60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ Been feigned to make the market for his backers.

       We trust this sample of colonial smartness

       Will not find imitators on this side.

       The losers settled up like gentlemen;

       But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste

       In taking old Ned Skene upon his back,

       And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter,

       Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd

       The perfect pink of his condition” — [a knock].

      LYDIA [turning pale]. Bashville

       Didst hear? A knock.

      BASHVILLE. Madam: ’tis Byron’s knock.

       Shall I admit him?

      LUCIAN. Reeking from the ring!

       Oh, monstrous! Say you’re out.

      LYDIA. Send him away.

       I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep

       Secrets from ME? I’ll punish him. Pray say

       I’m not at home. [Bashville turns to go.] Yet stay. I am afraid

       He will not come again.

      LUCIAN. A consummation

       Devoutly to be wished by any lady.

       Pray, do you wish this man to come again?

      LYDIA. No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill.

       He should have told me. I will ne’er forgive him.

       Say, Not at home.

      BASHVILLE. Yes, madam. [Exit.

      LYDIA. Stay —

      LUCIAN [stopping her]. No, Lydia:

       You shall not countermand that proper order.

       Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind,

       The thousands at your bank, and, above all,

       Your unassailable social position

       Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn?

      LYDIA. Nay, coz: you’re prejudiced.

      CASHEL [without]. Liar and slave!

      LYDIA. What words were those?

      LUCIAN. The man is drunk with slaughter.

      Enter Bashville running: he shuts the door and locks it.

      BASHVILLE. Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion

       Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped;

       But when he rises, woe betide us all!

      LYDIA. Who bade you treat my visitor with violence?

      BASHVILLE. He would not take my answer; thrust the door

       Back in my face; gave me the lie i’ the throat;

       Averred he felt your presence in his bones.

       I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him;

       Then fled to bar your door.

      LYDIA. O lover’s instinct!

       He felt my presence. Well, let him come in.

       We must not fail in courage with a fighter.

       Unlock the door.

      LUCIAN. Stop. Like all women, Lydia,

       You have the courage of immunity.

       To strike you were against his code of honor;

       But me, above the belt, he may perform on

       T’ th’ height of his profession. Also Bashville.

      BASHVILLE. Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst.

       Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh

       The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine,

       A second battle should he do this day:

       Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress

       Give me the word: instant I’ll take him on

       Here — now — at catchweight. Better bite the carpet

       A man, than fly, a coward.

      LUCIAN. Bravely said:

       I will assist you with the poker.

      LYDIA. No:

       I will not have him touched. Open the door.

      BASHVILLE. Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open.

      [Bashville opens the door. Dead silence. Cashel

       enters, in tears. A solemn pause.

      CASHEL. You know my secret?

      LYDIA. Yes.

      CASHEL. And thereupon

       You bade your servant fling me from your door.

      LYDIA. I bade my servant say I was not here.

      CASHEL [to Bashville]. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man?

       Hadst thou but said, “She bade me tell thee this,”

       Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy.

      LYDIA. Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him “drunk with slaughter”?

       Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe?

      CASHEL [to LUCIAN]. The unwritten law that shields the amateur

       Against professional resentment, saves thee.

       O coward, to traduce behind their backs

       Defenceless prizefighters!

      LUCIAN. Thou dost avow

       Thou art a prizefighter.

      CASHEL. It was my glory.

       I had hoped to offer to my lady there

       My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes,

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