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A PROFESSOR OF PHONETICS

As will be seen later on, Pygmalion needs, nota preface, but a sequel, which I have supplied inits due place.

The English have no respect for their lan-guage, and will not teach their children tospeak it. They spell it so abominably that noman can teach himself what it sounds like. It is impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making some otherEnglishman hate or despise him. German andSpanish are accessible to foreigners: English isnot accessible even to Englishmen. Thereformer England needs today is an energeticphonetic enthusiast: that is why I have madesuch a one the hero of a popular play. Therehave been heroes of that kind crying in thewilderness for many years past. When I becameinterested in the subject towards the end of theeighteen-seventies, the illustrious AlexanderMelville Bell,1 the inventor of Visible Speech,2

had emigrated to Canada, where his son3 invented the telephone; but AlexanderJ. Ellis4 was still a London patriarch, with animpressive head always covered by a velvetskull cap, for which he would apologize topublic meetings in a very courtly manner. Heand Tito Pagliardini, another phonetic vet-eran, were men whom it was impossible todislike. Henry Sweet,5 then a young man,lacked their sweetness of character: he wasabout as conciliatory to conventional mor-tals as Ibsen or Samuel Butler. His great abil-ity as a phonetician (he was, I think, the bestof them all at his job) would have entitledhim to high official recognition, and perhapsenabled him to popularize his subject, but forhis Satanic contempt for all academic digni-taries and persons in general who thoughtmore of Greek than of phonetics. Once, in

conciliatory (kən sil�e ə t�or e) adj. friendly in an attempt to gain goodwill or overcome distrust

Vocabulary

1. Alexander Melville Bell (1819–1905) was a U.S. educator andleading authority in speech patterns and speech correction.

2. Published in 1867, Visible Speech introduced a method ofphonetic notation, or symbolic representation of spokensound, for the hearing and speech impaired.

3. Bell’s son was Alexander Graham Bell (1847–1922), inventorof the telephone. Both father and son were teachers of thehearing and speech impaired.

4. Alexander J. Ellis (1814–1819) was a British phonetician, orspecialist in the study and classification of the sounds madein a spoken language.

5. Henry Sweet (1845–1912) was one of the founders of modern British phonetics.

PYGMALION, PREFACE � 923

Henry Higgins Mrs. Eynsford Hill Count Nepommuck

Colonel Pickering Miss Eynsford Hill Host

Freddy Eynsford Hill Mrs. Higgins Hostess

Alfred Doolittle Mrs. Pearce Footmen

Bystanders Parlormaid Constables

Eliza Doolittle Taximen

the days when the Imperial Institute6 rose inSouth Kensington,7 and Joseph Chamberlain8

was booming the Empire, I induced the editorof a leading monthly review to commission an article from Sweet on the imperial impor-tance of his subject. When it arrived, it con-tained nothing but a savagely derisive attackon a professor of language and literature whosechair9 Sweet regarded as proper to a phoneticexpert only. The article, being libelous, had to be returned as impossible; and I had to

renounce my dream of dragging its author intothe limelight. When I met him afterwards, forthe first time for many years, I found to myastonishment that he, who had been a quitetolerably presentable young man, had actuallymanaged by sheer scorn to alter his personalappearance until he had become a sort of walk-ing repudiation of Oxford and all its traditions.It must have been largely in his own despite10

that he was squeezed into something called aReadership11 of phonetics there. The future ofphonetics rests probably with his pupils, whoall swore by him; but nothing could bring theman himself into any sort of compliance withthe university to which he nevertheless clung

derisive (di r ��siv) adj. mocking; ridiculingrepudiation (ri pu de a�shən) n. the act of refusing to have anything to do with; rejection

Vocabulary

6. The Imperial Institute, currently the Commonwealth Institute,began in 1887 with the purpose of promoting the BritishEmpire among its nations and colonies.

7. South Kensington is a section of London.8. Joseph Chamberlain (1836–1914) was a British politician and

ardent imperialist, or supporter of the British Empire.9. Here, chair refers to the position of professor.

10. Here, despite means “contemptuous behavior.”11. A Readership is a university instructorship.

924 � UNIT 6: THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Piccadilly (One Winter Day in London), 1875. Giuseppe de Nittis. Oil on wood, 84 x 120 cm. Collection of Gaetano Marzotto.Viewing the painting: What sense of London society do you gain from this painting?

by divine right in an intensely Oxonian12 way.I daresay his papers, if he has left any, includesome satires that may be published without toodestructive results fifty years hence. He was, Ibelieve, not in the least an ill-natured man:very much the opposite, I should say; but hewould not suffer fools gladly.

Those who knew him will recognize in mythird act the allusion to the patent shorthandin which he used to write postcards, andwhich may be acquired from a four and six-penny manual published by the ClarendonPress. The postcards which Mrs. Higginsdescribes are such as I have received fromSweet. I would decipher a sound which acockney would represent by zerr, and aFrenchman by seu, and then write demandingwith some heat what on earth it meant.Sweet, with boundless contempt for my stu-pidity, would reply that it not only meant butobviously was the word Result, as no otherword containing that sound, and capable ofmaking sense with the context, existed in anylanguage spoken on earth. That less expertmortals should require fuller indications wasbeyond Sweet’s patience. Therefore, thoughthe whole point of his Current Shorthand isthat it can express every sound in the lan-guage perfectly, vowels as well as consonants,and that your hand has to make no strokeexcept the easy and current ones with whichyou write m, n, and u, l, p, and q, scribblingthem at whatever angle comes easiest to you,his unfortunate determination to make thisremarkable and quite legible script serve alsoas a shorthand reduced it in his own practiceto the most inscrutable of cryptograms.13 Histrue objective was the provision of a full,accurate, legible script for our noble but

ill-dressed language; but he was led past that byhis contempt for the popular Pitman system14

of shorthand, which he called the Pitfall sys-tem. The triumph of Pitman was a triumph ofbusiness organization: there was a weeklypaper to persuade you to learn Pitman: therewere cheap textbooks and exercise books andtranscripts of speeches for you to copy, andschools where experienced teachers coachedyou up to the necessary proficiency. Sweetcould not organize his market in that fashion.He might as well have been the Sybil15 whotore up the leaves of prophecy that nobodywould attend to. The four and sixpenny man-ual, mostly in his lithographed handwriting,that was never vulgarly advertised, may per-haps some day be taken up by a syndicate andpushed upon the public as The Times pushedthe Encyclopædia Britannica; but until then itwill certainly not prevail against Pitman. Ihave bought three copies of it during my life-time; and I am informed by the publishers thatits cloistered existence is still a steady andhealthy one. I actually learned the system twoseveral times; and yet the shorthand in whichI am writing these lines is Pitman’s. And thereason is, that my secretary cannot transcribeSweet, having been perforce taught in theschools of Pitman. Therefore, Sweet railed atPitman 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 ofSweet, to whom the adventure of ElizaDoolittle would have been impossible; still, aswill be seen, there are touches of Sweet in theplay. With Higgins’s physique and tempera-ment Sweet might have set the Thames on

George Bernard Shaw

inscrutable (in skr¯ ¯oo�tə bəl) adj. difficult to understandVocabulary

12. Oxonian means “characteristic of Oxford University.”13. Cryptograms are coded messages.

14. The Pitman system was invented in 1837 by British educatorIsaac Pitman (1813–1897).

15. In Greek and Roman mythology, a Sybil is a prophet.

PYGMALION, PREFACE � 925

fire. As it was, he impressed himself profes-sionally on Europe to an extent that made hiscomparative personal obscurity, and the failureof Oxford to do justice to his eminence, a puz-zle to foreign specialists in his subject. I do notblame Oxford, because I think Oxford is quiteright in demanding a certain social amenityfrom its nurslings (heaven knows it is not exor-bitant in its requirements!); for although I wellknow how hard it is for a man of genius with aseriously underrated subject to maintain sereneand kindly relations with the men who under-rate it, and who keep all the best places for lessimportant subjects which they profess withoutoriginality and sometimes without muchcapacity for them, still, if he overwhelms themwith wrath and disdain, he cannot expectthem to heap honors on him.

Of the later generations of phoneticians Iknow little. Among them towers the PoetLaureate, to whom perhaps Higgins may owehis Miltonic sympathies, though here again Imust disclaim all portraiture. But if the playmakes the public aware that there are suchpeople as phoneticians, and that they areamong the most important people in Englandat present, it will serve its turn.

I wish to boast that Pygmalion has been anextremely successful play all over Europe andNorth America as well as at home. It is sointensely and deliberately didactic, and its sub-ject is esteemed so dry, that I delight in throw-ing it at the heads of the wiseacres who repeatthe parrot cry that art should never be didac-tic. It goes to prove my contention that artshould never be anything else.

Finally, and for the encouragement of people troubled with accents that cut them off from all high employment, I mayadd that the change wrought by ProfessorHiggins in the flower-girl is neither impossiblenor uncommon. The modern concierge’sdaughter who fulfills her ambition by playingthe Queen of Spain in Ruy Blas at the ThéâtreFrançais is only one of many thousands of men

and women who have sloughed off their nativedialects and acquired a new tongue. Our WestEnd shop assistants and domestic servants arebilingual. But the thing has to be done scien-tifically, or the last state of the aspirant may beworse than the first. An honest slum dialect ismore tolerable than the attempts of phoneti-cally untaught persons to imitate the plutoc-racy. Ambitious flower-girls who read this playmust not imagine that they can pass them-selves off as fine ladies by untutored imitation.They must learn their alphabet over again, anddifferently, from a phonetic expert. Imitationwill only make them ridiculous.

didactic (d� dak�tik) adj. intended to instruct or moralizeVocabulary


[London at 11:15 P.M. Torrents of heavy summer rain.Cab whistles blowing frantically in all directions.Pedestrians running for shelter into the portico of St.Paul’s church (not Wren’s cathedral but Inigo Jones’schurch in Covent Garden vegetable market), amongthem a LADY and her DAUGHTER in evening dress.All are peering out gloomily at the rain, except one manwith his back turned to the rest, wholly preoccupiedwith a notebook in which he is writing.]

[The church clock strikes the first quarter.]THE DAUGHTER. [In the space between the centralpillars, close to the one on her left.] I’m getting chilledto the bone. What can Freddy be doing all thistime? He’s been gone twenty minutes.THE MOTHER. [On her DAUGHTER’s right.] Not solong. But he ought to have got us a cab by this.A BYSTANDER. [On the LADY’s right.] He won’t getno cab not until half-past eleven, missus, whenthey come back after dropping their theater fares.THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can’tstand 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 theater door.THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Whycouldn’t he?

[FREDDY rushes in out of the rain from theSouthampton Street side and comes between themclosing a dripping umbrella. He is a young man oftwenty, 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 ormoney.THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. Youcan’t have tried.THE DAUGHTER. It’s too tiresome. Do you expectus to go and get one ourselves?FREDDY. I tell you they’re all engaged. The rainwas so sudden: nobody was prepared; and every-body had to take a cab. I’ve been to Charing Crossone 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 havefound a cab.FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing.THE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we tostay here all night in this draft, with next to noth-ing on? You selfish pig—FREDDY. Oh, very well: I’ll go, I’ll go. [He opens hisumbrella and dashes off Strandwards, but comes intocollision with a FLOWER GIRL, who is hurrying in forshelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. A blind-ing flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattlingpeal 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 flowersand replacing them in the basket.] There’s menners f’yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod into the mad. [Shesits down on the plinth1 of the column, sorting her flow-ers, on the LADY’s right. She is not at all a romantic fig-ure. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardlyolder. She wears a little sailor hat of black straw that haslong been exposed to the dust and soot of London and hasseldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washingrather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. Shewears a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her kneesand is shaped to her waist. She has a brown skirt with acoarse apron. Her boots are much the worse for wear.She is no doubt as clean as she can afford to be; but com-pared to the ladies she is very dirty. Her features are noworse than theirs; but their condition leaves something tobe desired; and she needs the services of a dentist.]THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son’sname is Freddy, pray?THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal,fewd dan y’ de-ooty bawmz a mather should, eednow bettern to spawl a pore gel’s flahrzn than ranawy athaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f’ them? [Here,with apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her

PYGMALION, ACT 1 � 927

1. A plinth is a slab on which a column is placed.


A flower seller in London at the turn of the twentieth century.

Viewing the photograph: What does this photograph of a street vendor help you understand aboutthe flower girl?

dialect without a phonetic alphabet must be abandonedas unintelligible outside London.]THE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, Mother.The idea!THE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have youany pennies?THE DAUGHTER. No. I’ve nothing smaller thansixpence.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Hopefully.] I can give youchange for a tanner, kind lady.THE MOTHER. [To CLARA.] Give it to me.[CLARA parts reluctantly.] Now [To the GIRL.] this isfor 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 theGIRL.] You can keep the change.THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know thatyoung gentleman’s name.THE FLOWER GIRL. I didn’t.THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don’t tryto deceive me.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Protesting.] Who’s trying todeceive you? I called him Freddy or Charlie same asyou might yourself if you was talking to a strangerand wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside herbasket.]THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really,Mamma, you might have spared Freddy that. [Sheretreats in disgust behind the pillar.]

[An elderly GENTLEMAN of the amiable militarytype rushes into the shelter, and closes a drippingumbrella. He is in the same plight as FREDDY, verywet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with alight overcoat. He takes the place left vacant by theDAUGHTER.]

THE GENTLEMAN. Phew!THE MOTHER. [To the GENTLEMAN.] Oh, sir, isthere any sign of its stopping?THE GENTLEMAN. I’m afraid not. It started worsethan 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 joinsher DAUGHTER.]THE FLOWER GIRL. [Taking advantage of the militaryGENTLEMAN’s proximity to establish friendly relationswith him.] If it’s worse, it’s a sign it’s nearly over. Socheer 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 GENTLEMAN. For a sovereign? I’ve nothingless.THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower offme, Captain. I can change half-a-crown. Take thisfor tuppence.THE GENTLEMAN. Now don’t be troublesome:there’s a good girl. [Trying his pockets.] I really haven’tany change— Stop: here’s three hapence, if that’sany use to you. [He retreats to the other pillar.]THE FLOWER GIRL. [Disappointed, but thinking threehalfpence 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 behindtaking down every blessed word you’re saying. [Allturn to the man who is taking notes.]THE FLOWER GIRL. [Springing up terrified.] I ain’tdone nothing wrong by speaking to the gentle-man. I’ve a right to sell flowers if I keep off thecurb. [Hysterically.] I’m a respectable girl: so helpme, I never spoke to him except to ask him to buya flower off me. [General hubbub, mostly sympatheticto the FLOWER GIRL, but deprecating her excessivesensibility. Cries of Don’t start hollerin’. Who’shurting you? Nobody’s going to touch you. What’sthe good of fussing? Steady on. Easy easy, etc.,come from the elderly staid spectators, who pat hercomfortingly. Less patient ones bid her shut her head,or ask her roughly what is wrong with her. A remotergroup, not knowing what the matter is, crowd in andincrease the noise with question and answer: What’sthe row? What she do? Where is he? A tec2 takingher down. What! him? Yes: him over there: Took

George Bernard Shaw

deprecating (dep�rə kat in�) adj. expressing disapproval of; belittlingVocabulary

2. Tec is slang for “detective.”


money off the gentleman, etc. The FLOWER GIRL,distraught and mobbed, breaks through them to theGENTLEMAN, crying wildly.] Oh, sir, don’t let himcharge me. You dunno what it means to me.They’ll take away my character and drive me onthe streets for speaking to gentlemen. They—THE NOTE TAKER. [Coming forward on her right, therest crowding after him.] There, there, there, there!who’s hurting you, you silly girl? What do you takeme for?THE BYSTANDER. It’s aw rawt: e’s a genleman:look at his be-oots. [Explaining to the NOTE TAKER.]She thought you was a copper’s nark, sir.THE NOTE TAKER. [With quick interest.] What’s acopper’s nark?THE BYSTANDER. [Inapt at definition.] It’s a—well,it’s a copper’s nark, as you might say. What elsewould you call it? A sort of informer.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Still hysterical.] I take my Bibleoath 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.] Thenwhat did you take down my words for? How do Iknow whether you took me down right? You justshow me what you’ve wrote about me. [The notetaker opens his book and holds it steadily under hernose, though the pressure of the mob trying to read itover his shoulders would upset a weaker man.] What’sthat? That ain’t proper writing. I can’t read that.THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing herpronunciation exactly.] “Cheer ap, Keptin; n’ baw yaflahr orf a pore gel.’’THE FLOWER GIRL. [Much distressed.] It’s because Icalled him Captain. I meant no harm. [To the GEN-TLEMAN.] Oh, sir, don’t let him lay a charge agenme for a word like that. You—THE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [Tothe NOTE TAKER.] Really, sir, if you are a detective,you need not begin protecting me against molesta-tion by young women until I ask you. Anybodycould see that the girl meant no harm.THE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY. [Demonstratingagainst police espionage.] Course they could. Whatbusiness is it of yours? You mind your own affairs.He wants promotion, he does. Taking down peo-ple’s words! Girl never said a word to him. What

harm if she did? Nice thing a girl can’t shelter fromthe rain without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [Sheis conducted by the more sympathetic demonstratorsback to her plinth, where she resumes her seat andstruggles with her emotion.]THE BYSTANDER. He ain’t a tec. He’s a bloomingbusybody: that’s what he is. I tell you, look at hisboots.THE NOTE TAKER. [Turning on him genially.] Andhow are all your people down at Selsey?THE BYSTANDER. [Suspiciously.] Who told you mypeople come from Selsey?THE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [Tothe GIRL.] How do you come to be up so far east?You were born in Lisson Grove.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Appalled.] Oh, what harm isthere in my leaving Lisson Grove? It wasn’t fit for apig 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 stopthat noise.THE GENTLEMAN. [To the GIRL.] Come, come! hecan’t touch you: you have a right to live where youplease.A SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. [Thrusting himself be-tween the NOTE TAKER and the GENTLEMAN.] ParkLane, for instance. I’d like to go into the HousingQuestion with you, I would.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Subsiding into a broodingmelancholy over her basket, and talking very low-spiritedly to herself.] I’m a good girl, I am.THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. [Not attending toher.] Do you know where I come from?THE NOTE TAKER. [Promptly.] Hoxton.

[Titterings. Popular interest in the NOTE TAKER’sperformance increases.]

THE SARCASTIC ONE. [Amazed.] Well, who said Ididn’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 peoplewhat never offered to meddle with you?SEVERAL BYSTANDERS. [Encouraged by this seemingpoint of law.] Yes: where’s your warrant?


THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. Idon’t want to have no truck with him.THE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under yourfeet, don’t you? Catch you taking liberties with agentleman!THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell him wherehe come from if you want to go fortune-telling.THE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cam-bridge, and India.THE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter.Reaction in the NOTE TAKER’s favor. Exclamations ofHe knows all about it. Told him proper. Hear himtell the toff3 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 Ishall some day.

[The rain has stopped; and the persons on the out-side of the crowd begin to drop off.]

THE FLOWER GIRL. [Resenting the reaction.] He’s no gentleman, he ain’t, to interfere with apoor girl.THE DAUGHTER. [Out of patience, pushing her wayrudely to the front and displacing the GENTLEMAN,who politely retires to the other side of the pillar.] Whaton earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if Istay in this draft any longer.THE NOTE TAKER. [To himself, hastily making anote of her pronunciation of “monia.”] Earlscourt.THE DAUGHTER. [Violently.] Will you please keepyour impertinent remarks to yourself.3. A toff is a fashionable gentleman.


Photographs are from the 1987 Broadway production of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion starring Peter O’Toole and Amanda Plummer.

THE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn’tmean to. I beg your pardon. Your mother’s Epsom,unmistakeably.THE MOTHER. [Advancing between her DAUGHTERand the NOTE TAKER.] How very curious! I wasbrought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom.THE NOTE TAKER. [Uproariously amused.] Ha! ha!What a devil of a name! Excuse me. [To the DAUGH-TER.] You want a cab, do you?THE DAUGHTER. Don’t dare speak to me.THE MOTHER. Oh please, please, Clara. [Herdaughter repudiates her with an angry shrug and retireshaughtily.] We should be so grateful to you, sir, ifyou found us a cab. [The NOTE TAKER produces awhistle.] Oh, thank you. [She joins her DAUGHTER.]

[The NOTE TAKER blows a piercing blast.]THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed hewas a plainclothes copper.THE BYSTANDER. That ain’t a police whistle:that’s a sporting whistle.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Still preoccupied with her wound-ed feelings.] He’s no right to take away my character.4

My character is the same to me as any lady’s.THE NOTE TAKER. I don’t know whether you’venoticed it; but the rain stopped about two minutes ago.THE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn’t you say sobefore? and us losing our time listening to your silli-ness! [He walks off towards the Strand.]THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where youcome from. You come from Anwell. Go back there.THE NOTE TAKER. [Helpfully.] Hanwell.THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. [Affecting great dis-tinction of speech.] Thenk you, teacher. Haw haw!So long. [He touches his hat with mock respect andstrolls off.]THE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that!How would he like it himself?THE MOTHER. It’s quite fine now, Clara. We canwalk to a motorbus. Come. [She gathers her skirtsabove her ankles and hurries off towards the Strand.]THE DAUGHTER. But the cab— [Her mother is outof hearing.] Oh, how tiresome! [She follows angrily.]

[All the rest have gone except the NOTE TAKER,the GENTLEMAN, and the FLOWER GIRL, whosits arranging her basket and still pitying herself inmurmurs.]

THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for herto 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 Imay ask?

THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The scienceof speech. That’s my profession: also my hobby.Happy is the man who can make a living by hishobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshire-man by his brogue.5 I can place any man within sixmiles. I can place him within two miles in London.Sometimes within two streets.THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of him-self, unmanly coward!THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This isan age of upstarts. Men begin in Kentish Townwith £80 a year, and end in Park Lane with a hun-dred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town;but they give themselves away every time theyopen their mouths. Now I can teach them—THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own businessand leave a poor girl—THE NOTE TAKER. [Explosively.] Woman: ceasethis detestable boohooing instantly; or else seek theshelter of some other place of worship.THE FLOWER GIRL. [With feeble defiance.] I’ve aright to be here if I like, same as you.

4. Here, character means “reputation.”


5. Here, brogue means “dialect.”

THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters suchdepressing and disgusting sounds has no right tobe anywhere—no right to live. Remember thatyou are a human being with a soul and the divinegift of articulate speech: that your native languageis the language of Shakespeare and Milton andthe Bible: and don’t sit there crooning like a bil-ious6 pigeon.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Quite overwhelmed, looking upat him in mingled wonder and deprecation without dar-ing to raise her head.] Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-ow-oo!THE NOTE TAKER. [Whipping out his book.]Heavens! what a sound! [He writes; then holds outthe book and reads, reproducing her vowels exactly.]Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-ow-oo!THE FLOWER GIRL. [Tickled by the performance, andlaughing in spite of herself .] Garn!THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with hercurbstone English: the English that will keep her inthe gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in threemonths I could pass that girl off as a duchess at anambassador’s garden party. I could even get her aplace as lady’s maid or shop assistant, whichrequires better English.THE FLOWER GIRL. What’s that you say?THE NOTE TAKER. Yes, you squashed cabbageleaf, you disgrace to the noble architecture ofthese columns, you incarnate insult to theEnglish language: I could pass you off as theQueen of Sheba. [To the GENTLEMAN.] Can youbelieve that?THE GENTLEMAN. Of course I can. I am myself astudent of Indian dialects; and—THE NOTE TAKER. [Eagerly.] Are you? Do youknow Colonel Pickering, the author of SpokenSanscrit?THE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Whoare you?THE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author ofHiggins’s Universal Alphabet.PICKERING. [With enthusiasm.] I came from Indiato meet you.HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you.PICKERING. Where do you live?

HIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see metomorrow.PICKERING. I’m at the Carlton. Come with menow and let’s have a jaw over some supper.HIGGINS. Right you are.THE FLOWER GIRL. [To PICKERING, as he passesher.] Buy a flower, kind gentleman. I’m short for mylodging.PICKERING. I really haven’t any change. I’m sorry.[He goes away.]HIGGINS. [Shocked at the GIRL’s mendacity.]7 Liar.You said you could change half-a-crown.THE FLOWER GIRL. [Rising in desperation.] Youought to be stuffed with nails, you ought. [Flingingthe basket at his feet.] Take the whole blooming bas-ket for sixpence.

[The church clock strikes the second quarter.]HIGGINS. [Hearing in it the voice of God, rebukinghim for his Pharisaic8 want of charity to the poor GIRL.]A reminder. [He raises his hat solemnly; then throws ahandful of money into the basket and followsPICKERING.]THE FLOWER GIRL. [Picking up a half-crown.] Ah-ow-ooh! [Picking up a couple of florins.]Aaah-ow-ooh! [Picking up several coins.]Aaaaah-ow-ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign.]Aaaaaaaaaaaah-ow-ooh!!!FREDDY. [Springing out of a taxicab.] Got one atlast. Hallo! [To the GIRL.] Where are the two ladiesthat were here?THE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus whenthe rain stopped.FREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands!Damnation!THE FLOWER GIRL. [With grandeur.] Never mind,young man. I’m going home in a taxi. [She sails offto the cab. The DRIVER puts his hand behind him andholds the door firmly shut against her. Quite under-standing his mistrust, she shows him her handful ofmoney.] A taxi fare ain’t no object to me, Charlie.[He grins and opens the door.] Here. What aboutthe basket?

George Bernard Shaw


6. Bilious means “bad-tempered; cross.”

7. Mendacity means “willingness to lie.”8. Here, pharisaic means “hypocritically devout; falsely pious;

sanctimonious.”


THE TAXIMAN. Give it here. Tuppence extra.LIZA (THE FLOWER GIRL). No: I don’t wantnobody to see it. [She crushes it into the cab and getsin, continuing the conversation through the window.]Good-bye, Freddy.FREDDY. [Dazedly raising his hat.] Good-bye.TAXIMAN. Where to?LIZA. Bucknam Pellis. (Buckingham Palace)TAXIMAN. What d’ye mean—Bucknam Pellis?LIZA. Don’t you know where it is? In the GreenPark, where the King lives. Good-bye, Freddy.Don’t let me keep you standing there. Good-bye.FREDDY. Good-bye. [He goes.]TAXIMAN. Here? What’s this about BucknamPellis? What business have you at BucknamPellis?LIZA. Of course I haven’t none. But I wasn’t goingto let him know that. You drive me home.TAXIMAN. And where’s home?LIZA. Angel Court, Drury Lane, next Meiklejohn’soil shop.TAXIMAN. That sounds more like it, Judy. [He drives off.]

[Let us follow the taxi to the entrance to Angel Court,a narrow little archway between two shops, one of themMeiklejohn’s oil shop. When it stops there, ELIZA getsout, dragging her basket with her.]LIZA. How much?TAXIMAN. [Indicating the taximeter.] Can’t youread? A shilling.LIZA. A shilling for two minutes!!TAXIMAN. Two minutes or ten: it’s all the same.LIZA. Well, I don’t call it right.TAXIMAN. Ever been in a taxi before?

LIZA. [With dignity.] Hundreds and thousands oftimes, young man.TAXIMAN. [Laughing at her.] Good for you, Judy.Keep the shilling, darling, with best love from all athome. Good luck! [He drives off.]LIZA. [Humiliated.] Impidence!

[She picks up the basket and trudges up the alleywith it to her lodging: a small room with very oldwall-paper hanging loose in the damp places. Abroken pane in the window is mended with paper.A portrait of a popular actor and a fashion plate ofladies’ dresses, all wildly beyond poor ELIZA’smeans, both torn from newspapers, are pinned upon the wall. A birdcage hangs in the window; butits tenant died long ago: it remains as a memorialonly.These are the only visible luxuries: the rest is theirreducible minimum of poverty’s needs: a wretchedbed heaped with all sorts of coverings that have anywarmth in them, a draped packing case with a basinand jug on it and a little looking-glass over it, achair and table, the refuse of some suburbankitchen, and an American alarm clock on the shelfabove the unused fireplace: the whole lighted with agas lamp with a penny in the slot meter. Rent: fourshillings a week.Here, ELIZA, chronically weary, but too excited togo to bed, sits, counting her new riches and dream-ing and planning what to do with them, until the gasgoes out, when she enjoys for the first time the sen-sation of being able to put in another penny withoutgrudging it. This prodigal mood does not extinguishher gnawing sense of the need for economy suffi-ciently to prevent her from calculating that she candream and plan in bed more cheaply and warmlythan sitting up without a fire. So she takes off hershawl and skirt and adds them to the miscellaneousbedclothes. Then she kicks off her shoes and gets intobed without any further change.]

Responding to LiteraturePersonal Response

Active Reading and Critical Thinking

PYGMALION � 935

Recall and Interpret1. What kind of reform does Shaw argue for in his preface? Why do you think

he might have been interested in such reform?2. What is the setting of the first part of act 1? (See Literary Terms Handbook,

page R14.) How does this setting help bring together people of differentsocial classes?

3. Why does Eliza the flower girl become frightened when she discovers thatHiggins is taking notes of what she says? What makes Higgins so interestedin her?

4. What does Higgins claim he could do by changing Eliza? Why, do youthink, does he make this claim?

Evaluate and Connect5. According to Shaw’s description of Henry Sweet in the preface, what char-

acter traits does Higgins have in common with Sweet? Refer to specificlines from the play to support your opinion.

6. Higgins suggests that Eliza could pass for a duchess if only she spoke Englishproperly. What other things might she have to learn in order to be acceptedin high society? Explain your thoughts.

7. Why might Shaw have decided to include a long description of Eliza’shome at the end of act 1?

8. Do you think that people in the United States today pay as much attentionto dialect (see page R4) and accents as people in England did in Shaw’stime? Explain your response.

Which character did you find most sympathetic in act 1? Which did you findleast sympathetic? Discuss your response to the characters with a partner.

Stage DirectionsIn the text of a play, stage directionsdescribe the appearance and movementsof the characters, as well as the sets, costumes, and lighting. Stage directionsserve primarily as instructions for the castand crew of a theatrical production, butthey also help readers imagine the actionof the play. Shaw was somewhat uniquein his treatment of stage directions.Realizing that he had a much largerpotential reading audience for his playsthan viewing audience, he customizedhis stage directions for those readerswho were accustomed to the level ofdetail typically provided in novels. In thisedition of Pygmalion, the stage direc-tions are printed in italics and enclosedin brackets. 1. What does Shaw emphasize in his

stage directions when Eliza comesunder the shelter of St. Paul’s church?

2. Give an example of stage directionsin act 1 that help you understand acharacter’s motivations.

• See Literary Terms Handbook,p. R15.

Analyzing Literature

Literature GroupsMake Predictions The first act of a play is usually devotedto establishing relationships among characters and setting upimportant conflicts. What do you think will happen in act 2 ofPygmalion? Discuss this question in your group, supportingyour predictions with clues from act 1. When you are fin-ished, share your predictions with the class.

Personal WritingIs That Really Me? Many people are surprised when theyhear a tape recording of their own voice. Tape-record your-self speaking with a friend and then write a paragraph aboutyour reaction to the recording. How does your voice reflectyour personality? How does your manner of speaking pro-vide clues about your background?

Save your work for your portfolio.

Extending Your Response

Literary ELEMENTS

[Next day at 11 A.M. HIGGINS’s laboratory in WimpoleStreet. It is a room on the first floor, looking on the street,and was meant for the drawing room. The double doorsare in the middle of the back wall; and persons enteringfind in the corner to their right two tall file cabinets atright angles to one another against the walls. In this cor-ner stands a flat writing-table, on which are a phono-graph, a laryngoscope,1 a row of tiny organ pipes withbellows, a set of lamp chimneys for singing flames withburners attached to a gas plug in the wall by an india-rubber tube, several tuning-forks of different sizes, alife-size image of half a human head, showing in sectionthe vocal organs, and a box containing a supply of waxcylinders for the phonograph.Further down the room, on the same side, is a fire-place, with a comfortable leather-covered easy-chairat the side of the hearth nearest the door, and acoal-scuttle. There is a clock on the mantelpiece.Between the fireplace and the phonograph table is astand for newspapers.On the other side of the central door, to the left of thevisitor, is a cabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a tele-phone 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, anda bench for the player extending the full length of thekeyboard. On the piano is a dessert dish heaped withfruit and sweets, mostly chocolates.The middle of the room is clear. Besides the easy-chair,the piano bench, and two chairs at the phonographtable, there is one stray chair. It stands near the fire-place. On the walls, engravings: mostly Piranesis2 andmezzotint3 portraits. No paintings.PICKERING is seated at the table, putting down somecards and a tuning-fork which he has been using.HIGGINS is standing up near him, closing two or threefile drawers which are hanging out. He appears in themorning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of manof forty or thereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat with a white linen collar andblack silk tie. He is of the energetic, scientific type,heartily, even violently interested in everything that can bestudied 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 impetuousbaby “taking notice” eagerly and loudly, and requiringalmost as much watching to keep him out of unintendedmischief. His manner varies from genial bullying whenhe is in a good humor to stormy petulance when any-thing goes wrong; but he is so entirely frank and void ofmalice that he remains likeable even in his least reason-able moments.]HIGGINS. [As he shuts the last drawer.] Well, I thinkthat’s the whole show.PICKERING. It’s really amazing. I haven’t takenhalf 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 thismorning.HIGGINS. [Following him, and standing beside him onhis left.] Tired of listening to sounds?PICKERING. Yes. It’s a fearful strain. I rather fan-cied myself because I can pronounce twenty-fourdistinct vowel sounds; but your hundred and thirtybeat me. I can’t hear a bit of difference betweenmost of them.HIGGINS. [Chuckling, and going over to the piano toeat sweets.] Oh, that comes with practice. You hearno difference at first; but you keep on listening, andpresently you find they’re all as different as A fromB. [MRS. PEARCE looks in: she is HIGGINS’s house-keeper.] What’s the matter?MRS. PEARCE. [Hesitating, evidently perplexed.] Ayoung woman wants to see you, sir.HIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want?MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, she says you’ll be glad tosee her when you know what she’s come about.She’s quite a common girl, sir. Very commonindeed. I should have sent her away, only I thoughtperhaps you wanted her to talk into your machines.I hope I’ve not done wrong; but really you see suchqueer people sometimes—you’ll excuse me, I’msure, sir—HIGGINS. Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has shean interesting accent?MRS. PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. Idon’t know how you can take an interest in it.

1. A laryngoscope is a tool used to examine the throat.2. Piranesis are engravings by the Italian artist Giambattista

Piranesi (1720–1778).3. Mezzotint is an engraving made from a metal plate.


George Bernard Shaw

HIGGINS. [To PICKERING.] Let’s have her up.Show her up, Mrs. Pearce. [He rushes across to hisworking table and picks out a cylinder to use on thephonograph.]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 youhow I make records. We’ll set her talking; and I’lltake it down first in Bell’s Visible Speech;4 then inbroad Romic; and then we’ll get her on the phono-graph so that you can turn her on as often as youlike with the written transcript before you.

MRS. PEARCE. [Returning.] This is the youngwoman, sir.

[The FLOWER GIRL enters in state. She has a hatwith three ostrich feathers, orange, sky-blue, and red.She has a nearly clean apron, and the shoddy coat hasbeen tidied a little. The pathos of this deplorable fig-ure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air,touches PICKERING, who has already straightenedhimself in the presence of MRS. PEARCE. But as toHIGGINS, the only distinction he makes betweenmen and women is that when he is neither bullyingnor exclaiming to the heavens against some feather-weight cross,5 he coaxes women as a child coaxes itsnurse when it wants to get anything out of her.]

5. Featherweight cross means “a very small burden to bear.”4. Published in 1867, Visible Speech introduced notation for

precise speech sounds.



HIGGINS. [Brusquely, recognizing her with uncon-cealed disappointment, and at once, babylike, makingan intolerable grievance of it.] Why, this is the girl Ijotted down last night. She’s no use: I’ve got all therecords I want of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I’mnot going to waste another cylinder on it. [To theGIRL.] Be off with you: I don’t want you.THE FLOWER GIRL. Don’t you be so saucy. Youain’t heard what I come for yet. [To MRS. PEARCE,who is waiting at the door for further instructions.] Didyou tell him I come in a taxi?MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think agentleman like Mr. Higgins cares what you came in?THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He ain’tabove giving lessons, not him: I heard him say so. Well, I ain’t come here to ask for any compli-ment; and if my money’s not good enough I can goelsewhere.HIGGINS. Good enough for what?THE FLOWER GIRL. Good enough for ye-oo. Nowyou know, don’t you? I’m come to have lessons, Iam. And to pay for ’em too: make no mistake.HIGGINS. [Stupent.]6 Well!!! [Recovering hisbreath with a gasp.] What do you expect me to sayto you?THE FLOWER GIRL. Well, if you was a gentleman,you might ask me to sit down, I think. Don’t I tellyou I’m bringing you business?HIGGINS. Pickering: shall we ask this baggage to sit down, or shall we throw her out of the window?THE FLOWER GIRL. [Running away in terror to the piano, where she turns at bay.] Ah-ah-oh-ow-ow-ow-oo! [Wounded and whimpering.] I won’tbe called a baggage when I’ve offered to pay likeany lady.

[Motionless, the two men stare at her from the otherside of the room, amazed.]

PICKERING. [Gently.] What is it you want, my girl?THE FLOWER GIRL. I want to be a lady in a flowershop ’stead of selling at the corner of TottenhamCourt Road. But they won’t take me unless I cantalk more genteel. He said he could teach me.Well, here I am ready to pay him— not asking anyfavor—and he treats me as if I was dirt.

MRS. PEARCE. How can you be such a foolishignorant girl as to think you could afford to pay Mr.Higgins?THE FLOWER GIRL. Why shouldn’t I? I know whatlessons cost as well as you do; and I’m ready to pay.HIGGINS. How much?THE FLOWER GIRL. [Coming back to him, trium-phant.] Now you’re talking! I thought you’d comeoff it when you saw a chance of getting back a bit ofwhat you chucked at me last night. [Confidentially.]You’d had a drop in,7 hadn’t you?HIGGINS. [Peremptorily.]8 Sit down.THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, if you’re going to make acompliment of it—HIGGINS. [Thundering at her.] Sit down.MRS. PEARCE. [Severely.] Sit down, girl. Do asyou’re told. [She places the stray chair near thehearthrug between HIGGINS and PICKERING, andstands behind it waiting for the GIRL to sit down.]THE FLOWER GIRL. Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo! [Shestands, half-rebellious, half-bewildered.]PICKERING. [Very courteous.] Won’t you sit down?LIZA. [Coyly.] Don’t mind if I do. [She sits down.PICKERING returns to the hearthrug.]HIGGINS. What’s your name?THE FLOWER GIRL. Liza Doolittle.HIGGINS. [Declaiming gravely.]

Eliza, Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess,They went to the woods to get a bird’s nes’:

PICKERING. They found a nest with four eggs in it:HIGGINS. They took one apiece, and left three in it.

[They laugh heartily at their own wit.]LIZA. Oh, don’t be silly.MRS. PEARCE. You mustn’t speak to the gentle-man like that.LIZA. Well, why won’t he speak sensible to me?HIGGINS. Come back to business. How much doyou propose to pay me for the lessons?LIZA. Oh, I know what’s right. A lady friend ofmine gets French lessons for eighteenpence an hour

7. [You’d had a drop in] She suspects he’d been drinking alcohol.

8. Here, peremptorily means “precluding a debate; not allowinga discussion to begin.”6. Stupent means “amazed.”

George Bernard Shaw

from a real French gentleman. Well, you wouldn’thave the face to ask me the same for teaching memy own language as you would for French; so Iwon’t give more than a shilling. Take it or leave it.HIGGINS. [Walking up and down the room, rattlinghis keys and his cash in his pockets.] You know,Pickering, if you consider a shilling, not as a simpleshilling, but as a percentage of this girl’s income, itworks out as fully equivalent to sixty or seventyguineas from a millionaire.PICKERING. How so?HIGGINS. Figure it out. A millionaire has about£150 a day. She earns about half-a-crown.LIZA. [Haughtily.] Who told you I only—HIGGINS. [Continuing.] She offers me two-fifths ofher day’s income for a lesson. Two-fifths of a mil-lionaire’s income for a day would be somewhereabout £60. It’s handsome. By George, it’s enor-mous! it’s the biggest offer I ever had.LIZA. [Rising, terrified.] Sixty pounds! What areyou talking about? I never offered you sixty pounds.Where would I get—HIGGINS. Hold your tongue.LIZA. [Weeping.] But I ain’t got sixty pounds. Oh—MRS. PEARCE. Don’t cry, you silly girl. Sit down.Nobody is going to touch your money.HIGGINS. Somebody is going to touch you, with abroomstick, if you don’t stop snivelling. Sit down.LIZA. [Obeying slowly.] Ah-ah-ah-ow-oo-o! Onewould think you was my father.HIGGINS. If I decide to teach you, I’ll be worsethan two fathers to you. Here! [He offers her his silkhandkerchief.]LIZA. What’s this for?HIGGINS. To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part ofyour face that feels moist. Remember: that’s yourhandkerchief; and that’s your sleeve. Don’t mistakethe one for the other if you wish to become a ladyin a shop.

[LIZA, utterly bewildered, stares helplessly at him.]MRS. PEARCE. It’s no use talking to her like that,Mr. Higgins: she doesn’t understand you. Besides;you’re quite wrong: she doesn’t do it that way at all.[She takes the handkerchief.]LIZA. [Snatching it.] Here! You give me that hand-kerchief. He give it to me, not to you.

PICKERING. [Laughing.] He did. I think it must beregarded as her property, Mrs. Pearce.MRS. PEARCE. [Resigning herself.] Serve you right,Mr. Higgins.PICKERING. Higgins: I’m interested. What aboutthe ambassador’s garden party? I’ll say you’re thegreatest teacher alive if you make that good. I’ll betyou all the expenses of the experiment you can’t doit. And I’ll pay for the lessons.LIZA. Oh, you are real good. Thank you, Captain.HIGGINS. [Tempted, looking at her.] It’s almost irre-sistible. She’s so deliciously low—so horribly dirty—LIZA. [Protesting extremely.] Ah-ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo-oo!!! I ain’t dirty: I washed my face andhands afore I come, I did.PICKERING. You’re certainly not going to turn herhead with flattery, Higgins.MRS. PEARCE. [Uneasy.] Oh, don’t say that, sir:there’s more ways than one of turning a girl’shead; and nobody can do it better than Mr.Higgins, though he may not always mean it. I dohope, sir, you won’t encourage him to do anythingfoolish.HIGGINS. [Becoming excited as the idea grows onhim.] What is life but a series of inspired follies?The difficulty is to find them to do. Never lose achance: it doesn’t come every day. I shall make aduchess of this draggletailed guttersnipe.LIZA. [Strongly deprecating this view of her.] Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo!

An early gramophone, like the one used by Henry Higgins in his work.


HIGGINS. [Carried away.] Yes: in six months—inthree if she has a good ear and a quick tongue—I’lltake her anywhere and pass her off as anything.We’ll start today: now! this moment! Take heraway and clean her, Mrs. Pearce. Monkey Brand,9 ifit won’t come off any other way. Is there a good firein the kitchen?MRS. PEARCE. [Protesting.] Yes; but—HIGGINS. [Storming on.] Take all her clothes off andburn them. Ring up Whiteley or somebody for newones. Wrap her up in brown paper ’til they come.LIZA. You’re no gentleman, you’re not, to talk ofsuch things. I’m a good girl, I am; and I know whatthe like of you are, I do.HIGGINS. We want none of your Lisson Groveprudery here, young woman. You’ve got to learn tobehave like a duchess. Take her away, Mrs. Pearce.If she gives you any trouble, wallop her.LIZA. [Springing up and running betweenPICKERING and MRS. PEARCE for protection.] No!I’ll call the police, I will.MRS. PEARCE. But I’ve no place to put her.HIGGINS. Put her in the dustbin.LIZA. Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo!PICKERING. Oh come, Higgins! be reasonable.MRS. PEARCE. [Resolutely.] You must be reason-able, Mr. Higgins: really you must. You can’t walkover everybody like this.

[HIGGINS, thus scolded, subsides. The hurricane issucceeded by a zephyr of amiable surprise.]

HIGGINS. [With professional exquisiteness of modu-lation.] I walk over everybody! My dear Mrs.Pearce, my dear Pickering, I never had the slight-est intention of walking over anyone. All I pro-pose is that we should be kind to this poor girl.We must help her to prepare and fit herself for hernew station in life. If I did not express myselfclearly it was because I did not wish to hurt herdelicacy, or yours.

[LIZA, reassured, steals back to her chair.]MRS. PEARCE. [To PICKERING.] Well, did you everhear anything like that, sir?PICKERING. [Laughing heartily.] Never, Mrs.Pearce: never.

HIGGINS. [Patiently.] What’s the matter?MRS. PEARCE. Well, the matter is, sir, that youcan’t take a girl up like that as if you were pickingup a pebble on the beach.HIGGINS. Why not?MRS. PEARCE. Why not! But you don’t know any-thing about her. What about her parents? She maybe married.LIZA. Garn!HIGGINS. There! As the girl very properly says,“Garn!” Married indeed! Don’t you know that awoman of that class looks a wornout drudge of fiftya year after she’s married?LIZA. Who’d marry me?HIGGINS. [Suddenly resorting to the most thrillinglybeautiful low tones in his best elocutionary style.] ByGeorge, Eliza, the streets will be strewn with thebodies of men shooting themselves for your sakebefore I’ve done with you.MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, sir. You mustn’t talk likethat to her.LIZA. [Rising and squaring herself determinedly.] I’mgoing away. He’s off his chump, he is. I don’t wantno balmies teaching me.HIGGINS. [Wounded in his tenderest point by herinsensibility to his elocution.] Oh, indeed! I’m mad,am I? Very well, Mrs. Pearce: you needn’t order thenew clothes for her. Throw her out.LIZA. [Whimpering.] Nah-ow. You got no right totouch me.MRS. PEARCE. You see now what comes of beingsaucy. [Indicating the door.] This way, please.LIZA. [Almost in tears.] I didn’t want no clothes. Iwouldn’t have taken them. [She throws away thehandkerchief.] I can buy my own clothes.HIGGINS. [Deftly retrieving the handkerchief andintercepting her on her reluctant way to the door.]You’re an ungrateful wicked girl. This is my return for offering to take you out of the gutterand dress you beautifully and make a lady of you.MRS. PEARCE. Stop, Mr. Higgins. I won’t allow it.It’s you that are wicked. Go home to your parents,girl; and tell them to take better care of you.LIZA. I ain’t got no parents. They told me I was bigenough to earn my own living and turned me out.9. Monkey Brand was a harsh cleaning agent.


George Bernard Shaw


MRS. PEARCE. Where’s your mother?LIZA. I ain’t got no mother. Her that turned meout was my sixth stepmother. But I done withoutthem. And I’m a good girl, I am.HIGGINS. Very well, then, what on earth is all thisfuss about? The girl doesn’t belong to anybody—isno use to anybody but me. [He goes to MRS. PEARCEand begins coaxing.] You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce:I’m sure a daughter would be a great amusement toyou. Now don’t make any more fuss. Take herdownstairs; and—MRS. PEARCE. But what’s to become of her? Is sheto be paid anything? Do be sensible, sir.

HIGGINS. Oh, pay her whatever is necessary: putit down in the housekeeping book. [Impatiently.]What on earth will she want with money? She’llhave her food and her clothes. She’ll only drink ifyou give her money.LIZA. [Turning on him.] Oh you are a brute. It’s alie: nobody ever saw the sign of liquor on me. [ToPICKERING.] Oh, sir: you’re a gentleman: don’t lethim speak to me like that.PICKERING. [In good-humored remonstrance.] Doesit occur to you, Higgins, that the girl has somefeelings?HIGGINS. [Looking critically at her.] Oh no, I don’tthink so. Not any feelings that we need botherabout. [Cheerily.] Have you, Eliza?LIZA. I got my feelings same as anyone else.HIGGINS. [To PICKERING, reflectively.] You see thedifficulty?PICKERING. Eh? What difficulty?HIGGINS. To get her to talk grammar. The merepronunciation is easy enough.

LIZA. I don’t want to talk grammar. I want to talklike a lady in a flower shop.MRS. PEARCE. Will you please keep to the point,Mr. Higgins? I want to know on what terms the girlis to be here. Is she to have any wages? And whatis to become of her when you’ve finished yourteaching? You must look ahead a little.HIGGINS. [Impatiently.] What’s to become of herif I leave her in the gutter? Tell me that, Mrs.Pearce.MRS. PEARCE. That’s her own business, not yours,Mr. Higgins.HIGGINS. Well, when I’ve done with her, we canthrow her back into the gutter; and then it will beher own business again; so that’s all right.LIZA. Oh, you’ve no feeling heart in you: youdon’t care for nothing but yourself. [She rises andtakes the floor resolutely.] Here! I’ve had enough ofthis. I’m going. [Making for the door.] You ought tobe ashamed of yourself, you ought.HIGGINS. [Snatching a chocolate cream from thepiano, his eyes suddenly beginning to twinkle with mis-chief .] Have some chocolates, Eliza.LIZA. [Halting, tempted.] How do I know whatmight be in them? I’ve heard of girls being druggedby the like of you.

[HIGGINS whips out his penknife; cuts a chocolatein two; puts one half into his mouth and bolts it; andoffers her the other half.]

HIGGINS. Pledge of good faith, Eliza. I eat onehalf: you eat the other. [LIZA opens her mouth toretort: he pops the half chocolate into it.] You shallhave boxes of them, barrels of them, every day. Youshall live on them. Eh?LIZA. [Who has disposed of the chocolate after beingnearly choked by it.] I wouldn’t have ate it, only I’mtoo ladylike to take it out of my mouth.HIGGINS. Listen, Eliza. I think you said you camein a taxi.LIZA. Well, what if I did? I’ve as good a right totake a taxi as anyone else.HIGGINS. You have, Eliza; and in future you shallhave as many taxis as you want. You shall go up anddown and around the town in a taxi every day.Think of that, Eliza.MRS. PEARCE. Mr. Higgins: you’re tempting thegirl. It’s not right. She should think of the future.


HIGGINS. At her age! Nonsense! Time enough tothink of the future when you haven’t any future tothink of. No, Eliza: do as this lady does: think ofother people’s futures; but never think of yourown. Think of chocolates, and taxis, and gold, anddiamonds.LIZA. No: I don’t want no gold and no diamonds.I’m a good girl, I am. [She sits down again, with anattempt at dignity.]HIGGINS. You shall remain so, Eliza, under thecare of Mrs. Pearce. And you shall marry an officerin the Guards, with a beautiful moustache: the sonof a marquis, who will disinherit him for marryingyou, but will relent when he sees your beauty andgoodness—PICKERING. Excuse me, Higgins; but I really mustinterfere. Mrs. Pearce is quite right. If this girl is toput herself in your hands for six months for anexperiment in teaching, she must understand thor-oughly what she’s doing.HIGGINS. How can she? She’s incapable of under-standing anything. Besides, do any of us understandwhat we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it?PICKERING. Very clever, Higgins; but not soundsense. [To ELIZA.] Miss Doolittle—LIZA. [Overwhelmed.] Ah-ah-ow-oo!HIGGINS. There! That’s all you’ll get out ofEliza. Ah-ah-ow-oo! No use explaining. As a mil-itary man you ought to know that. Give her herorders: that’s enough for her. Eliza: you are to livehere for the next six months, learning how tospeak beautifully, like a lady in a florist’s shop. Ifyou’re good and do whatever you’re told, you shallsleep in a proper bedroom, and have lots to eat,and money to buy chocolates and take rides intaxis. If you’re naughty and idle you will sleep inthe back kitchen among the black beetles, and bewalloped by Mrs. Pearce with a broomstick. Atthe end of six months you shall go to BuckinghamPalace in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If theKing finds out you’re not a lady, you will be takenby the police to the Tower of London, where yourhead will be cut off as a warning to other presumptuous flower girls. If you are not found

out, you shall have a present of seven-and-sixpence to start life with as a lady in a shop. Ifyou refuse this offer you will be a most ungratefuland wicked girl; and the angels will weep for you.[To PICKERING.] Now are you satisfied, Pickering?[To MRS. PEARCE.] Can I put it more plainly andfairly, Mrs. Pearce?MRS. PEARCE. [Patiently.] I think you’d better letme speak to the girl properly in private. I don’tknow that I can take charge of her or consent tothe arrangement at all. Of course I know you don’tmean her any harm; but when you get what youcall interested in people’s accents, you never thinkor care what may happen to them or you. Comewith me, Eliza.HIGGINS. That’s all right. Thank you, Mrs.Pearce. Bundle her off to the bathroom.LIZA. [Rising reluctantly and suspiciously.] You’re agreat bully, you are. I won’t stay here if I don’t like.I won’t let nobody wallop me. I never asked to goto Bucknam Pellis, I didn’t. I was never in troublewith the police, not me. I’m a good girl—MRS. PEARCE. Don’t answer back, girl. You don’tunderstand the gentleman. Come with me. [Sheleads the way to the door, and holds it open for ELIZA.]LIZA. [As she goes out.] Well, what I say is right. Iwon’t go near the King, not if I’m going to have myhead cut off. If I’d known what I was letting myselfin for, I wouldn’t have come here. I always been agood girl; and I never offered to say a word to him;and I don’t owe him nothing; and I don’t care; andI wont be put upon; and I have my feelings thesame as anyone else—

[MRS. PEARCE shuts the door; and ELIZA’s com-plaints are no longer audible.]

[ELIZA is taken upstairs to the third floor greatly toher surprise; for she expected to be taken down to thescullery. There MRS. PEARCE opens a door andtakes her into a spare bedroom.]

MRS. PEARCE. I will have to put you here. Thiswill be your bedroom.

presumptuous (pri zump�ch¯ ¯oo əs) adj. overly forward or boldVocabulary

George Bernard Shaw


LIZA. O-h, I couldn’t sleep here, missus. It’s toogood for the likes of me. I should be afraid to touchanything. I ain’t a duchess yet, you know.MRS. PEARCE. You have got to make yourself asclean as the room: then you won’t be afraid of it.And you must call me Mrs. Pearce, not missus. [Shethrows open the door of the dressing room, now mod-ernized as a bathroom.]LIZA. Gawd! what’s this? Is this where you washclothes? Funny sort of copper I call it.MRS. PEARCE. It is not a copper. This is where we wash ourselves, Eliza, and where I am going towash you.LIZA. You expect me to get into that and wetmyself all over! Not me. I should catch my death. Iknew a woman did it every Saturday night; and shedied of it.MRS. PEARCE. Mr. Higgins has the gentlemen’sbathroom downstairs; and he has a bath everymorning, in cold water.LIZA. Ugh! He’s made of iron, that man.MRS. PEARCE. If you are to sit with him and theColonel and be taught, you will have to do thesame. They won’t like the smell of you if you don’t.But you can have the water as hot as you like.There are two taps: hot and cold.LIZA. [Weeping.] I couldn’t. I dursn’t. It’s not nat-ural: it would kill me. I’ve never had a bath in mylife: not what you’d call a proper one.MRS. PEARCE. Well, don’t you want to be cleanand sweet and decent, like a lady? You know youcan’t be a nice girl inside if you’re dirty outside.LIZA. Boohoo!!!MRS. PEARCE. Now stop crying and go back intoyour room and take off all your clothes. Then wrapyourself in this [Taking down a gown from its peg andhanding it to her.] and come back to me. I will getthe bath ready.LIZA. [All tears.] I can’t. I won’t. I’m not used to it.I’ve never took off all my clothes before. It’s notright: it’s not decent.MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, child. Don’t you take offall your clothes every night when you go to bed?LIZA. [Amazed.] No. Why should I? I should catchmy death. Of course I take off my skirt.MRS. PEARCE. Do you mean that you sleep in theunderclothes you wear in the daytime?

LIZA. What else have I to sleep in?MRS. PEARCE. You will never do that again as longas you live here. I will get you a proper nightdress.LIZA. Do you mean change into cold things andlie awake shivering half the night? You want to killme, you do.MRS. PEARCE. I want to change you to a cleanrespectable girl fit to sit with the gentlemen in thestudy. Are you going to trust me and do what I tellyou or be thrown out and sent back to your flowerbasket?LIZA. But you don’t know what the cold is to me.You don’t know how I dread it.MRS. PEARCE. Your bed won’t be cold here: I willput a hot water bottle in it. [Pushing her into the bed-room.] Off with you and undress.LIZA. Oh, if only I’d known what a dreadful thingit is to be clean I’d never have come. I didn’t knowwhen I was well off. I— [ MRS. PEARCE pushes herthrough the door, but leaves it partly open lest her pris-oner should take to flight.]

[MRS. PEARCE puts on a pair of white rubbersleeves, and fills the bath, mixing hot and cold, andtesting the result with the bath thermometer. She per-fumes it with a handful of bath salts and adds apalmful of mustard. She then takes a formidablelooking long handled scrubbing brush and soaps itprofusely with a ball of scented soap. ELIZA comes back with nothing on but the bathgown huddled tightly around her, a piteous spectacleof abject terror.]

MRS. PEARCE. Now come along. Take that thing off.LIZA. Oh I couldn’t, Mrs. Pearce: I reely couldn’t.I never done such a thing.MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense. Here: step in and tell mewhether it’s hot enough for you.LIZA. Ah-oo! Ah-oo! It’s too hot.MRS. PEARCE. [Deftly snatching the gown away andthrowing ELIZA down on her back.] It won’t hurt you.[She sets to work with the scrubbing brush.]

[ELIZA’s screams are heartrending.]

[Meanwhile the COLONEL has been having it outwith HIGGINS about ELIZA. PICKERING has comefrom the hearth to the chair and seated himself astrideof it with his arms on the back to cross-examine him.]


PICKERING. Excuse the straight question, Higgins.Are you a man of good character where women areconcerned?HIGGINS. [Moodily.] Have you ever met a man ofgood character where women are concerned?PICKERING. Yes: very frequently.

HIGGINS. [Dogmatically, lifting himself on hishands to the level of the piano, and sitting on it witha bounce.] Well, I haven’t. I find that the momentI let a woman make friends with me, she becomesjealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that the moment I let myselfmake friends with a woman, I become selfish andtyrannical. Women upset everything. When youlet them into your life, you find that the woman is driving at one thing and you’re driving atanother.PICKERING. At what, for example?HIGGINS. [Coming off the piano restlessly.] Oh, Lordknows! I suppose the woman wants to live her ownlife; and the man wants to live his; and each triesto drag the other on to the wrong track. One wantsto go north and the other south; and the result isthat both have to go east, though they both hatethe east wind. [He sits down on the bench at the key-board.] So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, andlikely to remain so.

PICKERING. [Rising and standing over him gravely.]Come, Higgins! You know what I mean. If I’m to bein this business I shall feel responsible for that girl.I hope it’s understood that no advantage is to betaken of her position.HIGGINS. What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you.[Rising to explain.] You see, she’ll be a pupil; andteaching would be impossible unless pupils weresacred. I’ve taught scores of American millionairesseshow to speak English: the best looking women in theworld. I’m seasoned. They might as well be blocks ofwood. I might as well be a block of wood. It’s—

[MRS. PEARCE opens the door. She has ELIZA’s hatin her hand. PICKERING retires to the easy chair atthe hearth and sits down.]

HIGGINS. [Eagerly.] Well, Mrs. Pearce: is it allright?MRS. PEARCE. [At the door.] I just wish to troubleyou with a word, if I may, Mr. Higgins.HIGGINS. Yes, certainly. Come in. [She comes for-ward.] Don’t burn that, Mrs. Pearce. I’ll keep it as acuriosity. [He takes the hat.]MRS. PEARCE. Handle it carefully, sir, please. I hadto promise her not to burn it; but I had better putit in the oven for a while.HIGGINS. [Putting it down hastily on the piano.] Oh!thank you. Well, what have you to say to me?PICKERING. Am I in the way?MRS. PEARCE. Not in the least, sir. Mr. Higgins:will you please be very particular what you saybefore the girl?HIGGINS. [Sternly.] Of course. I’m always particu-lar about what I say. Why do you say this to me?MRS. PEARCE. [Unmoved.] No, sir: you’re not at allparticular when you’ve mislaid anything or whenyou get a little impatient. Now it doesn’t matterbefore me: I’m used to it. But you really must notswear before the girl.HIGGINS. [Indignantly.] I swear! [Most emphati-cally.] I never swear. I detest the habit. What thedevil do you mean?MRS. PEARCE. [Stolidly.] That’s what I mean, sir.You swear a great deal too much. I don’t mind yourdamning and blasting, and what the devil andwhere the devil and who the devil—HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce: this language from yourlips! Really!

George Bernard Shaw


MRS. PEARCE. [Not to be put off.] —but there is acertain word I must ask you not to use. The girl hasjust used it herself when she began to enjoy thebath. It begins with the same letter as bath. Sheknows no better: she learnt it at her mother’s knee.But she must not hear it from your lips.HIGGINS. [Loftily.] I cannot charge myself withhaving ever uttered it, Mrs. Pearce. [She looks at himsteadfastly. He adds, hiding an uneasy conscience witha judicial air.] Except perhaps in a moment ofextreme and justifiable excitement.MRS. PEARCE. Only this morning, sir, you appliedit to your boots, to the butter, and to the brownbread.HIGGINS. Oh, that! Mere alliteration, Mrs.Pearce, natural to a poet.MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, whatever you choose tocall it, I beg you not to let the girl hear you repeat it.HIGGINS. Oh, very well, very well. Is that all?MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. We shall have to be veryparticular with this girl as to personal cleanliness.HIGGINS. Certainly. Quite right. Most important.MRS. PEARCE. I mean not to be slovenly about herdress or untidy in leaving things about.HIGGINS. [Going to her solemnly.] Just so. I intendedto call your attention to that. [He passes on toPICKERING, who is enjoying the conversationimmensely.] It is these little things that matter,Pickering. Take care of the pence and the pounds willtake care of themselves is as true of personal habits asof money. [He comes to anchor on the hearthrug, withthe air of a man in an unassailable position.]MRS. PEARCE. Yes, sir. Then might I ask you notto come down to breakfast in your dressing gown,or at any rate not to use it as a napkin to theextent you do, sir. And if you would be so good asnot to eat everything off the same plate, and toremember not to put the porridge saucepan out ofyour hand on the clean tablecloth, it would be abetter example to the girl. You know you nearlychoked yourself with a fishbone in the jam onlylast week.HIGGINS. [Routed from the hearthrug and driftingback to the piano.] I may do these things sometimesin absence of mind; but surely I don’t do themhabitually. [Angrily.] By the way: my dressing-gownsmells most damnably of benzine.

MRS. PEARCE. No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins. Butif you will wipe your fingers—HIGGINS. [Yelling.] Oh very well, very well: I’llwipe them in my hair in future.MRS. PEARCE. I hope you’re not offended, Mr.Higgins.HIGGINS. [Shocked at finding himself thought capableof an unamiable sentiment.] Not at all, not at all.You’re quite right, Mrs. Pearce: I shall be particu-larly careful before the girl. Is that all?MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. Might she use some of thoseJapanese dresses you brought from abroad? I reallycan’t put her back into her old things.HIGGINS. Certainly. Anything you like. Is that all?MRS. PEARCE. Thank you, sir. That’s all. [She goesout.]HIGGINS. You know, Pickering, that woman hasthe most extraordinary ideas about me. Here I am,a shy, diffident sort of man. I’ve never been able tofeel really grown-up and tremendous, like otherchaps. And yet she’s firmly persuaded that I’m anarbitrary overbearing bossing kind of person. I can’taccount for it.

[MRS. PEARCE returns.]MRS. PEARCE. If you please, sir, the trouble’sbeginning already. There’s a dustman10 downstairs,Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you. He says youhave his daughter here.PICKERING. [Rising.] Phew! I say! [He retreats tothe hearthrug.]HIGGINS. [Promptly.] Send the blackguard11 up.MRS. PEARCE. Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out.]PICKERING. He may not be a blackguard, Higgins.HIGGINS. Nonsense. Of course he’s a blackguard.PICKERING. Whether he is or not, I’m afraid weshall have some trouble with him.HIGGINS. [Confidently.] Oh no: I think not. Ifthere’s any trouble he shall have it with me, not Iwith him. And we are sure to get something inter-esting out of him.PICKERING. About the girl?HIGGINS. No. I mean his dialect.PICKERING. Oh!

10. A dustman is a man who empties the garbage cans.11. A blackguard (bla��ard) is a rascal or scoundrel.

MRS. PEARCE. [At the door.] Doolittle, sir. [Sheadmits DOOLITTLE and retires.]

[ALFRED DOOLITTLE is an elderly but vigorousdustman, clad in the costume of his profession,including a hat with a back brim covering his neckand shoulders. He has well marked and rather inter-esting features, and seems equally free from fear andconscience. He has a remarkably expressive voice,the result of a habit of giving vent to his feelings with-out reserve. His present pose is that of woundedhonor and stern resolution.]

DOOLITTLE. [At the door, uncertain which of the twogentlemen is his man.] Professor Higgins?HIGGINS. Here. Good morning. Sit down.DOOLITTLE. Morning, Governor. [He sits downmagisterially.] I come about a very serious matter,Governor.HIGGINS. [To PICKERING.] Brought up in Houns-low. Mother Welsh, I should think. [DOOLITTLEopens his mouth, amazed. HIGGINS continues.] Whatdo you want, Doolittle?

DOOLITTLE. [Menacingly.] Iwant my daughter: that’swhat I want. See?HIGGINS. Of course you do.You’re her father, aren’t you?You don’t suppose anyone elsewants her, do you? I’m glad tosee you have some spark offamily feeling left. She’supstairs. Take her away at once.DOOLITTLE. [Rising, fearfullytaken aback.] What!HIGGINS. Take her away. Doyou suppose I’m going to keepyour daughter for you?DOOLITTLE. [Remonstrating.]Now, now, look here, Gov-ernor. Is this reasonable? Is itfairity to take advantage of a man like this? The girlbelongs to me. You got her.Where do I come in? [He sitsdown again.]HIGGINS. Your daughter hadthe audacity to come to myhouse and ask me to teach herhow to speak properly so thatshe could get a place in aflower shop. This gentlemanand my housekeeper havebeen here all the time.[Bullying him.] How dare you

Early twentieth-century street vendor.

Viewing the photograph: Whatcan you gather about Mr. Doolittle’slife from viewing this photograph?


George Bernard Shaw


DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, thank you kindly.I’ve heard all the preachers and all the prime minis-ters—for I’m a thinking man and game for politics orreligion or social reform same as all the other amuse-ments—and I tell you it’s a dog’s life any way youlook at it. Undeserving poverty is my line. Takingone station in society with another, it’s—it’s—well,it’s the only one that has any ginger in it, to my taste.HIGGINS. I suppose we must give him a fiver.PICKERING. He’ll make a bad use of it, I’m afraid.DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, so help me Iwon’t. Don’t you be afraid that I’ll save it and spareit and live idle on it. There won’t be a penny of itleft by Monday: I’ll have to go to work same as if I’dnever had it. It won’t pauperize me, you bet. Justone good spree for myself and the missus, givingpleasure to ourselves and employment to others,and satisfaction to you to think it’s not beenthrowed away. You couldn’t spend it better.HIGGINS. [Taking out his pocket book and comingbetween DOOLITTLE and the piano.] This is irre-sistible. Let’s give him ten. [He offers two notes to thedustman.]DOOLITTLE. No, Governor. She wouldn’t havethe heart to spend ten; and perhaps I shouldn’t nei-ther. Ten pounds is a lot of money: it makes a manfeel prudent like; and then good-bye to happiness.You give me what I ask you, Governor: not a pennymore, and not a penny less.PICKERING. Why don’t you marry that missus ofyours? I rather draw the line at encouraging thatsort of immorality.DOOLITTLE. Tell her so, Governor: tell her so. I’mwilling. It’s me that suffers by it. I’ve no hold on her.I got to be agreeable to her. I got to give her pres-ents. I got to buy her clothes something sinful. I’ma slave to that woman, Governor, just because I’mnot her lawful husband. And she knows it too.Catch her marrying me! Take my advice, Governor:marry Eliza while she’s young and don’t know nobetter. If you don’t you’ll be sorry for it after. If youdo, she’ll be sorry for it after; but better her thanyou, because you’re a man, and she’s only a womanand don’t know how to be happy anyhow.HIGGINS. Pickering: if we listen to this man anotherminute, we shall have no convictions left. [To DOO-LITTLE.] Five pounds I think you said.

DOOLITTLE. Thank you kindly, Governor.HIGGINS. You’re sure you won’t take ten?DOOLITTLE. Not now. Another time, Governor.HIGGINS. [Handing him a five-pound note.] Here you are.DOOLITTLE. Thank you, Governor. Good morn-ing. [He hurries to the door, anxious to get away withhis booty. When he opens it he is confronted with adainty and exquisitely clean young JAPANESE LADY ina simple blue cotton kimono printed cunningly withsmall white jasmine blossoms. MRS. PEARCE is withher. He gets out of her way deferentially and apolo-gizes.] Beg pardon, miss.THE JAPANESE LADY. Garn! Don’t you know yourown daughter?DOOLITTLE.

exclaimingBly me! it’s Eliza!

HIGGINS. } simultaneously { What’s that! This!PICKERING. By Jove!LIZA. Don’t I look silly?HIGGINS. Silly?MRS. PEARCE. [At the door.] Now, Mr. Higgins,please don’t say anything to make the girl con-ceited about herself.HIGGINS. [Conscientiously.] Oh! Quite right, Mrs.Pearce. [To ELIZA.] Yes: damned silly.MRS. PEARCE. Please, sir.HIGGINS. [Correcting himself.] I mean extremely silly.LIZA. I should look all right with my hat on. [Shetakes up her hat; puts it on; and walks across the roomto the fireplace with a fashionable air.]HIGGINS. A new fashion, by George! And itought to look horrible!DOOLITTLE. [With fatherly pride.] Well, I neverthought she’d clean up as good looking as that,Governor. She’s a credit to me, ain’t she?LIZA. I tell you, it’s easy to clean up here. Hot andcold water on tap, just as much as you like, there is.Woolly towels, there is; and a towel horse12 so hot, itburns your fingers. Soft brushes to scrub yourself, anda wooden bowl of soap smelling like primroses. NowI know why ladies is so clean. Washing’s a treat forthem. Wish they saw what it is for the like of me!

12. A towel horse is a towel rack. This one is heated to dry thetowels.


HIGGINS. I’m glad the bathroom met with yourapproval.LIZA. It didn’t: not all of it; and I don’t care whohears me say it. Mrs. Pearce knows.HIGGINS. What was wrong, Mrs. Pearce?MRS. PEARCE. [Blandly.] Oh, nothing, sir. It doesn’t matter.LIZA. I had a good mind to break it. I didn’t knowwhich way to look. But I hung a towel over it, I did.HIGGINS. Over what?MRS. PEARCE. Over the looking-glass, sir.HIGGINS. Doolittle: you have brought yourdaughter up too strictly.DOOLITTLE. Me! I never brought her up at all,except to give her a lick of a strap now and again.Don’t put it on me, Governor. She ain’t accus-tomed to it, you see: that’s all. But she’ll soon pickup your free-and-easy ways.LIZA. I’m a good girl, I am; and I won’t pick up nofree-and-easy ways.HIGGINS. Eliza: if you say again that you’re a goodgirl, your father shall take you home.LIZA. Not him. You don’t know my father. All hecome here for was to touch you for some money toget drunk on.DOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I wantmoney for? To put into the plate in church, I sup-pose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is soincensed by this that PICKERING presently finds itnecessary to step between them.] Don’t you give menone of your lip; and don’t let me hear you givingthis gentleman any of it neither, or you’ll hearfrom me about it. See?HIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go, Doolittle? Your blessing, forinstance.DOOLITTLE. No, Governor: I ain’t such a mug asto put up my children to all I know myself. Hardenough to hold them in without that. If you wantEliza’s mind improved, Governor, you do it your-self with a strap. So long, gentlemen. [He turns to go.]HIGGINS. [Impressively.] Stop. You’ll come regu-larly to see your daughter. It’s your duty, you know.My brother is a clergyman; and he could help youin your talks with her.

DOOLITTLE. [Evasively.] Certainly. I’ll come,Governor. Not just this week, because I have a jobat a distance. But later on you may depend on me.Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, ma’am. [Hetakes off his hat to MRS. PEARCE, who disdains thesalutation and goes out. He winks at HIGGINS, think-ing him probably a fellow-sufferer from MRS.PEARCE’s difficult disposition, and follows her.]LIZA. Don’t you believe the old liar. He’d as soonyou set a bulldog on him as a clergyman. You won’tsee him again in a hurry.HIGGINS. I don’t want to, Eliza. Do you?LIZA. Not me. I don’t want never to see himagain, I don’t. He’s a disgrace to me, he is, collect-ing dust, instead of working at his trade.PICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza?LIZA. Taking money out of other people’s pocketsinto his own. His proper trade’s a navvy;13 and heworks at it sometimes too—for exercise—and earnsgood money at it. Ain’t you going to call me MissDoolittle any more?PICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. Itwas a slip of the tongue.LIZA. Oh, I don’t mind; only it sounded so gen-teel. I should just like to take a taxi to the corner ofTottenham Court Road and get out there and tellit to wait for me, just to put the girls in their placea bit. I wouldn’t speak to them, you know.PICKERING. Better wait ’til we get you somethingreally fashionable.HIGGINS. Besides, you shouldn’t cut your oldfriends now that you have risen in the world. That’swhat we call snobbery.LIZA. You don’t call the like of them my friendsnow, I should hope. They’ve took it out of meoften enough with their ridicule when they hadthe chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my ownback. But if I’m to have fashionable clothes, I’llwait. I should like to have some. Mrs. Pearce saysyou’re going to give me some to wear in bed atnight different to what I wear in the daytime; butit do seem a waste of money when you could getsomething to show. Besides, I never could fancychanging into cold things on a winter night.

13. A navvy is a laborer who works on building canals and railroads.

George Bernard Shaw


come here and attempt to blackmail me? You senther here on purpose.DOOLITTLE. [Protesting.] No, Governor.HIGGINS. You must have. How else could you pos-sibly know that she is here?DOOLITTLE. Don’t take a man up like that,Governor.HIGGINS. The police shall take you up. This is aplant—a plot to extort money by threats. I shalltelephone for the police. [He goes resolutely to thetelephone and opens the directory.]DOOLITTLE. Have I asked you for a brass farthing?I leave it to the gentleman here: have I said a wordabout money?HIGGINS. [Throwing the book aside and marchingdown on DOOLITTLE with a poser.] What else didyou come for?DOOLITTLE. [Sweetly.] Well, what would a mancome for? Be human, Governor.HIGGINS. [Disarmed.] Alfred: did you put her up to it?DOOLITTLE. So help me, Governor, I never did. Itake my Bible oath I ain’t seen the girl these twomonths past.HIGGINS. Then how did you know she was here?DOOLITTLE. [“Most musical, most melancholy.”] I’lltell you, Governor, if you’ll only let me get a wordin. I’m willing to tell you. I’m wanting to tell you.I’m waiting to tell you.HIGGINS. Pickering: this chap has a certain nat-ural gift of rhetoric. Observe the rhythm of hisnative woodnotes wild. “I’m willing to tell you: I’mwanting to tell you: I’m waiting to tell you.”Sentimental rhetoric! that’s the Welsh strain inhim. It also accounts for his mendacity anddishonesty.PICKERING. Oh, please, Higgins: I’m west countrymyself. [To DOOLITTLE.] How did you know thegirl was here if you didn’t send her?DOOLITTLE. It was like this, Governor. The girltook a boy in the taxi to give him a jaunt. Son ofher landlady, he is. He hung about on the chanceof her giving him another ride home. Well, shesent him back for her luggage when she heard youwas willing for her to stop here. I met the boy at thecorner of Long Acre and Endell Street.

HIGGINS. Public house. Yes?DOOLITTLE. The poor man’s club, Governor: whyshouldn’t I?PICKERING. Do let him tell his story, Higgins.DOOLITTLE. He told me what was up. And I askyou, what was my feelings and my duty as a father?I says to the boy, “You bring me the luggage,” I says—PICKERING. Why didn’t you go for it yourself?DOOLITTLE. Landlady wouldn’t have trusted mewith it, Governor. She’s that kind of woman: youknow. I had to give the boy a penny afore he trustedme with it, the little swine. I brought it to her justto oblige you like, and make myself agreeable.That’s all.HIGGINS. How much luggage?DOOLITTLE. Musical instrument, Governor. Afew pictures, a trifle of jewlery, and a birdcage. Shesaid she didn’t want no clothes. What was I tothink from that, Governor? I ask you as a parentwhat was I to think?HIGGINS. So you came to rescue her from worsethan death, eh?DOOLITTLE. [Appreciatively: relieved at being so wellunderstood.] Just so, Governor. That’s right.PICKERING. But why did you bring her luggage ifyou intended to take her away?DOOLITTLE. Have I said a word about taking heraway? Have I now?HIGGINS. [Determinedly.] You’re going to take heraway, double quick. [He crosses to the hearth andrings the bell.]DOOLITTLE. [Rising.] No, Governor. Don’t saythat. I’m not the man to stand in my girl’s light.Here’s a career opening for her, as you might say; and—

[MRS. PEARCE opens the door and awaits orders.]HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce: this is Eliza’s father. He hascome to take her away. Give her to him. [He goesback to the piano, with an air of washing his hands ofthe whole affair.]DOOLITTLE. No. This is a misunderstanding. Listenhere—MRS. PEARCE. He can’t take her away, Mr.Higgins: how can he? You told me to burn herclothes.

DOOLITTLE. That’s right. I can’t carry the girlthrough the streets like a blooming monkey, can I?I put it to you.HIGGINS. You have put it to me that you wantyour daughter. Take your daughter. If she has noclothes go out and buy her some.DOOLITTLE. [Desperate.] Where’s the clothes shecome in? Did I burn them or did your missus here?MRS. PEARCE. I am the housekeeper, if you please.I have sent for some clothes for your girl. Whenthey come you can take her away. You can wait inthe kitchen. This way, please.

[DOOLITTLE, much troubled, accompanies her tothe door; then hesitates; finally turns confidentiallyto HIGGINS.]

DOOLITTLE. Listen here, Governor. You and me ismen of the world, ain’t we?HIGGINS. Oh! Men of the world, are we? You’dbetter go, Mrs. Pearce.MRS. PEARCE. I think so, indeed, sir. [She goes,with dignity.]PICKERING. The floor is yours, Mr. Doolittle.DOOLITTLE. [To PICKERING.] I thank you,Governor. [To HIGGINS, who takes refuge on thepiano bench, a little overwhelmed by the proximity ofhis visitor; for DOOLITTLE has a professional flavor ofdust about him.] Well, the truth is, I’ve taken a sortof fancy to you, Governor; and if you want the girl,I’m not so set on having her back home again, butwhat I might be open to an arrangement. Regardedin the light of a young woman, she’s a fine hand-some girl. As a daughter she’s not worth her keep;and so I tell you straight. All I ask is my rights as afather; and you’re the last man alive to expect meto let her go for nothing; for I can see you’re one ofthe straight sort, Governor. Well, what’s afive-pound note to you? And what’s Eliza to me?[He returns to his chair and sits down judicially.]PICKERING. I think you ought to know, Doolittle,that Mr. Higgins’s intentions are entirely honorable.DOOLITTLE. Course they are, Governor. If Ithought they wasn’t, I’d ask fifty.HIGGINS. [Revolted.] Do you mean to say, you cal-lous rascal, that you would sell your daughter for £50?DOOLITTLE. Not in a general way I wouldn’t; butto oblige a gentleman like you I’d do a good deal, Ido assure you.

PICKERING. Have you no morals, man?DOOLITTLE. [Unabashed.] Can’t afford them,Governor. Neither could you if you was as poor asme. Not that I mean any harm, you know. But if Lizais going to have a bit out of this, why not me too?HIGGINS. [Troubled.] I don’t know what to do,Pickering. There can be no question that as a mat-ter of morals it’s a positive crime to give this chapa farthing. And yet I feel a sort of rough justice inhis claim.DOOLITTLE. That’s it, Governor. That’s all I say.A father’s heart, as it were.PICKERING. Well, I know the feeling; but really itseems hardly right—DOOLITTLE. Don’t say that, Governor. Don’t lookat it that way. What am I, Governors both? I ask you,what am I? I’m one of the undeserving poor: that’swhat I am. Think of what that means to a man. Itmeans that he’s up agen middle class morality all thetime. If there’s anything going, and I put in for a bitof it, it’s always the same story: “You’re undeserving;so you can’t have it.” But my needs is as great as themost deserving widow’s that ever got money out ofsix different charities in one week for the death ofthe same husband. I don’t need less than a deservingman: I need more. I don’t eat less hearty than him;and I drink a lot more. I want a bit of amusement,cause I’m a thinking man. I want cheerfulness and asong and a band when I feel low. Well, they chargeme just the same for everything as they charge thedeserving. What is middle class morality? Just anexcuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, Iask you, as two gentlemen, not to play that game onme. I’m playing straight with you. I ain’t pretendingto be deserving. I’m undeserving; and I mean to goon being undeserving. I like it; and that’s the truth.Will you take advantage of a man’s nature to do himout of the price of his own daughter what he’sbrought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of hisbrow until she’s growed big enough to be interestingto you two gentlemen? Is five pounds unreasonable?I put it to you; and I leave it to you.HIGGINS. [Rising, and going over to PICKERING.]Pickering: if we were to take this man in hand forthree months, he could choose between a seat inthe Cabinet and a popular pulpit in Wales.PICKERING. What do you say to that, Doolittle?



MRS. PEARCE. [Coming back.] Now, Eliza. The newthings have come for you to try on.LIZA. Ah-ow-oo-ooh! [She rushes out.]MRS. PEARCE. [Following her.] Oh, don’t rushabout like that, girl. [She shuts the door behind her.]HIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job.PICKERING. [With conviction.] Higgins: we have.

[There seems to be some curiosity as to whatHIGGINS’s lessons to ELIZA were like. Well, here isa sample: the first one.

Picture ELIZA, in her new clothes, and feeling herinside put out of step by a lunch, dinner, and break-fast of a kind to which it is unaccustomed, seatedwith HIGGINS and the COLONEL in the study, feel-ing like a hospital out-patient at a first encounterwith the doctors.HIGGINS, constitutionally unable to sit still, dis-composes her still more by striding restlessly about.But for the reassuring presence and quietude of herfriend the COLONEL she would run for her life,even back to Drury Lane.]

HIGGINS. Say your alphabet.

LIZA. I know my alphabet. Do you think I knownothing? I don’t need to be taught like a child.HIGGINS. [Thundering.] Say your alphabet.PICKERING. Say it, Miss Doolittle. You will under-stand presently. Do what he tells you; and let himteach you in his own way.LIZA. Oh well, if you put it like that—Ahyee,beyee, ceyee, deyee—HIGGINS. [With the roar of a wounded lion.] Stop.Listen to this, Pickering. This is what we pay for aselementary education. This unfortunate animal hasbeen locked up for nine years in school at ourexpense to teach her to speak and read the lan-guage of Shakespeare and Milton. And the result isAhyee, Be-yee, Ce-yee, Deyee. [To ELIZA.] Say A,B, C, D.LIZA. [Almost in tears.] But I’m sayin’ it. Ahyee,Beyee, Ceyee—HIGGINS. Stop. Say a cup of tea.LIZA. A cappete-ee.HIGGINS. Put your tongue forward until itsqueezes against the top of your lower teeth. Nowsay cup.LIZA. C-c-c—I can’t. C-Cup.PICKERING. Good. Splendid, Miss Doolittle.

HIGGINS. By Jupiter, she’s done it the first shot.Pickering: we shall make a duchess of her. [To ELIZA.]Now do you think you could possibly say tea? Notte-yee, mind: if you ever say be-yee ce-yee de-yeeagain you shall be dragged around the room threetimes by the hair of your head. [Fortissimo.] T, T, T, T.ELIZA. [Weeping.] I can’t hear no difference ’cepthat it sounds more genteel-like when you say it.HIGGINS. Well, if you can hear that difference,what the devil are you crying for? Pickering: giveher a chocolate.PICKERING. No, no. Never mind crying a little,Miss Doolittle: you are doing very well; and thelessons won’t hurt. I promise you I won’t let himdrag you around the room by your hair.HIGGINS. Be off with you to Mrs. Pearce and tellher about it. Think about it. Try to do it by yourself:and keep your tongue well forward in your mouthinstead of trying to roll it up and swallow it.Another lesson at half-past four this afternoon.Away with you.

[ELIZA, still sobbing, rushes from the room.And that is the sort of ordeal poor ELIZA has to gothrough for months before we meet her again on herfirst appearance in London society of the profes-sional class.]


PYGMALION � 953

Recall and Interpret1. Why has Eliza come to see Higgins? What does her offer to Higgins reveal

about her character? 2. What wager does Pickering propose to Higgins? What do you think moti-

vates Higgins to accept this wager?3. What fears do Mrs. Pearce and Pickering express about Higgins’s plan? Do

you think that their fears are justified? Why or why not?4. What request does Alfred Doolittle make to Higgins? Why does Higgins

agree to his request?

Evaluate and Connect5. A foil is a character who is used as a contrast to another character. (See

Literary Terms Handbook, page R6.) Through contrast, the foil may high-light flaws in the main character’s personality. How is Pickering used as afoil to Higgins?

6. Do you think that Higgins is a good teacher? Give reasons for your answer. 7. In his preface, Shaw says that the purpose of the play is to teach people

about the importance of phonetics. At this point in the play, are you moreinterested in the discussion of phonetics or in the characters’ relationships?Explain your answer.

8. Do you think it is possible to completely transform someone’s speech andmanners in a few months? Why or why not?

What are your thoughts about Eliza’s first lesson? Jot down your response inyour journal.

Dialogue and DialectDialogue is conversation between twoor more characters. In a stage drama,most of the story is told through dia-logue. Well-written dialogue usuallyallows the audience to distinguish thecharacters by their individual manner ofspeaking. Playwrights can reveal thebackground of characters through theuse of dialect—a way of speaking that ischaracteristic of people from a particularregion or group. Dialects may differfrom the standard form of language inpronunciation, vocabulary, or grammar.1. List the characters in act 2 and

describe the dialect each speaks.2. How do the nonstandard dialects in

act 2 differ from the Standard Englishdialect spoken by some characters?


Analyzing Act 2

Writing About LiteratureDoolittle’s Morality What does Alfred Doolittle mean whenhe describes himself as “one of the undeserving poor”? Howdoes his criticism of middle-class morality relate to the play’sthemes? (See Literary Terms Handbook, page R16.) Writeone or two paragraphs in which you analyze the statementshe makes in act 2.

Personal WritingWorking Toward a Goal Eliza wants to learn how to speakand behave like a lady so she can have her own flower shop.What career or life goal do you have? What will you need todo to reach this goal? Would you be willing to work as hard

or put up with as much as Eliza does in order to fulfill yourdream? Write a paragraph describing your goal and twomore paragraphs about what you are able and willing to doto achieve your goal.

Learning for LifeTeach Eliza Shaw dramatizes Eliza’s first speech lesson, buthe doesn’t show us the other part of her education. What doyou think she needs to learn about clothing and proper man-ners? How do you think Mrs. Pearce should go about teach-ing her these social skills? With a partner, draw up a lessonplan for Mrs. Pearce to follow.



Literary ELEMENTS



[It is MRS. HIGGINS’s at-home day.1 Nobody has yetarrived. Her drawing room, in a flat on ChelseaEmbankment, has three windows looking on the river;and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would be in an olderhouse of the same pretension. The windows are open,giving access to a balcony with flowers in pots. If youstand with your face to the windows, you have the fire-place on your left and the door in the right-hand wallclose to the corner nearest the windows.MRS. HIGGINS was brought up on Morris2 and BurneJones;3 and her room, which is very unlike her son’sroom in Wimpole Street, is not crowded with furni-ture and little tables and nicknacks. In the middle ofthe room there is a big ottoman; and this, with the car-pet, the Morris wallpapers, and the Morris chintzwindow curtains and brocade covers of the ottomanand its cushions, supply all the ornament, and aremuch too handsome to be hidden by odds and ends ofuseless things. A few good oil paintings from the exhi-bitions in the Grosvenor Gallery thirty years ago (theBurne Jones, not the Whistler4 side of them) are onthe walls. The only landscape is a Cecil Lawson5 onthe scale of a Rubens.6 There is a portrait of MRS.HIGGINS as she was when she defied fashion in heryouth in one of the beautiful Rossettian7 costumeswhich, when caricatured by people who did not under-stand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism8 inthe eighteen-seventies.In the corner diagonally opposite the door MRS.HIGGINS, now over sixty and long past taking thetrouble to dress out of the fashion, sits writing at anelegantly simple writing table with a bell button withinreach of her hand. There is a Chippendale chair fur-ther back in the room between her and the window

nearest her side. At the other side of the room, furtherforward, is an Elizabethan chair roughly carved in thetaste of Inigo Jones.9 On the same side a piano in adecorated case. The corner between the fireplace andthe window is occupied by a divan cushioned inMorris chintz.It is between four and five in the afternoon.The door is opened violently; and HIGGINS enters withhis hat on.]MRS. HIGGINS. [Dismayed.] Henry! [Scoldinghim.] What are you doing here today? It is myat-home day: you promised not to come. [As hebends to kiss her, she takes his hat off, and presents itto him.]HIGGINS. Oh bother! [He throws the hat down onthe table.]MRS. HIGGINS. Go home at once.HIGGINS. [Kissing her.] I know, Mother. I came onpurpose.MRS. HIGGINS. But you mustn’t. I’m serious,Henry. You offend all my friends: they stop comingwhenever they meet you.HIGGINS. Nonsense! I know I have no small talk;but people don’t mind. [He sits on the settee.]MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! don’t they? Small talk indeed!What about your large talk? Really, dear, you mustn’t stay.HIGGINS. I must. I’ve a job for you. A phonetic job.MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. I’m sorry; but I can’tget around your vowels; and though I like to getpretty postcards in your patent shorthand, I alwayshave to read the copies in ordinary writing you sothoughtfully send me.HIGGINS. Well, this isn’t a phonetic job.MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was.HIGGINS. Not your part of it. I’ve picked up a girl.MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl haspicked you up?HIGGINS. Not at all. I don’t mean a love affair.MRS. HIGGINS. What a pity!HIGGINS. Why?MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you never fall in love withanyone under forty-five. When will you discover

1. An at-home day was a specified day of the week when a ladyreceived visitors who needed no invitation.

2. Morris refers to William Morris (1834–1896), English poet,artist, designer, and socialist reformer.

3. Burne Jones refers to Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones(1833–1898), English painter, designer, and illustrator.

4. Whistler refers to James Abbott McNeil Whistler (1834–1903),popular American painter who lived in England.

5. Cecil Lawson (1851–1882) was an English landscape painter.6. Rubens refers to Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), Flemish

painter famous for his monumental paintings.7. Rossettian refers to the stylized work of Dante Gabriel

Rossetti (1828–1882), painter and poet (see page 816).8. Estheticism is the study of or devotion to principles of beauty,

morality, and the arts.9. Inigo Jones (1573–1652) was an English architect and stage

designer.


George Bernard Shaw

that there are some rather nice-looking youngwomen about?HIGGINS. Oh, I can’t be bothered with youngwomen. My idea of a lovable woman is somethingas like you as possible. I shall never get into the wayof seriously liking young women: some habits lietoo deep to be changed. [Rising abruptly and walkingabout, jingling his money and his keys in his trouserpockets.] Besides, they’re all idiots.MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know what you would do ifyou really loved me, Henry?HIGGINS. Oh bother! What? Marry, I suppose?MRS. HIGGINS. No. Stop fidgeting and take yourhands out of your pockets. [With a gesture of despair,he obeys and sits down again.] That’s a good boy.Now tell me about the girl.HIGGINS. She’s coming to see you.MRS. HIGGINS. I don’t remember asking her.

HIGGINS. You didn’t. I asked her. If you’d knownher you wouldn’t have asked her.MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why?HIGGINS. Well, it’s like this. She’s a commonflower girl. I picked her off the curbstone.MRS. HIGGINS. And invited her to my at-home!HIGGINS. [Rising and coming to her to coax her.] Oh,that’ll be all right. I’ve taught her to speak properly;and she has strict orders as to her behavior. She’s tokeep to two subjects: the weather and everybody’shealth—Fine day and How do you do, you know—and not to let herself go on things in general. Thatwill be safe.MRS. HIGGINS. Safe! To talk about our health!about our insides! perhaps about our outsides! Howcould you be so silly, Henry?HIGGINS. [Impatiently.] Well, she must talk aboutsomething. [He controls himself and sits down again.]

An early twentieth-century drawing room.

Viewing the photograph: How is this room similar to Mrs. Higgins’s drawing room, described in thesetting for act 3? How is it different?


Oh, she’ll be all right: don’t you fuss. Pickering is init with me. I’ve a sort of bet on that I’ll pass her offas a duchess in six months. I started on her somemonths ago; and she’s getting on like a house onfire. I shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; andshe’s been easier to teach than my middle-classpupils because she’s had to learn a complete newlanguage. She talks English almost as you talkFrench.MRS. HIGGINS. That’s satisfactory, at all events.HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isn’t.MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean?HIGGINS. You see, I’ve got her pronunciation allright; but you have to consider not only how a girlpronounces, but what she pronounces; and that’swhere—

[They are interrupted by the PARLORMAID,announcing guests.]

THE PARLORMAID. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill.[She withdraws.]HIGGINS. Oh Lord! [He rises; snatches his hat fromthe table; and makes for the door; but before he reachesit his mother introduces him.]

[MRS. and MISS EYNSFORD HILL are the motherand daughter who sheltered from the rain in CoventGarden. The mother is well bred, quiet, and has thehabitual anxiety of straitened means. The daughterhas acquired a gay air of being very much at home insociety: the bravado of genteel poverty.]

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [To MRS. HIGGINS.] Howdo you do? [They shake hands.]MISS EYNSFORD HILL. How d’you do? [She shakes.]MRS. HIGGINS. [Introducing.] My son Henry.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Your celebrated son! I haveso longed to meet you, Professor Higgins.HIGGINS. [Glumly, making no movement in herdirection.] Delighted. [He backs against the piano andbows brusquely.]MISS EYNSFORD HILL. [Going to him with confidentfamiliarity.] How do you do?HIGGINS. [Staring at her.] I’ve seen you beforesomewhere. I haven’t the ghost of a notion where;but I’ve heard your voice. [Drearily.] It doesn’t mat-ter. You’d better sit down.MRS. HIGGINS. I’m sorry to say that my celebratedson has no manners. You mustn’t mind him.

MISS EYNSFORD HILL. [Gaily.] I don’t. [She sits inthe Elizabethan chair.]MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [A little bewildered.] Not atall. [She sits on the ottoman between her daughter andMRS. HIGGINS, who has turned her chair away fromthe writing table.]HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didn’t mean to be.

[He goes to the central window, through which, withhis back to the company, he contemplates the riverand the flowers in Battersea Park on the oppositebank as if they were a frozen desert.The PARLORMAID returns, ushering in PICKERING.]

THE PARLORMAID. Colonel Pickering. [She withdraws.]PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins?MRS. HIGGINS. So glad you’ve come. Do youknow Mrs. Eynsford Hill—Miss Eynsford Hill?[Exchange of bows. The COLONEL brings theChippendale chair a little forward between MRS. HILLand MRS. HIGGINS, and sits down.]PICKERING. Has Henry told you what we’ve come for?HIGGINS. [Over his shoulder.] We were interrupted:damn it!MRS. HIGGINS. Oh Henry, Henry, really!MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Half rising.] Are we in the way?MRS. HIGGINS. [Rising and making her sit downagain.] No, no. You couldn’t have come more fortu-nately: we want you to meet a friend of ours.HIGGINS. [Turning hopefully.] Yes, by George! Wewant two or three people. You’ll do as well as any-body else.

[The PARLORMAID returns, ushering FREDDY.]THE PARLORMAID. Mr. Eynsford Hill.HIGGINS. [Almost audibly, past endurance.] God ofHeaven! another of them.FREDDY. [Shaking hands with MRS. HIGGINS.]Ahdedo?MRS. HIGGINS. Very good of you to come.[Introducing.] Colonel Pickering.FREDDY. [Bowing.] Ahdedo?MRS. HIGGINS. I don’t think you know my son,Professor Higgins.FREDDY. [Going to HIGGINS.] Ahdedo?


George Bernard Shaw


HIGGINS. [Looking at him much as if he were a pick-pocket.] I’ll take my oath I’ve met you before some-where. Where was it?FREDDY. I don’t think so.HIGGINS. [Resignedly.] It don’t matter, anyhow. Sit down.

[He shakes FREDDY’s hand, and almost slings himon to the ottoman with his face to the windows; thencomes around to the other side of it.]

HIGGINS. Well, here we are, anyhow! [He sitsdown on the ottoman next MRS. EYNSFORD HILL, onher left.] And now, what the devil are we going totalk about until Eliza comes?MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: you are the life and soul ofthe Royal Society’s soirées;10 but really you’re rathertrying on more commonplace occasions.HIGGINS. Am I? Very sorry. [Beaming suddenly.] I suppose I am, you know. [Uproariously.] Ha, ha!MISS EYNSFORD HILL. [Who considers HIGGINSquite eligible matrimonially.] I sympathize. I haven’tany small talk. If people would only be frank andsay what they really think!HIGGINS. [Relapsing into gloom.] Lord forbid!MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Taking up her daughter’scue.] But why?HIGGINS. What they think they ought to think isbad enough, Lord knows; but what they reallythink would break up the whole show. Do you sup-pose it would be really agreeable if I were to comeout now with what I really think?MISS EYNSFORD HILL. [Gaily.] Is it so very cynical?HIGGINS. Cynical! Who the dickens said it wascynical? I mean it wouldn’t be decent.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Seriously.] Oh! I’m sureyou don’t mean that, Mr. Higgins.HIGGINS. You see, we’re all savages, more or less.We’re supposed to be civilized and cultured—toknow all about poetry and philosophy and art andscience, and so on; but how many of us know even

the meanings of these names? [To MISS HILL.]What do you know of poetry? [To MRS. HILL.]What do you know of science? [IndicatingFREDDY.] What does he know of art or science oranything else? What the devil do you imagine Iknow of philosophy?MRS. HIGGINS. [Warningly.] Or of manners,Henry?THE PARLORMAID. [Opening the door.] MissDoolittle. [She withdraws.]HIGGINS. [Rising hastily and running to MRS.HIGGINS.] Here she is, Mother. [He stands on tiptoeand makes signs over his mother’s head to ELIZA toindicate to her which lady is her hostess.]

[ELIZA, who is exquisitely dressed, produces animpression of such remarkable distinction andbeauty as she enters that they all rise, quite fluttered.Guided by HIGGINS’s signals, she comes to MRS.HIGGINS with studied grace.]

LIZA. [Speaking with pedantic correctness of pronun-ciation and great beauty of tone.] How do you do,Mrs. Higgins? [She gasps slightly in making sure of theH in Higgins, but is quite successful.] Mr. Higginstold me I might come.MRS. HIGGINS. [Cordially.] Quite right: I’m veryglad indeed to see you.PICKERING. How do you do, Miss Doolittle?LIZA. [Shaking hands with him.] Colonel Pickering,is it not?MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I feel sure we have metbefore, Miss Doolittle. I remember your eyes.LIZA. How do you do? [She sits down on theottoman gracefully in the place just left vacant byHIGGINS.]MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Introducing.] My daughterClara.LIZA. How do you do?CLARA. [Impulsively.] How do you do? [She sitsdown on the ottoman beside ELIZA, devouring her withher eyes.]FREDDY. [Coming to their side of the ottoman.] I’vecertainly had the pleasure.

pedantic (pi dan�tik) adj. characterized by an ostentatious display of knowledge with anoveremphasis on trivial details or formal rules

Vocabulary

10. Soirées are social gatherings held in the evening.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Introducing.] My sonFreddy.LIZA. How do you do?

[FREDDY bows and sits down in the Elizabethanchair, infatuated.]

HIGGINS. [Suddenly.] By George, yes: it all comesback to me! [They stare at him.] Covent Garden![Lamentably.] What a damned thing!MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, please! [He is about to sit onthe edge of the table.] Don’t sit on my writing table:you’ll break it.

HIGGINS. [Sulkily.] Sorry.[He goes to the divan,11 stumbling into the fender12

and over the fire irons on his way; extricating him-self with muttered imprecations; and finishing hisdisastrous journey by throwing himself so impa-tiently on the divan that he almost breaks it. MRS.HIGGINS looks at him, but controls herself and saysnothing. A long and painful pause ensues.]


11. A divan is a large couch or sofa, usually without a back or arms.

12. A fender is a metal guard in front of a fireplace.

George Bernard Shaw

MRS. HIGGINS. [At last, conversationally.] Will itrain, do you think?LIZA. The shallow depression in the west of theseislands is likely to move slowly in an easterly direc-tion. There are no indications of any great changein the barometrical situation.FREDDY. Ha! ha! how awfully funny!LIZA. What is wrong with that, young man? I betI got it right. FREDDY. Killing!MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I’m sure I hope it won’t turncold. There’s so much influenza about. It runs rightthrough our whole family regularly every spring.LIZA. [Darkly.] My aunt died of influenza: so they said.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Clicks her tongue sympathet-ically!!!]LIZA. [In the same tragic tone.] But it’s my beliefthey done the old woman in.MRS. HIGGINS. [Puzzled.] Done her in?LIZA. Y-e-e-e-es, Lord love you! Why should shedie of influenza? She come through diphtheriaright enough the year before. I saw her with myown eyes. Fairly blue with it, she was. They allthought she was dead; but my father he kept ladlinggin down her throat ’til she came to so sudden thatshe bit the bowl off the spoon.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Startled.] Dear me!LIZA. [Piling up the indictment.] What call woulda woman with that strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat that should have come to me? Somebodypinched it; and what I say is, them as pinched itdone her in.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. What does doing her inmean?HIGGINS. [Hastily.] Oh, that’s the new small talk.To do a person in means to kill them.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [To ELIZA, horrified.] Yousurely don’t believe that your aunt was killed?LIZA. Do I not! Them she lived with would havekilled her for a hat pin, let alone a hat.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. But it can’t have been rightfor your father to pour spirits down her throat likethat. It might have killed her.

LIZA. Not her. Gin was mother’s milk to her.Besides, he’d poured so much down his own throatthat he knew the good of it.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Do you mean that hedrank?LIZA. Drank! My word! Something chronic.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. How dreadful for you!LIZA. Not a bit. It never did him no harm what Icould see. But then he did not keep it up regular.[Cheerfully.] On the burst, as you might say, fromtime to time. And always more agreeable when hehad a drop in. When he was out of work, mymother used to give him fourpence and tell him togo out and not come back until he’d drunk himselfcheerful and loving-like. There’s lots of womenhas to make their husbands drunk to make them fitto live with. [Now quite at her ease.] You see, it’slike this. If a man has a bit of a conscience, italways takes him when he’s sober; and then itmakes him low-spirited. A drop of booze just takesthat off and makes him happy. [To FREDDY, who isin convulsions of suppressed laughter.] Here! what areyou sniggering at?FREDDY. The new small talk. You do it so awfullywell.LIZA. If I was doing it proper, what was you laugh-ing at? [To HIGGINS.] Have I said anything I oughtn’t?MRS. HIGGINS. [Interposing.] Not at all, MissDoolittle.LIZA. Well, that’s a mercy, anyhow. [Expansively.]What I always say is—HIGGINS. [Rising and looking at his watch.] Ahem!LIZA. [Looking round at him; taking the hint; and ris-ing.] Well: I must go. [They all rise. FREDDY goes tothe door.] So pleased to have met you. Good-bye.[She shakes hands with MRS. HIGGINS.]MRS. HIGGINS. Good-bye.LIZA. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering.PICKERING. Good-bye, Miss Doolittle. [Theyshake hands.]LIZA. [Nodding to the others.] Good-bye, all.FREDDY. [Opening the door for her.] Are you walk-ing across the Park, Miss Doolittle? If so—



LIZA. [With perfectly elegant diction.] Walk! Notbloody likely. [Sensation.] I am going in a taxi. [Shegoes out.]

[PICKERING gasps and sits down. FREDDY goesout on the balcony to catch another glimpse ofELIZA.]

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Suffering from shock.] Well,I really can’t get used to the new ways.CLARA. [Throwing herself discontentedly into theElizabethan chair.] Oh, it’s all right, Mamma, quiteright. People will think we never go anywhere orsee anybody if you are so old-fashioned.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I daresay I am veryold-fashioned; but I do hope you won’t beginusing that expression, Clara. I have got accus-tomed to hear you talking about men as rotters,and calling everything filthy and beastly; thoughI do think it horrible and unladylike. But this lastis really too much. Don’t you think so, ColonelPickering?PICKERING. Don’t ask me. I’ve been away inIndia for several years; and manners havechanged so much that I sometimes don’t knowwhether I’m at a respectable dinner table or in aship’s forecastle.CLARA. It’s all a matter of habit. There’s noright or wrong in it. Nobody means anything byit. And it’s so quaint, and gives such a smartemphasis to things that are not in themselvesvery witty. I find the new small talk delightfuland quite innocent.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Rising.] Well, after that, Ithink its time for us to go.

[PICKERING and HIGGINS rise.]CLARA. [Rising.] Oh yes: we have three at-homesto go to still. Good-bye, Mrs. Higgins. Good-bye,Colonel Pickering, Good-bye, Professor Higgins.HIGGINS. [Coming grimly at her from the divan, andaccompanying her to the door.] Good-bye. Be sureyou try on that small talk at the three at-homes.Don’t be nervous about it. Pitch it in strong.CLARA. [All smiles.] I will. Good-bye. Such non-sense, all this early Victorian prudery!HIGGINS. [Tempting her.] Such damned nonsense!CLARA. Such bloody nonsense!MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [Convulsively.] Clara!

CLARA. Ha! ha! [She goes out radiant, conscious ofbeing thoroughly up to date, and is heard descending thestairs in a stream of silvery laughter.]FREDDY. [To the heavens at large.] Well, I askyou— [He gives it up, and comes to MRS. HIGGINS.]Good-bye.MRS. HIGGINS. [Shaking hands.] Good-bye. Wouldyou like to meet Miss Doolittle again?FREDDY. [Eagerly.] Yes, I should, most awfully.MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you know my days.FREDDY. Yes. Thanks awfully. Good-bye. [He goesout.]MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Good-bye, Mr. Higgins.HIGGINS. Good-bye. Good-bye.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [To PICKERING.] It’s no use.I shall never be able to bring myself to use thatword.PICKERING. Don’t. It’s not compulsory, you know.You’ll get on quite well without it.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Only, Clara is so down onme if I am not positively reeking with the latestslang. Good-bye.PICKERING. Good-bye [They shake hands.]MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. [To MRS. HIGGINS.] Youmustn’t mind Clara. [PICKERING, catching fromher lowered tone that this is not meant for him to hear,discreetly joins HIGGINS at the window.] We’re sopoor! and she gets so few parties, poor child! Shedoesn’t quite know. [MRS. HIGGINS, seeing that hereyes are moist, takes her hand sympathetically andgoes with her to the door.] But the boy is nice. Don’tyou think so?MRS. HIGGINS. Oh, quite nice. I shall always bedelighted to see him.MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Thank you, dear. Good-bye. [She goes out.]HIGGINS. [Eagerly.] Well? Is Eliza presentable? [Heswoops on his mother and drags her to the ottoman,where she sits down in ELIZA’s place with her son onher left.]

[PICKERING returns to his chair on her right.]MRS. HIGGINS. You silly boy, of course she’s notpresentable. She’s a triumph of your art and of herdressmaker’s; but if you suppose for a moment thatshe doesn’t give herself away in every sentence sheutters, you must be perfectly cracked about her.

George Bernard Shaw


PICKERING. But don’t you think something mightbe done? I mean something to eliminate the san-guinary13 element from her conversation.MRS. HIGGINS. Not as long as she is in Henry’shands.HIGGINS. [Aggrieved.] Do you mean that my lan-guage is improper?MRS. HIGGINS. No, dearest: it would be quiteproper—say on a canal barge; but it would not beproper for her at a garden party.HIGGINS. [Deeply injured.] Well I must say—PICKERING. [Interrupting him.] Come, Higgins:

you must learn to know yourself. I haven’t heardsuch language as yours since we used to reviewthe volunteers in Hyde Park twenty years ago.HIGGINS. [Sulkily.] Oh, well, if you say so, I sup-pose I don’t always talk like a bishop.MRS. HIGGINS. [Quieting HENRY with a touch.]Colonel Pickering: will you tell me what is theexact state of things in Wimpole Street?PICKERING. [Cheerfully: as if this completelychanged the subject.] Well, I have come to live therewith Henry. We work together at my Indiandialects; and we think it more convenient—MRS. HIGGINS. Quite so. I know all about that: it’san excellent arrangement. But where does this girllive?HIGGINS. With us, of course. Where should she live?MRS. HIGGINS. But on what terms? Is she a ser-vant? If not, what is she?

PICKERING. [Slowly.] I think I know what youmean, Mrs. Higgins.HIGGINS. Well, dash me if I do! I’ve had to workat the girl every day for months to get her to herpresent pitch. Besides, she’s useful. She knowswhere my things are, and remembers my appoint-ments and so forth.MRS. HIGGINS. How does your housekeeper get onwith her?HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce? Oh, she’s jolly glad to getso much taken off her hands; for before Eliza came,she used to have to find things and remind me ofmy appointments. But she’s got some silly bee inher bonnet about Eliza. She keeps saying “Youdon’t think, sir”: doesn’t she, Pick?PICKERING. Yes: that’s the formula. “You don’tthink, sir.” That’s the end of every conversationabout Eliza.HIGGINS. As if I ever stop thinking about the girland her confounded vowels and consonants. I’mworn out, thinking about her, and watching herlips and her teeth and her tongue, not to mentionher soul, which is the quaintest of the lot.MRS. HIGGINS. You certainly are a pretty pair ofbabies, playing with your live doll.HIGGINS. Playing! The hardest job I ever tackled:make no mistake about that, Mother. But you haveno idea how frightfully interesting it is to take ahuman being and change her into a quite differenthuman being by creating a new speech for her. It’sfilling up the deepest gulf that separates class fromclass and soul from soul.PICKERING. [Drawing his chair closer to MRS.HIGGINS and bending over to her eagerly.] Yes: it’senormously interesting. I assure you, Mrs. Higgins,we take Eliza very seriously. Every week—every dayalmost—there is some new change. [Closer again.]We keep records of every stage—dozens of gramo-phone disks and photographs—HIGGINS. [Assailing her at the other ear.] Yes, byGeorge: it’s the most absorbing experiment I evertackled. She regularly fills our lives up: doesn’t she,Pick?PICKERING. We’re always talking Eliza.HIGGINS. Teaching Eliza.PICKERING. Dressing Eliza.MRS. HIGGINS. What!

13. Sanguinary means “bloody.” Pickering is alluding to Eliza’suse of the oath “bloody.”


HIGGINS. Inventing new Elizas.HIGGINS. You know, she has the

most extraordinaryquickness of ear:

PICKERING. I assure you, my dear Mrs.Higgins, that girl

HIGGINS. just like a parrot. I’ve triedher with every

PICKERING. is a genius. She can playthe piano quitebeautifully.

HIGGINS. possible sort of sound thata human being canmake—

PICKERING. We have taken her toclassical concerts andto music

HIGGINS. Continental dialects,African dialects,Hottentot

PICKERING. halls; and it’s all the sameto her: she playseverything

HIGGINS. clicks, things it took meyears to get hold of; and

PICKERING. she hears right off whenshe comes home,whether it’s

HIGGINS. she picks them up like ashot, right away, as ifshe had

PICKERING. Beethoven and Brahms orLehar and LionelMonckton;

HIGGINS. been at it all her life. PICKERING. though six months ago,

she’d never as much astouched a piano—

MRS. HIGGINS. [Putting her fingers in her ears, asthey are by this time shouting one another down with anintolerable noise.] Sh-sh-sh—sh! [They stop.]PICKERING. I beg your pardon. [He draws his chairback apologetically.]HIGGINS. Sorry. When Pickering starts shoutingnobody can get a word in edgeways.MRS. HIGGINS. Be quiet, Henry. Colonel Pickering:don’t you realize that when Eliza walked intoWimpole Street, something walked in with her?

PICKERING. Her father did. But Henry soon gotrid of him.MRS. HIGGINS. It would have been more to thepoint if her mother had. But as her mother didn’tsomething else did.PICKERING. But what?MRS. HIGGINS. [Unconsciously dating herself by theword.] A problem.PICKERING. Oh, I see. The problem of how to passher off as a lady.HIGGINS. I’ll solve that problem. I’ve half solvedit already.MRS. HIGGINS. No, you two infinitely stupid malecreatures: the problem of what is to be done withher afterwards.HIGGINS. I don’t see anything in that. She can go her own way, with all the advantages I havegiven her.MRS. HIGGINS. The advantages of that poorwoman who was here just now! The manners andhabits that disqualify a fine lady from earning herown living without giving her a fine lady’s income!Is that what you mean?PICKERING. [Indulgently, being rather bored.] Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Higgins. [He rises to go.]HIGGINS. [Rising also.] We’ll find her some lightemployment.PICKERING. She’s happy enough. Don’t you worryabout her. Good-bye. [He shakes hands as if he were consoling a frightened child, and makes forthe door.]HIGGINS. Anyhow, there’s no good botheringnow. The thing’s done. Good-bye, Mother. [Hekisses her, and follows PICKERING.]PICKERING. [Turning for a final consolation.] Thereare plenty of openings. We’ll do what’s right.Good-bye.HIGGINS. [To PICKERING as they go out together.]Let’s take her to the Shakespeare exhibition atEarls Court.PICKERING. Yes: let’s. Her remarks will be delicious.HIGGINS. She’ll mimic all the people for us whenwe get home.PICKERING. Ripping. [Both are heard laughing asthey go downstairs.]

[Speakingtogether.] {

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George Bernard Shaw

MRS. HIGGINS. [Rises with an impatient bounce, andreturns to her work at the writing table. She sweeps alitter of disarranged papers out of her way; snatches asheet of paper from her stationery case; and tries res-olutely to write. At the third line she gives it up; flingsdown her pen; grips the table angrily and exclaims.]Oh, men! men!! men!!!

[Clearly ELIZA will not pass as aduchess yet; and HIGGINS’s betremains unwon. But the sixmonths are not yet exhausted andjust in time ELIZA does actuallypass as a princess. For a glimpse ofhow she did it, imagine anEmbassy in London one summerevening after dark. The hall doorhas an awning and a carpet acrossthe sidewalk to the curb, because agrand reception is in progress. Asmall crowd is lined up to see theguests arrive.A Rolls-Royce car drives up.PICKERING in evening dress,with medals and orders, alights,and hands out ELIZA, in operacloak, evening dress, diamonds,fan, flowers, and all accessories.HIGGINS follows. The car drivesoff; and the three go up the steps and into the house, the door opening for them as theyapproach.Inside the house they find them-selves in a spacious hall fromwhich the grand staircase rises.On the left are the arrangementsfor the gentlemen’s cloaks. Themale guests are depositing their hats and wrapsthere. On the right is a door leading to the ladies’cloakroom. Ladies are going in cloaked and coming out in splendor. PICKERING whispers toELIZA and points out the ladies’ room. She goesinto it. HIGGINS and PICKERING take off their overcoats and take tickets for them from theattendant.

One of the guests, occupied in the same way, has his back turned. Having taken his ticket, heturns around and reveals himself as an importantlooking young man with an astonishingly hairyface. He has an enormous moustache, flowing outinto luxuriant whiskers. Waves of hair cluster onhis brow. His hair is cropped closely at the back,and glows with oil. Otherwise he is very smart. Hewears several worthless orders. He is evidently

a foreigner, guessable as awhiskered Pandour14 from Hun-gary; but in spite of the ferocity ofhis moustache he is amiable andgenially voluble.Recognizing HIGGINS, he flings hisarms wide apart and approacheshim enthusiastically.]WHISKERS. Maestro, maestro.[He embraces HIGGINS and kisseshim on both cheeks.] You remem-ber me?HIGGINS. No I don’t. Who thedevil are you?WHISKERS. I am your pupil:your first pupil, your best and greatest pupil. I am littleNepommuck, the marvelousboy. I have made your namefamous throughout Europe. Youteach me phonetic. You cannotforget ME.HIGGINS. Why don’t you shave?NEPOMMUCK. I have not yourimposing appearance, your chin,your brow. Nobody notice mewhen I shave. Now I am famous:they call me Hairy Faced Dick.HIGGINS. And what are youdoing here among all these swells?

NEPOMMUCK. I am interpreter. I speak 32 lan-guages. I am indispensable at these internationalparties. You are great cockney specialist: you placea man anywhere in London the moment he openhis mouth. I place any man in Europe.

Viewing the photograph: Howdoes this photograph convey thedash and elegance of the ball-goers?

14. A Pandour is a bodyguard or servant of a Hungarian nobleman.


George Bernard Shaw

[A FOOTMAN hurries down the grand staircase andcomes to NEPOMMUCK.]

FOOTMAN. You are wanted upstairs. Her Excel-lency cannot understand the Greek gentleman.NEPOMMUCK. Thank you, yes, immediately.

[The FOOTMAN goes and is lost in the crowd.]NEPOMMUCK. [To HIGGINS.] This Greek diplo-matist pretends he cannot speak nor understandEnglish. He cannot deceive me. He is the son of aClerkenwell watchmaker. He speaks English so vil-lainously that he dare not utter a word of it with-out betraying his origin. I help him to pretend; butI make him pay through the nose. I make them allpay. Ha ha! [He hurries upstairs.]PICKERING. Is this fellow really an expert? Can hefind out Eliza and blackmail her?HIGGINS. We shall see. If he finds her out I losemy bet.

[ELIZA comes from the cloakroom and joins them.]PICKERING. Well, Eliza, now for it. Are you ready?LIZA. Are you nervous, Colonel?PICKERING. Frightfully. I feel exactly as I felt be-fore my first battle. It’s the first time that frightens.LIZA. It is not the first time for me, Colonel. Ihave done this fifty times—hundreds of times—inmy little piggery in Angel Court in my daydreams.I am in a dream now. Promise me not to letProfessor Higgins wake me; for if he does I shall for-get everything and talk as I used to in Drury Lane.PICKERING. Not a word, Higgins. [To ELIZA.]Now, ready?LIZA. Ready.PICKERING. Go.

[They mount the stairs, HIGGINS last. PICKERINGwhispers to the FOOTMAN on the first landing.]

FIRST LANDING FOOTMAN. Miss Doolittle,Colonel Pickering, Professor Higgins.SECOND LANDING FOOTMAN. Miss Doolittle,Colonel Pickering, Professor Higgins.

[At the top of the staircase the AMBASSADOR andhis WIFE, with NEPOMMUCK at her elbow, arereceiving.]

HOSTESS. [Taking ELIZA’s hand.] How d’ye do?HOST. [Same play.] How d’ye do? How d’ye do,Pickering?

ELIZA. [With a beautiful gravity that awes her host-ess.] How do you do? [She passes on to the draw-ingroom.]HOSTESS. Is that your adopted daughter, ColonelPickering? She will make a sensation.PICKERING. Most kind of you to invite her for me.[He passes on.]HOSTESS. [To NEPOMMUCK.] Find out all about her.NEPOMMUCK. [Bowing.] Excellency— [He goesinto the crowd.]HOST. How d’ye do, Higgins? You have a rivalhere tonight. He introduced himself as your pupil.Is he any good?HIGGINS. He can learn a language in a fortnight—knows dozens of them. A sure mark of a fool. As aphonetician, no good whatever.HOSTESS. How d’ye do, Professor?HIGGINS. How do you do? Fearful bore for you this sort of thing. Forgive my part in it. [Hepasses on.]

[In the drawing room and its suite of salons thereception is in full swing. ELIZA passes through. Sheis so intent on her ordeal that she walks like a som-nambulist in a desert instead of a débutante in afashionable crowd. They stop talking to look at her,admiring her dress, her jewels, and her strangelyattractive self. Some of the younger ones at the backstand on their chairs to see.The HOST and HOSTESS come in from the staircaseand mingle with their guests. HIGGINS, gloomy andcontemptuous of the whole business, comes into thegroup where they are chatting.]

HOSTESS. Ah, here is Professor Higgins: he willtell us. Tell us all about the wonderful young lady,Professor.HIGGINS. [Almost morosely.] What wonderfulyoung lady?HOSTESS. You know very well. They tell me therehas been nothing like her in London since peoplestood on their chairs to look at Mrs. Langtry.15

[NEPOMMUCK joins the group, full of news.]HOSTESS. Ah, here you are at last, Nepommuck.Have you found out all about the Doolittle lady?


15. Mrs. Langtry refers to Lillie Langtry (1852–1929), an Englishactress noted for her beauty.

Emperor Franz Joseph at a Ball in Vienna. Wilhelm Gause (1853–1916). Watercolor. Museum der Stadt, Vienna.Viewing the painting: What mood does this scene convey? How might Eliza have felt stepping into ascene such as this?


16. Morganatic refers to marriage between royalty and a commoner.

NEPOMMUCK. I have found out all about her. Sheis a fraud.HOSTESS. A fraud! Oh no.NEPOMMUCK. YES, yes. She cannot deceive me.Her name cannot be Doolittle.HIGGINS. Why?NEPOMMUCK. Because Doolittle is an Englishname. And she is not English.HOSTESS. Oh, nonsense! She speaks Englishperfectly.NEPOMMUCK. Too perfectly. Can you show meany English woman who speaks English as it shouldbe spoken? Only foreigners who have been taughtto speak it speak it well.HOSTESS. Certainly she terrified me by the wayshe said How d’ye do. I had a schoolmistress whotalked like that; and I was mortally afraid of her.But if she is not English what is she?NEPOMMUCK. Hungarian.ALL THE REST. Hungarian!NEPOMMUCK. Hungarian. And of royal blood. Iam Hungarian. My blood is royal.HIGGINS. Did you speak to her in Hungarian?NEPOMMUCK. I did. She was very clever. She said“Please speak to me in English: I do not understandFrench.” French! She pretend not to know the dif-ference between Hungarian and French.Impossible: she knows both.HIGGINS. And the blood royal? How did you findthat out?NEPOMMUCK. Instinct, maestro, instinct. Onlythe Magyar races can produce that air of the divineright, those resolute eyes. She is a princess.HOST. What do you say, Professor?

HIGGINS. I say an ordinary London girl out of thegutter and taught to speak by an expert. I place herin Drury Lane.NEPOMMUCK. Ha ha ha! Oh, maestro, maestro,you are mad on the subject of cockney dialects.The London gutter is the whole world for you.HIGGINS. [To the HOSTESS.] What does yourExcellency say?HOSTESS. Oh, of course I agree with Nepommuck.She must be a princess at least.HOST. Not necessarily legitimate, of course.Morganatic16 perhaps. But that is undoubtedly herclass.HIGGINS. I stick to my opinion.HOSTESS. Oh, you are incorrigible.

[The group breaks up, leaving HIGGINS isolated.PICKERING joins him.]

PICKERING. Where is Eliza? We must keep an eyeon her.

[ELIZA joins them.]LIZA. I don’t think I can bear much more. The peo-ple all stare so at me. An old lady has just told methat I speak exactly like Queen Victoria. I am sorry ifI have lost your bet. I have done my best; but noth-ing can make me the same as these people.PICKERING. You have not lost it, my dear. Youhave won it ten times over.HIGGINS. Let us get out of this. I have had enoughof chattering to these fools.PICKERING. Eliza is tired; and I am hungry. Let usclear out and have supper somewhere.

incorrigible (in k�or�ə jə bəl) adj. incapable of reform; bad beyond all correctionVocabulary


[The Wimpole Street laboratory. Midnight. Nobody inthe room. The clock on the mantelpiece strikes twelve.The fire is not alight: it is a summer night.Presently HIGGINS and PICKERING are heard on thestairs.]HIGGINS. [Calling down to PICKERING.] I say, Pick:lock up, will you? I shan’t be going out again.PICKERING. Right. Can Mrs. Pearce go to bed?We don’t want anything more, do we?HIGGINS. Lord, no!

[ELIZA opens the door and is seen on the lightedlanding in opera cloak, brilliant evening dress, anddiamonds, with fan, flowers, and all accessories.She comes to the hearth and switches on the electriclights there. She is tired: her pallor contrasts stronglywith her dark eyes and hair; and her expression isalmost tragic. She takes off her cloak; puts her fan

and flowers on the piano; and sits down on thebench, brooding and silent. HIGGINS, in eveningdress, with overcoat and hat, comes in, carrying asmoking jacket which he has picked up downstairs.He takes off the hat and overcoat; throws them care-lessly on the newspaper stand; disposes of his coat inthe same way; puts on the smoking jacket; andthrows himself wearily into the easy chair at thehearth. PICKERING, similarly attired, comes in. Healso takes off his hat and overcoat, and is about tothrow them on HIGGINS’s when he hesitates.]

PICKERING. I say: Mrs. Pearce will row if we leavethese things lying about in the drawing room.HIGGINS. Oh, chuck them over the bannistersinto the hall. She’ll find them there in the morn-ing and put them away all right. She’ll think wewere drunk.

Après le bal (After the Ball). Ramon Casas y Carbo. Musée de la Abadia, Montserrat, Catalonia.


PYGMALION � 967

Recall and Interpret1. Why does Higgins invite Eliza to his mother’s home? What

does he seem most worried about?2. What subjects does Eliza bring up at Mrs. Higgins’s home?

What do Freddy’s and Clara’s reactions to her conversa-tion reveal about them?

3. What problem does Mrs. Higgins raise with her son andPickering? Why is she angry after they leave?

4. What leads Nepommuck to conclude that Eliza is notreally English? Why does Eliza believe that she has lost thebet for Higgins?

Evaluate and Connect5. Compare and contrast how Eliza and Clara speak at Mrs.

Higgins’s home. Why might Shaw have included Clara inthe play?

6. How would you describe Higgins’s feelings for Eliza at thispoint in the play? Do you think he treats her well?

7. Did you find the portrayal of Eliza’s triumph at theembassy reception believable? Why or why not?

8. Satire is writing that seeks to improve society by ridiculinghuman weaknesses, vices, or folly (see page R14). Whatdoes Shaw satirize in act 3?

How confident were you that Eliza would win the bet forHiggins? Share your response with the class.

Analyzing Act 3

Literary ELEMENTS

StereotypesA stereotype is a generalization about a group of peoplethat is made without regard for individual differences. Inliterature, this term is often used to describe a conven-tional character who conforms to a fixed pattern ofbehavior. The loyal butler, the wise-cracking cab driver,and the dim-witted athlete are examples of stereotypes.1. In what ways might one regard Henry Higgins as a

stereotypical character?2. Which other characters in the play display stereotypical

behavior?

• See Literary Terms Handbook, p. R15.

In the preface to Pygmalion, Shaw describes the play as“intensely and deliberately didactic.” Reread the preface;then discuss with a group what you think Shaw wantedhis audience to learn by observing Eliza’s transformation.Do you think Shaw achieved his purpose? Are there otherlessons to be learned from Eliza’s example?

Literary Criticism



Creative WritingDialogue Do you think that Clara, Freddy, and Mrs.Eynsford Hill form the same opinion of Eliza, or do theirimpressions of her differ? Write a dialogue (see page R4) inwhich they discuss Eliza after leaving Mrs. Higgins’s house.Try to make their manner of speaking consistent with theirdialogue in the play.

Writing About LiteratureComparing Two Scenes Write a comparison of Eliza’sbehavior at Mrs. Higgins’s at-home and her behavior at theembassy party. How does Eliza talk and behave in each scene?

How does she seem to feel? What effect does she have on theother people in each setting? Do you think Eliza has beenhelped or harmed (or both) by her continuing instruction inladylike manners and topics for polite conversation?

Interdisciplinary ActivityTheater: Stage Design Design a stage set for the scene atMrs. Higgins’s home or for the embassy party scene. Baseyour design on details that Shaw provides in his stage direc-tions. You might create a drawing of your set design or rep-resent it in a diorama.



George Bernard Shaw


PICKERING. We are, slightly. Are there any letters?HIGGINS. I didn’t look. [PICKERING takes the over-coats and hats and goes downstairs. HIGGINS beginshalf singing half yawning an air from La Fanciulla delGolden West.1 Suddenly he stops and exclaims.] Iwonder where the devil my slippers are!

[ELIZA looks at him darkly; then rises suddenly andleaves the room.HIGGINS yawns again, and resumes his song.PICKERING returns, with the contents of the letter-box in his hand.]

PICKERING. Only circulars, and this coronetedbillet-doux2 for you. [He throws the circulars into thefender, and posts himself on the hearthrug, with hisback to the grate.]HIGGINS. [Glancing at the billet-doux.] Money-lender. [He throws the letter after the circulars.]

[ELIZA returns with a pair of large down-at-heelslippers. She places them on the carpet beforeHIGGINS, and sits as before without a word.]

HIGGINS. [Yawning again.] Oh Lord! What anevening! What a crew! What a silly tomfoolery![He raises his shoe to unlace it, and catches sight of theslippers. He stops unlacing and looks at them as if theyhad appeared there of their own accord.] Oh! they’rethere, are they?PICKERING. [Stretching himself .] Well, I feel a bittired. It’s been a long day. The garden party, a din-ner party, and the opera! Rather too much of agood thing. But you’ve won your bet, Higgins. Elizadid the trick, and something to spare, eh?HIGGINS. [Fervently.] Thank God it’s over!

[ELIZA flinches violently; but they take no notice ofher; and she recovers herself and sits stonily asbefore.]

PICKERING. Were you nervous at the gardenparty? I was. Eliza didn’t seem a bit nervous.HIGGINS. Oh, she wasn’t nervous. I knew she’d beall right. No: it’s the strain of putting the jobthrough all these months that has told on me. Itwas interesting enough at first, while we were at

the phonetics; but after that I got deadly sick of it.If I hadn’t backed myself to do it I should havechucked the whole thing up two months ago. It wasa silly notion: the whole thing has been a bore.PICKERING. Oh come! the garden party was fright-fully exciting. My heart began beating like anything.HIGGINS. Yes, for the first three minutes. Butwhen I saw we were going to win hands down, I feltlike a bear in a cage, hanging about doing nothing.The dinner was worse: sitting gorging there for overan hour, with nobody but a damned fool of a fash-ionable woman to talk to! I tell you, Pickering,never again for me. No more artificial duchesses.The whole thing has been simple purgatory.PICKERING. You’ve never been broken in prop-erly to the social routine. [Strolling over to thepiano.] I rather enjoy dipping into it occasionallymyself: it makes me feel young again. Anyhow, itwas a great success: an immense success. I wasquite frightened once or twice because Eliza wasdoing it so well. You see, lots of the real peoplecan’t do it at all: they’re such fools that theythink style comes by nature to people in theirposition; and so they never learn. There’s alwayssomething professional about doing a thingsuperlatively well.HIGGINS. Yes: that’s what drives me mad: the sillypeople don’t know their own silly business. [Rising.]However, it’s over and done with; and now I can goto bed at last without dreading tomorrow.

[ELIZA’s beauty becomes murderous.]PICKERING. I think I shall turn in too. Still, it’sbeen a great occasion: a triumph for you. Goodnight.[He goes.]HIGGINS. [Following him.] Goodnight. [Over hisshoulder, at the door.] Put out the lights, Eliza; andtell Mrs. Pearce not to make coffee for me in themorning: I’ll take tea. [He goes out.]

[ELIZA tries to control herself and feel indifferent asshe rises and walks across to the hearth to switch offthe lights. By the time she gets there she is on thepoint of screaming. She sits down in HIGGINS’schair and holds on hard to the arms. Finally she givesway and flings herself furiously on the floor, raging.]

HIGGINS. [In despairing wrath outside.] What thedevil have I done with my slippers? [He appears atthe door.]

1. La Fanciulla (lə f�an chul�ə) del Golden West is “The Girl ofthe Golden West,” an opera by Italian composer GiacomoPuccini (1858–1924).

2. A coroneted billet-doux (bil a d¯ ¯oo�) is a love letter decoratedwith a small crown.

LIZA. [Snatching up the slippers, and hurling them athim one after the other with all her force.] There areyour slippers. And there. Take your slippers; andmay you never have a day’s luck with them!HIGGINS. [Astounded.] What on earth—! [Hecomes to her.] What’s the matter? Get up. [He pullsher up.] Anything wrong?LIZA. [Breathless.] Nothing wrong—with you. I’vewon your bet for you, haven’t I? That’s enough foryou. I don’t matter, I suppose.HIGGINS. You won my bet! You! Presumptuousinsect! I won it. What did you throw those slippersat me for?LIZA. Because I wanted to smash your face. I’d liketo kill you, you selfish brute. Why didn’t you leaveme where you picked me out of—in the gutter? Youthank God it’s all over, and that now you can throwme back again there, do you ? [She crisps her fingers3

frantically.]HIGGINS. [Looking at her in cool wonder.] The crea-ture is nervous, after all.LIZA. [Gives a suffocated scream of fury, and instinc-tively darts her nails at his face.] !!HIGGINS. [Catching her wrists.] Ah! would you?Claws in, you cat. How dare you show your temperto me? Sit down and be quiet. [He throws her roughlyinto the easy chair.]LIZA. [Crushed by superior strength and weight.]What’s to become of me? What’s to become of me?HIGGINS. How the devil do I know what’s to be-come of you? What does it matter what becomes of you?LIZA. You don’t care. I know you don’t care. Youwouldn’t care if I was dead. I’m nothing to you—not so much as them slippers.HIGGINS. [Thundering.] Those slippers.LIZA. [With bitter submission.] Those slippers. I didn’t think it made any difference now.

[A pause. ELIZA hopeless and crushed. HIGGINS alittle uneasy.]

HIGGINS. [In his loftiest manner.] Why have youbegun going on like this? May I ask whether youcomplain of your treatment here?LIZA. No.

HIGGINS. Has anybody behaved badly to you?Colonel Pickering? Mrs. Pearce? Any of the servants?LIZA. No.HIGGINS. I presume you don’t pretend that I havetreated you badly?LIZA. No.HIGGINS. I am glad to hear it. [He moderates histone.] Perhaps you’re tired after the strain of theday. Will you have a glass of champagne? [He movestowards the door.]LIZA. No. [Recollecting her manners.] Thank you.HIGGINS. [Good-humored again.] This has beencoming on you for some days. I suppose it was nat-ural for you to be anxious about the garden party.But that’s all over now. [He pats her kindly on theshoulder. She writhes.] There’s nothing more toworry about.LIZA. No. Nothing more for you to worry about.[She suddenly rises and gets away from him by going tothe piano bench, where she sits and hides her face.] OhGod! I wish I was dead.HIGGINS. [Staring after her in sincere surprise.]Why? In heaven’s name, why? [Reasonably, going toher.] Listen to me, Eliza. All this irritation is purelysubjective.LIZA. I don’t understand. I’m too ignorant.HIGGINS. It’s only imagination. Low spirits andnothing else. Nobody’s hurting you. Nothing’swrong. You go to bed like a good girl and sleep itoff. Have a little cry and say your prayers: that willmake you comfortable.LIZA. I heard your prayers. “Thank God it’s allover!”HIGGINS. [Impatiently.] Well, don’t you thankGod it’s all over? Now you are free and can do whatyou like.LIZA. [Pulling herself together in desperation.] Whatam I fit for? What have you left me fit for? Where amI to go? What am I to do? What’s to become of me?HIGGINS. [Enlightened, but not at all impressed.] Ohthat’s what’s worrying you, is it? [He thrusts his handsinto his pockets, and walks about in his usual manner,rattling the contents of his pockets, as if condescending to a trivial subject out of pure kindness.] I shouldn’tbother about it if I were you. I should imagine youwon’t have much difficulty in settling yourself


3. Crisps her fingers means “clenches her hands into fists.”

somewhere or other, though I hadn’t quite realizedthat you were going away. [She looks quickly at him: hedoes not look at her, but examines the dessert stand onthe piano and decides that he will eat an apple.] Youmight marry, you know. [He bites a large piece out ofthe apple and munches it noisily.] You see, Eliza, allmen are not confirmed old bachelors like me andthe Colonel. Most men are the marrying sort (poordevils!); and you’re not bad-looking: it’s quite a plea-sure to look at you sometimes—not now, of course,because you’re crying and looking as ugly as the verydevil; but when you’re all right and quite yourself,you’re what I should call attractive. That is, to thepeople in the marrying line, you understand. You goto bed and have a good nice rest; and then get upand look at yourself in the glass; and you won’t feelso cheap.

[ELIZA again looks at him, speechless, and does notstir.The look is quite lost on him: he eats his apple witha dreamy expression of happiness, as it is quite agood one.]

HIGGINS. [A genial afterthought occurring to him.] Idaresay my mother could find some chap or otherwho would do very well.LIZA. We were above that at the corner of Totten-ham Court Road.HIGGINS. [Waking up.] What do you mean?LIZA. I sold flowers. I didn’t sell myself. Now you’vemade a lady of me I’m not fit to sell anything else. Iwish you’d left me where you found me.HIGGINS. [Slinging the core of the apple decisivelyinto the grate.] Tosh, Eliza. Don’t you insult humanrelations by dragging all this cant4 about buyingand selling into it. You needn’t marry the fellow ifyou don’t like him.LIZA. What else am I to do?HIGGINS. Oh, lots of things. What about your oldidea of a florist’s shop? Pickering could set you up inone: he’s lots of money. [Chuckling.] He’ll have topay for all those togs you have been wearing today;and that, with the hire of the jewelry, will make a bighole in two hundred pounds. Why, six months agoyou would have thought it the millennium to have aflower shop of your own. Come! you’ll be all right.

I must clear off to bed: I’m devilish sleepy. By theway, I came down for something: I forget what it was.LIZA. Your slippers.HIGGINS. Oh yes, of course. You shied them atme. [He picks them up, and is going out when she risesand speaks to him.]LIZA. Before you go, sir—HIGGINS. [Dropping the slippers in his surprise at hercalling him Sir.] Eh?LIZA. Do my clothes belong to me or to ColonelPickering?HIGGINS. [Coming back into the room as if her ques-tion were the very climax of unreason.] What thedevil use would they be to Pickering?LIZA. He might want them for the next girl youpick up to experiment on.HIGGINS. [Shocked and hurt.] Is that the way youfeel towards us?LIZA. I don’t want to hear anything more aboutthat. All I want to know is whether anything be-longs to me. My own clothes were burnt.HIGGINS. But what does it matter? Why need youstart bothering about that in the middle of the night?LIZA. I want to know what I may take away withme. I don’t want to be accused of stealing.HIGGINS. [Now deeply wounded.] Stealing! Youshouldn’t have said that, Eliza. That shows a wantof feeling.LIZA. I’m sorry. I’m only a common ignorant girl;and in my station I have to be careful. There can’tbe any feelings between the like of you and the likeof me. Please will you tell me what belongs to meand what doesn’t?HIGGINS. [Very sulky.] You may take the wholedamned houseful if you like. Except the jewels.They’re hired. Will that satisfy you? [He turns on hisheel and is about to go in extreme dudgeon.]5

LIZA. [Drinking in his emotion like nectar, and nag-ging him to provoke a further supply.] Stop, please.[She takes off her jewels.] Will you take these to yourroom and keep them safe? I don’t want to run therisk of their being missing.HIGGINS. [Furious.] Hand them over. [She putsthem into his hands.] If these belonged to me instead


4. Here, cant means “insincere words spoken without thought.” 5. Dudgeon is anger.

George Bernard Shaw

of to the jeweler, I’d ram them down your ungrate-ful throat. [He perfunctorily thrusts them into his pock-ets, unconsciously decorating himself with theprotruding ends of the chains.]LIZA. [Taking a ring off .] This ring isn’t the jew-eler’s: it’s the one you bought me in Brighton. Idon’t want it now. [HIGGINS dashes the ring violentlyinto the fireplace, and turns on her so threateningly thatshe crouches over the piano with her hands over herface, and exclaims.] Don’t you hit me.HIGGINS. Hit you! You infamous creature, howdare you accuse me of such a thing? It is you whohave hit me. You have wounded me to the heart.LIZA. [Thrilling with hidden joy.] I’m glad. I’ve got alittle of my own back, anyhow.HIGGINS. [With dignity, in his finest professional style.]You have caused me to lose my temper: a thing thathas hardly ever happened to me before. I prefer tosay nothing more tonight. I am going to bed.LIZA. [Pertly.] You’d better leave a note for Mrs.Pearce about the coffee; for she won’t be told by me.HIGGINS. [Formally.] Damn Mrs. Pearce; anddamn the coffee; and damn you; and damn myown folly in having lavished hard-earned knowl-edge and the treasure of my regard and intimacyon a heartless guttersnipe. [He goes out withimpressive decorum, and spoils it by slamming thedoor savagely.]

[ELIZA goes down on her knees on the hearthrug tolook for the ring. When she finds it she considers fora moment what to do with it. Finally she flings itdown on the dessert stand and goes upstairs in atearing rage.]

[The furniture of ELIZA’s room has been increased bya big wardrobe and a sumptuous dressing-table. Shecomes in and switches on the electric light. She goesto the wardrobe; opens it; and pulls out a walkingdress, a hat, and a pair of shoes, which she throws onthe bed. She takes off her evening dress and shoes;then takes a padded hanger from the wardrobe;adjusts it carefully in the evening dress; and hangs itin the wardrobe, which she shuts with a slam. Sheputs on her walking shoes, her walking dress, andhat. She takes her wrist watch from the dressing-table

and fastens it on. She pulls on her gloves; takes hervanity bag; and looks into it to see that her purse isthere before hanging it on her wrist. She makes forthe door. Every movement expresses her furious resolution.She takes a last look at herself in the glass.She suddenly puts out her tongue at herself; then leavesthe room, switching off the electric light at the door.Meanwhile, in the street outside, FREDDY EYNS-FORD HILL, lovelorn, is gazing up at the secondfloor, in which one of the windows is still lighted.The light goes out.]

FREDDY. Goodnight, darling, darling, darling.[ELIZA comes out, giving the door a considerable bangbehind her.]

Early twentieth-century couple in fashionable attire.


LIZA. Whatever are you doing here?FREDDY. Nothing. I spend most of my nights here.It’s the only place where I’m happy. Don’t laugh atme, Miss Doolittle.LIZA. Don’t you call me Miss Doolittle, do youhear? Liza’s good enough for me. [She breaks downand grabs him by the shoulders.] Freddy: you don’tthink I’m a heartless guttersnipe, do you?FREDDY. Oh, no, no, darling: how can you imag-ine such a thing? You are the loveliest, dearest—

[He loses all self-control and smothers her withkisses. She, hungry for comfort, responds. Theystand there in one another’s arms.An elderly police CONSTABLE arrives.]

CONSTABLE. [Scandalized.] Now then! Now then!!Now then!!!

[They release one another hastily.]FREDDY. Sorry, constable. We’ve only just becomeengaged.

[They run away.The CONSTABLE shakes his head, reflecting on hisown courtship and on the vanity of human hopes.He moves off in the opposite direction with slow pro-fessional steps.The flight of the lovers takes them to CavendishSquare. There they halt to consider their next move.]

LIZA. [Out of breath.] He didn’t half give me afright, that copper. But you answered him proper.FREDDY. I hope I haven’t taken you out of yourway. Where were you going?LIZA. To the river.FREDDY. What for?LIZA. To make a hole in it.FREDDY. [Horrified.] Eliza, darling. What do youmean? What’s the matter?

LIZA. Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. There’snobody in the world now but you and me, is there?FREDDY. Not a soul.

[They indulge in another embrace, and are againsurprised by a much younger CONSTABLE.]

SECOND CONSTABLE. Now then, you two! What’sthis? Where do you think you are? Move alonghere, double quick.FREDDY. As you say, sir, double quick.

[They run away again, and are in Hanover Squarebefore they stop for another conference.]

FREDDY. I had no idea the police were so devil-ishly prudish.LIZA. It’s their business to hunt girls off the streets.FREDDY. We must go somewhere. We can’t wan-der about the streets all night.LIZA. Can’t we? I think it’d be lovely to wanderabout for ever.FREDDY. Oh, darling.

[They embrace again, oblivious of the arrival of acrawling taxi. It stops.]

TAXIMAN. Can I drive you and the lady any-where, sir?

[They start asunder.]LIZA. Oh, Freddy, a taxi. The very thing.FREDDY. But, damn it, I’ve no money.LIZA. I have plenty. The Colonel thinks youshould never go out without ten pounds in yourpocket. Listen. We’ll drive about all night; and inthe morning I’ll call on old Mrs. Higgins and askher what I ought to do. I’ll tell you all about it inthe cab. And the police won’t touch us there.FREDDY. Righto! Ripping. [To the TAXIMAN.]Wimbledon Common. [They drive off.]


PYGMALION � 975

Recall and Interpret1. When they return to Wimpole Street, how do Higgins and Pickering treat

Eliza? In your opinion, why do they treat her this way?2. When does Higgins realize that Eliza is upset with him? What is bothering

her? What do you learn of their relationship?3. What reason does Eliza give for asking whether she can keep the clothes

Pickering has given her? Do you think that this is her real reason for askingthe question? Why or why not?

4. Why is Freddy standing in the street when Eliza leaves 27A WimpoleStreet? Why might Eliza be attracted to him?

Evaluate and Connect5. In your opinion, what is the effect of Eliza’s prolonged silence at the begin-

ning of act 4?6. Do you think that Eliza’s anger is justified, or is she being unfair to Higgins?

Give reasons for your opinion.7. Internal conflict is a struggle within the mind of a character. (See Literary

Terms Handbook, page R8.) Describe an internal conflict that Higginsexperiences during act 4.

8. How do you predict that the conflict between Eliza and Higgins will beresolved (see page R4)?

Were you surprised by the actions of Eliza and Freddy at the end of act 4?Share your response with a classmate.

Analyzing Act 4

Literature GroupsWhat Has Become of Her? Higgins tells Eliza that herproblem is “purely subjective.” What does he mean, and doyou agree with him? Do you think Eliza is better or worse offin act 4 than she was at the beginning of the play? Discussthese questions in your group, taking into account Eliza’semotional and material needs, as well as the roles womentypically held in this society. When you are finished, shareyour conclusions with the class.

Creative WritingAdvice Column Higgins does not seem to understand whyEliza is upset with him. Write a letter from Higgins to an advicecolumnist about Eliza’s mysterious behavior in act 4. Then write

a response from the columnist explaining her behavior andoffering advice on how to deal with the conflict.

PerformingDifferent Dialogues In this act, an angry quarrel is sand-wiched between two congenial conversations. With a partner,act out the argument between Eliza and Higgins. Then actout the dialogue between Higgins and Pickering or the con-versation between Eliza and Freddy. Pay attention to howyour character speaks in each scene. Be sure to vary the vol-ume and tone of your voice during each dialogue to echochanges in your character’s feelings and manner.





ProtagonistThe protagonist is the central characterin a story or drama around whom mostof the action revolves. During the courseof the work, the protagonist undergoessome conflict that is crucial to the plot.Usually the audience is meant to sympa-thize with the protagonist. The word pro-tagonist was originally used to describethe leader of the chorus in early Greekdrama, and the word still applies to theleading or chief player in a work.1. Who is the protagonist in Pygmalion?

What conflict does this character face?2. Do you sympathize with the protago-

nist’s struggles in Pygmalion? Givereasons for your answers.


Literary ELEMENTS


[MRS. HIGGINS’s drawing room. She is at her writingtable as before. The PARLORMAID comes in.]THE PARLORMAID. [At the door.] Mr. Henry,ma’am, is downstairs with Colonel Pickering.MRS. HIGGINS. Well, show them up.THE PARLORMAID. They’re using the telephone,ma’am. Telephoning to the police, I think.MRS. HIGGINS. What!THE PARLORMAID. [Coming further in and loweringher voice.] Mr. Henry is in a state, ma’am. I thoughtI’d better tell you.MRS. HIGGINS. If you had told me that Mr. Henrywas not in a state it would have been more surpris-ing. Tell them to come up when they’ve finishedwith the police. I suppose he’s lost something.THE PARLORMAID. Yes, ma’am [Going.].MRS. HIGGINS. Go upstairs and tell Miss Doolittlethat Mr. Henry and the Colonel are here. Ask hernot to come down ’til I send for her.THE PARLORMAID. Yes, ma’am.

[HIGGINS bursts in. He is, as the PARLORMAIDhas said, in a state.]

HIGGINS. Look here, Mother: here’s a confoundedthing!MRS. HIGGINS. Yes, dear. Good morning. [Hechecks his impatience and kisses her, whilst the PARLORMAID goes out.] What is it?HIGGINS. Eliza’s bolted.MRS. HIGGINS. [Calmly continuing her writing.] Youmust have frightened her.HIGGINS. Frightened her! nonsense! She was leftlast night, as usual, to turn out the lights and allthat; and instead of going to bed she changed herclothes and went right off: her bed wasn’t slept in.She came in a cab for her things before seven thismorning; and that fool Mrs. Pearce let her havethem without telling me a word about it. What amI to do?MRS. HIGGINS. Do without, I’m afraid, Henry. Thegirl has a perfect right to leave if she chooses.HIGGINS. [Wandering distractedly across the room.]But I can’t find anything. I don’t know whatappointments I’ve got. I’m— [PICKERING comes in.MRS. HIGGINS puts down her pen and turns awayfrom the writing table.]

PICKERING. [Shaking hands.] Good morning, Mrs.Higgins. Has Henry told you? [He sits down on theottoman.]HIGGINS. What does that ass of an inspector say?Have you offered a reward?MRS. HIGGINS. [Rising in indignant amazement.]You don’t mean to say you have set the police afterEliza.HIGGINS. Of course. What are the police for? Whatelse could we do? [He sits in the Elizabethan chair.]PICKERING. The inspector made a lot of difficul-ties. I really think he suspected us of some improperpurpose.MRS. HIGGINS. Well, of course he did. What righthave you to go to the police and give the girl’s nameas if she were a thief, or a lost umbrella, or some-thing? Really! [She sits down again, deeply vexed.]HIGGINS. But we want to find her.PICKERING. We can’t let her go like this, youknow, Mrs. Higgins. What were we to do?MRS. HIGGINS. You have no more sense, either ofyou, than two children. Why—

[The PARLORMAID comes in and breaks off theconversation.]

THE PARLORMAID. Mr. Henry: a gentleman wantsto see you very particular. He’s been sent on fromWimpole Street.HIGGINS. Oh, bother! I can’t see anyone now.Who is it?THE PARLORMAID. A Mr. Doolittle, sir.PICKERING. Doolittle! Do you mean the dustman?THE PARLORMAID. Dustman! Oh no, sir: agentleman.HIGGINS. [Springing up excitedly.] By George, Pick,it’s some relative of hers that she’s gone to.Somebody we know nothing about. [To the PARLORMAID.] Send him up, quick.THE PARLORMAID. Yes, sir. [She goes.]HIGGINS. [Eagerly, going to his mother.] Genteelrelatives! now we shall hear something. [He sitsdown in the Chippendale chair.]MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know any of her people?PICKERING. Only her father: the fellow we toldyou about.

George Bernard Shaw

THE PARLORMAID. [Announcing.] Mr. Doolittle.[She withdraws.]

[DOOLITTLE enters. He is resplendently dressed asfor a fashionable wedding, and might, in fact, be thebridegroom. A flower in his buttonhole, a dazzlingsilk hat, and patent leather shoes complete the effect.He is too concerned with the business he has come onto notice MRS. HIGGINS. He walks straight toHIGGINS, and accosts him with vehement reproach.]

DOOLITTLE. [Indicating his own person.] See here!Do you see this? You done this.HIGGINS. Done what, man?DOOLITTLE. This, I tell you. Look at it. Look atthis hat. Look at this coat.PICKERING. Has Eliza been buying you clothes?DOOLITTLE. Eliza! not she. Not half. Why wouldshe buy me clothes?MRS. HIGGINS. Good morning, Mr. Doolittle.Won’t you sit down?DOOLITTLE. [Taken aback as he becomes consciousthat he has forgotten his hostess.] Asking your par-don, ma’am. [He approaches her and shakes her prof-fered hand.] Thank you. [He sits down on theottoman, on PICKERING’s right.] I am that full ofwhat has happened to me that I can’t think of any-thing else.HIGGINS. What the dickens has happened to you?DOOLITTLE. I shouldn’t mind if it had only hap-pened to me: anything might happen to anybodyand nobody to blame but Providence, as you mightsay. But this is something that you done to me: yes,you, Henry Higgins.HIGGINS. Have you found Eliza? That’s the point.DOOLITTLE. Have you lost her?HIGGINS. Yes.DOOLITTLE. You have all the luck, you have. Iain’t found her; but she’ll find me quick enoughnow after what you done to me.MRS. HIGGINS. But what has my son done to you,Mr. Doolittle?DOOLITTLE. Done to me! Ruined me. Destroyedmy happiness. Tied me up and delivered me intothe hands of middle class morality.HIGGINS. [Rising intolerantly and standing overDOOLITTLE.] You’re raving. You’re drunk. You’remad. I gave you five pounds. After that I had two

conversations with you, at half a-crown an hour.I’ve never seen you since.DOOLITTLE. Oh! Drunk! am I? Mad! am I? Tellme this. Did you or did you not write a letter to anold blighter1 in America that was giving five mil-lions to found Moral Reform Societies all over theworld, and that wanted you to invent a universallanguage for him?HIGGINS. What! Ezra D. Wannafeller! He’s dead.[He sits down again carelessly.]DOOLITTLE. Yes: he’s dead; and I’m done for. Nowdid you or did you not write a letter to him to saythat the most original moralist at present inEngland, to the best of your knowledge, was AlfredDoolittle, a common dustman.HIGGINS. Oh, after your first visit I remembermaking some silly joke of the kind.DOOLITTLE. Ah! you may well call it a silly joke.It put the lid on me right enough. Just give him thechance he wanted to show that Americans is notlike us: that they recognize and respect merit inevery class of life, however humble. Them words isin his blooming will, in which, Henry Higgins,thanks to your silly joking, he leaves me a share inhis Pre-digested Cheese Trust worth four thousanda year on condition that I lecture for hisWannafeller Moral Reform World League as oftenas they ask me up to six times a year.HIGGINS. The devil he does! Whew! [Brighteningsuddenly.] What a lark!PICKERING. A safe thing for you, Doolittle. Theywon’t ask you twice.DOOLITTLE. It ain’t the lecturing I mind. I’ll lecturethem blue in the face, I will, and not turn a hair. It’smaking a gentleman of me that I object to. Whoasked him to make a gentleman of me? I was happy.I was free. I touched pretty nigh everybody for moneywhen I wanted it, same as I touched you, HenryHiggins. Now I am worrited; tied neck and heels; andeverybody touches me for money. It’s a fine thing foryou, says my solicitor.2 Is it? says I. You mean it’s agood thing for you, I says. When I was a poor manand had a solicitor once when they found a pram3 in

1. Here, a blighter is a worthless fellow.2. Here, a solicitor is a lawyer.3. A pram is a baby carriage.


George Bernard Shaw

scullery maid;5 though of course I know you wouldhave been just the same to a scullery maid if she hadbeen let into the drawing room. You never took offyour boots in the dining room when I was there.PICKERING. You mustn’t mind that. Higgins takesoff his boots all over the place.LIZA. I know. I am not blaming him. It is his way,isn’t it? But it made such a difference to me thatyou didn’t do it. You see, really and truly, apart fromthe things anyone can pick up (the dressing andthe proper way of speaking, and so on), the differ-ence between a lady and a flower girl is not how shebehaves, but how she’s treated. I shall always be a

flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he alwaystreats me as a flower girl, and always will; but Iknow I can be a lady to you, because you alwaystreat me as a lady, and always will.MRS. HIGGINS. Please don’t grind your teeth,Henry.PICKERING. Well, this is really very nice of you,Miss Doolittle.LIZA. I should like you to call me Eliza, now, if youwould.PICKERING. Thank you. Eliza, of course.LIZA. And I should like Professor Higgins to callme Miss Doolittle.HIGGINS. I’ll see you damned first.MRS. HIGGINS. Henry! Henry!

5. Scullery maid refers to a girl who washed dishes and whowas at the very bottom of the hierarchy of servants.



MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, dearest, you don’t look atall nice in that attitude.HIGGINS. [Pulling himself together.] I was not tryingto look nice, Mother.MRS. HIGGINS. It doesn’t matter, dear. I only want-ed to make you speak.HIGGINS. Why?MRS. HIGGINS. Because you can’t speak and whis-tle at the same time.

[HIGGINS groans. Another very trying pause.]HIGGINS. [Springing up, out of patience.] Where thedevil is that girl? Are we to wait here all day?

[ELIZA enters, sunny, self-possessed, and giving astaggeringly convincing exhibition of ease of manner.She carries a little work-basket, and is very much athome. PICKERING is too much taken aback to rise.]

LIZA. How do you do, Professor Higgins? Are youquite well?HIGGINS. [Choking.] Am I—[He can say no more.]LIZA. But of course you are: you are never ill. Soglad to see you again, Colonel Pickering. [He riseshastily; and they shake hands.] Quite chilly thismorning, isn’t it? [She sits down on his left. He sitsbeside her.]HIGGINS. Don’t you dare try this game on me. Itaught it to you; and it doesn’t take me in. Get upand come home; and don’t be a fool.

[ELIZA takes a piece of needlework from her basket,and begins to stitch at it, without taking the leastnotice of this outburst.]

MRS. HIGGINS. Very nicely put, indeed, Henry. Nowoman could resist such an invitation.HIGGINS. You let her alone, Mother. Let her speakfor herself. You will jolly soon see whether she hasan idea that I haven’t put into her head or a wordthat I haven’t put into her mouth. I tell you I havecreated this thing out of the squashed cabbageleaves of Covent Garden; and now she pretends toplay the fine lady with me.MRS. HIGGINS. [Placidly.] Yes, dear; but you’ll sitdown, won’t you?

[HIGGINS sits down again, savagely.]LIZA. [To PICKERING, taking no apparent notice ofHIGGINS, and working away deftly.] Will you dropme altogether now that the experiment is over,Colonel Pickering?

PICKERING. Oh don’t. You mustn’t think of it asan experiment. It shocks me, somehow.LIZA. Oh, I’m only a squashed cabbage leaf—PICKERING. [Impulsively.] No.LIZA. [Continuing quietly.] —but I owe so much toyou that I should be very unhappy if you forgot me.PICKERING. It’s very kind of you to say so, MissDoolittle.LIZA. It’s not because you paid for my dresses. Iknow you are generous to everybody with money.But it was from you that I learnt really nice man-ners; and that is what makes one a lady, isn’t it? Yousee it was so very difficult for me with the exampleof Professor Higgins always before me. I wasbrought up to be just like him, unable to controlmyself, and using bad language on the slightestprovocation. And I should never have known thatladies and gentlemen didn’t behave like that if youhadn’t been there.HIGGINS. Well!!PICKERING. Oh, that’s only his way, you know. Hedoesn’t mean it.LIZA. Oh, I didn’t mean it either, when I was a flower girl. It was only my way. But you see I did it; and that’s what makes the difference after all.PICKERING. No doubt. Still, he taught you to speak;and I couldn’t have done that, you know.LIZA. [Trivially.] Of course: that is his profession.HIGGINS. Damnation!LIZA. [Continuing.] It was just like learning todance in the fashionable way: there was nothingmore than that in it. But do you know what beganmy real education?PICKERING. What?LIZA. [Stopping her work for a moment.] Your call-ing me Miss Doolittle that day when I first came toWimpole Street. That was the beginning ofself-respect for me. [She resumes her stitching.] Andthere were a hundred little things you nevernoticed, because they came naturally to you.Things about standing up and taking off your hatand opening doors—PICKERING. Oh, that was nothing.LIZA. Yes: things that showed you thought and feltabout me as if I were something better than a

George Bernard Shaw


HIGGINS. Oh very well, very well, very well. [Hethrows himself ungraciously on the ottoman, with hisface towards the windows.] But I think you mighthave told us this half an hour ago.MRS. HIGGINS. Eliza came to me this morning.She passed the night partly walking about in a rage,partly trying to throw herself into the river andbeing afraid to, and partly in the Carlton Hotel.She told me of the brutal way you two treated her.HIGGINS. [Bounding up again.] What!PICKERING. [Rising also.] My dear Mrs. Higgins,she’s been telling you stories. We didn’t treat herbrutally. We hardly said a word to her; and weparted on particularly good terms. [Turning onHIGGINS.] Higgins: did you bully her after I wentto bed?HIGGINS. Just the other way about. She threw myslippers in my face. She behaved in the most outra-geous way. I never gave her the slightest provoca-tion. The slippers came bang into my face themoment I entered the room—before I had uttereda word. And used perfectly awful language.PICKERING. [Astonished.] But why? What did wedo to her?MRS. HIGGINS. I think I know pretty well whatyou did. The girl is naturally rather affectionate, Ithink. Isn’t she, Mr. Doolittle?DOOLITTLE. Very tender-hearted, ma’am. Takesafter me.MRS. HIGGINS. Just so. She had become attachedto you both. She worked very hard for you, Henry!I don’t think you quite realize what anything inthe nature of brain work means to a girl like that.Well, it seems that when the great day of trialcame, and she did this wonderful thing for youwithout making a single mistake, you two sat thereand never said a word to her, but talked togetherof how glad you were that it was all over and howyou had been bored with the whole thing. Andthen you were surprised because she threw yourslippers at you! I should have thrown the fire ironsat you.HIGGINS. We said nothing except that we weretired and wanted to go to bed. Did we, Pick?PICKERING. [Shrugging his shoulders.] That was all.MRS. HIGGINS. [Ironically.] Quite sure?PICKERING. Absolutely. Really, that was all.

MRS. HIGGINS. You didn’t thank her, or pet her, oradmire her, or tell her how splendid she’d been.HIGGINS. [Impatiently.] But she knew all aboutthat. We didn’t make speeches to her, if that’s whatyou mean.PICKERING. [Conscience stricken.] Perhaps we werea little inconsiderate. Is she very angry?MRS. HIGGINS. [Returning to her place at the writ-ing table.] Well, I’m afraid she won’t go back toWimpole Street, especially now that Mr.Doolittle is able to keep up the position you havethrust on her; but she says she is quite willing tomeet you on friendly terms and to let bygones bebygones.HIGGINS. [Furious.] Is she, by George? Ho!MRS. HIGGINS. If you promise to behave your-self, Henry, I’ll ask her to come down. If not, gohome; for you have taken up quite enough of mytime.HIGGINS. Oh, all right. Very well. Pick: youbehave yourself. Let us put on our best Sundaymanners for this creature that we picked out of themud. [He flings himself sulkily into the Elizabethanchair.]DOOLITTLE. [Remonstrating.] Now, now, HenryHiggins! have some consideration for my feelingsas a middle class man.MRS. HIGGINS. Remember your promise, Henry.[She presses the bell-button on the writing table.] Mr.Doolittle: will you be so good as to step out on thebalcony for a moment. I don’t want Eliza to havethe shock of your news until she has made it upwith these two gentlemen. Would you mind?DOOLITTLE. As you wish, lady. Anything to helpHenry to keep her off my hands. [He disappearsthrough the window.]

[The PARLORMAID answers the bell. PICKERINGsits down in DOOLITTLE’s place.]

MRS. HIGGINS. Ask Miss Doolittle to come down,please.THE PARLORMAID. Yes, ma’am. [She goes out.]MRS. HIGGINS. Now, Henry: be good.HIGGINS. I am behaving myself perfectly.PICKERING. He is doing his best, Mrs. Higgins.

[A pause. HIGGINS throws back his head; stretchesout his legs; and begins to whistle.]


PICKERING. [Laughing.] Why don’t you slang backat him? Don’t stand it. It would do him a lot ofgood.LIZA. I can’t. I could have done it once; but nowI can’t go back to it. Last night, when I was wan-dering about, a girl spoke to me; and I tried to getback into the old way with her; but it was no use.You told me, you know, that when a child isbrought to a foreign country, it picks up the lan-guage in a few weeks, and forgets its own. Well, Iam a child in your country. I have forgotten myown language, and can speak nothing but yours.That’s the real break-off with the corner ofTottenham Court Road. Leaving Wimpole Streetfinishes it.PICKERING. [Much alarmed.] Oh! but you’re com-ing back to Wimpole Street, aren’t you? You’ll for-give Higgins?HIGGINS. [Rising.] Forgive! Will she, by George!Let her go. Let her find out how she can get onwithout us. She will relapse into the gutter in threeweeks without me at her elbow.

[DOOLITTLE appears at the center window. Witha look of dignified reproach at HIGGINS, he comesslowly and silently to his daughter, who, with herback to the window, is unconscious of hisapproach.]

PICKERING. He’s incorrigible, Eliza. You won’trelapse, will you?LIZA. No: not now. Never again. I have learnt mylesson. I don’t believe I could utter one of the oldsounds if I tried. [DOOLITTLE touches her on her leftshoulder. She drops her work, losing her self-possessionutterly at the spectacle of her father’s splendor.]A-a-a-a-a-ah-ow-ooh!HIGGINS. [With a crow of triumph.] Aha! Just so.A-a-a-a-ahowooh! A-a-a-a-ahowooh! A-a-a-a-ahowooh! Victory! Victory! [He throws himself onthe divan, folding his arms, and spraddling arrogantly.]DOOLITTLE. Can you blame the girl? Don’t lookat me like that, Eliza. It ain’t my fault. I’ve comeinto some money.LIZA. You must have touched a millionaire thistime, Dad.DOOLITTLE. I have. But I’m dressed somethingspecial today. I’m going to St. George’s, HanoverSquare. Your stepmother is going to marry me.

LIZA. [Angrily.] You’re going to let yourself downto marry that low common woman!PICKERING. [Quietly.] He ought to, Eliza. [ToDOOLITTLE.] Why has she changed her mind?DOOLITTLE. [Sadly.] Intimidated, Governor.Intimidated. Middle class morality claims its vic-tim. Won’t you put on your hat, Liza, and come andsee me turned off?LIZA. If the Colonel says I must, I—I’ll [Almostsobbing.] I’ll demean myself. And get insulted formy pains, like enough.DOOLITTLE. Don’t be afraid: she never comes towords with anyone now, poor woman! respectabil-ity has broke all the spirit out of her.PICKERING. [Squeezing ELIZA’s elbow gently.] Bekind to them, Eliza. Make the best of it.LIZA. [Forcing a little smile for him through her vexa-tion.] Oh well, just to show there’s no ill feeling. I’llbe back in a moment. [She goes out.]DOOLITTLE. [Sitting down beside PICKERING.] Ifeel uncommon nervous about the ceremony,Colonel. I wish you’d come and see me through it.PICKERING. But you’ve been through it before,man. You were married to Eliza’s mother.DOOLITTLE. Who told you that, Colonel?PICKERING. Well, nobody told me. But I con-cluded—naturally—DOOLITTLE. No: that ain’t the natural way,Colonel: it’s only the middle class way. My way wasalways the undeserving way. But don’t say nothingto Eliza. She don’t know: I always had a delicacyabout telling her.PICKERING. Quite right. We’ll leave it so, if youdon’t mind.DOOLITTLE. And you’ll come to the church,Colonel, and put me through straight?PICKERING. With pleasure. As far as a bachelor can.MRS. HIGGINS. May I come, Mr. Doolittle? Ishould be very sorry to miss your wedding.DOOLITTLE. I should indeed be honored by yourcondescension, ma’am, and my poor old womanwould take it as a tremendous compliment. She’sbeen very low, thinking of the happy days that areno more.MRS. HIGGINS. [Rising.] I’ll order the carriage andget ready. [The men rise, except HIGGINS.] I shan’t be

George Bernard Shaw

more than fifteen minutes. [As she goes to the doorELIZA comes in, hatted and buttoning her gloves.] I’mgoing to the church to see your father married, Eliza.You had better come in the brougham6 with me.Colonel Pickering can go on with the bridegroom.

[MRS. HIGGINS goes out. ELIZA comes to the mid-dle of the room between the center window and theottoman. PICKERING joins her.]

DOOLITTLE. Bridegroom! What a word! It makesa man realize his position, somehow. [He takes uphis hat and goes towards the door.]PICKERING. Before I go, Eliza, do forgive him andcome back to us.LIZA. I don’t think Papa would allow me. Wouldyou, Dad?DOOLITTLE. [Sad but magnanimous.]7 They playedyou off very cunning, Eliza, them two sportsmen. Ifit had been only one of them, you could havenailed him. But you see, there was two; and one ofthem chaperoned the other, as you might say. [ToPICKERING.] It was artful of you, Colonel; but Ibear no malice: I should have done the samemyself. I been the victim of one woman afteranother all my life; and I don’t grudge you two get-ting the better of Eliza. I shan’t interfere. It’s timefor us to go, Colonel. So long, Henry. See you in St.George’s, Eliza. [He goes out.]PICKERING. [Coaxing.] Do stay with us, Eliza. [Hefollows DOOLITTLE.]

[ELIZA goes out on the balcony to avoid being alonewith HIGGINS. He rises and joins her there. Sheimmediately comes back into the room and makesfor the door; but he goes along the balcony quicklyand gets his back to the door before she reaches it.]

HIGGINS. Well, Eliza, you’ve had a bit of your ownback, as you call it. Have you had enough? and areyou going to be reasonable? Or do you want anymore?LIZA. You want me back only to pick up your slip-pers and put up with your tempers and fetch andcarry for you.HIGGINS. I haven’t said I wanted you back at all.LIZA. Oh, indeed. Then what are we talking about?

HIGGINS. About you, not about me. If you comeback I shall treat you just as I have always treatedyou. I can’t change my nature; and I don’t intend tochange my manners. My manners are exactly thesame as Colonel Pickering’s.LIZA. That’s not true. He treats a flower girl as ifshe was a duchess.HIGGINS. And I treat a duchess as if she was aflower girl.LIZA. I see. [She turns away composedly, and sits on theottoman, facing the window.] The same to everybody.HIGGINS. Just so.LIZA. Like Father.HIGGINS. [Grinning, a little taken down.] Withoutaccepting the comparison at all points, Eliza, it’squite true that your father is not a snob, and thathe will be quite at home in any station of life towhich his eccentric destiny may call him.[Seriously.] The great secret, Eliza, is not having badmanners or good manners or any other particularsort of manners, but having the same manner for allhuman souls: in short, behaving as if you were inHeaven, where there are no third-class carriages,and one soul is as good as another.LIZA. Amen. You are a born preacher.HIGGINS. [Irritated.] The question is not whether Itreat you rudely, but whether you ever heard metreat anyone else better.LIZA. [With sudden sincerity.] I don’t care how youtreat me. I don’t mind your swearing at me. Ishouldn’t mind a black eye: I’ve had one beforethis. But [Standing up and facing him.] I won’t bepassed over.HIGGINS. Then get out of my way; for I won’t stopfor you. You talk about me as if I were a motor bus.LIZA. So you are a motor bus: all bounce and go,and no consideration for anyone. But I can dowithout you: don’t think I can’t.HIGGINS. I know you can. I told you you could.LIZA. [Wounded, getting away from him to the otherside of the ottoman with her face to the hearth.] I knowyou did, you brute. You wanted to get rid of me.HIGGINS. Liar.LIZA. Thank you. [She sits down with dignity.]HIGGINS. You never asked yourself, I suppose,whether I could do without you.

6. A brougham (br¯ ¯oo�əm) is a carriage.7. Magnanimous means “showing or suggesting nobility of feel-

ing and generosity of mind.”



LIZA. [Earnestly.] Don’t you try to get around me.You’ll have to do without me.HIGGINS. [Arrogant.] I can do without anybody. Ihave my own soul: my own spark of divine fire. But[With sudden humility.] I shall miss you, Eliza. [Hesits down near her on the ottoman.] I have learn’tsomething from your idiotic notions: I confess thathumbly and gratefully. And I have grown accus-tomed to your voice and appearance. I like them,rather.LIZA. Well, you have both of them on yourgramophone and in your book of photographs.When you feel lonely without me, you can turn themachine on. It’s got no feelings to hurt.

HIGGINS. I can’t turn your soul on. Leave methose feelings; and you can take away the voice andthe face. They are not you.LIZA. Oh, you are a devil. You can twist the heartin a girl as easy as some could twist her arms to hurther. Mrs. Pearce warned me. Time and again shehas wanted to leave you; and you always got aroundher at the last minute. And you don’t care a bit forher. And you don’t care a bit for me.HIGGINS. I care for life, for humanity; and you area part of it that has come my way and been builtinto my house. What more can you or anyone ask?LIZA. I won’t care for anybody that doesn’t carefor me.HIGGINS. Commercial principles, Eliza. Like[Reproducing her Covent Garden pronunciation withprofessional exactness.] s’yollin voylets (selling vio-lets), isn’t it?LIZA. Don’t sneer at me. It’s mean to sneer at me.HIGGINS. I have never sneered in my life. Sneer-ing doesn’t become either the human face or the

human soul. I am expressing my righteous con-tempt for Commercialism. I don’t and won’t tradein affection. You call me a brute because you couldn’t buy a claim on me by fetching my slippersand finding my spectacles. You were a fool: I thinka woman fetching a man’s slippers is a disgustingsight: did I ever fetch your slippers? I think a gooddeal more of you for throwing them in my face. Nouse slaving for me and then saying you want to becared for: who cares for a slave? If you come back,come back for the sake of good fellowship; for you’llget nothing else. You’ve had a thousand times asmuch out of me as I have out of you; and if you dareto set up your little dog’s tricks of fetching and car-rying slippers against my creation of a DuchessEliza, I’ll slam the door in your silly face.LIZA. What did you do it for if you didn’t care for me?HIGGINS. [Heartily.] Why, because it was my job.LIZA. You never thought of the trouble it wouldmake for me.HIGGINS. Would the world ever have been madeif its maker had been afraid of making trouble?Making life means making trouble. There’s onlyone way of escaping trouble; and that’s killingthings. Cowards, you notice, are always shriekingto have troublesome people killed.LIZA. I’m no preacher: I don’t notice things likethat. I notice that you don’t notice me.HIGGINS. [ Jumping up and walking about intoler-antly.] Eliza: you’re an idiot. I waste the treasures ofmy Miltonic mind by spreading them before you.Once for all, understand that I go my way and domy work without caring twopence what happens toeither of us. I am not intimidated, like your fatherand your stepmother. So you can come back or goto the devil: which you please.LIZA. What am I to come back for?HIGGINS. [Bouncing up on his knees on the ottomanand leaning over it to her.] For the fun of it. That’swhy I took you on.LIZA. [With averted face.] And you may throw meout tomorrow if I don’t do everything you want me to?HIGGINS. Yes; and you may walk out tomorrow ifI don’t do everything you want me to.LIZA. And live with my stepmother?

George Bernard Shaw


HIGGINS. Yes, or sell flowers.LIZA. Oh! if I only could go back to my flower bas-ket! I should be independent of both you andFather and all the world! Why did you take myindependence from me? Why did I give it up? I’m aslave now, for all my fine clothes.HIGGINS. Not a bit. I’ll adopt you as my daughterand settle money on you if you like. Or would yourather marry Pickering?LIZA. [Looking fiercely around at him.] I wouldn’tmarry you if you asked me; and you’re nearer myage than what he is.HIGGINS. [Gently.] Than he is: not “than what he is.”LIZA. [Losing her temper and rising.] I’ll talk as Ilike. You’re not my teacher now.HIGGINS. [Reflectively.] I don’t suppose Pickeringwould, though. He’s as confirmed an old bacheloras I am.LIZA. That’s not what I want; and don’t you thinkit. I’ve always had chaps enough wanting me thatway. Freddy Hill writes to me twice and three timesa day, sheets and sheets.HIGGINS. [Disagreeably surprised.] Damn his impu-dence! [He recoils and finds himself sitting on his heels.]LIZA. He has a right to if he likes, poor lad. Andhe does love me.HIGGINS. [Getting off the ottoman.] You have noright to encourage him.LIZA. Every girl has a right to be loved.HIGGINS. What! By fools like that?LIZA. Freddy’s not a fool. And if he’s weak andpoor and wants me, maybe he’d make me happierthan my betters that bully me and don’t want me.HIGGINS. Can he make anything of you? That’sthe point.LIZA. Perhaps I could make something of him. ButI never thought of us making anything of oneanother; and you never think of anything else. Ionly want to be natural.HIGGINS. In short, you want me to be as infatu-ated about you as Freddy? Is that it?LIZA. No I don’t. That’s not the sort of feeling Iwant from you. And don’t you be too sure of your-self or of me. I could have been a bad girl if I’dliked. I’ve seen more of some things than you, for

all your learning. Girls like me can drag gentlemendown to make love to them easy enough. And theywish each other dead the next minute.HIGGINS. Of course they do. Then what in thun-der are we quarrelling about?LIZA. [Much troubled.] I want a little kindness. Iknow I’m a common ignorant girl, and you abook-learned gentleman; but I’m not dirt underyour feet. What I done [Correcting herself .] what Idid was not for the dresses and the taxis: I did itbecause we were pleasant together and I come—came—to care for you; not to want you to makelove to me, and not forgetting the differencebetween us, but more friendly like.HIGGINS. Well, of course. Tha’s just how I feel.And how Pickering feels. Eliza: you’re a fool.LIZA. That’s not a proper answer to give me. [Shesinks on the chair at the writing table in tears.]HIGGINS. It’s all you’ll get until you stop being acommon idiot. If you’re going to be a lady, you’llhave to give up feeling neglected if the men youknow don’t spend half their time sniveling over youand the other half giving you black eyes. If you can’tstand the coldness of my sort of life, and the strain ofit, go back to the gutter. Work ’til you are more abrute than a human being; and then cuddle andsquabble and drink ’til you fall asleep. Oh, it’s a finelife, the life of the gutter. It’s real: it’s warm: it’s vio-lent: you can feel it through the thickest skin: youcan taste it and smell it without any training or anywork. Not like Science and Literature and ClassicalMusic and Philosophy and Art. You find me cold,unfeeling, selfish, don’t you? Very well: be off withyou to the sort of people you like. Marry some senti-mental hog or other with lots of money, and a thickpair of lips to kiss you with and a thick pair of bootsto kick you with. If you can’t appreciate what you’vegot, you’d better get what you can appreciate.LIZA. [Desperate.] Oh, you are a cruel tyrant. Ican’t talk to you: you turn everything against me:I’m always in the wrong. But you know very well allthe time that you’re nothing but a bully. You knowI can’t go back to the gutter, as you call it, and thatI have no real friends in the world but you and theColonel. You know well I couldn’t bear to live witha low common man after you two; and it’s wickedand cruel of you to insult me by pretending I could.You think I must go back to Wimpole Street

because I have nowhere else to go but Father’s. Butdon’t you be too sure that you have me under yourfeet to be trampled on and talked down. I’ll marryFreddy, I will, as soon as I’m able to support him.HIGGINS. [Thunderstruck.] Freddy!!! that youngfool! That poor devil who couldn’t get a job as anerrand boy even if he had the guts to try for it!Woman: do you not understand that I have madeyou a consort for a king?LIZA. Freddy loves me: that makes him kingenough for me. I don’t want him to work: he wasn’t brought up to it as I was. I’ll go and be ateacher.HIGGINS. What’ll you teach, in heaven’s name?LIZA. What you taught me. I’ll teach phonetics.HIGGINS. Ha! ha! ha!LIZA. I’ll offer myself as an assistant to that hairy-faced Hungarian.HIGGINS. [Rising in a fury.] What! That impostor!that humbug! that toadying ignoramus! Teach himmy methods! my discoveries! You take one step inhis direction and I’ll wring your neck. [He layshands on her.] Do you hear?LIZA. [Defiantly non-resistant.] Wring away. Whatdo I care? I knew you’d strike me some day. [He letsher go, stamping with rage at having forgotten himself,and recoils so hastily that he stumbles back into his seaton the ottoman.] Aha! Now I know how to deal withyou. What a fool I was not to think of it before! Youcan’t take away the knowledge you gave me. Yousaid I had a finer ear than you. And I can be civiland kind to people, which is more than you can.Aha! [Purposely dropping her aitches to annoy him.]That’s done you, Enry Iggins, it az. Now I don’t carethat [Snapping her fingers.] for your bullying andyour big talk. I’ll advertise it in the papers that yourduchess is only a flower girl that you taught, andthat she’ll teach anybody to be a duchess just thesame in six months for a thousand guineas. Oh,when I think of myself crawling under your feetand being trampled on and called names, when allthe time I had only to lift up my finger to be asgood as you, I could just kick myself.HIGGINS. [Wondering at her.] You damned impu-dent girl, you! But it’s better than sniveling; better

than fetching slippers and finding spectacles, isn’tit? [Rising.] By George, Eliza, I said I’d make awoman of you; and I have. I like you like this.LIZA. Yes: you turn around and make up to me nowthat I’m not afraid of you, and can do without you.HIGGINS. Of course I do, you little fool. Five min-utes ago you were like a millstone around my neck.Now you’re a tower of strength: a consort battle-ship. You and I and Pickering will be three oldbachelors instead of only two men and a silly girl.

[MRS. HIGGINS returns, dressed for the wedding.ELIZA instantly becomes cool and elegant.]

MRS. HIGGINS. The carriage is waiting, Eliza. Areyou ready?LIZA. Quite. Is the Professor coming?MRS. HIGGINS. Certainly not. He can’t behavehimself in church. He makes remarks out loud allthe time on the clergyman’s pronunciation.LIZA. Then I shall not see you again, Professor.Good-bye. [She goes to the door.]MRS. HIGGINS. [Coming to HIGGINS.] Good-bye,dear.HIGGINS. Good-bye, Mother. [He is about to kissher, when he recollects something.] Oh, by the way,Eliza, order a ham and a Stilton cheese, will you?And buy me a pair of reindeer gloves, numbereights, and a tie to match that new suit of mine.You can choose the color. [His cheerful, careless,vigorous voice shows that he is incorrigible.]LIZA. [Disdainfully.] Number eights are too smallfor you if you want them lined with lamb’s wool.You have three new ties that you have forgottenin the drawer of your washstand. ColonelPickering prefers double Gloucester to Stilton;and you don’t notice the difference. I telephonedMrs. Pearce this morning not to forget the ham.What you are to do without me I cannot imagine.[She sweeps out.]MRS. HIGGINS. I’m afraid you’ve spoilt that girl,Henry. I should be uneasy about you and her if shewere less fond of Colonel Pickering.HIGGINS. Pickering! Nonsense: she’s going tomarry Freddy. Ha ha! Freddy! Freddy!! Ha ha ha haha!!!!! [He roars with laughter as the play ends.]


Literary ELEMENTS

Flat and Round CharactersCharacters who show only one personality trait are calledflat characters. For example, Count Nepommuck is a flatcharacter—all the audience sees is his arrogance as heflaunts his reputation as a linguistic genius. Characterswho show a variety of traits are called round characters.Mrs. Higgins, who shows both compassion toward Elizaand wisdom in sizing up her son’s shortcomings, is around character. 1. Is Eliza a flat or round character? Explain your answer.2. Would you describe Higgins as a flat character or as a

round character? Why?


PYGMALION � 987

Recall and Interpret1. Why does Doolittle consider his new social status a bur-

den? What does this suggest about Shaw’s view of society?2. Why is Eliza grateful to Pickering? What do her remarks to

him suggest about how she has changed? 3. How does Higgins justify his treatment of Eliza? Why

doesn’t she accept his justification?4. How does Eliza propose to support herself? How does

Higgins respond to this idea? What does this responsereveal about him?

Evaluate and Connect5. Do you find Doolittle to be an admirable character?

Explain your opinion.6. What function does Doolittle play in act 5? How would the

play change if his character were omitted?7. What contemporary stories or characters can you think of

that are in some ways similar to Pygmalion? Explain yourchoices.

8. In the Reading Focus on page 921, you discussed whatyou would most like to change about yourself. Did readingthis play encourage you to want to make that change?Why or why not?

Did you feel satisfied with the play’s ending? Explain why orwhy not in your journal.

Analyzing Act 5

Writing About LiteratureThe Same to Everybody? Higgins says that although hetreats Eliza rudely, he does not treat anyone else any better.Do you think this is true? In a brief essay, analyze Higgins’sbehavior toward Eliza and his behavior toward other charac-ters in the play. What conclusions can you draw aboutHiggins’s character from your analysis? Be sure to supportyour analysis with specific examples from the play.

Creative WritingThe Great Moralist What kind of lectures do you thinkDoolittle would give at the Wannafeller Moral Reform WorldLeague? Write a speech on morality for him to deliver at a

meeting. Before composing the speech, review his dialogueand summarize his views on middle-class morality and theinfluence of money on a person’s life.

Literature GroupsLoose Ends Do you think Eliza really will never see Higginsagain? Will Higgins keep trying to convince her that shebelongs with him? Is she going to marry Freddy? How will shesupport herself? Discuss these questions in your group. Baseyour predictions on statements in act 5 and on your insightinto the characters. Share your predictions with the class.



Scholar William J. Feeney argues that “if Pygmalion waswritten only to promote that science [phonetics], or todemonstrate the superficiality of polite society, it shouldhave ended with Liza’s triumph at the ball. What follows isher greater triumph in declaring independence from herdomineering teacher.” Do you agree? As a class, discusswhat you consider to be Eliza’s greatest triumph.

Literary Criticism



The rest of the story need not be shown inaction, and indeed, would hardly need telling ifour imaginations were not so enfeebled bytheir lazy dependence on the ready-mades andreach-me-downs of the ragshop in whichRomance keeps its stock of “happy endings” tomisfit all stories. Now, the history of ElizaDoolittle, though called a romance because thetransfiguration it records seems exceedinglyimprobable, is common enough. Such transfig-urations have been achieved by hundreds ofresolutely ambitious young women since NellGwynne set them the example by playingqueens and fascinating kings in the theater inwhich she began by selling oranges. Never-theless, people in all directions have assumed,for no other reason than that she became theheroine of a romance, that she must have mar-ried the hero of it. This is unbearable, not onlybecause her little drama, if acted on such athoughtless assumption, must be spoiled, butbecause the true sequel is patent to anyonewith a sense of human nature in general, and offeminine instinct in particular.

Eliza, in telling Higgins she would not marryhim if he asked her, was not coquetting: she wasannouncing a well-considered decision. Whena bachelor interests, and dominates, andteaches, and becomes important to a spinster, asHiggins with Eliza, she always, if she has char-acter enough to be capable of it, considers veryseriously indeed whether she will play forbecoming that bachelor’s wife, especially if he isso little interested in marriage that a deter-mined and devoted woman might capture himif she set herself resolutely to do it. Her decisionwill depend a good deal on whether she is reallyfree to choose; and that, again, will depend onher age and income. If she is at the end of heryouth, and has no security for her livelihood,she will marry him because she must marry any-body who will provide for her. But at Eliza’s agea good-looking girl does not feel that pressure:she feels free to pick and choose. She is there-fore guided by her instinct in the matter. Eliza’s

instinct tells her not to marry Higgins. It doesnot tell her to give him up. It is not in theslightest doubt as to his remaining one of thestrongest personal interests in her life. It wouldbe very sorely strained if there was anotherwoman likely to supplant her with him. But asshe feels sure of him on that last point, she hasno doubt at all as to her course, and would nothave any, even if the difference of twenty yearsin age, which seems so great to youth, did notexist between them.

As our own instincts are not appealed to byher conclusion, let us see whether we cannotdiscover some reason in it. When Higginsexcused his indifference to young women onthe ground that they had an irresistible rival inhis mother, he gave the clue to his inveterateold-bachelordom. The case is uncommon onlyto the extent that remarkable mothers areuncommon. If an imaginative boy has a suffi-ciently rich mother who has intelligence, per-sonal grace, dignity of character withoutharshness, and a cultivated sense of the best artof her time to enable her to make her housebeautiful, she sets a standard for him againstwhich very few women can struggle, besideseffecting for him a disengagement of his affec-tions, his sense of beauty, and his idealism fromhis specifically sexual impulses. This makeshim a standing puzzle to the huge number ofuncultivated people who have been broughtup in tasteless homes by commonplace or dis-agreeable parents, and to whom, consequently,literature, painting, sculpture, music, andaffectionate personal relations come as modesof sex if they come at all. The word passionmeans nothing else to them; and that Higginscould have a passion for phonetics and idealizehis mother instead of Eliza, would seem to themabsurd and unnatural. Nevertheless, when welook around and see that hardly anyone is toougly or disagreeable to find a wife or a husbandif he or she wants one, whilst many old maidsand bachelors are above the average in qualityand culture, we cannot help suspecting that the


The converse is also true. Weak people wantto marry strong people who do not frighten themtoo much; and this often leads them to make themistake we describe metaphorically as “biting offmore than they can chew.” They want too muchfor too little; and when the bargain is unreason-able beyond all bearing, the union becomes im-possible: it ends in the weaker party being eitherdiscarded or borne as a cross, which is worse.People who are not only weak, but silly or obtuseas well, are often in these difficulties.

This being the state of human affairs, whatis Eliza fairly sure to do when she is placedbetween Freddy and Higgins? Will she look for-ward to a lifetime of fetching Higgins’s slippersor to a lifetime of Freddy fetching hers? Therecan be no doubt about the answer. UnlessFreddy is biologically repulsive to her, andHiggins biologically attractive to a degree thatoverwhelms all her other instincts, she will, ifshe marries either of them, marry Freddy.

And that is just what Eliza did.Complications ensued; but they were eco-

nomic, not romantic. Freddy had no money andno occupation. His mother’s jointure,3 a lastrelic of the opulence of Largelady Park, hadenabled her to struggle along in Earlscourt withan air of gentility, but not to procure any serioussecondary education for her children, much lessgive the boy a profession. A clerkship at thirtyshillings a week was beneath Freddy’s dignity,and extremely distasteful to him besides. Hisprospects consisted of a hope that if he kept upappearances somebody would do something forhim. The something appeared vaguely to hisimagination as a private secretaryship or asinecure4 of some sort. To his mother it perhapsappeared as a marriage to some lady of meanswho could not resist her boy’s niceness. Fancyher feelings when he married a flower girl who

had become déclassée under extraordinary cir-cumstances which were now notorious!

It is true that Eliza’s situation did not seemwholly inelegible. Her father, though formerlya dustman, and now fantastically disclassed,had become extremely popular in the smartestsociety by a social talent which triumphedover every prejudice and every disadvantage.Rejected by the middle class, which heloathed, he had shot up at once into the high-est circles by his wit, his dustmanship (whichhe carried like a banner), and his Nietzscheantranscendence of good and evil. At intimateducal dinners he sat on the right hand of theDuchess; and in country houses he smoked inthe pantry and was made much of by the but-ler when he was not feeding in the diningroom and being consulted by cabinet minis-ters. But he found it almost as hard to do allthis on four thousand a year as Mrs. EynsfordHill to live in Earlscourt on an income sopitiably smaller that I have not the heart todisclose its exact figure. He absolutely refusedto add the last straw to his burden by con-tributing to Eliza’s support.

Thus Freddy and Eliza, now Mr. and Mrs.Eynsford Hill, would have spent a pennilesshoneymoon but for a wedding present of £500from the Colonel to Eliza. It lasted a long timebecause Freddy did not know how to spendmoney, never having had any to spend, andEliza, socially trained by a pair of old bache-lors, wore her clothes as long as they heldtogether and looked pretty, without the leastregard to their being many months out of fash-ion. Still, £500 will not last two young peopleforever; and they both knew, and Eliza felt aswell, that they must shift for themselves in theend. She could quarter herself on WimpoleStreet because it had come to be her home; butshe was quite aware that she ought not to quar-ter Freddy there, and that it would not be goodfor his character if she did.

Not that the Wimpole Street bachelorsobjected. When she consulted them, Higgins

3. A jointure is a widow’s inheritance, payable only during herlifetime.

4. A sinecure (si�nə kyoor ) is a salaried position requiring littleor no work.


disentanglement of sex from the associationswith which it is so commonly confused, a dis-entanglement which persons of genius achieveby sheer intellectual analysis, is sometimes pro-duced or aided by parental fascination.

Now, though Eliza was incapable of thusexplaining to herself Higgins’s formidable pow-ers of resistance to the charm that prostratedFreddy at the first glance, she was instinctivelyaware that she could never obtain a completegrip of him, or come between him and hismother (the first necessity of the marriedwoman). To put it shortly, she knew that forsome mysterious reason he had not the mak-ings of a married man in him, according to herconception of a husband as one to whom shewould be his nearest and fondest and warmestinterest. Even had there been no mother-rival,she would still have refused to accept an inter-est in herself that was secondary to philosophicinterests. Had Mrs. Higgins died, there wouldstill have been Milton and the UniversalAlphabet. Landor’s1 remark that to those whohave the greatest power of loving, love is a sec-ondary affair, would not have recommendedLandor to Eliza. Put that along with her resent-ment of Higgins’s domineering superiority, andher mistrust of his coaxing cleverness in get-ting around her and evading her wrath whenhe had gone too far with his impetuous bully-ing, and you will see that Eliza’s instinct hadgood grounds for warning her not to marry herPygmalion.

And now, whom did Eliza marry? For ifHiggins was a predestinate old bachelor, shewas most certainly not a predestinate old maid.Well, that can be told very shortly to thosewho have not guessed it from the indicationsshe has herself given them.

Almost immediately after Eliza is stung intoproclaiming her considered determination notto marry Higgins, she mentions the fact that

young Mr. Frederick Eynsford Hill is pouringout his love for her daily through the post. NowFreddy is young, practically twenty yearsyounger than Higgins: he is a gentleman (or, asEliza would qualify him, a toff), and speaks likeone; he is nicely dressed, is treated by theColonel as an equal, loves her unaffectedly, andis not her master, nor ever likely to dominateher in spite of his advantage of social standing.Eliza has no use for the foolish romantic tradi-tion that all women love to be mastered, if notactually bullied and beaten. “When you go towomen,” says Nietzsche,2 “take your whip withyou.” Sensible despots have never confinedthat precaution to women: they have takentheir whips with them when they have dealtwith men, and been slavishly idealized by themen over whom they have flourished the whipmuch more than by women. No doubt there areslavish women as well as slavish men: andwomen, like men, admire those that arestronger than themselves. But to admire astrong person and to live under that strong per-son’s thumb are two different things. The weakmay not be admired and hero-worshipped; butthey are by no means disliked or shunned; andthey never seem to have the least difficulty inmarrying people who are too good for them.They may fail in emergencies; but life is not onelong emergency: it is mostly a string of situa-tions for which no exceptional strength isneeded, and with which even rather weak peo-ple can cope if they have a stronger partner tohelp them out. Accordingly, it is a truth every-where in evidence that strong people, mascu-line or feminine, not only do not marry strongerpeople, but do not show any preference forthem in selecting their friends. When a lionmeets another with a louder roar “the first lionthinks the last a bore.” The man or woman whofeels strong enough for two, seeks for everyother quality in a partner than strength.

George Bernard Shaw

PYGMALION, EPILOGUE � 989

1. Landor’s refers to English writer Walter Savage Landor(1775–1864).

2. Nietzsche is Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844–1900), aninfluential German philosopher.

George Bernard Shaw

declined to be bothered about her housing prob-lem when that solution was so simple. Eliza’sdesire to have Freddy in the house with herseemed of no more importance than if she hadwanted an extra piece of bedroom furniture.Pleas as to Freddy’s character, and the moralobligation on him to earn his own living, werelost on Higgins. He denied that Freddy had anycharacter, and declared that if he tried to do anyuseful work some competent person would havethe trouble of undoing it: a procedure involvinga net loss to the community, and great unhappi-ness to Freddy himself, who was obviouslyintended by Nature for such light work as amus-ing Eliza, which, Higgins declared, was a muchmore useful and honorable occupation thanworking in the city. When Eliza referred again toher project of teaching phonetics, Higginsabated not a jot of his violent opposition to it.He said she was not within ten years of beingqualified to meddle with his pet subject; and asit was evident that the Colonel agreed with him,she felt she could not go against them in thisgrave matter, and that she had no right, withoutHiggins’s consent, to exploit the knowledge hehad given her; for his knowledge seemed to heras much his private property as his watch: Elizawas no communist. Besides, she was supersti-tiously devoted to them both, more entirely andfrankly after her marriage than before it.

It was the Colonel who finally solved theproblem, which had cost him much perplexedcogitation. He one day asked Eliza, rather shyly,whether she had quite given up her notion ofkeeping a flower shop. She replied that she hadthought of it, but had put it out of her head,because the Colonel had said, that day at Mrs.Higgins’s, that it would never do. The Colonelconfessed that when he said that, he had notquite recovered from the dazzling impression ofthe day before. They broke the matter toHiggins that evening. The sole commentvouchsafed by him very nearly led to a seriousquarrel with Eliza. It was to the effect that shewould have in Freddy an ideal errand boy.

Freddy himself was next sounded on the sub-ject. He said he had been thinking of a shophimself; though it had presented itself to hispennilessness as a small place in which Elizashould sell tobacco at one counter whilst he soldnewspapers at the opposite one. But he agreedthat it would be extraordinarily jolly to go earlyevery morning with Eliza to Covent Garden andbuy flowers on the scene of their first meeting: asentiment which earned him many kisses fromhis wife. He added that he had always beenafraid to propose anything of the sort, becauseClara would make an awful row about a step thatmust damage her matrimonial chances, and hismother could not be expected to like it afterclinging for so many years to that step of thesocial ladder on which retail trade is impossible.

This difficulty was removed by an eventhighly unexpected by Freddy’s mother. Clara,in the course of her incursions into those artis-tic circles which were the highest within herreach, discovered that her conversationalqualifications were expected to include agrounding in the novels of Mr. H. G. Wells.5

She borrowed them in various directions soenergetically that she swallowed them allwithin two months. The result was a conver-sion of a kind quite common today. A modernActs of the Apostles would fill fifty wholeBibles if anyone were capable of writing it.

Poor Clara, who appeared to Higgins and hismother as a disagreeable and ridiculous person,and to her own mother as in some inexplicableway a social failure, had never seen herself ineither light; for, though to some extent ridiculedand mimicked in West Kensington like every-body else there, she was accepted as a rationaland normal—or shall we say inevitable?—sortof human being. At worst they called her ThePusher; but to them no more than to herself hadit ever occurred that she was pushing the air,and pushing it in a wrong direction. Still, she


5. H. G. Wells (1866–1946) was an English novelist, historian,and social reformer.

George Bernard Shaw


was not happy. She was growing desperate. Herone asset, the fact that her mother was what theEpsom greengrocer called a carriage lady, hadno exchange value, apparently. It had pre-vented her from getting educated, because theonly education she could have afforded waseducation with the Earlscourt greengrocer’sdaughter. It had led her to seek the society ofher mother’s class; and that class simply wouldnot have her, because she was much poorer thanthe greengrocer, and, far from being able toafford a maid, could not afford even a house-maid, and had to scrape along at home with anilliberally treated general servant. Under suchcircumstances nothing could give her an air ofbeing a genuine product of Largelady Park. Andyet its tradition made her regard a marriage withanyone within her reach as an unbearablehumiliation. Commercial people and profes-sional people in a small way were odious to her.She ran after painters and novelists; but she didnot charm them; and her bold attempts to pickup and practice artistic and literary talk irritatedthem. She was, in short, an utter failure, anignorant, incompetent, pretentious, unwel-come, penniless, useless little snob; and thoughshe did not admit these disqualifications (fornobody ever faces unpleasant truths of this kinduntil the possibility of a way out dawns onthem) she felt their effects too keenly to be sat-isfied with her position.

Clara had a startling eyeopener when, onbeing suddenly wakened to enthusiasm by agirl of her own age who dazzled her and pro-duced in her a gushing desire to take her for amodel, and gain her friendship, she discoveredthat this exquisite apparition had graduatedfrom the gutter in a few months time. It shookher so violently, that when Mr. H. G. Wellslifted her on the point of his puissant6 pen, andplaced her at the angle of view from which thelife she was leading and the society to whichshe clung appeared in its true relation to real

human needs and worthy social structure, heeffected a conversion and a conviction of sincomparable to the most sensational feats ofGeneral Booth7 or Gypsy Smith.8 Clara’s snob-bery went bang. Life suddenly began to movewith her. Without knowing how or why, shebegan to make friends and enemies. Some ofthe acquaintances to whom she had been atedious or indifferent or ridiculous affliction,dropped her: others became cordial. To heramazement she found that some “quite nice”people were saturated with Wells, and that thisaccessibility to ideas was the secret of theirniceness. People she had thought deeply reli-gious, and had tried to conciliate on that tackwith disastrous results, suddenly took an inter-est in her, and revealed a hostility to conven-tional religion which she had never conceivedpossible except among the most desperatecharacters. They made her read Galsworthy;and Galsworthy exposed the vanity ofLargelady Park and finished her. It exasperatedher to think that the dungeon in which shehad languished for so many unhappy years hadbeen unlocked all the time, and that theimpulses she had so carefully struggled withand stifled for the sake of keeping well withsociety, were precisely those by which aloneshe could have come into any sort of sincerehuman contact. In the radiance of these dis-coveries, and the tumult of their reaction, shemade a fool of herself as freely and conspicu-ously as when she so rashly adopted Eliza’sexpletive in Mrs. Higgins’s drawing room; forthe new-born Wellsian had to find her bear-ings almost as ridiculously as a baby; butnobody hates a baby for its ineptitudes, orthinks the worse of it for trying to eat thematches; and Clara lost no friends by her fol-lies. They laughed at her to her face this time;

6. Puissant (pwis�ənt) is French for “powerful.”

7. General Booth is William Booth (1829–1912), English evange-list and founder of the Salvation Army, a semimilitary reli-gious and social-service organization.

8. Gypsy Smith refers to Gypsy Rodney Smith (1860–1947), anEnglish evangelist.

and she had to defend herself and fight it outas best she could.

When Freddy paid a visit to Earlscourt(which he never did when he could possiblyhelp it) to make the desolating announce-ment that he and his Eliza were thinking ofblackening the Largelady scutcheon9 byopening a shop, he found the little householdalready convulsed by a prior announcementfrom Clara that she also was going to work inan old furniture shop in Dover Street, whichhad been started by a fellow Wellsian. Thisappointment Clara owed, after all, to her oldsocial accomplishment of Push. She hadmade up her mind that, cost what it might,she would see Mr. Wells in the flesh; and shehad achieved her end at a garden party. Shehad better luck than so rash an enterprisedeserved. Mr. Wells came up to her expecta-tions. Age had not withered him, nor couldcustom stale his infinite variety in half anhour. His pleasant neatness and compactness,his small hands and feet, his teeming readybrain, his unaffected accessibility, and a cer-tain fine apprehensiveness which stampedhim as susceptible from his topmost hair tohis tipmost toe, proved irresistible. Claratalked of nothing else for weeks and weeksafterwards. And as she happened to talk tothe lady of the furniture shop, and that ladyalso desired above all things to know Mr.Wells and sell pretty things to him, sheoffered Clara a job on the chance of achiev-ing that end through her.

And so it came about that Eliza’s luck held,and the expected opposition to the flower shopmelted away. The shop is in the arcade of arailway station not very far from the Victoriaand Albert Museum; and if you live in thatneighborhood you may go there any day andbuy a buttonhole from Eliza.

Now here is a last opportunity for romance.Would you not like to be assured that the shop

was an immense success, thanks to Eliza’scharms and her early business experience inCovent Garden? Alas! the truth is the truth:the shop did not pay for a long time, simplybecause Eliza and her Freddy did not know howto keep it. True, Eliza had not to begin at thevery beginning: she knew the names and pricesof the cheaper flowers; and her elation wasunbounded when she found that Freddy, like allyouths educated at cheap, pretentious, andthoroughly inefficient schools, knew a littleLatin. It was very little, but enough to makehim appear to her a Porson10 or Bentley, and toput him at his ease with botanical nomencla-ture. Unfortunately he knew nothing else; andEliza, though she could count money up to eigh-teen shillings or so, and had acquired a certainfamiliarity with the language of Milton from herstruggles to qualify herself for winning Higgins’sbet, could not write out a bill without utterlydisgracing the establishment. Freddy’s power ofstating in Latin that Balbus built a wall and thatGaul was divided into three parts11 did not carrywith it the slightest knowledge of accounts orbusiness: Colonel Pickering had to explain tohim what a checkbook and a bank accountmeant. And the pair were by no means easilyteachable. Freddy backed up Eliza in her obsti-nate refusal to believe that they could savemoney by engaging a bookkeeper with someknowledge of the business. How, they argued,could you possibly save money by going to extraexpense when you already could not make bothends meet? But the Colonel, after making theends meet over and over again, at last gentlyinsisted; and Eliza, humbled to the dust by hav-ing to beg from him so often, and stung by theuproarious derision of Higgins, to whom thenotion of Freddy succeeding at anything was ajoke that never palled, grasped the fact thatbusiness, like phonetics, has to be learned.

9. A scutcheon is a coat of arms.


10. Porson refers to Richard Porson (1759–1808), one of England’s most celebrated scholars of Greek and Latin.

11. [Balbus . . . parts] is an allusion to elementary Latin exercises.

George Bernard Shaw


On the piteous spectacle of the pairspending their evenings in shorthandschools and polytechnic classes, learningbookkeeping and typewriting with incipientjunior clerks, male and female, from the ele-mentary schools, let me not dwell. Therewere even classes at the London School ofEconomics, and a humble personal appeal tothe director of that institution to recom-mend a course bearing on the flower busi-ness. He, being a humorist, explained tothem the method of the celebratedDickensian essay on Chinese Metaphysics bythe gentleman who read an article on Chinaand an article on Metaphysics and combinedthe information. He suggested that theyshould combine the London School withKew Gardens. Eliza, to whom the procedureof the Dickensian gentleman seemed per-fectly correct (as in fact it was) and not inthe least funny (which was only her igno-rance), took his advice with entire gravity.But the effort that cost her the deepesthumiliation was a request to Higgins, whosepet artistic fancy, next to Milton’s verse, wascaligraphy, and who himself wrote a mostbeautiful Italian hand, that he would teachher to write. He declared that she was con-genitally incapable of forming a single letterworthy of the least of Milton’s words; but shepersisted; and again he suddenly threw him-self into the task of teaching her with a com-bination of stormy intensity, concentratedpatience, and occasional bursts of interest-ing disquisition on the beauty and nobility,the august mission and destiny, of humanhandwriting. Eliza ended by acquiring anextremely uncommercial script which was apositive extension of her personal beauty,and spending three times as much on stationery as anyone else because certainqualities and shapes of paper became indis-pensable to her. She could not even addressan envelope in the usual way because itmade the margins all wrong.

Their commercial schooldays were aperiod of disgrace and despair for the youngcouple. They seemed to be learning nothingabout flower shops. At last they gave it up ashopeless, and shook the dust of the shorthandschools, and the polytechnics, and theLondon School of Economics from their feetfor ever. Besides, the business was in somemysterious way beginning to take care ofitself. They had somehow forgotten theirobjections to employing other people. Theycame to the conclusion that their own waywas the best, and that they had really aremarkable talent for business. The Colonel,who had been compelled for some years tokeep a sufficient sum on current account at hisbankers to make up their deficits, found thatthe provision was unnecessary: the young peo-ple were prospering. It is true that there wasnot quite fair play between them and theircompetitors in trade. Their week-ends in thecountry cost them nothing, and saved themthe price of their Sunday dinners; for themotor car was the Colonel’s; and he andHiggins paid the hotel bills. Mr. F. Hill, floristand greengrocer (they soon discovered thatthere was money in asparagus; and asparagusled to other vegetables), had an air whichstamped the business as classy; and in privatelife he was still Frederick Eynsford Hill,Esquire. Not that there was any swank abouthim: nobody but Eliza knew that he had beenchristened Frederick Challoner. Eliza herselfswanked like anything.

That is all. That is how it has turned out. Itis astonishing how much Eliza still manages tomeddle in the housekeeping at WimpoleStreet in spite of the shop and her own family.And it is notable that though she never nagsher husband, and frankly loves the Colonel asif she were his favorite daughter, she has nevergot out of the habit of nagging Higgins thatwas established on the fatal night when shewon his bet for him. She snaps his head off onthe faintest provocation, or on none. He no

longer dares to tease her by assuming anabysmal inferiority of Freddy’s mind to hisown. He storms and bullies and derides: butshe stands up to him so ruthlessly that theColonel has to ask her from time to time to bekinder to Higgins; and it is the only request ofhis that brings a mulish expression into herface. Nothing but some emergency or calamitygreat enough to break down all likes and dis-likes, and throw them both back on their com-mon humanity—and may they be spared anysuch trial!—will ever alter this. She knowsthat Higgins does not need her, just as herfather did not need her. The very scrupulous-ness with which he told her that day that hehad become used to having her there, anddependent on her for all sorts of little services,and that he should miss her if she went away(it would never have occurred to Freddy or the

Colonel to say anything of the sort) deepensher inner certainty that she is “no more to himthan them slippers”; yet she has a sense, too,that his indifference is deeper than the infatu-ation of commoner souls. She is immenselyinterested in him. She has even secret mis-chievous moments in which she wishes shecould get him alone, on a desert island, awayfrom all ties and with nobody else in the worldto consider, and just drag him off his pedestaland see him making love like any commonman. We all have private imaginations of thatsort. But when it comes to business, to the lifethat she really leads as distinguished from thelife of dreams and fancies, she likes Freddy andshe likes the Colonel; and she does not likeHiggins and Mr. Doolittle. Galatea never doesquite like Pygmalion: his relation to her is toogodlike to be altogether agreeable.


Recall1. According to Shaw, what have readers and audiences assumed about

Eliza’s future? 2. What reasons does Shaw give to explain why Eliza does not want to marry

Higgins? 3. Why does Shaw believe that Freddy would make a good husband

for Eliza?4. How do Freddy and Eliza decide to support themselves?5. How does Higgins respond when he hears that Eliza is thinking of open-

ing a flower shop?

Interpret6. Why does Shaw find the audience’s assumption about Eliza’s future

“unbearable”?7. How would you describe Shaw’s attitude toward marriage as expressed in

the epilogue? Use specific examples and ideas from the play to supportyour answer.

8. What does Shaw’s discussion of Freddy’s weakness imply about Eliza’scharacter?

9. Why are Freddy and Eliza eventually successful? Do you think their suc-cess depended upon the help of Higgins and Pickering? Give reasons foryour answer.

10. What does Higgins think of Freddy and why? Do you think hisopinion is fair? Explain.

Evaluate and Connect11. Do you think that the characterization of Eliza in the epilogue

is consistent with her character in the play (see page R3)? Whyor why not?

12. Do you agree with Shaw that strong people are drawn toweaker people, and weak people are drawn to stronger ones?Explain your opinion.

13. In your opinion, what purpose does the epilogue serve? Do youthink it strengthens or weakens the play?

14. Would you have wanted Shaw to dramatize the later develop-ments that he narrates in the epilogue? Give reasons to explainyour preference.

15. What parallels can you see between Pygmalion and life in theUnited States today? Explain.

Were you surprised by the developments in the epilogue? Why or why not?Share your thoughts with a classmate.

Analyzing the Epilogue



RomanceIn the epilogue, the concluding partadded to a literary work, Shaw remindshis readers that he has called Pygmaliona romance. Historically, this term wasused to describe long narrative worksabout the exploits and love affairs ofchivalric heroes such as King Arthur andSir Lancelot. The term romance can alsobe applied to any story that involvesnoble heroes, idealized love, or fantasticevents that seem remote from everydaylife. In general, romance can be seen asthe opposite of realism.1. How does Shaw explain his decision

to call the play a romance?2. How does Shaw balance fantasy with

realism in the play?


Literary ELEMENTS

Responding to Literature

Literature GroupsHappy Ending? Shaw insists in his epilogue that Elizawould not marry Higgins, and he offers a less romantic end-ing. On the basis of his description, do you think that Elizaand Freddy’s marriage is a happy one? Discuss this questionin your group.

Learning for LifeCasting Call Imagine that your group is responsible forcasting actors to perform roles in Pygmalion. From evidencein the play, decide what each character looks like and listtheir main personality traits. Then think of modern stage,

screen, or television actors who should play these roles.Defend your decisions to the class.

Interdisciplinary ActivityTheater: Design a Costume Find photographs of peopleliving in England at the beginning of the twentieth century.Notice the clothes they wore. From your observations, drawa costume for one of the characters in Pygmalion. Identifythe scene in which the character would wear this costume;then share your work with the class.



Creative WritingOther Fates In his epilogue, Shaw explains the fates ofEliza, Higgins, Freddy, and Clara, but other characters in theplay are neglected. Write a brief epilogue in which you imag-ine what happens to Pickering, Mrs. Higgins, Mrs. EynsfordHill, Mrs. Pearce, or Nepommuck. Use evidence from theplay to support your opinion.

Writing About LiteratureReview Would you recommend Pygmalion to a friend?Write a review of the play in which you analyze its strengthsand weaknesses. Include a brief plot summary. You mightwish to discuss literary elements such as theme and charac-ter development. Use quotes from the play and referencesto specific scenes to support your analysis.

Literature and Writing

Analogies are comparisons based on relationshipsbetween ideas. Some of the most common relationshipsseen in analogies are the following: cause and effect, aperson to an action, an object to its function, a user to atool, an object to a characteristic, a class to a subclass,opposites, and degrees.

derisive : courteous :: rough : smooth

Derisive is an antonym for courteous; rough is anantonym for smooth.

To finish an analogy, determine the relationship rep-resented by the first two words. Then apply that relation-ship to the second set of words.

• For more on analogies, see Communications SkillsHandbook, pp. R83–R84.

PRACTICE Complete each analogy. One set is basedon antonyms.

1. conciliatory : accommodating :: a. helpful : dilatoryb. abrasive : soothingc. obnoxious : offensived. hostile : unhappye. lonely : dull

2. inscrutable : evident ::a. faithful : devotedb. obvious : apparentc. murky : cleard. imaginative : egotisticale. quarrelsome : agitated

SkillMinilesson• AnalogiesVOCABULARY


UO TITLE � 999

Garn! I ask you, sir, what sort of word is

that?

It’s “Aoooow” and “Garn” that keep her

in her place,

Not her wretched clothes and dirty face.

Why can’t the English teach their children

how to speak?

This verbal class distinction by now

should be antique.

If you spoke as she does, sir, instead

of the way you do,

Why, you might be selling flowers too.

An Englishman’s way of speaking

absolutely classifies him.

The moment he talks he makes some other

Englishman despise him.

One common language I’m afraid we’ll

never get.

Oh, why can’t the English learn to set

a good example to people whose English is

painful to your ears?

The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to

tears.

There even are places where English

completely disappears.

In America, they haven’t used it for years!

Why can’t the English teach their children

how to speak?

Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks

are taught their Greek.

In France ev’ry Frenchman knows his

language from “A” to “Zed”

The French never care what they do,

actually, as long as they pronounce it

properly.

Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of

summer lightning;

The Hebrews learn it backwards, which is

absolutely fright’ning.

But use proper English, you’re regarded as

a freak.

Why can’t the English

Why can’t the English learn to speak?

Why Can’t the English? by Alan Jay Lerner

Song LyricsMy Fair Lady, the musical adaptation ofBernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, met with greatsuccess. In this song from the musical production, Henry Higgins bemoans themodern usage of the English language.

Analyzing Media1. Do you think Higgins’s statement

“But use proper English, you’reregarded as a freak” is true in theUnited States today? Explain.

2. At what point in the play do youthink this song was sung?

george bernard shaw - weebly · george bernard shaw inscrutable (in skr¯¯¯ootə bəl ) adj....

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