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diff --git a/old/lied210.txt b/old/lied210.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..510080d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lied210.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1450 @@ +Project Gutenberg's How He Lied to Her Husband by George Bernard Shaw +#17 in our series by George Bernard Shaw. + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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In 1905 it happened that Mr Arnold Daly, who was then +playing the part of Napoleon in The Man of Destiny in New York, +found that whilst the play was too long to take a secondary place +in the evening's performance, it was too short to suffice by +itself. I therefore took advantage of four days continuous rain +during a holiday in the north of Scotland to write How He Lied To +Her Husband for Mr Daly. In his hands, it served its turn very +effectively. + +I print it here as a sample of what can be done with even the +most hackneyed stage framework by filling it in with an observed +touch of actual humanity instead of with doctrinaire romanticism. +Nothing in the theatre is staler than the situation of husband, +wife and lover, or the fun of knockabout farce. I have taken +both, and got an original play out of them, as anybody else can +if only he will look about him for his material instead of +plagiarizing Othello and the thousand plays that have proceeded +on Othello's romantic assumptions and false point of honor. + +A further experiment made by Mr Arnold Daly with this play is +worth recording. In 1905 Mr Daly produced Mrs Warren's Profession +in New York. The press of that city instantly raised a cry that +such persons as Mrs Warren are "ordure," and should not be +mentioned in the presence of decent people. This hideous +repudiation of humanity and social conscience so took possession +of the New York journalists that the few among them who kept +their feet morally and intellectually could do nothing to check +the epidemic of foul language, gross suggestion, and raving +obscenity of word and thought that broke out. The writers +abandoned all self-restraint under the impression that they were +upholding virtue instead of outraging it. They infected each +other with their hysteria until they were for all practical +purposes indecently mad. They finally forced the police to arrest +Mr Daly and his company, and led the magistrate to express his +loathing of the duty thus forced upon him of reading an +unmentionable and abominable play. Of course the convulsion soon +exhausted itself. The magistrate, naturally somewhat impatient +when he found that what he had to read was a strenuously ethical +play forming part of a book which had been in circulation +unchallenged for eight years, and had been received without +protest by the whole London and New York press, gave the +journalists a piece of his mind as to their moral taste in plays. +By consent, he passed the case on to a higher court, which +declared that the play was not immoral; acquitted Mr Daly; and +made an end of the attempt to use the law to declare living women +to be "ordure," and thus enforce silence as to the far-reaching +fact that you cannot cheapen women in the market for industrial +purposes without cheapening them for other purposes as well. I +hope Mrs Warren's Profession will be played everywhere, in season +and out of season, until Mrs Warren has bitten that fact into the +public conscience, and shamed the newspapers which support a +tariff to keep up the price of every American commodity except +American manhood and womanhood. + +Unfortunately, Mr Daly had already suffered the usual fate of +those who direct public attention to the profits of the sweater +or the pleasures of the voluptuary. He was morally lynched side +by side with me. Months elapsed before the decision of the courts +vindicated him; and even then, since his vindication implied the +condemnation of the press, which was by that time sober again, +and ashamed of its orgy, his triumph received a rather sulky and +grudging publicity. In the meantime he had hardly been able to +approach an American city, including even those cities which had +heaped applause on him as the defender of hearth and home when he +produced Candida, without having to face articles discussing +whether mothers could allow their daughters to attend such plays +as You Never Can Tell, written by the infamous author of Mrs +Warren's Profession, and acted by the monster who produced it. +What made this harder to bear was that though no fact is better +established in theatrical business than the financial +disastrousness of moral discredit, the journalists who had done +all the mischief kept paying vice the homage of assuming that it +is enormously popular and lucrative, and that I and Mr Daly, +being exploiters of vice, must therefore be making colossal +fortunes out of the abuse heaped on us, and had in fact provoked +it and welcomed it with that express object. Ignorance of real +life could hardly go further. + +One consequence was that Mr Daly could not have kept his +financial engagements or maintained his hold on the public had he +not accepted engagements to appear for a season in the vaudeville +theatres [the American equivalent of our music halls], where he +played How He Lied to Her Husband comparatively unhampered by the +press censorship of the theatre, or by that sophistication of the +audience through press suggestion from which I suffer more, +perhaps, than any other author. Vaudeville authors are +fortunately unknown: the audiences see what the play contains and +what the actor can do, not what the papers have told them to +expect. Success under such circumstances had a value both for Mr +Daly and myself which did something to console us for the very +unsavory mobbing which the New York press organized for us, and +which was not the less disgusting because we suffered in a good +cause and in the very best company. + +Mr Daly, having weathered the storm, can perhaps shake his soul +free of it as he heads for fresh successes with younger authors. +But I have certain sensitive places in my soul: I do not like +that word "ordure." Apply it to my work, and I can afford to +smile, since the world, on the whole, will smile with me. But to +apply it to the woman in the street, whose spirit is of one +substance with our own and her body no less holy: to look your +women folk in the face afterwards and not go out and hang +yourself: that is not on the list of pardonable sins. + +POSTSCRIPT. Since the above was written news has arrived from +America that a leading New York newspaper, which was among the +most abusively clamorous for the suppression of Mrs Warren's +Profession, has just been fined heavily for deriving part of its +revenue from advertisements of Mrs Warren's houses. + +Many people have been puzzled by the fact that whilst stage +entertainments which are frankly meant to act on the spectators +as aphrodisiacs, are everywhere tolerated, plays which have an +almost horrifyingly contrary effect are fiercely attacked by +persons and papers notoriously indifferent to public morals on +all other occasions. The explanation is very simple. The profits +of Mrs Warren's profession are shared not only by Mrs Warren and +Sir George Crofts, but by the landlords of their houses, the +newspapers which advertize them, the restaurants which cater for +them, and, in short, all the trades to which they are good +customers, not to mention the public officials and +representatives whom they silence by complicity, corruption, or +blackmail. Add to these the employers who profit by cheap female +labor, and the shareholders whose dividends depend on it [you +find such people everywhere, even on the judicial bench and in +the highest places in Church and State], and you get a large and +powerful class with a strong pecuniary incentive to protect Mrs +Warren's profession, and a correspondingly strong incentive to +conceal, from their own consciences no less than from the world, +the real sources of their gain. These are the people who declare +that it is feminine vice and not poverty that drives women to the +streets, as if vicious women with independent incomes ever went +there. These are the people who, indulgent or indifferent to +aphrodisiac plays, raise the moral hue and cry against +performances of Mrs Warren's Profession, and drag actresses to +the police court to be insulted, bullied, and threatened for +fulfilling their engagements. For please observe that the +judicial decision in New York State in favor of the play does not +end the matter. In Kansas City, for instance, the municipality, +finding itself restrained by the courts from preventing the +performance, fell back on a local bye-law against indecency to +evade the Constitution of the United States. They summoned the +actress who impersonated Mrs Warren to the police court, and +offered her and her colleagues the alternative of leaving the +city or being prosecuted under this bye-law. + +Now nothing is more possible than that the city councillors who +suddenly displayed such concern for the morals of the theatre +were either Mrs Warren's landlords, or employers of women at +starvation wages, or restaurant keepers, or newspaper +proprietors, or in some other more or less direct way sharers of +the profits of her trade. No doubt it is equally possible that +they were simply stupid men who thought that indecency consists, +not in evil, but in mentioning it. I have, however, been myself a +member of a municipal council, and have not found municipal +councillors quite so simple and inexperienced as this. At all +events I do not propose to give the Kansas councillors the +benefit of the doubt. I therefore advise the public at large, +which will finally decide the matter, to keep a vigilant eye on +gentlemen who will stand anything at the theatre except a +performance of Mrs Warren's Profession, and who assert in the +same breath that [a] the play is too loathsome to be bearable by +civilized people, and [b] that unless its performance is +prohibited the whole town will throng to see it. They may be +merely excited and foolish; but I am bound to warn the public +that it is equally likely that they may be collected and knavish. + +At all events, to prohibit the play is to protect the evil which +the play exposes; and in view of that fact, I see no reason for +assuming that the prohibitionists are disinterested moralists, +and that the author, the managers, and the performers, who depend +for their livelihood on their personal reputations and not on +rents, advertisements, or dividends, are grossly inferior to them +in moral sense and public responsibility. + +It is true that in Mrs Warren's Profession, Society, and not any +individual, is the villain of the piece; but it does not follow +that the people who take offence at it are all champions of +society. Their credentials cannot be too carefully examined. + + + +HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND + +It is eight o'clock in the evening. The curtains are drawn +and the lamps lighted in the drawing room of Her flat in +Cromwell Road. Her lover, a beautiful youth of eighteen, in +evening dress and cape, with a bunch of flowers and an opera hat +in his hands, comes in alone. The door is near the corner; and as +he appears in the doorway, he has the fireplace on the nearest +wall to his right, and the grand piano along the opposite wall to +his left. Near the fireplace a small ornamental table has on it a +hand mirror, a fan, a pair of long white gloves, and a little +white woollen cloud to wrap a woman's head in. On the other side +of the room, near the piano, is a broad, square, softly up- +holstered stool. The room is furnished in the most approved +South Kensington fashion: that is, it is as like a show room as +possible, and is intended to demonstrate the racial position and +spending powers of its owners, and not in the least to make them +comfortable. + +He is, be it repeated, a very beautiful youth, moving as in a +dream, walking as on air. He puts his flowers down carefully on +the table beside the fan; takes off his cape, and, as there is no +room on the table for it, takes it to the piano; puts his hat on +the cape; crosses to the hearth; looks at his watch; puts it up +again; notices the things on the table; lights up as if he saw +heaven opening before him; goes to the table and takes the cloud +in both hands, nestling his nose into its softness and kissing +it; kisses the gloves one after another; kisses the fan: gasps a +long shuddering sigh of ecstasy; sits down on the stool and +presses his hands to his eyes to shut out reality and dream a +little; takes his hands down and shakes his head with a little +smile of rebuke for his folly; catches sight of a speck of dust +on his shoes and hastily and carefully brushes it off with his +handkerchief; rises and takes the hand mirror from the table to +make sure of his tie with the gravest anxiety; and is looking at +his watch again when She comes in, much flustered. As she is +dressed for the theatre; has spoilt, petted ways; and wears many +diamonds, she has an air of being a young and beautiful woman; +but as a matter of hard fact, she is, dress and pretensions +apart, a very ordinary South Kensington female of about 37, +hopelessly inferior in physical and spiritual distinction to the +beautiful youth, who hastily puts down the mirror as she enters. + +HE [kissing her hand] At last! + +SHE. Henry: something dreadful has happened. + +HE. What's the matter? + +SHE. I have lost your poems. + +HE. They were unworthy of you. I will write you some more. + +SHE. No, thank you. Never any more poems for me. Oh, how could I +have been so mad! so rash! so imprudent! + +HE. Thank Heaven for your madness, your rashness, your +imprudence! + +SHE [impatiently] Oh, be sensible, Henry. Can't you see what a +terrible thing this is for me? Suppose anybody finds these poems! +what will they think? + +HE. They will think that a man once loved a woman more devotedly +than ever man loved woman before. But they will not know what man +it was. + +SHE. What good is that to me if everybody will know what woman it +was? + +HE. But how will they know? + +SHE. How will they know! Why, my name is all over them: my silly, +unhappy name. Oh, if I had only been christened Mary Jane, or +Gladys Muriel, or Beatrice, or Francesca, or Guinevere, or +something quite common! But Aurora! Aurora! I'm the only Aurora +in London; and everybody knows it. I believe I'm the only Aurora +in the world. And it's so horribly easy to rhyme to it! Oh, +Henry, why didn't you try to restrain your feelings a little in +common consideration for me? Why didn't you write with some +little reserve? + +HE. Write poems to you with reserve! You ask me that! + +SHE [with perfunctory tenderness] Yes, dear, of course it was +very nice of you; and I know it was my own fault as much as +yours. I ought to have noticed that your verses ought never to +have been addressed to a married woman. + +HE. Ah, how I wish they had been addressed to an unmarried woman! +how I wish they had! + +SHE. Indeed you have no right to wish anything of the sort. They +are quite unfit for anybody but a married woman. That's just the +difficulty. What will my sisters-in-law think of them? + +HE [painfully jarred] Have you got sisters-in-law? + +SHE. Yes, of course I have. Do you suppose I am an angel? + +HE [biting his lips] I do. Heaven help me, I do--or I did--or [he +almost chokes a sob]. + +SHE [softening and putting her hand caressingly on his shoulder] +Listen to me, dear. It's very nice of you to live with me in a +dream, and to love me, and so on; but I can't help my husband +having disagreeable relatives, can I? + +HE [brightening up] Ah, of course they are your husband's +relatives: I forgot that. Forgive me, Aurora. [He takes her hand +from his shoulder and kisses it. She sits down on the stool. He +remains near the table, with his back to it, smiling fatuously +down at her]. + +SHE. The fact is, Teddy's got nothing but relatives. He has eight +sisters and six half-sisters, and ever so many brothers--but I +don't mind his brothers. Now if you only knew the least little +thing about the world, Henry, you'd know that in a large family, +though the sisters quarrel with one another like mad all the +time, yet let one of the brothers marry, and they all turn on +their unfortunate sister-in-law and devote the rest of their +lives with perfect unanimity to persuading him that his wife is +unworthy of him. They can do it to her very face without her +knowing it, because there are always a lot of stupid low family +jokes that nobody understands but themselves. Half the time you +can't tell what they're talking about: it just drives you wild. +There ought to be a law against a man's sister ever entering his +house after he's married. I'm as certain as that I'm sitting here +that Georgina stole those poems out of my workbox. + +HE. She will not understand them, I think. + +SHE. Oh, won't she! She'll understand them only too well. She'll +understand more harm than ever was in them: nasty vulgar-minded +cat! + +HE [going to her] Oh don't, don't think of people in that way. +Don't think of her at all. [He takes her hand and sits down on +the carpet at her feet]. Aurora: do you remember the evening when +I sat here at your feet and read you those poems for the first +time? + +SHE. I shouldn't have let you: I see that now. When I think of +Georgina sitting there at Teddy's feet and reading them to him +for the first time, I feel I shall just go distracted. + +HE. Yes, you are right. It will be a profanation. + +SHE. Oh, I don't care about the profanation; but what will Teddy +think? what will he do? [Suddenly throwing his head away from her +knee]. You don't seem to think a bit about Teddy. [She jumps up, +more and more agitated]. + +HE [supine on the floor; for she has thrown him off his balance] +To me Teddy is nothing, and Georgina less than nothing. + +SHE. You'll soon find out how much less than nothing she is. If +you think a woman can't do any harm because she's only a +scandalmongering dowdy ragbag, you're greatly mistaken. [She +flounces about the room. He gets up slowly and dusts his hands. +Suddenly she runs to him and throws herself into his arms]. +Henry: help me. Find a way out of this for me; and I'll bless you +as long as you live. Oh, how wretched I am! [She sobs on his +breast]. + +HE. And oh! how happy I am! + +SHE [whisking herself abruptly away] Don't be selfish. + +HE [humbly] Yes: I deserve that. I think if I were going to the +stake with you, I should still be so happy with you that I could +hardly feel your danger more than my own. + +SHE [relenting and patting his hand fondly] Oh, you are a dear +darling boy, Henry; but [throwing his hand away fretfully] you're +no use. I want somebody to tell me what to do. + +HE [with quiet conviction] Your heart will tell you at the right +time. I have thought deeply over this; and I know what we two +must do, sooner or later. + +SHE. No, Henry. I will do nothing improper, nothing dishonorable. +[She sits down plump on the stool and looks inflexible]. + +HE. If you did, you would no longer be Aurora. Our course is +perfectly simple, perfectly straightforward, perfectly stainless +and true. We love one another. I am not ashamed of that: I am +ready to go out and proclaim it to all London as simply as I will +declare it to your husband when you see--as you soon will see-- +that this is the only way honorable enough for your feet to +tread. Let us go out together to our own house, this evening, +without concealment and without shame. Remember! we owe something +to your husband. We are his guests here: he is an honorable man: +he has been kind to us: he has perhaps loved you as well as his +prosaic nature and his sordid commercial environment permitted. +We owe it to him in all honor not to let him learn the truth from +the lips of a scandalmonger. Let us go to him now quietly, hand +in hand; bid him farewell; and walk out of the house without +concealment and subterfuge, freely and honestly, in full honor +and self-respect. + +SHE [staring at him] And where shall we go to? + +HE. We shall not depart by a hair's breadth from the ordinary +natural current of our lives. We were going to the theatre when +the loss of the poems compelled us to take action at once. We +shall go to the theatre still; but we shall leave your diamonds +here; for we cannot afford diamonds, and do not need them. + +SHE [fretfully] I have told you already that I hate diamonds; +only Teddy insists on hanging me all over with them. You need not +preach simplicity to me. + +HE. I never thought of doing so, dearest: I know that these +trivialities are nothing to you. What was I saying--oh yes. +Instead of coming back here from the theatre, you will come with +me to my home--now and henceforth our home--and in due course of +time, when you are divorced, we shall go through whatever idle +legal ceremony you may desire. I attach no importance to the +law: my love was not created in me by the law, nor can it be +bound or loosed by it. That is simple enough, and sweet enough, +is it not? [He takes the flower from the table]. Here are flowers +for you: I have the tickets: we will ask your husband to lend us +the carriage to show that there is no malice, no grudge, between +us. Come! + +SHE [spiritlessly, taking the flowers without looking at them, +and temporizing] Teddy isn't in yet. + +HE. Well, let us take that calmly. Let us go to the theatre as if +nothing had happened. and tell him when we come back. Now or +three hours hence: to-day or to-morrow: what does it matter, +provided all is done in honor, without shame or fear? + +SHE. What did you get tickets for? Lohengrin? + +HE. I tried; but Lohengrin was sold out for to-night. [He takes +out two Court Theatre tickets]. + +SHE. Then what did you get? + +HE. Can you ask me? What is there besides Lohengrin that we two +could endure, except Candida? + +SHE [springing up] Candida! No, I won't go to it again, Henry +[tossing the flower on the piano]. It is that play that has done +all the mischief. I'm very sorry I ever saw it: it ought to be +stopped. + +HE [amazed] Aurora! + +SHE. Yes: I mean it. + +HE. That divinest love poem! the poem that gave us courage to +speak to one another! that revealed to us what we really felt for +one another! That-- + +SHE. Just so. It put a lot of stuff into my head that I should +never have dreamt of for myself. I imagined myself just like +Candida. + +HE [catching her hands and looking earnestly at her] You were +right. You are like Candida. + +SHE [snatching her hands away] Oh, stuff! And I thought you were +just like Eugene. [Looking critically at him] Now that I come to +look at you, you are rather like him, too. [She throws herself +discontentedly into the nearest seat, which happens to be the +bench at the piano. He goes to her]. + +HE [very earnestly] Aurora: if Candida had loved Eugene she would +have gone out into the night with him without a moment's +hesitation. + +SHE [with equal earnestness] Henry: do you know what's wanting in +that play? + +HE. There is nothing wanting in it. + +SHE. Yes there is. There's a Georgina wanting in it. If Georgina +had been there to make trouble, that play would have been a +true-to-life tragedy. Now I'll tell you something about it that I +have never told you before. + +HE. What is that? + +SHE. I took Teddy to it. I thought it would do him good; and so +it would if I could only have kept him awake. Georgina came too; +and you should have heard the way she went on about it. She said +it was downright immoral, and that she knew the sort of woman +that encourages boys to sit on the hearthrug and make love to +her. She was just preparing Teddy's mind to poison it about me. + +HE. Let us be just to Georgina, dearest + +SHE. Let her deserve it first. Just to Georgina, indeed! + +HE. She really sees the world in that way. That is her +punishment. + +SHE. How can it be her punishment when she likes it? It'll be my +punishment when she brings that budget of poems to Teddy. I wish +you'd have some sense, and sympathize with my position a little. + +HE. [going away from the piano and beginning to walk about rather +testily] My dear: I really don't care about Georgina or about +Teddy. All these squabbles belong to a plane on which I am, as +you say, no use. I have counted the cost; and I do not fear the +consequences. After all, what is there to fear? Where is the +difficulty? What can Georgina do? What can your husband do? What +can anybody do? + +SHE. Do you mean to say that you propose that we should walk +right bang up to Teddy and tell him we're going away together? + +HE. Yes. What can be simpler? + +SHE. And do you think for a moment he'd stand it, like that +half-baked clergyman in the play? He'd just kill you. + +HE [coming to a sudden stop and speaking with considerable +confidence] You don't understand these things, my darling, +how could you? In one respect I am unlike the poet in the play. I +have followed the Greek ideal and not neglected the culture of my +body. Your husband would make a tolerable second-rate heavy +weight if he were in training and ten years younger. As it is, he +could, if strung up to a great effort by a burst of passion, give +a good account of himself for perhaps fifteen seconds. But I am +active enough to keep out of his reach for fifteen seconds; and +after that I should be simply all over him. + +SHE [rising and coming to him in consternation] What do you mean +by all over him? + +HE [gently] Don't ask me, dearest. At all events, I swear to you +that you need not be anxious about me. + +SHE. And what about Teddy? Do you mean to tell me that you are +going to beat Teddy before my face like a brutal prizefighter? + +HE. All this alarm is needless, dearest. Believe me, nothing will +happen. Your husband knows that I am capable of defending myself. +Under such circumstances nothing ever does happen. And of course +I shall do nothing. The man who once loved you is sacred to me. + +SHE [suspiciously] Doesn't he love me still? Has he told you +anything? + +HE. No, no. [He takes her tenderly in his arms]. Dearest, +dearest: how agitated you are! how unlike yourself! All these +worries belong to the lower plane. Come up with me to the higher +one. The heights, the solitudes, the soul world! + +SHE [avoiding his gaze] No: stop: it's no use, Mr Apjohn. + +HE [recoiling] Mr Apjohn!!! + +SHE. Excuse me: I meant Henry, of course. + +HE. How could you even think of me as Mr Apjohn? I never think of +you as Mrs Bompas: it is always Cand-- I mean Aurora, Aurora, +Auro-- + +SHE. Yes, yes: that's all very well, Mr Apjohn [He is about to +interrupt again: but she won't have it] no: it's no use: I've +suddenly begun to think of you as Mr Apjohn; and it's ridiculous +to go on calling you Henry. I thought you were only a boy, a +child, a dreamer. I thought you would be too much afraid to do +anything. And now you want to beat Teddy and to break up my home +and disgrace me and make a horrible scandal in the papers. It's +cruel, unmanly, cowardly. + +HE [with grave wonder] Are you afraid? + +SHE. Oh, of course I'm afraid. So would you be if you had any +common sense. [She goes to the hearth, turning her back to him, +and puts one tapping foot on the fender]. + +HE [watching her with great gravity] Perfect love casteth out +fear. That is why I am not afraid. Mrs Bompas: you do not love +me. + +SHE [turning to him with a gasp of relief] Oh, thank you, thank +you! You really can be very nice, Henry. + +HE. Why do you thank me? + +SHE [coming prettily to him from the fireplace] For calling me +Mrs Bompas again. I feel now that you are going to be reasonable +and behave like a gentleman. [He drops on the stool; covers his +face with his hand; and groans]. What's the matter? + +HE. Once or twice in my life I have dreamed that I was +exquisitely happy and blessed. But oh! the misgiving at the first +stir of consciousness! the stab of reality! the prison walls of +the bedroom! the bitter, bitter disappointment of waking! And +this time! oh, this time I thought I was awake. + +SHE. Listen to me, Henry: we really haven't time for all that +sort of flapdoodle now. [He starts to his feet as if she had +pulled a trigger and straightened him by the release of a +powerful spring, and goes past her with set teeth to the little +table]. Oh, take care: you nearly hit me in the chin with the top +of your head. + +HE [with fierce politeness] I beg your pardon. What is it you +want me to do? I am at your service. I am ready to behave like a +gentleman if you will be kind enough to explain exactly how. + +SHE [a little frightened] Thank you, Henry: I was sure you would. +You're not angry with me, are you? + +HE. Go on. Go on quickly. Give me something to think about, or I +will--I will--[he suddenly snatches up her fan and it about to +break it in his clenched fists]. + +SHE [running forward and catching at the fan, with loud +lamentation] Don't break my fan--no, don't. [He slowly relaxes +his grip of it as she draws it anxiously out of his hands]. +No, really, that's a stupid trick. I don't like that. You've no +right to do that. [She opens the fan, and finds that the sticks +are disconnected]. Oh, how could you be so inconsiderate? + +HE. I beg your pardon. I will buy you a new one. + +SHE [querulously] You will never be able to match it. And it was +a particular favorite of mine. + +HE [shortly] Then you will have to do without it: that's all. + +SHE. That's not a very nice thing to say after breaking my pet +fan, I think. + +HE. If you knew how near I was to breaking Teddy's pet wife and +presenting him with the pieces, you would be thankful that you +are alive instead of--of--of howling about five shillings worth +of ivory. Damn your fan! + +SHE. Oh! Don't you dare swear in my presence. One would think you +were my husband. + +HE [again collapsing on the stool] This is some horrible dream. +What has become of you? You are not my Aurora. + +SHE. Oh, well, if you come to that, what has become of you? Do +you think I would ever have encouraged you if I had known you +were such a little devil? + +HE. Don't drag me down--don't--don't. Help me to find the way +back to the heights. + +SHE [kneeling beside him and pleading] If you would only be +reasonable, Henry. If you would only remember that I am on the +brink of ruin, and not go on calmly saying it's all quite simple. + +HE. It seems so to me. + +SHE [jumping up distractedly] If you say that again I shall do +something I'll be sorry for. Here we are, standing on the edge of +a frightful precipice. No doubt it's quite simple to go over and +have done with it. But can't you suggest anything more agreeable? + +HE. I can suggest nothing now. A chill black darkness has +fallen: I can see nothing but the ruins of our dream. [He rises +with a deep sigh]. + +SHE. Can't you? Well, I can. I can see Georgina rubbing those +poems into Teddy. [Facing him determinedly] And I tell you, Henry +Apjohn, that you got me into this mess; and you must get me out +of it again. + +HE [polite and hopeless] All I can say is that I am entirely at +your service. What do you wish me to do? + +SHE. Do you know anybody else named Aurora? + +HE. No. + +SHE. There's no use in saying No in that frozen pigheaded way. +You must know some Aurora or other somewhere. + +HE. You said you were the only Aurora in the world. And [lifting +his clasped fists with a sudden return of his emotion] oh God! +you were the only Aurora in the world to me. [He turns away from +her, hiding his face]. + +SHE [petting him] Yes, yes, dear: of course. It's very nice of +you; and I appreciate it: indeed I do; but it's not reasonable +just at present. Now just listen to me. I suppose you know all +those poems by heart. + +HE. Yes, by heart. [Raising his head and looking at her, with a +sudden suspicion] Don't you? + +SHE. Well, I never can remember verses; and besides, I've been so +busy that I've not had time to read them all; though I intend to +the very first moment I can get: I promise you that most +faithfully, Henry. But now try and remember very particularly. +Does the name of Bompas occur in any of the poems? + +HE [indignantly] No. + +SHE. You're quite sure? + +HE. Of course I am quite sure. How could I use such a name in a +poem? + +SHE. Well, I don't see why not. It rhymes to rumpus, which seems +appropriate enough at present, goodness knows! However, you're a +poet, and you ought to know. + +HE. What does it matter--now? + +SHE. It matters a lot, I can tell you. If there's nothing about +Bompas in the poems, we can say that they were written to some +other Aurora, and that you showed them to me because my name was +Aurora too. So you've got to invent another Aurora for the +occasion. + +HE [very coldly] Oh, if you wish me to tell a lie-- + +SHE. Surely, as a man of honor--as a gentleman, you wouldn't tell +the truth, would you? + +HE. Very well. You have broken my spirit and desecrated my +dreams. I will lie and protest and stand on my honor: oh, I will +play the gentleman, never fear. + +SHE. Yes, put it all on me, of course. Don't be mean, Henry. + +HE [rousing himself with an effort] You are quite right, Mrs +Bompas: I beg your pardon. You must excuse my temper. I have got +growing pains, I think. + +SHE. Growing pains! + +HE. The process of growing from romantic boyhood into cynical +maturity usually takes fifteen years. When it is compressed into +fifteen minutes, the pace is too fast; and growing pains are the +result. + +SHE. Oh, is this a time for cleverness? It's settled, isn't it, +that you're going to be nice and good, and that you'll brazen it +out to Teddy that you have some other Aurora? + +HE. Yes: I'm capable of anything now. I should not have told him +the truth by halves; and now I will not lie by halves. I'll +wallow in the honor of a gentleman. + +SHE. Dearest boy, I knew you would. I--Sh! [she rushes to the +door, and holds it ajar, listening breathlessly]. + +HE. What is it? + +SHE [white with apprehension] It's Teddy: I hear him tapping the +new barometer. He can't have anything serious on his mind or he +wouldn't do that. Perhaps Georgina hasn't said anything. [She +steals back to the hearth]. Try and look as if there was nothing +the matter. Give me my gloves, quick. [He hands them to her. She +pulls on one hastily and begins buttoning it with ostentatious +unconcern]. Go further away from me, quick. [He walks doggedly +away from her until the piano prevents his going farther]. If I +button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, don't you think +that-- + +HE. The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. For Heaven's +sake, Mrs Bompas, let that glove alone: you look like a +pickpocket. + +Her husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well groomed city +man, with a strong chin but a blithering eye and credulous mouth. +He has a momentous air, but shows no sign of displeasure: rather +the contrary. + +HER HUSBAND. Hallo! I thought you two were at the theatre. + +SHE. I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didn't you come home to +dinner? + +HER HUSBAND. I got a message from Georgina. She wanted me to go +to her. + +SHE. Poor dear Georgina! I'm sorry I haven't been able to call on +her this last week. I hope there's nothing the matter with her. + +HER HUSBAND. Nothing, except anxiety for my welfare and yours. +[She steals a terrified look at Henry]. By, the way, Apjohn, I +should like a word with you this evening, if Aurora can spare you +for a moment. + +HE [formally] I am at your service. + +HER HUSBAND. No hurry. After the theatre will do. + +HE. We have decided not to go. + +HER HUSBAND. Indeed! Well, then, shall we adjourn to my snuggery? + +SHE. You needn't move. I shall go and lock up my diamonds since +I'm not going to the theatre. Give me my things. + +HER HUSBAND [as he hands her the cloud and the mirror] Well, we +shall have more room here. + +HE [looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose] I think I +should prefer plenty of room. + +HER HUSBAND. So, if it's not disturbing you, Rory--? + +SHE. Not at all. [She goes out]. + +When the two men are alone together, Bompas deliberately takes +the poems from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; +then looks at Henry, mutely inviting his attention. Henry refuses +to understand, doing his best to look unconcerned. + +HER HUSBAND. Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, +may I ask? + +HE. Manuscripts? + +HER HUSBAND. Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer? +[He proffers them under Henry's nose]. + +HE [as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise] Why, these +are my poems. + +HER HUSBAND. So I gather. + +HE. What a shame! Mrs Bompas has shown them to you! You must +think me an utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading +Swinburne's Songs Before Sunrise. Nothing would do me then but I +must reel off a set of Songs to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know: +the rosy fingered Aurora. They're all about Aurora. When Mrs +Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldn't resist the +temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didn't bargain for +your unsympathetic eyes. + +HER HUSBAND [grinning] Apjohn: that's really very ready of you. +You are cut out for literature; and the day will come when Rory +and I will be proud to have you about the house. I have heard far +thinner stories from much older men. + +HE [with an air of great surprise] Do you mean to imply that you +don't believe me? + +HER HUSBAND. Do you expect me to believe you? + +HE. Why not? I don't understand. + +HER HUSBAND. Come! Don't underrate your own cleverness, Apjohn. I +think you understand pretty well. + +HE. I assure you I am quite at a loss. Can you not be a little +more explicit? + +HER HUSBAND. Don't overdo it, old chap. However, I will just be +so far explicit as to say that if you think these poems read as +if they were addressed, not to a live woman, but to a shivering +cold time of day at which you were never out of bed in your life, +you hardly do justice to your own literary powers--which I admire +and appreciate, mind you, as much as any man. Come! own up. You +wrote those poems to my wife. [An internal struggle prevents +Henry from answering]. Of course you did. [He throws the poems on +the table; and goes to the hearthrug, where he plants himself +solidly, chuckling a little and waiting for the next move]. + +HE [formally and carefully] Mr Bompas: I pledge you my word you +are mistaken. I need not tell you that Mrs Bompas is a lady of +stainless honor, who has never cast an unworthy thought on me. +The fact that she has shown you my poems-- + +HER HUSBAND. That's not a fact. I came by them without her +knowledge. She didn't show them to me. + +HE. Does not that prove their perfect innocence? She would have +shown them to you at once if she had taken your quite unfounded +view of them. + +HER HUSBAND [shaken] Apjohn: play fair. Don't abuse your +intellectual gifts. Do you really mean that I am making a fool of +myself? + +HE [earnestly] Believe me, you are. I assure you, on my honor as +a gentleman, that I have never had the slightest feeling for Mrs +Bompas beyond the ordinary esteem and regard of a pleasant +acquaintance. + +HER HUSBAND [shortly, showing ill humor for the first time] Oh, +indeed. [He leaves his hearth and begins to approach Henry +slowly, looking him up and down with growing resentment]. + +HE [hastening to improve the impression made by his mendacity] I +should never have dreamt of writing poems to her. The thing is +absurd. + +HER HUSBAND [reddening ominously] Why is it absurd? + +HE [shrugging his shoulders] Well, it happens that I do not +admire Mrs Bompas--in that way. + +HER HUSBAND [breaking out in Henry's face] Let me tell you that +Mrs Bompas has been admired by better men than you, you soapy +headed little puppy, you. + +HE [much taken aback] There is no need to insult me like this. I +assure you, on my honor as a-- + +HER HUSBAND [too angry to tolerate a reply, and boring Henry more +and more towards the piano] You don't admire Mrs Bompas! You +would never dream of writing poems to Mrs Bompas! My wife's not +good enough for you, isn't she. [Fiercely] Who are you, pray, +that you should be so jolly superior? + +HE. Mr Bompas: I can make allowances for your jealousy-- + +HER HUSBAND. Jealousy! do you suppose I'm jealous of YOU? No, nor +of ten like you. But if you think I'll stand here and let you +insult my wife in her own house, you're mistaken. + +HE [very uncomfortable with his back against the piano and Teddy +standing over him threateningly] How can I convince you? Be +reasonable. I tell you my relations with Mrs Bompas are relations +of perfect coldness--of indifference-- + +HER HUSBAND [scornfully] Say it again: say it again. You're proud +of it, aren't you? Yah! You're not worth kicking. + +Henry suddenly executes the feat known to pugilists as dipping, +and changes sides with Teddy, who it now between Henry and the +piano. + +HE. Look here: I'm not going to stand this. + +HER HUSBAND. Oh, you have some blood in your body after all! Good +job! + +HE. This is ridiculous. I assure you Mrs. Bompas is quite-- + +HER HUSBAND. What is Mrs Bompas to you, I'd like to know. I'll +tell you what Mrs Bompas is. She's the smartest woman in the +smartest set in South Kensington, and the handsomest, and the +cleverest, and the most fetching to experienced men who know a +good thing when they see it, whatever she may be to conceited +penny-a-lining puppies who think nothing good enough for them. +It's admitted by the best people; and not to know it argues +yourself unknown. Three of our first actor-managers have offered +her a hundred a week if she'd go on the stage when they start a +repertory theatre; and I think they know what they're about as +well as you. The only member of the present Cabinet that you +might call a handsome man has neglected the business of the +country to dance with her, though he don't belong to our set as a +regular thing. One of the first professional poets in Bedford +Park wrote a sonnet to her, worth all your amateur trash. At +Ascot last season the eldest son of a duke excused himself from +calling on me on the ground that his feelings for Mrs Bompas were +not consistent with his duty to me as host; and it did him honor +and me too. But [with gathering fury] she isn't good enough for +you, it seems. You regard her with coldness, with indifference; +and you have the cool cheek to tell me so to my face. For two +pins I'd flatten your nose in to teach you manners. Introducing a +fine woman to you is casting pearls before swine [yelling at him] +before SWINE! d'ye hear? + +HE [with a deplorable lack of polish] You call me a swine again +and I'll land you one on the chin that'll make your head sing for +a week. + +HER HUSBAND [exploding] What--! + +He charges at Henry with bull-like fury. Henry places himself on +guard in the manner of a well taught boxer, and gets away +smartly, but unfortunately forgets the stool which is just behind +him. He falls backwards over it, unintentionally pushing it +against the shins of Bompas, who falls forward over it. Mrs +Bompas, with a scream, rushes into the room between the sprawling +champions, and sits down on the floor in order to get her right +arm round her husband's neck. + +SHE. You shan't, Teddy: you shan't. You will be killed: he is a +prizefighter. + +HER HUSBAND [vengefully] I'll prizefight him. [He struggles +vainly to free himself from her embrace]. + +SHE. Henry: don't let him fight you. Promise me that you won't. + +HE [ruefully] I have got a most frightful bump on the back of my +head. [He tries to rise]. + +SHE [reaching out her left hand to seize his coat tail, and +pulling him down again, whilst keeping fast hold of Teddy with +the other hand] Not until you have promised: not until you both +have promised. [Teddy tries to rise: she pulls him back again]. +Teddy: you promise, don't you? Yes, yes. Be good: you promise. + +HER HUSBAND. I won't, unless he takes it back. + +SHE. He will: he does. You take it back, Henry?--yes. + +HE [savagely] Yes. I take it back. [She lets go his coat. He gets +up. So does Teddy]. I take it all back, all, without reserve. + +SHE [on the carpet] Is nobody going to help me up? [They each +take a hand and pull her up]. Now won't you shake hands and be +good? + +HE [recklessly] I shall do nothing of the sort. I have steeped +myself in lies for your sake; and the only reward I get is a lump +on the back of my head the size of an apple. Now I will go back +to the straight path. + +SHE. Henry: for Heaven's sake-- + +HE. It's no use. Your husband is a fool and a brute-- + +HER HUSBAND. What's that you say? + +HE. I say you are a fool and a brute; and if you'll step outside +with me I'll say it again. [Teddy begins to take off his coat for +combat]. Those poems were written to your wife, every word of +them, and to nobody else. [The scowl clears away from Bompas's +countenance. Radiant, he replaces his coat]. I wrote them because +I loved her. I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world; +and I told her so over and over again. I adored her: do you hear? +I told her that you were a sordid commercial chump, utterly +unworthy of her; and so you are. + +HER HUSBAND [so gratified, he can hardly believe his ears] You +don't mean it! + +HE. Yes, I do mean it, and a lot more too. I asked Mrs Bompas to +walk out of the house with me--to leave you--to get divorced from +you and marry me. I begged and implored her to do it this very +night. It was her refusal that ended everything between us. +[Looking very disparagingly at him] What she can see in you, +goodness only knows! + +HER HUSBAND [beaming with remorse] My dear chap, why didn't you +say so before? I apologize. Come! Don't bear malice: shake hands. +Make him shake hands, Rory. + +SHE. For my sake, Henry. After all, he's my husband. Forgive him. +Take his hand. [Henry, dazed, lets her take his hand and place it +in Teddy's]. + +HER HUSBAND [shaking it heartily] You've got to own that none of +your literary heroines can touch my Rory. [He turns to her and +claps her with fond pride on the shoulder]. Eh, Rory? They can't +resist you: none of em. Never knew a man yet that could hold out +three days. + +SHE. Don't be foolish, Teddy. I hope you were not really hurt, +Henry. [She feels the back of his head. He flinches]. Oh, poor +boy, what a bump! I must get some vinegar and brown paper. [She +goes to the bell and rings]. + +HER HUSBAND. Will you do me a great favor, Apjohn. I hardly like +to ask; but it would be a real kindness to us both. + +HE. What can I do? + +HER HUSBAND [taking up the poems] Well, may I get these printed? +It shall be done in the best style. The finest paper, sumptuous +binding, everything first class. They're beautiful poems. I +should like to show them about a bit. + +SHE [running back from the bell, delighted with the idea, and +coming between them] Oh Henry, if you wouldn't mind! + +HE. Oh, I don't mind. I am past minding anything. I have grown +too fast this evening. + +SHE. How old are you, Henry? + +HE. This morning I was eighteen. Now I am--confound it! I'm +quoting that beast of a play [he takes the Candida tickets out of +his pocket and tears them up viciously]. + +HER HUSBAND. What shall we call the volume? To Aurora, or +something like that, eh? + +HE. I should call it How He Lied to Her Husband. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's How He Lied to Her Husband by George Bernard Shaw + diff --git a/old/lied210.zip b/old/lied210.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..945bef4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lied210.zip |