Читать книгу 60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated) - George Bernard Shaw - Страница 105

London. A room in Lydia’s house

Enter Lydia and Lucian

LYDIA. Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house.

Of late you have been chary of your visits.

LUCIAN. I have been greatly occupied of late.

The minister to whom I act as scribe

In Downing Street was born in Birmingham,

And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman,

Splits his infinities, which I, poor slave,

Must reunite, though all the time my heart

Yearns for my gentle coz’s company.

LYDIA. Lucian: there is some other reason. Think!

Since England was a nation every mood

Her scribes have prepositionally split;

But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth.

LUCIAN. There is a man I like not haunts this house.

LYDIA. Thou speak’st of Cashel Byron?

LUCIAN. Aye, of him.

Hast thou forgotten that eventful night

When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House

To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse,

He placed a single finger on my chest,

And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine

Had not a chair received my falling form.

LYDIA. Pooh! That was but by way of illustration.

LUCIAN. What right had he to illustrate his point

Upon my person? Was I his assistant

That he should try experiments on me

As Simpson did on his with chloroform?

Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo

He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone.

This very morning my official chief,

Tapping with friendly forefinger this button,

Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm

Flat upon the Colonial Office floor.

LYDIA. Fancies, coz.

LUCIAN. Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits!

Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance

Of Vitus! What could any one have thought?

Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven,

I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink.

LYDIA. What ho, without there! Bashville.

BASHVILLE [without]. Coming, madam.

Enter Bashville

LYDIA. My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. [Exit Bashville.

LUCIAN. Some wet!!! Where learnt you that atrocious word?

This is the language of a flower-girl.

LYDIA. True. It is horrible. Said I “Some wet”?

I meant, some drink. Why did I say “Some wet”?

Am I ensorceled too? “Some wet”! Fie! fie!

I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me.

Oh, Lucian, how could I have said “Some wet”?

LUCIAN. The horrid conversation of this man

Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness.

LYDIA. Nay, he speaks very well: he’s literate:

Shakespear he quotes unconsciously.

LUCIAN. And yet

Anon he talks pure pothouse.

Enter Bashville

BASHVILLE. Sir: your potion.

LUCIAN. Thanks. [He drinks.] I am better.

A NEWSBOY [calling without]. Extra special Star!

Result of the great fight! Name of the winner!

LYDIA. Who calls so loud?

BASHVILLE. The papers, madam.

LYDIA. Why?

Hath ought momentous happened?

BASHVILLE. Madam: yes. [He produces a newspaper.

All England for these thrilling paragraphs

A week has waited breathless.

LYDIA. Read them us.

BASHVILLE [reading]. “At noon to-day, unknown to the police,

Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs,

Th’ Australian Champion and his challenger,

The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged

I’ the mercantile marine, fought to a finish.

Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer

Acted as referee.”

LYDIA. Lord Worthington!

BASHVILLE. “The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes

To hold the bottle for his quondam novice;

Whilst in the seaman’s corner were assembled

Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob.

Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt,

’Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken,

Looked none the worse in the Australian’s corner.

The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack:

His colors freely sold amid the crowd;

But Cashel’s well-known spot of white on blue — —”

LYDIA. Whose, did you say?

BASHVILLE. Cashel’s, my lady.

LYDIA. Lucian:

Your hand — a chair —

BASHVILLE. Madam: you’re ill.

LYDIA. Proceed.

What you have read I do not understand;

Yet I will hear it through. Proceed.

LUCIAN. Proceed.

BASHVILLE. “But Cashel’s well-known spot of white on blue

Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve,

When, with a smile of confidence upon

His ocean-beaten mug — —”

LYDIA. His mug?

LUCIAN [explaining]. His face.

BASHVILLE [continuing]. “The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch,

But found the champion there already. Both

Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers

Of their encouraged backers. Two to one

Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil;

And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed,

Found takers everywhere. No time was lost

In getting to the business of the day.

The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land

On Byron’s dicebox; but the seaman’s reach,

Too short for execution at long shots,

Did not get fairly home upon the ivory;

And Byron had the best of the exchange.”

LYDIA. I do not understand. What were they doing?

LUCIAN. Fighting with naked fists.

LYDIA. Oh, horrible!

I’ll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end?

Was Cashel hurt?

LUCIAN [to Bashville]. Skip to the final round.

BASHVILLE. “Round Three: the rumors that had gone about

Of a breakdown in Byron’s recent training

Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time

He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful,

Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend.

At this point six to one was freely offered

Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington

Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose

A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain,

Take down the number of the Panley boy.

The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is,

Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel

Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor,

Who, not to be denied, followed him up,

Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers.”

LYDIA. Oh stop — no more — or tell the worst at once.

I’ll be revenged. Bashville: call the police.

This brutal sailor shall be made to know

There’s law in England.

LUCIAN. Do not interrupt him:

Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next?

BASHVILLE. “Forty to one, the Dutchman’s friends exclaimed.

Done, said Lord Worthington, who shewed himself

A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet

Was booked, when, at the reeling champion’s jaw

The sailor, bent on winning out of hand,

Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert,

When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left,

Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick — —”

LUCIAN. Death and damnation!

LYDIA. Oh, what does it mean?

BASHVILLE. “The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man.”

LYDIA. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel!

BASHVILLE. “A scene of indescribable excitement

Ensued; for it was now quite evident

That Byron’s grogginess had all along

Been feigned to make the market for his backers.

We trust this sample of colonial smartness

Will not find imitators on this side.

The losers settled up like gentlemen;

But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste

In taking old Ned Skene upon his back,

And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter,

Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd

The perfect pink of his condition” — [a knock].

LYDIA [turning pale]. Bashville

Didst hear? A knock.

BASHVILLE. Madam: ’tis Byron’s knock.

Shall I admit him?

LUCIAN. Reeking from the ring!

Oh, monstrous! Say you’re out.

LYDIA. Send him away.

I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep

Secrets from ME? I’ll punish him. Pray say

I’m not at home. [Bashville turns to go.] Yet stay. I am afraid

He will not come again.

LUCIAN. A consummation

Devoutly to be wished by any lady.

Pray, do you wish this man to come again?

LYDIA. No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill.

He should have told me. I will ne’er forgive him.

Say, Not at home.

BASHVILLE. Yes, madam. [Exit.

LYDIA. Stay —

LUCIAN [stopping her]. No, Lydia:

You shall not countermand that proper order.

Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind,

The thousands at your bank, and, above all,

Your unassailable social position

Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn?

LYDIA. Nay, coz: you’re prejudiced.

CASHEL [without]. Liar and slave!

LYDIA. What words were those?

LUCIAN. The man is drunk with slaughter.

Enter Bashville running: he shuts the door and locks it.

BASHVILLE. Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion

Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped;

But when he rises, woe betide us all!

LYDIA. Who bade you treat my visitor with violence?

BASHVILLE. He would not take my answer; thrust the door

Back in my face; gave me the lie i’ the throat;

Averred he felt your presence in his bones.

I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him;

Then fled to bar your door.

LYDIA. O lover’s instinct!

He felt my presence. Well, let him come in.

We must not fail in courage with a fighter.

Unlock the door.

LUCIAN. Stop. Like all women, Lydia,

You have the courage of immunity.

To strike you were against his code of honor;

But me, above the belt, he may perform on

T’ th’ height of his profession. Also Bashville.

BASHVILLE. Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst.

Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh

The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine,

A second battle should he do this day:

Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress

Give me the word: instant I’ll take him on

Here — now — at catchweight. Better bite the carpet

A man, than fly, a coward.

LUCIAN. Bravely said:

I will assist you with the poker.

LYDIA. No:

I will not have him touched. Open the door.

BASHVILLE. Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open.

[Bashville opens the door. Dead silence. Cashel

enters, in tears. A solemn pause.

CASHEL. You know my secret?

LYDIA. Yes.

CASHEL. And thereupon

You bade your servant fling me from your door.

LYDIA. I bade my servant say I was not here.

CASHEL [to Bashville]. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man?

Hadst thou but said, “She bade me tell thee this,”

Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy.

LYDIA. Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him “drunk with slaughter”?

Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe?

CASHEL [to LUCIAN]. The unwritten law that shields the amateur

Against professional resentment, saves thee.

O coward, to traduce behind their backs

Defenceless prizefighters!

LUCIAN. Thou dost avow

Thou art a prizefighter.

CASHEL. It was my glory.

I had hoped to offer to my lady there

My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes,

My undefeated record; but I knew

Behind their blaze a hateful secret lurked.

LYDIA. Another secret?

LUCIAN. Is there worse to come?

CASHEL. Know ye not then my mother is an actress?

LUCIAN. How horrible!

LYDIA. Nay, nay: how interesting!

CASHEL. A thousand victories cannot wipe out

That birthstain. Oh, my speech bewrayeth it:

My earliest lesson was the player’s speech

In Hamlet; and to this day I express myself

More like a mobled queen than like a man

Of flesh and blood. Well may your cousin sneer!

What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?

LUCIAN. Injurious upstart: if by Hecuba

Thou pointest darkly at my lovely cousin,

Know that she is to me, and I to her,

What never canst thou be. I do defy thee;

And maugre all the odds thy skill doth give,

Outside I will await thee.

LYDIA. I forbid

Expressly any such duello. Bashville:

The door. Put Mr. Webber in a hansom,

And bid the driver hie to Downing Street.

No answer: ’tis my will. [Exeunt Lucian and Bashville.

And now, farewell.

You must not come again, unless indeed

You can some day look in my eyes and say:

Lydia: my occupation’s gone.

CASHEL. Ah, no:

It would remind you of my wretched mother.

O God, let me be natural a moment!

What other occupation can I try?

What would you have me be?

LYDIA. A gentleman.

CASHEL. A gentleman! I, Cashel Byron, stoop

To be the thing that bets on me! the fool

I flatter at so many coins a lesson!

The screaming creature who beside the ring

Gambles with basest wretches for my blood,

And pays with money that he never earned!

Let me die brokenhearted rather!

LYDIA. But

You need not be an idle gentleman.

I call you one of Nature’s gentlemen.

CASHEL. That’s the collection for the loser, Lydia.

I am not wont to need it. When your friends

Contest elections, and at foot o’ th’ poll

Rue their presumption, ’tis their wont to claim

A moral victory. In a sort they are

Nature’s M. P.s. I am not yet so threadbare

As to accept these consolation stakes.

LYDIA. You are offended with me.

CASHEL. Yes, I am.

I can put up with much; but— “Nature’s gentleman”!

I thank your ladyship of Lyons, but

Must beg to be excused.

LYDIA. But surely, surely,

To be a prizefighter, and maul poor mariners

With naked knuckles, is no work for you.

CASHEL. Thou dost arraign the inattentive Fates

That weave my thread of life in ruder patterns

Than these that lie, antimacassarly,

Asprent thy drawingroom. As well demand

Why I at birth chose to begin my life

A speechless babe, hairless, incontinent,

Hobbling upon all fours, a nurse’s nuisance?

Or why I do propose to lose my strength,

To blanch my hair, to let the gums recede

Far up my yellowing teeth, and finally

Lie down and moulder in a rotten grave?

Only one thing more foolish could have been,

And that was to be born, not man, but woman.

This was thy folly, why rebuk’st thou mine?

LYDIA. These are not things of choice.

CASHEL. And did I choose

My quick divining eye, my lightning hand,

My springing muscle and untiring heart?

Did I implant the instinct in the race

That found a use for these, and said to me,

Fight for us, and be fame and fortune thine?

LYDIA. But there are other callings in the world.

CASHEL. Go tell thy painters to turn stockbrokers,

Thy poet friends to stoop o’er merchants’ desks

And pen prose records of the gains of greed.

Tell bishops that religion is outworn,

And that the Pampa to the horsebreaker

Opes new careers. Bid the professor quit

His fraudulent pedantries, and do i’ the world

The thing he would teach others. Then return

To me and say: Cashel: they have obeyed;

And on that pyre of sacrifice I, too,

Will throw my championship.

LYDIA. But ’tis so cruel.

CASHEL. Is it so? I have hardly noticed that,

So cruel are all callings. Yet this hand,

That many a two days’ bruise hath ruthless given,

Hath kept no dungeon locked for twenty years,

Hath slain no sentient creature for my sport.

I am too squeamish for your dainty world,

That cowers behind the gallows and the lash,

The world that robs the poor, and with their spoil

Does what its tradesmen tell it. Oh, your ladies!

Sealskinned and egret-feathered; all defiance

To Nature; cowering if one say to them

“What will the servants think?” Your gentlemen!

Your tailor-tyrannized visitors of whom

Flutter of wing and singing in the wood

Make chickenbutchers. And your medicine men!

Groping for cures in the tormented entrails

Of friendly dogs. Pray have you asked all these

To change their occupations? Find you mine

So grimly crueller? I cannot breathe

An air so petty and so poisonous.

LYDIA. But find you not their manners very nice?

CASHEL. To me, perfection. Oh, they condescend

With a rare grace. Your duke, who condescends

Almost to the whole world, might for a Man

Pass in the eyes of those who never saw

The duke capped with a prince. See then, ye gods,

The duke turn footman, and his eager dame

Sink the great lady in the obsequious housemaid!

Oh, at such moments I could wish the Court

Had but one breadbasket, that with my fist

I could make all its windy vanity

Gasp itself out on the gravel. Fare you well.

I did not choose my calling; but at least

I can refrain from being a gentleman.

LYDIA. You say farewell to me without a pang.

CASHEL. My calling hath apprenticed me to pangs.

This is a rib-bender; but I can bear it.

It is a lonely thing to be a champion.

LYDIA. It is a lonelier thing to be a woman.

CASHEL. Be lonely then. Shall it be said of thee

That for his brawn thou misalliance mad’st

Wi’ the Prince of Ruffians? Never. Go thy ways;

Or, if thou hast nostalgia of the mud,

Wed some bedoggéd wretch that on the slot

Of gilded snobbery, ventre à terre,

Will hunt through life with eager nose on earth

And hang thee thick with diamonds. I am rich;

But all my gold was fought for with my hands.

LYDIA. What dost thou mean by rich?

CASHEL. There is a man,

Hight Paradise, vaunted unconquerable,

Hath dared to say he will be glad to hear from me.

I have replied that none can hear from me

Until a thousand solid pounds be staked.

His friends have confidently found the money.

Ere fall of leaf that money shall be mine;

And then I shall possess ten thousand pounds.

I had hoped to tempt thee with that monstrous sum.

LYDIA. Thou silly Cashel, ’tis but a week’s income.

I did propose to give thee three times that

For pocket money when we two were wed.

CASHEL. Give me my hat. I have been fooling here.

Now, by the Hebrew lawgiver, I thought

That only in America such revenues

Were decent deemed. Enough. My dream is dreamed.

Your gold weighs like a mountain on my chest.

Farewell.

LYDIA. The golden mountain shall be thine

The day thou quit’st thy horrible profession.

CASHEL. Tempt me not, woman. It is honor calls.

Slave to the Ring I rest until the face

Of Paradise be changed.

Enter Bashville

BASHVILLE. Madam, your carriage,

Ordered by you at two. ’Tis now half-past.

CASHEL. Sdeath! is it half-past two? The king! the king!

LYDIA. The king! What mean you?

CASHEL. I must meet a monarch

This very afternoon at Islington.

LYDIA. At Islington! You must 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.