath her feet—

      MORELL. [Seizing him.] Out with the truth, man: my wife is my wife: I want no more of your poetic fripperies. I know well that if I have lost her love and you have gained it, no law will bind her.

      MARCHBANKS. [Quaintly, without fear or resistance.] Catch me by the shirt collar, Morell: she will arrange it for me afterwards as she did this morning. [With quiet rapture.] I shall feel her hands touch me.

      MORELL. You young imp, do you know how dangerous it is to say that to me? Or. [With a sudden misgiving] has something made you brave?

      MARCHBANKS. I’m not afraid now. I disliked you before: that was why I shrank from your touch. But I saw to-day—when she tortured you—that you love her. Since then I have been your friend: you may strangle me if you like.

      MORELL. [Releasing him.] Eugene: if that is not a heartless lie—if you have a spark of human feeling left in you—will you tell me what has happened during my absence?

      MARCHBANKS. What happened! Why, the flaming sword—[Morell stamps with impatience.] Well, in plain prose, I loved her so exquisitely that I wanted nothing more than the happiness of being in such love. And before I had time to come down from the highest summits, you came in.

      MORELL. [Suffering deeply.] So it is still unsettled—still the misery of doubt.

      MARCHBANKS. Misery! I am the happiest of men. I desire nothing now but her happiness. [With dreamy enthusiasm.] Oh, Morell, let us both give her up. Why should she have to choose between a wretched little nervous disease like me, and a pig-headed parson like you? Let us go on a pilgrimage, you to the east and I to the west, in search of a worthy lover for her—some beautiful archangel with purple wings—

      MORELL. Some fiddlestick. Oh, if she is mad enough to leave me for you, who will protect her? Who will help her? who will work for her? who will be a father to her children? [He sits down distractedly on the sofa, with his elbows on his knees and his head propped on his clenched fists.]

      MARCHBANKS. [Snapping his fingers wildly.] She does not ask those silly questions. It is she who wants somebody to protect, to help, to work for—somebody to give her children to protect, to help and to work for. Some grown up man who has become as a little child again. Oh, you fool, you fool, you triple fool! I am the man, Morell: I am the man. [He dances about excitedly, crying.] You don’t understand what a woman is. Send for her, Morell: send for her and let her choose between—[The door opens and Candida enters. He stops as if petrified.]

      CANDIDA. [Amazed, on the threshold.] What on earth are you at, Eugene?

      MARCHBANKS. [Oddly.] James and I are having a preaching match; and he is getting the worst of it. [Candida looks quickly round at Morell. Seeing that he is distressed, she hurries down to him, greatly vexed, speaking with vigorous reproach to Marchbanks.]

      CANDIDA. You have been annoying him. Now I won’t have it, Eugene: do you hear? [Putting her hand on Morell’s shoulder, and quite forgetting her wifely tact in her annoyance.] My boy shall not be worried: I will protect him.

      MORELL. [Rising proudly.] Protect!

      CANDIDA. [Not heeding him—to Eugene.] What have you been saying?

      MARCHBANKS. [Appalled.] Nothing—

      CANDIDA. Eugene! Nothing?

      MARCHBANKS. [Piteously.] I mean—I—I’m very sorry. I won’t do it again: indeed I won’t. I’ll let him alone.

      MORELL. [Indignantly, with an aggressive movement towards Eugene.] Let me alone! You young—

      CANDIDA. [Stopping him.] Sh!—no, let me deal with him, James.

      MARCHBANKS. Oh, you’re not angry with me, are you?

      CANDIDA.