Pygmalion
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—
THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl—
THE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooing
instantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship.
THE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I’ve a right to be here if I
like, same as you.
THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting
sounds has no right to be anywhere—no right to live. Remember that you
are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech:
that your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton and
The Bible; and don’t sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.
THE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingled
wonder and deprecation without daring to raise her head]
Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—oo!
THE NOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [He
writes; then holds out the book and reads, reproducing her vowels
exactly] Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—ow—oo!
THE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite of
herself] Garn!
THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the
English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well,
sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an
ambassador’s garden party. I could even get her a place as lady’s maid
or shop assistant, which requires better English. That’s the sort of
thing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do
genuine scientific work in phonetics, and a little as a poet on
Miltonic lines.
THE GENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and—
THE NOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, the
author of Spoken Sanscrit?
THE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you?
THE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins’s Universal Alphabet.
PICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you.
HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you.
PICKERING. Where do you live?
HIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow.
PICKERING. I’m at the Carlton. Come with me now and let’s have a jaw
over some supper.
HIGGINS. Right you are.
THE FLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kind
gentleman. I’m short for my lodging.
PICKERING. I really haven’t any change. I’m sorry [he goes away].
HIGGINS [shocked at girl’s mendacity] Liar. You said you could change
half-a-crown.
THE FLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed with
nails, you ought. [Flinging the basket at his feet] Take the whole
blooming basket for sixpence.
The church clock strikes the second quarter.
HIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaic
want of charity to the poor girl] A reminder. [He raises his hat
solemnly; then throws a handful of money into the basket and follows
Pickering].
THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah—ow—ooh! [Picking up a
couple of florins] Aaah—ow—ooh! [Picking up several coins]
Aaaaaah—ow—ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign]
Aasaaaaaaaaah—ow—ooh!!!
FREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To the
girl] Where are the two ladies that were here?
THE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped.
FREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation!
THE FLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I’m going
home in a taxi. [She sails off to the cab. The driver puts his hand
behind him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quite
understanding his mistrust, she shows him her handful of money].
Eightpence ain’t no object to me, Charlie. [He grins and opens the
door]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, round the corner of Micklejohn’s oil
shop. Let’s see how fast you can make her hop it. [She gets in and
pulls the door to with a slam as the taxicab starts].
FREDDY. Well, I’m dashed!
ACT II
Next day at 11 a.m. Higgins’s laboratory in Wimpole Street. It is a
room on the first floor, looking on the street, and was meant for the
drawing-room. The double doors are in the middle of the back hall; and
persons entering find in the corner to their right two tall file
cabinets at right angles to one another against the walls. In this
corner stands a flat writing-table, on which are a phonograph, a
laryngoscope, a row of tiny organ pipes with a bellows, a set of lamp
chimneys for singing flames with burners attached to a gas plug in the
wall by an indiarubber tube, several tuning-forks of different sizes, a
life-size image of half a human head, showing in section the vocal
organs, and a box containing a supply of wax cylinders for the
phonograph.
Further down the room, on the same side, is a fireplace, with a
comfortable leather-covered easy-chair at the side of the hearth
nearest the door, and a coal-scuttle. There is a clock on the
mantelpiece. Between the fireplace and the phonograph table is a stand
for newspapers.
On the other side of the central door, to the left of the visitor, is a
cabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a telephone and the telephone
directory. The corner beyond, and most of the side wall, is occupied by
a grand piano, with the keyboard at the end furthest from the door, and
a bench for the player extending the full length of the keyboard. On
the piano is a dessert dish heaped with fruit and sweets, mostly
chocolates.
The middle of the room is clear. Besides the easy chair, the piano
bench, and two chairs at the phonograph table, there is one stray
chair. It stands near the fireplace. On the walls, engravings; mostly
Piranesis and mezzotint portraits. No paintings.
Pickering is seated at the table, putting down some cards and a
tuning-fork which he has been using. Higgins is standing up near him,
closing two or three file drawers which are hanging out. He appears in
the morning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of man of forty
or thereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat with
a white linen collar and black silk tie. He is of the energetic,
scientific type, heartily, even violently interested in everything that
can be studied as a scientific subject, and careless about himself and
other people, including their feelings. He is, in fact, but for his
years and size, rather like a very impetuous baby “taking notice”
eagerly and loudly, and requiring almost as much watching to keep him
out of unintended mischief. His manner varies from genial bullying when
he is in a good humor to stormy petulance when anything goes wrong; but
he is so entirely frank and void of malice that he remains likeable
even in his least reasonable moments.
HIGGINS [as he shuts the last drawer] Well, I think that’s the whole
show.
PICKERING. It’s really amazing. I haven’t taken half of it in, you know.
HIGGINS. Would you like to go over any of it again?
PICKERING [rising and coming to the fireplace, where he plants himself
with his back to the fire] No, thank you; not now. I’m quite done up
for this morning.
HIGGINS [following him, and standing beside him on his left] Tired of
listening to sounds?
PICKERING. Yes. It’s a fearful strain. I rather fancied myself because
I can pronounce twenty-four distinct vowel sounds; but your hundred and
thirty beat me. I can’t hear a bit of difference between most of them.
HIGGINS [chuckling, and going over to the piano to eat sweets] Oh, that
comes with practice. You hear no difference at first; but you keep on
listening, and presently you find they’re all as different as A from B.
[Mrs. Pearce looks in: she is Higgins’s housekeeper] What’s the matter?
MRS. PEARCE [hesitating, evidently perplexed] A young woman wants to
see you, sir.
HIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want?
MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, she says you’ll be glad to see her when you
know what she’s come about. She’s quite a common girl, sir. Very common
indeed. I should have sent her away, only I thought perhaps you wanted
her to talk into your machines. I hope I’ve not done wrong; but really
you see such queer people sometimes—you’ll excuse me, I’m sure, sir—
HIGGINS. Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has she an interesting
accent?
MRS. PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. I don’t know how you
can take an interest in it.
HIGGINS [to Pickering] Let’s have her up. Show her up, Mrs. Pearce [he
rushes across to his working table and picks out a cylinder to use on
the phonograph].
MRS. PEARCE [only half resigned to it] Very well, sir. It’s for you to
say. [She goes downstairs].
HIGGINS. This is rather a bit of luck. I’ll show you how I make
records. We’ll set her talking; and I’ll take it down first in Bell’s
visible Speech; then in broad Romic; and then we’ll get her on the
phonograph so that you can turn her on as often as you like with the
written transcript before you.
MRS. PEARCE [returning] This is the young woman, sir.
The flower girl enters in state. She has a hat with three ostrich
feathers, orange, sky-blue, and red. She has a nearly clean apron, and
the shoddy coat has been tidied a little. The pathos of this deplorable
figure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air, touches
Pickering, who has already straightened himself in the presence of Mrs.
Pearce. But as to Higgins, the only distinction he makes between men
and women is that when he is neither bullying nor exclaiming to the
heavens against some featherweight cross, he coaxes women as a child
coaxes its nurse when it wants to get anything out of her.
HIGGINS [brusquely, recognizing her with unconcealed disappointment,
and at once, baby-like, making an intolerable grievance of it] Why,
this is the girl I jotted down last night. She’s no use: I’ve got all
the records I want of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I’m not going to
waste another cylinder on it. [To the girl] Be off with you: I don’t
want you.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Don’t you be so saucy. You ain’t heard what I come for
yet. [To Mrs. Pearce, who is waiting at the door for further
instruction] Did you tell him I come in a taxi?
MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think a gentleman like Mr.
Higgins cares what you came in?
THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He ain’t above giving lessons, not