Читать книгу 60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated) - George Bernard Shaw - Страница 106

The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators.

In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring

before it. A balcony above on the right, occupied

by persons of fashion: among others, Lydia and

Lord Worthington.

Flourish. Enter Lucian and Cetewayo, with Chiefs in attendance.

CETEWAYO. Is this the Hall of Husbandmen?

LUCIAN. It is.

CETEWAYO. Are these anæmic dogs the English people?

LUCIAN. Mislike us not for our complexions,

The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke

Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories,

And by the million patent kitchen ranges

Of happy English homes.

CETEWAYO. When first I came

I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars

Of some infernal god. I now perceive

The English dare not look upon the sky.

They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot

To cover them.

LUCIAN. You cannot understand

The greatness of this people, Cetewayo.

You are a savage, reasoning like a child.

Each pallid English face conceals a brain

Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton

And in the plays of the immortal Shakespear.

There is not one of all the thousands here

But, if you placed him naked in the desert,

Would presently construct a steam engine,

And lay a cable t’ th’ Antipodes.

CETEWAYO. Have I been brought a million miles by sea

To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber,

Men become civilized through twin diseases,

Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined

Become the grisly parents of Invention.

Why does the trembling white with frantic toil

Of hand and brain produce the magic gun

That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu

Dares look his foe i’ the face; fights foot to foot;

Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now;

Makes life a long reality, and death

A moment only! whilst your Englishman

Glares on his burning candle’s winding-sheets,

Counting the steps of his approaching doom.

And in the murky corners ever sees

Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty:

In the which anguish an unnatural edge

Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises

Strange frauds by which to filch unearnéd gold,

Mad crafts by which to slay unfacéd foes,

Until at last his agonized desire

Makes possibility its slave. And then —

Horrible climax! All-undoing spite! —

Th’ importunate clutching of the coward’s hand

From wearied Nature Devastation’s secrets

Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man

Is blown explosively from off the globe;

And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves

O’er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth

Stammer the words “Survival of the Fittest.”

Enough of this: I came not here to talk.

Thou say’st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare

Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death.

Let them be brought.

LUCIAN. They fight not to the death,

But under strictest rules: as, for example,

Half of their persons shall not be attacked;

Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down,

Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further,

That frequent opportunities of rest

With succor and refreshment be secured them.

CETEWAYO. Ye gods, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand:

Personified Pusillanimity

Hath ta’en thee from the bravest of the brave!

LUCIAN. Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind

Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts

That Brave and English mean the selfsame thing!

CETEWAYO. Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise

They will be carried by their nurses, lest

Some barking dog or bumbling bee should scare them.

Cetewayo takes his state. Enter Paradise

LYDIA. What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews

Presage destruction to his adversaries?

LORD WORTHINGTON. ’Tis Paradise.

LYDIA. He of whom Cashel spoke?

A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why

Did Cashel leave us at the door?

Enter Cashel

LORD WORTHINGTON. Behold!

The champion comes.

LYDIA. Oh, I could kiss him now,

Here, before all the world. His boxing things

Render him most attractive. But I fear

Yon villain’s fists may maul him.

WORTHINGTON. Have no fear.

Hark! the king speaks.

CETEWAYO. Ye sons of the white queen:

Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to.

PARADISE. Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke

What gets his living honest by his fists.

I may not have the polish of some toffs

As I could mention on; but up to now

No man has took my number down. I scale

Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three;

And at Bill Richardson’s Blue Anchor pub

Am to be heard of any day by such

As likes the job. I don’t know, governor,

As ennythink remains for me to say.

CETEWAYO. Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have

If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead.

Methinks he looks scornfully on thee.

[To Cashel] Ha! dost thou not so?

CASHEL. Sir, I do beseech you

To name the bone, or limb, or special place

Where you would have me hit him with this fist.

CETEWAYO. Thou hast a noble brow; but much I fear

Thine adversary will disfigure it.

CASHEL. There’s a divinity that shapes our ends

Rough hew them how we will. Give me the gloves.

THE MASTER OF THE REVELS. Paradise, a professor.

Cashel Byron,

Also professor. Time! [They spar.

LYDIA. Eternity

It seems to me until this fight be done.

CASHEL. Dread monarch: this is called the upper cut,

And this a hook-hit of mine own invention.

The hollow region where I plant this blow

Is called the mark. My left, you will observe,

I chiefly use for long shots: with my right

Aiming beside the angle of the jaw

And landing with a certain delicate screw

I without violence knock my foeman out.

Mark how he falls forward upon his face!

The rules allow ten seconds to get up;

And as the man is still quite silly, I

Might safely finish him; but my respect

For your most gracious majesty’s desire

To see some further triumphs of the science

Of self-defence postpones awhile his doom.

PARADISE. How can a bloke do hisself proper justice

With pillows on his fists?

[He tears off his gloves and attacks Cashel with his bare knuckles.

THE CROWD. Unfair! The rules!

CETEWAYO. The joy of battle surges boiling up

And bids me join the mellay. Isandhlana

And Victory! [He falls on the bystanders.

THE CHIEFS. Victory and Isandhlana!

[They run amok. General panic and stampede. The ring is swept away.

LUCIAN. Forbear these most irregular proceedings.

Police! Police!

[He engages Cetewayo his umbrella. The balcony

comes down with a crash. Screams from its

occupants. Indescribable confusion.

CASHEL [dragging Lydia from the struggling heap].

My love, my love, art hurt?

LYDIA. No, no; but save my sore o’ermatchéd cousin.

A POLICEMAN. Give us a lead, sir. Save the English flag.

Africa tramples on it.

CASHEL. Africa!

Not all the continents whose mighty shoulders

The dancing diamonds of the seas bedeck

Shall trample on the blue with spots of white.

Now, Lydia, mark thy lover. [He charges the Zulus.

LYDIA. Hercules

Cannot withstand him. See: the king is down;

The tallest chief is up, heels over head,

Tossed corklike o’er my Cashel’s sinewy back;

And his lieutenant all deflated gasps

For breath upon the sand. The others fly

In vain: his fist o’er magic distances

Like a chameleon’s tongue shoots to its mark;

And the last African upon his knees

Sues piteously for quarter. [Rushing into Cashel’s arms.] Oh, my hero:

Thou’st saved us all this day.

CASHEL. ’Twas all for thee.

CETEWAYO. [trying to rise]. Have I been struck by lightning?

LUCIAN. Sir, your conduct

Can only be described as most ungentlemanly.

POLICEMAN. One of the prone is white.

CASHEL. ’Tis Paradise.

POLICEMAN. He’s choking: he has something in his mouth.

LYDIA [to Cashel]. Oh Heaven! there is blood upon your hip.

You’re hurt.

CASHEL. The morsel in yon wretch’s mouth

Was bitten out of me.

[Sensation. Lydia screams and swoons in Cashel’s arms.