Pygmalion and Other Plays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
You know him better than I do.
RAINA. I wonder—I wonder is he? If I thought that—! [Discouraged.] Ah, well, what does it matter? I suppose, now that you’ve found me out, you despise me.
BLUNTSCHLI. [Warmly, rising.] No, my dear young lady, no, no, no a thousand times. It’s part of your youth—part of your charm. I’m like all the rest of them—the nurse—your parents—Sergius: I’m your infatuated admirer.
RAINA. [Pleased.] Really?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Slapping his breast smartly with his hand, German fashion.] Hand aufs Herz! Really and truly.
RAINA. [Very happy.] But what did you think of me for giving you my portrait?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Astonished.] Your portrait! You never gave me your portrait.
RAINA. [Quickly.] Do you mean to say you never got it?
BLUNTSCHLI. No. [He sits down beside her, with renewed interest, and says, with some complacency.] When did you send it to me?
RAINA. [Indignantly.] I did not send it to you. [She turns her head away, and adds, reluctantly.] It was in the pocket of that coat.
BLUNTSCHLI. [Pursing his lips and rounding his eyes.] Oh-o-oh! I never found it. It must be there still.
RAINA. [Springing up.] There still!—for my father to find the first time he puts his hand in his pocket! Oh, how could you be so stupid?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Rising also.] It doesn’t matter: it’s only a photograph: how can he tell who it was intended for? Tell him he put it there himself.
RAINA. [Impatiently.] Yes, that is so clever—so clever! What shall I do?
BLUNTSCHLI. Ah, I see. You wrote something on it. That was rash!
RAINA. [Annoyed almost to tears.] Oh, to have done such a thing for you, who care no more—except to laugh at me—oh! Are you sure nobody has touched it?
BLUNTSCHLI. Well, I can’t be quite sure. You see I couldn’t carry it about with me all the time: one can’t take much luggage on active service.
RAINA. What did you do with it?
BLUNTSCHLI. When I got through to Pirot I had to put it in safe keeping somehow. I thought of the railway cloak room; but that’s the surest place to get looted in modern warfare. So I pawned it.
RAINA. Pawned it!!!
BLUNTSCHLI. I know it doesn’t sound nice; but it was much the safest plan. I redeemed it the day before yesterday. Heaven only knows whether the pawnbroker cleared out the pockets or not.
RAINA. [Furious—throwing the words right into his face.] You have a low, shop-keeping mind. You think of things that would never come into a gentleman’s head.
BLUNTSCHLI. [Phlegmatically.] That’s the Swiss national character, dear lady.
RAINA. Oh, I wish I had never met you. [She flounces away and sits at the window fuming.]
[Louka comes in with a heap of letters and telegrams on her salver, and crosses, with her bold, free gait, to the table. Her left sleeve is looped up to the shoulder with a brooch, shewing her naked arm, with a broad gilt bracelet covering the bruise.]
LOUKA. [To Bluntschli.] For you. [She empties the salver recklessly on the table.] The messenger is waiting. [She is determined not to be civil to a Servian, even if she must bring him his letters.]
BLUNTSCHLI. [To Raina.] Will you excuse me: the last postal delivery that reached me was three weeks ago. These are the subsequent accumulations. Four telegrams—a week old. [He opens one.] Oho! Bad news!
RAINA. [Rising and advancing a little remorsefully.] Bad news?
BLUNTSCHLI. My father’s dead. [He looks at the telegram with his lips pursed, musing on the unexpected change in his arrangements.]
RAINA. Oh, how very sad!
BLUNTSCHLI. Yes: I shall have to start for home in an hour. He has left a lot of big hotels behind him to be looked after. [Takes up a heavy letter in a long blue envelope.] Here’s a whacking letter from the family solicitor. [He pulls out the enclosures and glances over them.] Great Heavens! Seventy! Two hundred! [In a crescendo of dismay.] Four hundred! Four thousand!! Nine thousand six hundred!!! What on earth shall I do with them all?
RAINA. [Timidly.] Nine thousand hotels?
BLUNTSCHLI. Hotels! Nonsense. If you only knew!—oh, it’s too ridiculous! Excuse me: I must give my fellow orders about starting. [He leaves the room hastily, with the documents in his hand.]
LOUKA. [Tauntingly.] He has not much heart, that Swiss, though he is so fond of the Servians. He has not a word of grief for his poor father.
RAINA. [Bitterly.] Grief!—a man who has been doing nothing but killing people for years! What does he care? What does any soldier care? [She goes to the door, evidently restraining her tears with difficulty.]
LOUKA. Major Saranoff has been fighting, too; and he has plenty of heart left. [Raina, at the door, looks haughtily at her and goes out.] Aha! I thought you wouldn’t get much feeling out of your soldier. [She is following Raina when Nicola enters with an armful of logs for the fire.]
NICOLA. [Grinning amorously at her.] I’ve been trying all the afternoon to get a minute alone with you, my girl. [His countenance changes as he notices her arm.] Why, what fashion is that of wearing your sleeve, child?
LOUKA. [Proudly.] My own fashion.
NICOLA. Indeed! If the mistress catches you, she’ll talk to you. [He throws the logs down on the ottoman, and sits comfortably beside them.]
LOUKA. Is that any reason why you should take it on yourself to talk to me?
NICOLA. Come: don’t be so contrary with me. I’ve some good news for you. [He takes out some paper money. Louka, with an eager gleam in her eyes, comes close to look at it.] See, a twenty leva bill! Sergius gave me that out of pure swagger. A fool and his money are soon parted. There’s ten levas more. The Swiss gave me that for backing up the mistress’s and Raina’s lies about him. He’s no fool, he isn’t. You should have heard old Catherine downstairs as polite as you please to me, telling me not to mind the Major being a little impatient; for they knew what a good servant I was—after making a fool and a liar of me before them all! The twenty will go to our savings; and you shall have the ten to spend if you’ll only talk to me so as to remind me I’m a human being. I get tired of being a servant occasionally.
LOUKA. [Scornfully.] Yes: sell your manhood for thirty levas, and buy me for ten! Keep your money. You were born to be a servant. I was not. When you set up your shop you will only be everybody’s servant instead of somebody’s servant.
NICOLA. [Picking up his logs, and going to the stove.] Ah, wait till you see. We shall have our evenings to ourselves; and I shall be master in my own house, I promise you. [He throws the logs down and kneels at the stove.]
LOUKA. You shall never be master in mine. [She sits down on Sergius’s chair.]
NICOLA. [Turning, still on his knees, and squatting down rather forlornly, on his calves, daunted by her implacable disdain.] You have a great ambition in you, Louka. Remember: if any luck comes to you, it was I that made a woman of you.
LOUKA. You!
NICOLA. [With dogged self-assertion.] Yes, me. Who was it made you give up wearing a couple of pounds of false black hair on your head and reddening your lips and cheeks like any other Bulgarian girl? I did. Who taught you to trim your nails, and keep your hands clean, and be dainty about yourself, like a fine Russian lady? Me! do you hear that? me! [She tosses her head defiantly; and he rises, ill-humoredly, adding more coolly.] I’ve often thought that if Raina were out of the way, and you just a little less of a fool and Sergius just a little more of one, you might come to be one of my grandest customers, instead of only being my wife and costing me money.
LOUKA. I believe you would rather be my servant than my