Books: Pygmalion

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This etext was produced by Eve Sobol, South Bend, Indiana, USA

PYGMALION

BERNARD SHAW

1912

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: In the printed version of this text, all
apostrophes for contractions such as "can't", "wouldn't" and
"he'd" were omitted, to read as "cant", "wouldnt", and "hed".
This etext edition restores the omitted apostrophes.

PREFACE TO PYGMALION.

A Professor of Phonetics.

As will be seen later on, Pygmalion needs, not a preface, but a
sequel, which I have supplied in its due place. The English have
no respect for their language, and will not teach their children
to speak it. They spell it so abominably that no man can teach
himself what it sounds like. It is impossible for an Englishman
to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate or
despise him. German and Spanish are accessible to foreigners:
English is not accessible even to Englishmen. The reformer
England needs today is an energetic phonetic enthusiast: that is
why I have made such a one the hero of a popular play. There have
been heroes of that kind crying in the wilderness for many years
past. When I became interested in the subject towards the end of
the eighteen-seventies, Melville Bell was dead; but Alexander J.
Ellis was still a living patriarch, with an impressive head
always covered by a velvet skull cap, for which he would
apologize to public meetings in a very courtly manner. He and
Tito Pagliardini, another phonetic veteran, were men whom it was
impossible to dislike. Henry Sweet, then a young man, lacked
their sweetness of character: he was about as conciliatory to
conventional mortals as Ibsen or Samuel Butler. His great ability
as a phonetician (he was, I think, the best of them all at his
job) would have entitled him to high official recognition, and
perhaps enabled him to popularize his subject, but for his
Satanic contempt for all academic dignitaries and persons in
general who thought more of Greek than of phonetics. Once, in the
days when the Imperial Institute rose in South Kensington, and
Joseph Chamberlain was booming the Empire, I induced the editor
of a leading monthly review to commission an article from Sweet
on the imperial importance of his subject. When it arrived, it
contained nothing but a savagely derisive attack on a professor of
language and literature whose chair Sweet regarded as proper to a
phonetic expert only. The article, being libelous, had to be
returned as impossible; and I had to renounce my dream of
dragging its author into the limelight. When I met him
afterwards, for the first time for many years, I found to my
astonishment that he, who had been a quite tolerably presentable
young man, had actually managed by sheer scorn to alter his
personal appearance until he had become a sort of walking
repudiation of Oxford and all its traditions. It must have been
largely in his own despite that he was squeezed into something
called a Readership of phonetics there. The future of phonetics
rests probably with his pupils, who all swore by him; but nothing
could bring the man himself into any sort of compliance with the
university, to which he nevertheless clung by divine right in an
intensely Oxonian way. I daresay his papers, if he has left any,
include some satires that may be published without too
destructive results fifty years hence. He was, I believe, not in
the least an ill-natured man: very much the opposite, I should
say; but he would not suffer fools gladly.

Those who knew him will recognize in my third act the allusion to
the patent Shorthand in which he used to write postcards, and
which may be acquired from a four and six-penny manual published
by the Clarendon Press. The postcards which Mrs. Higgins
describes are such as I have received from Sweet. I would
decipher a sound which a cockney would represent by zerr, and a
Frenchman by seu, and then write demanding with some heat what on
earth it meant. Sweet, with boundless contempt for my stupidity,
would reply that it not only meant but obviously was the word
Result, as no other Word containing that sound, and capable of
making sense with the context, existed in any language spoken on
earth. That less expert mortals should require fuller indications
was beyond Sweet's patience. Therefore, though the whole point of
his "Current Shorthand" is that it can express every sound in the
language perfectly, vowels as well as consonants, and that your
hand has to make no stroke except the easy and current ones with
which you write m, n, and u, l, p, and q, scribbling them at
whatever angle comes easiest to you, his unfortunate
determination to make this remarkable and quite legible script
serve also as a Shorthand reduced it in his own practice to the
most inscrutable of cryptograms. His true objective was the
provision of a full, accurate, legible script for our noble but
ill-dressed language; but he was led past that by his contempt
for the popular Pitman system of Shorthand, which he called the
Pitfall system. The triumph of Pitman was a triumph of business
organization: there was a weekly paper to persuade you to learn
Pitman: there were cheap textbooks and exercise books and
transcripts of speeches for you to copy, and schools where
experienced teachers coached you up to the necessary proficiency.
Sweet could not organize his market in that fashion. He might as
well have been the Sybil who tore up the leaves of prophecy that
nobody would attend to. The four and six-penny manual, mostly in
his lithographed handwriting, that was never vulgarly advertized,
may perhaps some day be taken up by a syndicate and pushed upon
the public as The Times pushed the Encyclopaedia Britannica; but
until then it will certainly not prevail against Pitman. I have
bought three copies of it during my lifetime; and I am informed
by the publishers that its cloistered existence is still a steady
and healthy one. I actually learned the system two several times;
and yet the shorthand in which I am writing these lines is
Pitman's. And the reason is, that my secretary cannot transcribe
Sweet, having been perforce taught in the schools of Pitman.
Therefore, Sweet railed at Pitman as vainly as Thersites railed
at Ajax: his raillery, however it may have eased his soul, gave
no popular vogue to Current Shorthand. Pygmalion Higgins is not a
portrait of Sweet, to whom the adventure of Eliza Doolittle would
have been impossible; still, as will be seen, there are touches
of Sweet in the play. With Higgins's physique and temperament
Sweet might have set the Thames on fire. As it was, he impressed
himself professionally on Europe to an extent that made his
comparative personal obscurity, and the failure of Oxford to do
justice to his eminence, a puzzle to foreign specialists in his
subject. I do not blame Oxford, because I think Oxford is quite
right in demanding a certain social amenity from its nurslings
(heaven knows it is not exorbitant in its requirements!); for
although I well know how hard it is for a man of genius with a
seriously underrated subject to maintain serene and kindly
relations with the men who underrate it, and who keep all the
best places for less important subjects which they profess
without originality and sometimes without much capacity for them,
still, if he overwhelms them with wrath and disdain, he cannot
expect them to heap honors on him.

Of the later generations of phoneticians I know little. Among
them towers the Poet Laureate, to whom perhaps Higgins may owe
his Miltonic sympathies, though here again I must disclaim all
portraiture. But if the play makes the public aware that there
are such people as phoneticians, and that they are among the most
important people in England at present, it will serve its turn.

I wish to boast that Pygmalion has been an extremely successful
play all over Europe and North America as well as at home. It is
so intensely and deliberately didactic, and its subject is
esteemed so dry, that I delight in throwing it at the heads of
the wiseacres who repeat the parrot cry that art should never be
didactic. It goes to prove my contention that art should never be
anything else.

Finally, and for the encouragement of people troubled with
accents that cut them off from all high employment, I may add
that the change wrought by Professor Higgins in the flower girl
is neither impossible nor uncommon. The modern concierge's
daughter who fulfils her ambition by playing the Queen of Spain
in Ruy Blas at the Theatre Francais is only one of many thousands
of men and women who have sloughed off their native dialects and
acquired a new tongue. But the thing has to be done
scientifically, or the last state of the aspirant may be worse
than the first. An honest and natural slum dialect is more
tolerable than the attempt of a phonetically untaught person to
imitate the vulgar dialect of the golf club; and I am sorry to
say that in spite of the efforts of our Academy of Dramatic Art,
there is still too much sham golfing English on our stage, and
too little of the noble English of Forbes Robertson.

ACT I

Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab
whistles blowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians
running for shelter into the market and under the portico of St.
Paul's Church, where there are already several people, among them
a lady and her daughter in evening dress. They are all peering
out gloomily at the rain, except one man with his back turned to
the rest, who seems wholly preoccupied with a notebook in which
he is writing busily.

The church clock strikes the first quarter.

THE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to
the one on her left] I'm getting chilled to the bone. What can
Freddy be doing all this time? He's been gone twenty minutes.

THE MOTHER [on her daughter's right] Not so long. But he ought to
have got us a cab by this.

A BYSTANDER [on the lady's right] He won't get no cab not until
half-past eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping
their theatre fares.

THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can't stand here until
half-past eleven. It's too bad.

THE BYSTANDER. Well, it ain't my fault, missus.

THE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got
one at the theatre door.

THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?

THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn't he?

Freddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street
side, and comes between them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a
young man of twenty, in evening dress, very wet around the
ankles.

THE DAUGHTER. Well, haven't you got a cab?

FREDDY. There's not one to be had for love or money.

THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can't have tried.

THE DAUGHTER. It's too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get
one ourselves?

FREDDY. I tell you they're all engaged. The rain was so sudden:
nobody was prepared; and everybody had to take a cab. I've been
to Charing Cross one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other;
and they were all engaged.

THE MOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square?

FREDDY. There wasn't one at Trafalgar Square.

THE DAUGHTER. Did you try?

FREDDY. I tried as far as Charing Cross Station. Did you expect
me to walk to Hammersmith?

THE DAUGHTER. You haven't tried at all.

THE MOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and
don't come back until you have found a cab.

FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing.

THE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in
this draught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig--

FREDDY. Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go. [He opens his umbrella
and dashes off Strandwards, but comes into
collision with a flower girl, who is hurrying in for shelter,
knocking her basket out of her hands. A blinding flash of
lightning, followed instantly by a rattling peal of thunder,
orchestrates the incident]

THE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah.

FREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off].

THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing
them in the basket] There's menners f' yer! Te-oo banches o
voylets trod into the mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the
column, sorting her flowers, on the lady's right. She is not at
all an attractive person. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps
twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of black
straw that has long been exposed to the dust and soot of London
and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing
rather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a
shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped
to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her
boots are much the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as
she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is very
dirty. Her features are no worse than theirs; but their condition
leaves something to be desired; and she needs the services of a
dentist].

THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son's name is Freddy, pray?

THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y'
de-ooty bawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore
gel's flahrzn than ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them?
[Here, with apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her
dialect without a phonetic alphabet must be abandoned as
unintelligible outside London.]

THE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea!

THE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies?

THE DAUGHTER. No. I've nothing smaller than sixpence.

THE FLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner,
kind lady.

THE MOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly].
Now [to the girl] This is for your flowers.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Thank you kindly, lady.

THE DAUGHTER. Make her give you the change. These things are only
a penny a bunch.

THE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl].
You can keep the change.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.

THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman's name.

THE FLOWER GIRL. I didn't.

THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don't try to deceive me.

THE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who's trying to deceive you? I
called him Freddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you
was talking to a stranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits
down beside her basket].

THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might have
spared Freddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the pillar].

An elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into
shelter, and closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight
as Freddy, very wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress,
with a light overcoat. He takes the place left vacant by the
daughter's retirement.

THE GENTLEMAN. Phew!

THE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its
stopping?

THE GENTLEMAN. I'm afraid not. It started worse than ever about
two minutes ago. [He goes to the plinth beside the flower girl;
puts up his foot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser
ends].

THE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter].

THE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman's
proximity to establish friendly relations with him]. If it's
worse it's a sign it's nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy
a flower off a poor girl.

THE GENTLEMAN. I'm sorry, I haven't any change.

THE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain,

THE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I've nothing less.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can
change half-a-crown. Take this for tuppence.

THE GENTLEMAN. Now don't be troublesome: there's a good girl.
[Trying his pockets] I really haven't any change--Stop: here's
three hapence, if that's any use to you [he retreats to the other
pillar].

THE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence
better than nothing] Thank you, sir.

THE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for
it. There's a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word
you're saying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes].

THE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain't done nothing
wrong by speaking to the gentleman. I've a right to sell flowers
if I keep off the kerb. [Hysterically] I'm a respectable girl: so
help me, I never spoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower
off me. [General hubbub, mostly sympathetic to the flower girl,
but deprecating her excessive sensibility. Cries of Don't start
hollerin. Who's hurting you? Nobody's going to touch you. What's
the good of fussing? Steady on. Easy, easy, etc., come from the
elderly staid spectators, who pat her comfortingly. Less patient
ones bid her shut her head, or ask her roughly what is wrong with
her. A remoter group, not knowing what the matter is, crowd in
and increase the noise with question and answer: What's the row?
What she do? Where is he? A tec taking her down. What! him? Yes:
him over there: Took money off the gentleman, etc. The flower
girl, distraught and mobbed, breaks through them to the
gentleman, crying mildly] Oh, sir, don't let him charge me. You
dunno what it means to me. They'll take away my character and
drive me on the streets for speaking to gentlemen. They--

THE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding
after him] There, there, there, there! Who's hurting you, you
silly girl? What do you take me for?

THE BYSTANDER. It's all right: he's a gentleman: look at his
boots. [Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a
copper's nark, sir.

THE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What's a copper's nark?

THE BYSTANDER [inept at definition] It's a--well, it's a copper's
nark, as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of
informer.

THE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never
said a word--

THE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut
up. Do I look like a policeman?

THE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down
my words for? How do I know whether you took me down right? You
just show me what you've wrote about me. [The note taker opens
his book and holds it steadily under her nose, though the
pressure of the mob trying to read it over his shoulders would
upset a weaker man]. What's that? That ain't proper writing. I
can't read that.

THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation
exactly] "Cheer ap, Keptin; n' haw ya flahr orf a pore gel."

THE FLOWER GIRL [much distressed] It's because I called him
Captain. I meant no harm. [To the gentleman] Oh, sir, don't let
him lay a charge agen me for a word like that. You--

THE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker]
Really, sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin
protecting me against molestation by young women until I ask you.
Anybody could see that the girl meant no harm.

THE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage]
Course they could. What business is it of yours? You mind your
own affairs. He wants promotion, he does. Taking down people's
words! Girl never said a word to him. What harm if she did? Nice
thing a girl can't shelter from the rain without being insulted,
etc., etc., etc. [She is conducted by the more sympathetic
demonstrators back to her plinth, where she resumes her seat and
struggles with her emotion].

THE BYSTANDER. He ain't a tec. He's a blooming busybody: that's
what he is. I tell you, look at his boots.

THE NOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your
people down at Selsey?

THE BYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from
Selsey?

THE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do
you come to be up so far east? You were born in Lisson Grove.

THE FLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving
Lisson Grove? It wasn't fit for a pig to live in; and I had to
pay four-and-six a week. [In tears] Oh, boo--hoo--oo--

THE NOTE TAKER. Live where you like; but stop that noise.

THE GENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he can't touch you: you
have a right to live where you please.

A SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker
and the gentleman] Park Lane, for instance. I'd like to go into
the Housing Question with you, I would.

THE FLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her
basket, and talking very low-spiritedly to herself] I'm a good
girl, I am.

THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where
_I_ come from?

THE NOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton.

Titterings. Popular interest in the note taker's
performance increases.

THE SARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didn't? Bly me! You
know everything, you do.

THE FLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Ain't no call
to meddle with me, he ain't.

THE BYSTANDER [to her] Of course he ain't. Don't you stand it
from him. [To the note taker] See here: what call have you to
know about people what never offered to meddle with you? Where's
your warrant?

SEVERAL BYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes:
where's your warrant?

THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I don't want to have
no truck with him.

THE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, don't you?
Catch you taking liberties with a gentleman!

THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell HIM where he come from if you
want to go fortune-telling.

THE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.

THE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the note
taker's favor. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him
proper. Hear him tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I
ask, sir, do you do this for your living at a music hall?

THE NOTE TAKER. I've thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day.

The rain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd
begin to drop off.

THE FLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] He's no gentleman, he
ain't, to interfere with a poor girl.

THE DAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the
front and displacing the gentleman, who politely retires to the
other side of the pillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall
get pneumonia if I stay in this draught any longer.

THE NOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her
pronunciation of "monia"] Earlscourt.

THE DAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent
remarks to yourself?

THE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn't mean to. I beg
your pardon. Your mother's Epsom, unmistakeably.

THE MOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker]
How very curious! I was brought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom.

THE NOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a
name! Excuse me. [To the daughter] You want a cab, do you?

THE DAUGHTER. Don't dare speak to me.

THE MOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates
her with an angry shrug and retires haughtily.] We should be so
grateful to you, sir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker
produces a whistle]. Oh, thank you. [She joins her daughter]. The
note taker blows a piercing blast.

THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a
plain-clothes copper.

THE BYSTANDER. That ain't a police whistle: that's a sporting
whistle.

THE FLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings]
He's no right to take away my character. My character is the same
to me as any lady's.

THE NOTE TAKER. I don't know whether you've noticed it; but the
rain stopped about two minutes ago.

THE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn't you say so before? and us
losing our time listening to your silliness. [He walks off
towards the Strand].

THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come
from Anwell. Go back there.

THE NOTE TAKER [helpfully] _H_anwell.

THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech]
Thenk you, teacher. Haw haw! So long [he touches his hat with
mock respect and strolls off].

THE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like
it himself.

THE MOTHER. It's quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor
bus. Come. [She gathers her skirts above her ankles and hurries
off towards the Strand].

THE DAUGHTER. But the cab--[her mother is out of hearing]. Oh,
how tiresome! [She follows angrily].

All the rest have gone except the note taker, the
gentleman, and the flower girl, who sits arranging her basket,
and still pitying herself in murmurs.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without
being worrited and chivied.

THE GENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker's
left] How do you do it, if I may ask?

THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That's
my profession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a
living by his hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman
by his brogue. I can place any man within six miles. I can place
him within two miles in London. Sometimes within two streets.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward!

THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?

THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of
upstarts. Men begin in Kentish Town with 80 pounds a year, and
end in Park Lane with a hundred thousand. They want to drop
Kentish Town; but they give themselves away every time they open
their mouths. Now I can teach them--

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