Pygmalion

the ottoman and its cushions, supply all the ornament, and are much too handsome to be hidden by odds and ends of useless things. A few good oil paintings from the exhibitions in the Grosvenor Gallery thirty years ago (the Burne Jones, not the Whistler side of them) are on the walls. The only landscape is a Cecil Lawson on the scale of a Rubens. There is a portrait of  Mrs. Higgins as she was when she defied fashion in her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettian costumes which, when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism in the eighteen-seventies.
In the corner diagonally opposite the door  Mrs. Higgins, now over sixty and long past taking the trouble to dress out of the fashion, sits writing at an elegantly simple writing-table with a bell button within reach of her hand. There is a Chippendale chair further back in the room between her and the window nearest her side. At the other side of the room, further forward, is an Elizabethan chair roughly carved in the taste of Inigo Jones. On the same side a piano in a decorated case. The corner between the fireplace and the window is occupied by a divan cushioned in Morris chintz.




It is between four and five in the afternoon.



The door is opened violently; and Higgins enters with his hat on.


 Mrs. Higgins
Dismayed. Henry! Scolding him. What are you doing here today? It is my at-home day: you promised not to come. As he bends to kiss her, she takes his hat off, and presents it to him.


Higgins
Oh bother! He throws the hat down on the table.


 Mrs. Higgins
Go home at once.


Higgins
Kissing her. I know, mother. I came on purpose.


 Mrs. Higgins
But you mustn’t. I’m serious, Henry. You offend all my friends: they stop coming whenever 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’t get round your vowels; and though I like to get pretty postcards in your patent shorthand, I always have to read the copies in ordinary writing you so thoughtfully 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 has picked 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 with anyone under forty-five. When will you discover that there are some rather nice-looking young women about?


Higgins
Oh, I can’t be bothered with young women. My idea of a loveable woman is something as like you as possible. I shall never get into the way of seriously liking young women: some habits lie too deep to be changed. Rising abruptly and walking about, jingling his money and his keys in his trouser pockets. Besides, they’re all idiots.


 Mrs. Higgins
Do you know what you would do if you really loved me, Henry?


Higgins
Oh bother! What? Marry, I suppose?


 Mrs. Higgins
No. Stop fidgeting and take your hands 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 known her you wouldn’t have asked her.


 Mrs. Higgins
Indeed! Why?


Higgins
Well, it’s like this. She’s a common flower girl. I picked her off the kerbstone.


 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 to keep to two subjects: the weather and everybody’s health⁠—Fine day and How do you do, you know⁠—and not to let herself go on things in general. That will be safe.


 Mrs. Higgins
Safe! To talk about our health! about our insides! perhaps about our outsides! How could you be so silly, Henry?


Higgins
Impatiently. Well, she must talk about something. He controls himself and sits down again. Oh, she’ll be all right: don’t you fuss. Pickering is in it with me. I’ve a sort of bet on that I’ll pass her off as a duchess in six months. I started on her some months ago; and she’s getting on like a house on fire. I shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; and she’s been easier to teach than my middle-class pupils because she’s had to learn a complete new language. She talks English almost as you talk French.


 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 all right; but you have to consider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she pronounces; and that’s where⁠—



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 from the table; and makes for the door; but before he reaches it his mother introduces him.



 Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill are the mother and daughter who sheltered from the rain in Covent Garden. The mother is well bred, quiet, and has the habitual anxiety of straitened means. The daughter has acquired a gay air of being very much at home in society: the bravado of genteel poverty.


 Mrs. Eynsford Hill
To  Mrs. Higgins. How do 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 have so longed to meet you, Professor Higgins.


Higgins
Glumly, making no movement in her direction. Delighted. He backs against the piano and bows brusquely.


Miss Eynsford