Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ Frank!

      FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed.] The Roman father. [To The Clergyman.] Yes, gov’nor: all right: presently. [To Praed.] Look here, Praed: you’d better go in to tea. I’ll join you directly.

      PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage. The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command respect in either capacity.]

      REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask?

      FRANK. Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in.

      REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering.

      FRANK. It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s.

      REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came.

      FRANK. Of course not: she’s a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach?

      REV. S. Don’t be disrespectful, sir.

      FRANK. Oh, it don’t matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the gate, unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden.] I want to introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July, gov’nor?

      REV. S. [Severely.] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on it and not upon me.

      FRANK. No: that’s what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss Warren has brains: you can’t deny that.

      REV. S. Brains are not everything.

      FRANK. No, of course not: there’s the money—

      REV. S. [Interrupting him austerely.] I was not thinking of money, sir. I was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance.

      FRANK. I don’t care a rap about that.

      REV. S. But I do, sir.

      FRANK. Well, nobody wants you to marry her. Anyhow, she has what amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money as she wants.

      REV. S. [Sinking into a feeble vein of humor.] I greatly doubt whether she has as much money as you will want.

      FRANK. Oh, come: I haven’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly to the razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age.

      REV. S. [Booming hollowly.] Silence, sir.

      FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when—

      REV. S. [Terrified.] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! [He looks round apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom again, but more subduedly.] You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own.

      FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his letters?

      REV. S. No, sir; and I don’t want to hear it.

      FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds: not he. He just wrote: “Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, Wellington.” That’s what you should have done.

      REV. S. [Piteously.] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power” she said; “and I never sell power.” That’s more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me than she did, Frank.

      FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach at me every day?

      REV. S. [Wounded almost to tears.] I leave you, sir. You are incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate.]

      FRANK. [Utterly unmoved.] Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, gov’nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is met by Praed and Vivie coming out.]

      VIVIE. [To Frank.] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him.

      FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father.] Gov’nor. You’re wanted. [The parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities.] My father: Miss Warren.

      VIVIE. [Going to the clergyman and shaking his hand.] Very glad to see you here, Mr. Gardner. [Calling to the cottage.] Mother: come along: you’re wanted. [Mrs. Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, recognizing the clergyman.]

      VIVIE. [Continuing.] Let me introduce—

      MRS. WARREN. [Swooping on the Reverend Samuel.] Why it’s Sam Gardner, gone into the Church! Well, I never! Don’t you know us, Sam? This is George Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don’t you remember me?

      REV. S. [Very red.] I really—er—

      MRS. WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters still: I came across them only the other day.

      REV. S. [Miserably confused.] Miss Vavasour, I believe.

      MRS. WARREN. [Correcting him quickly in a loud whisper.] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs. Warren: don’t you see my daughter there?

      ACT II

      Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser with a candle and matches on it, and Frank’s rifle standing beside them, with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie’s books and writing materials are on a table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set right and left of the table.

      The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs. Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the table.

      MRS. СКАЧАТЬ