The Collected Plays of George Bernard Shaw - 60 Titles in One Edition (Illustrated Edition). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
be mad.
CASHEL. A cab!
Go call a cab; and let a cab be called;
And let the man that calls it be thy footman.
LYDIA. You are not well. You shall not go alone.
My carriage waits. I must accompany you.
I go to find my hat. [Exit.
CASHEL. Like Paracelsus,
Who went to find his soul. [To Bashville.] And now, young man,
How comes it that a fellow of your inches,
So deft a wrestler and so bold a spirit,
Can stoop to be a flunkey? Call on me
On your next evening out. I’ll make a man of you.
Surely you are ambitious and aspire ——
BASHVILLE. To be a butler and draw corks; wherefore,
By Heaven, I will draw yours.
[He hits Cashel on the nose, and runs out.
Cashel [thoughtfully putting the side of his forefinger
to his nose, and studying the blood on it].
Too quick for me!
There’s money in this youth.
Reenter Lydia, hatted and gloved.
LYDIA. O Heaven! you bleed.
CASHEL. Lend me a key or other frigid object,
That I may put it down my back, and staunch
The welling life stream.
LYDIA. [giving him her keys]. Oh, what have you done?
CASHEL. Flush on the boko napped your footman’s left.
LYDIA. I do not understand.
CASHEL. True. Pardon me.
I have received a blow upon the nose
In sport from Bashville. Next, ablution; else
I shall be total gules. [He hurries out.
LYDIA. How well he speaks!
There is a silver trumpet in his lips
That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose
Dropt lovely color: ’tis a perfect blood.
I would ‘twere mingled with mine own!
Enter Bashville
What now?
BASHVILLE. Madam, the coachman can no longer wait:
The horses will take cold.
LYDIA. I do beseech him
A moment’s grace. Oh, mockery of wealth!
The third class passenger unchidden rides
Whither and when he will: obsequious trams
Await him hourly: subterranean tubes
With tireless coursers whisk him through the town;
But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms:
We wait upon their colds, and frowst all day
Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay.
BASHVILLE. Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road,
And thence t’ th’ Angel —
Enter Cashel
LYDIA. Let us haste, my love:
The coachman is impatient.
CASHEL. Did he guess
He stays for Cashel Byron, he’d outwait
Pompei’s sentinel. Let us away.
This day of deeds, as yet but half begun,
Must ended be in merrie Islington. [Exeunt Lydia and Cashel.
BASHVILLE. Gods! how she hangs on’s arm! I am alone.
Now let me lift the cover from my soul.
O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence!
How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman:
She’ll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt
Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven,
She stoops below me; condescends upon
This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits,
Writ in my character from my last place,
Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet
There’s an eternal justice in it; for
By so much as the ne’er subduéd Indian
Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian
Precedence take of me. “Ich dien.” Damnation!
I serve. My motto should have been, “I scalp.”
And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold.
Because I love her I have blacked her boots;
Because I love her I have cleaned her knives,
Doing in this the office of a boy,
Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks
And does the meanest chares, I’ve shared the passions
Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride
To give her place the greater altitude
By lowering mine, and of her dignity
To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed
Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace
As love for such a one as I would be
For such a one as she; and now! and now!
A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos!
To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville:
Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself,
So heavenly high of her? Let what will come,
My love must speak: ’twas my respect was dumb.
Scene II
The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators.
In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring
before it. A balcony above on the right, occupied
by persons of fashion: among others, Lydia and
Lord Worthington.
Flourish. Enter Lucian and Cetewayo, with Chiefs in attendance.
CETEWAYO. Is this the Hall of Husbandmen?
LUCIAN. It is.
CETEWAYO. Are these anæmic dogs the English people?
LUCIAN. Mislike us not for our complexions,
The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke
Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories,
And by the million patent kitchen ranges
Of happy English homes.
CETEWAYO. When first I came
I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars
Of some infernal god. I now perceive
The English dare not look upon the sky.
They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot
To cover them.
LUCIAN. You cannot understand
The greatness of this people, Cetewayo.
You are a savage, reasoning like a child.