Collected Works. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
now, Lord Augustus, I have taken up too much of your valuable time. Goodbye.
AUGUSTUS. What! Must you go?
THE LADY. You are so busy.
AUGUSTUS. Yes; but not before lunch, you know. I never can do much before lunch. And I'm no good at all in the afternoon. From five to six is my real working time. Must you really go?
THE LADY. I must, really. I have done my business very satisfactorily. Thank you ever so much [she proffers her hand].
AUGUSTUS [shaking it affectionately as he leads her to the door, but fast pressing the bell button with his left hand]. Goodbye. Goodbye. So sorry to lose you. Kind of you to come; but there was no real danger. You see, my dear little lady, all this talk about war saving, and secrecy, and keeping the blinds down at night, and so forth, is all very well; but unless it's carried out with intelligence, believe me, you may waste a pound to save a penny; you may let out all sorts of secrets to the enemy; you may guide the Zeppelins right on to your own chimneys. That's where the ability of the governing class comes in. Shall the fellow call a taxi for you?
THE LADY. No, thanks: I prefer walking. Goodbye. Again, many, many thanks.
She goes out. Augustus returns to the writing-table smiling, and takes another look at himself in the mirror. The clerk returns, with his head bandaged, carrying a poker.
THE CLERK. What did you ring for? [Augustus hastily drops the mirror]. Don't you come nigh me or I'll split your head with this poker, thick as it is.
AUGUSTUS. It does not seem to me an exceptionally thick poker. I rang for you to show the lady out.
THE CLERK. She's gone. She run out like a rabbit. I ask myself why was she in such a hurry?
THE LADY'S VOICE [from the street]. Lord Augustus. Lord Augustus.
THE CLERK. She's calling you.
AUGUSTUS [running to the window and throwing it up]. What is it? Won't you come up?
THE LADY. Is the clerk there?
AUGUSTUS. Yes. Do you want him?
THE LADY. Yes.
AUGUSTUS. The lady wants you at the window.
THE CLERK [rushing to the window and putting down the poker]. Yes, ma'am? Here I am, ma'am. What is it, ma'am?
THE LADY. I want you to witness that I got clean away into the street. I am coming up now.
The two men stare at one another.
THE CLERK. Wants me to witness that she got clean away into the street!
AUGUSTUS. What on earth does she mean?
The lady returns.
THE LADY. May I use your telephone?
AUGUSTUS. Certainly. Certainly. [Taking the receiver down.] What number shall I get you?
THE LADY. The War Office, please.
AUGUSTUS. The War Office!?
THE LADY. If you will be so good.
AUGUSTUS. But—Oh, very well. [Into the receiver.] Hallo. This is the Town Hall Recruiting Office. Give me Colonel Bogey, sharp.
A pause.
THE CLERK [breaking the painful silence]. I don't think I'm awake. This is a dream of a movie picture, this is.
AUGUSTUS [his ear at the receiver]. Shut up, will you? [Into the telephone.] What?... [To the lady.] Whom do you want to get on to?
THE LADY. Blueloo.
AUGUSTUS [into the telephone]. Put me through to Lord Hungerford Highcastle... I'm his brother, idiot... That you, Blueloo? Lady here at Little Pifflington wants to speak to you. Hold the line. [To the lady.] Now, madam [he hands her the receiver].
THE LADY [sitting down in Augustus's chair to speak into the telephone]. Is that Blueloo?... Do you recognize my voice?... I've won our bet....
AUGUSTUS. Your bet!
THE LADY [into the telephone]. Yes: I have the list in my wallet....
AUGUSTUS. Nothing of the kind, madam. I have it here in my pocket. [He takes the envelope from his pocket: draws out the paper: and unfolds it.]
THE LADY [continuing]. Yes: I got clean into the street with it. I have a witness. I could have got to London with it. Augustus won't deny it....
AUGUSTUS [contemplating the blank paper]. There's nothing written on this. Where is the list of guns?
THE LADY [continuing]. Oh, it was quite easy. I said I was my sister-in-law and that I was a Hun. He lapped it up like a kitten....
AUGUSTUS. You don't mean to say that—
THE LADY [continuing]. I got hold of the list for a moment and changed it for a piece of paper out of his stationery rack: it was quite easy [she laughs: and it is clear that Blueloo is laughing too].
AUGUSTUS. What!
THE CLERK [laughing slowly and laboriously, with intense enjoyment]. Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Ha! [Augustus rushes at him; he snatches up the poker and stands on guard.] No you don't.
THE LADY [still at the telephone, waving her disengaged hand behind her impatiently at them to stop making a noise]. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!!! [Augustus, with a shrug, goes up the middle of the room. The lady resumes her conversation with the telephone.] What?... Oh yes: I'm coming up by the 1.35: why not have tea with me at Rumpelmeister's?... Rum-pel-meister's. You know: they call it Robinson's now... Right. Ta ta. [She hangs up the receiver, and is passing round the table on her way towards the door when she is confronted by Augustus.]
AUGUSTUS. Madam, I consider your conduct most unpatriotic. You make bets and abuse the confidence of the hardworked officials who are doing their bit for their country whilst our gallant fellows are perishing in the trenches—
THE LADY. Oh, the gallant fellows are not all in the trenches, Augustus. Some of them have come home for a few days' hard-earned leave; and I am sure you won't grudge them a little fun at your expense.
THE CLERK. Hear! hear!
AUGUSTUS [amiably]. Ah, well! For my country's sake—!
A Metabiological Pentateuch
1921
THE INFIDEL HALF CENTURY
THE DAWN OF DARWINISM
One day early in the eighteen hundred and sixties, I, being then a small boy, was with my nurse, buying something in the shop of a petty newsagent, bookseller, and stationer in Camden Street, Dublin, when there entered an elderly man, weighty and solemn, who advanced to the counter, and said pompously, 'Have you the works of the celebrated Buffoon?'
My own works were at that time unwritten, or it is possible that the shop assistant might have misunderstood me so far as to produce a copy of Man and Superman. As it was, she knew quite well what he wanted; for this was before the Education Act of 1870 had produced shop assistants who know how to read and know nothing else. The celebrated Buffoon was not a humorist, but the famous naturalist Buffon. Every literate child at that time knew Buffon's Natural History as well as Esop's Fables. And no living child had heard the name that has since obliterated Buffon's in the popular consciousness: the name of Darwin.
Ten years elapsed. The celebrated Buffoon was forgotten; I had doubled my years and my length; and I had discarded the religion of my forefathers. One day the richest and consequently most dogmatic of my uncles came into a restaurant where I was dining, and found himself, much against his will, in