George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950).  Pygmalion.  1916.

      Preface to Pygmalion. 
      A Professor of Phonetics.
       
      AS will be seen later on, Pygmalion needs, not a preface, but a sequel, 
      which I have supplied in its due place.   1
        The English have no respect for their language, and will not teach their 
      children to speak it. They spell it so abominably that no man can teach 
      himself what it sounds like. It is impossible for an Englishman to open 
      his mouth without making some other Englishman hate or despise him. German 
      and Spanish are accessible to foreigners: English is not accessible even 
      to Englishmen. The reformer England needs today is an energetic phonetic 
      enthusiast: that is why I have made such a one the hero of a popular play. 
      There have been heroes of that kind crying in the wilderness for many 
      years past. When I became interested in the subject towards the end of the 
      eighteen-seventies, Melville Bell was dead; but Alexander J. Ellis was 
      still a living patriarch, with an impressive head always covered by a 
      velvet skull cap, for which he would apologize to public meetings in a 
      very courtly manner. He and Tito Pagliardini, another phonetic veteran, 
      were men whom it was impossible to dislike. Henry Sweet, then a young man, 
      lacked their sweetness of character: he was about as conciliatory to 
      conventional mortals as Ibsen or Samuel Butler. His great ability as a 
      phonetician (he was, I think, the best of them all at his job) would have 
      entitled him to high official recognition, and perhaps enabled him to 
      popularize his subject, but for his Satanic contempt for all academic 
      dignitaries and persons in general who thought more of Greek than of 
      phonetics. Once, in the days when the Imperial Institute rose in South 
      Kensington, and Joseph Chamberlain was booming the Empire, I induced the 
      editor of a leading monthly review to commission an article from Sweet on 
      the imperial importance of his subject. When it arrived, it contained 
      nothing but a savagely derisive attack on a professor of language and 
      literature whose chair Sweet regarded as proper to a phonetic expert only. 
      The article, being libelous, had to be returned as impossible; and I had 
      to renounce my dream of dragging its author into the limelight. When I met 
      him afterwards, for the first time for many years, I found to my 
      astonishment that he, who had been a quite tolerably presentable young 
      man, had actually managed by sheer scorn to alter his personal appearance 
      until he had become a sort of walking repudiation of Oxford and all its 
      traditions. It must have been largely in his own despite that he was 
      squeezed into something called a Readership of phonetics there. The future 
      of phonetics rests probably with his pupils, who all swore by him; but 
      nothing could bring the man himself into any sort of compliance with the 
      university, to which he nevertheless clung by divine right in an intensely 
      Oxonian way. I daresay his papers, if he has left any, include some 
      satires that may be published without too destructive results fifty years 
      hence. He was, I believe, not in the least an illnatured man: very much 
      the opposite, I should say; but he would not suffer fools gladly.2
        Those who knew him will recognize in my third act the allusion to the 
      patent shorthand in which he used to write postcards, and which may be 
      acquired from a four and six-penny manual published by the Clarendon 
      Press. The postcards which Mrs. Higgins describes are such as I have 
      received from Sweet. I would decipher a sound which a cockney would 
      represent by zerr, and a Frenchman by seu, and then write demanding with 
      some heat what on earth it meant. Sweet, with boundless contempt for my 
      stupidity, would reply that it not only meant but obviously was the word 
      Result, as no other word containing that sound, and capable of making 
      sense with the context, existed in any language spoken on earth. That less 
      expert mortals should require fuller indications was beyond Sweet's 
      patience. Therefore, though the whole point of his "Current Shorthand" is 
      that it can express every sound in the language perfectly, vowels as well 
      as consonants, and that your hand has to make no stroke except the easy 
      and current ones with which you write m, n, and u, l, p, and q, scribbling 
      them at whatever angle comes easiest to you, his unfortunate determination 
      to make this remarkable and quite legible script serve also as a shorthand 
      reduced it in his own practice to the most inscrutable of cryptograms. His 
      true objective was the provision of a full, accurate, legible script for 
      our noble but ill-dressed language; but he was led past that by his 
      contempt for the popular Pitman system of shorthand, which he called the 
      Pitfall system. The triumph of Pitman was a triumph of business 
      organization: there was a weekly paper to persuade you to learn Pitman: 
      there were cheap textbooks and exercise books and transcripts of speeches 
      for you to copy, and schools where experienced teachers coached you up to 
      the necessary proficiency. Sweet could not organize his market in that 
      fashion. He might as well have been the Sybil who tore up the leaves of 
      prophecy that nobody would attend to. The four and six-penny manual, 
      mostly in his lithographed handwriting, that was never vulgarly 
      advertized, may perhaps some day be taken up by a syndicate and pushed 
      upon the public as The Times pushed the Encyclopædia Britannica; but until 
      then it will certainly not prevail against Pitman. I have bought three 
      copies of it during my lifetime; and I am informed by the publishers that 
      its cloistered existence is still a steady and healthy one. I actually 
      learned the system two several times; and yet the shorthand in which I am 
      writing these lines is Pitman's. And the reason is, that my secretary 
      cannot transcribe Sweet, having been perforce taught in the schools of 
      Pitman. Therefore, Sweet railed at Pitman as vainly as Thersites railed at 
      Ajax: his raillery, however it may have eased his soul, gave no popular 
      vogue to Current Shorthand.3
        Pygmalion Higgins is not a portrait of Sweet, to whom the adventure of 
      Eliza Doolittle would have been impossible; still, as will be seen, there 
      are touches of Sweet in the play. With Higgins's physique and temperament 
      Sweet might have set the Thames on fire. As it was, he impressed himself 
      professionally on Europe to an extent that made his comparative personal 
      obscurity, and the failure of Oxford to do justice to his eminence, a 
      puzzle to foreign specialists in his subject. I do not blame Oxford, 
      because I think Oxford is quite right in demanding a certain social 
      amenity from its nurslings (heaven knows it is not exorbitant in its 
      requirements!); for although I well know how hard it is for a man of 
      genius with a seriously underrated subject to maintain serene and kindly 
      relations with the men who underrate it, and who keep all the best places 
      for less important subjects which they profess without originality and 
      sometimes without much capacity for them, still, if he overwhelms them 
      with wrath and disdain, he cannot expect them to heap honors on him.4
        Of the later generations of phoneticians I know little. Among them 
      towers the Poet Laureate, to whom perhaps Higgins may owe his Miltonic 
      sympathies, though here again I must disclaim all portraiture. But if the 
      play makes the public aware that there are such people as phoneticians, 
      and that they are among the most important people in England at present, 
      it will serve its turn.   5
        I wish to boast that Pygmalion has been an extremely successful play all 
      over Europe and North America as well as at home. It is so intensely and 
      deliberately didactic, and its subject is esteemed so dry, that I delight 
      in throwing it at the heads of the wiseacres who repeat the parrot cry 
      that art should never be didactic. It goes to prove my contention that art 
      should never be anything else.6
        Finally, and for the encouragement of people troubled with accents that 
      cut them off from all high employment, I may add that the change wrought 
      by Professor Higgins in the flower girl is neither impossible nor 
      uncommon. The modern concierge's daughter who fulfils her ambition by 
      playing the Queen of Spain in Ruy Blas at the Théâtre Français is only one 
      of many thousands of men and women who have sloughed off their native 
      dialects and acquired a new tongue. But the thing has to be done 
      scientifically, or the last state of the aspirant may be worse than the 
      first. An honest and natural slum dialect is more tolerable than the 
      attempt of a phonetically untaught person to imitate the vulgar dialect of 
      the golf club; and I am sorry to say that in spite of the efforts of our 
      Academy of Dramatic Art, there is still too much sham golfing English on 
      our stage, and too little of the noble English of Forbes Robertson.7

      ACT I
       
        Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab whistles 
      blowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians running for shelter 
      into the market and under the portico of St. Paul's Church, where there 
      are already several people, among them a lady and her daughter in evening 
      dress. They are all peering out gloomily at the rain, except one man with 
      his back turned to the rest, who seems wholly preoccupied with a notebook 
      in which he is writing busily. 

        The church clock strikes the first quarter. 
       
        THE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to the one 
      on her left] I'm getting chilled to the bone. What can Freddy be doing all 
      this time? Hes been gone twenty minutes. 
        THE MOTHER [On her daughter's right] Not so long. But he ought to have 
      got us a cab by this. 
        A BYSTANDER [on the lady's right] He wont get no cab not until half-past 
      eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping their theatre fares. 
        THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We cant stand here until half-past 
      eleven. It's too bad.   5
        THE BYSTANDER. Well, it aint my fault, missus. 
        THE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got one at 
      the theatre door. 
        THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy? 
        THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldnt he? 

        Freddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street side, and 
      comes between them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a young man of 
      twenty, in evening dress, very wet around the ankles. 
        THE DAUGHTER. Well, havnt you got a cab?10
        FREDDY. Theres not one to be had for love or money. 
        THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You cant have tried. 
        THE DAUGHTER. It's too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get one 
      ourselves? 
        FREDDY. I tell you theyre all engaged. The rain was so sudden: nobody 
      was prepared; and everybody had to take a cab. Ive been to Charing Cross 
      one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other; and they were all engaged. 

        THE MOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square?15
        FREDDY. There wasnt 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 havnt tried at all. 
        THE MOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and dont 
      come back until you have found a cab.20
        FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing. 
        THE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in this 
      draught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig— 
        FREDDY. Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go. [He opens his umbrella and 
      dashes off Strandwards, but comes into collision with a flower girl, who 
      is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. A 
      blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattling peal of 
      thunder, orchestrates the incident]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah. 
        FREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off].25
        THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing them in 
      the basket] Theres menners f' yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod into the 
      mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the column, sorting her flowers, on 
      the lady's right. She is not at all an attractive person. She is perhaps 
      eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of 
      black straw that has long been exposed to the dust and soot of London and 
      has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing rather badly: its 
      mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a shoddy black coat that 
      reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped to her waist. She has a brown 
      skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots are much the worse for wear. She is 
      no doubt as clean as she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she 
      is very dirty. Her features are no worse than theirs; but their condition 
      leaves something to be desired; and she needs the services of a dentist]. 
        THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son's name is Freddy, pray? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y' de-ooty 
      bawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore gel's flahrzn than 
      ran awy athaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them? [Here, with apologies, this 
      desperate attempt to represent her dialect without a phonetic alphabet 
      must be abandoned as unintelligible outside London.] 
        THE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea! 
        THE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies?30
        THE DAUGHTER. No. I've nothing smaller than sixpence. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner, kind 
      lady. 
        THE MOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly]. Now [to 
      the girl] This is for 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.35
        THE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can keep the 
      change. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady. 
        THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman's name. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. I didnt. 
        THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Dont try to deceive me.40
        THE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Whos trying to deceive you? I called him 
      Freddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you was talking to a 
      stranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside her basket]. 
        THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might have spared 
      Freddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the pillar]. 

        An elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter, 
      and closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight as Freddy, very 
      wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a light overcoat. He 
      takes the place left vacant by the daughter's retirement. 
        THE GENTLEMAN. Phew! 
        THE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its 
      stopping? 
        THE GENTLEMAN. I'm afraid not. It started worse than 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].45
        THE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman's proximity 
      to establish friendly relations with him]. If it's worse it's a sign it's 
      nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off a poor girl. 
        THE GENTLEMAN. I'm sorry, I havnt any change. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain. 
        THE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? Ive nothing less.50
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can change 
      half-a-crown. Take this for tuppence. 
        THE GENTLEMAN. Now dont be troublesome: theres a good girl. [Trying his 
      pockets] I really havnt any change—Stop: heres three hapence, if thats any 
      use to you [he retreats to the other pillar]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence better than 
      nothing] Thank you, sir. 
        THE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for it. 
      Theres a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word youre saying. 
      [All turn to the man who is taking notes]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I aint done nothing wrong by 
      speaking to the gentleman. Ive a right to sell flowers if I keep off the 
      kerb. [Hysterically] I'm a respectable girl: so help me, I never spoke to 
      him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [General hubbub, mostly 
      sympathetic to the flower girl, but deprecating her excessive sensibility. 
      Cries of Dont start hollerin. Whos hurting you? Nobody's going to touch 
      you. Whats the good of fussing? Steady on. Easy, easy, etc., come from the 
      elderly staid spectators, who pat her comfortingly. Less patient ones bid 
      her shut her head, or ask her roughly what is wrong with her. A remoter 
      group, not knowing what the matter is, crowd in and increase the noise 
      with question and answer: Whats the row? What she do? Where is he? A tec 
      taking her down. What! him? Yes: him over there: Took money off the 
      gentleman, etc. The flower girl, distraught and mobbed, breaks through 
      them to the gentleman, crying wildly] Oh, sir, dont let him charge me. You 
      dunno what it means to me. Theyll take away my character and drive me on 
      the streets for speaking to gentlemen. They—55
        THE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding after 
      him] There, there, there, there! whos hurting you, you silly girl? What do 
      you take me for? 
        THE BYSTANDER. It's all right: hes a gentleman: look at his boots. 
      [Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a copper's nark, sir. 
        THE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] Whats a copper's nark? 
        THE BYSTANDER [inapt at definition] It's a—well, it's a copper's nark, 
      as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of informer. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said a 
      word—60
        THE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut up. Do I 
      look like a policeman? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down my 
      words for? How do I know whether you took me down right? You just shew me 
      what youve wrote about me. [The note taker opens his book and holds it 
      steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the mob trying to read it 
      over his shoulders would upset a weaker man]. Whats that? That aint proper 
      writing. I cant read that. 
        THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation exactly] 
      "Cheer ap, Keptin; n' baw ya flahr orf a pore gel." 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [much distressed] It's because I called him Captain. I 
      meant no harm. [To the gentleman] Oh, sir, dont let him lay a charge agen 
      me for a word like that. You— 
        THE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker] Really, 
      sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin protecting me against 
      molestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see that the 
      girl meant no harm.65
        THE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage] Course 
      they could. What business is it of yours? You mind your own affairs. He 
      wants promotion, he does. Taking down people's words! Girl never said a 
      word to him. What harm if she did? Nice thing a girl cant shelter from the 
      rain without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [She is conducted by the 
      more sympathetic demonstrators back to her plinth, where she resumes her 
      seat and struggles with her emotion. 
        THE BYSTANDER. He aint a tec. Hes a blooming busybody: thats what he is. 
      I tell you, look at his boots. 
        THE NOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your people 
      down at Selsey? 
        THE BYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from Selsey? 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do you come 
      to be up so far east? You were born in Lisson Grove.70
        THE FLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving Lisson 
      Grove? It wasnt fit for a pig 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 stop that noise. 
        THE GENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he cant touch you: you have a 
      right to live where you please. 
        A SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker and the 
      gentleman] Park Lane, for instance. Id like to go into the Housing 
      Question with you, I would. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her basket, 
      and talking very low-spiritedly to herself] I'm a good girl, I am.75
        THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where I come 
      from? 
        THE NOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton. 

        Titterings. Popular interest in the note taker's performance increases. 
        THE SARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didnt? Bly me! You know 
      everything, you do. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Aint no call to 
      meddle with me, he aint. 
        THE BYSTANDER [to her] Of course he aint. Dont you stand it from him. 
      [To the note taker] See here: what call have you to know about people what 
      never offered to meddle with you? Wheres your warrant?80
        SEVERAL BYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes: wheres 
      your warrant? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I dont want to have no truck 
      with him. 
        THE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, dont you? Catch you 
      taking liberties with a gentleman! 
        THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell h i m where he come from if you want 
      to go fortune-telling. 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.85
        THE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the note 
      taker's favor. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him proper. 
      Hear him tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I ask, sir, do you 
      do this for your living at a music hall? 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Ive thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day. 

        The rain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd begin 
      to drop off. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] Hes no gentleman, he aint, to 
      interfere with a poor girl. 
        THE DAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the front and 
      displacing the gentleman, who politely retires to the other side of the 
      pillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if I stay in 
      this draught any longer. 
        THE NOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her pronunciation 
      of "monia"] Earlscourt.90
        THE DAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent remarks 
      to yourself? 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didnt mean to. I beg your 
      pardon. Your mother's Epsom, unmistakeably. 
        THE MOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker] How very 
      curious! I was brought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom. 
        THE NOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a name! 
      Excuse me. [To the daughter] You want a cab, do you? 
        THE DAUGHTER. Dont dare speak to me.95
        THE MOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates her with 
      an angry shrug and retires haughtily.] We should be so grateful to you, 
      sir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker produces a whistle]. Oh, thank 
      you. [She joins her daughter]. 

        The note taker blows a piercing blast. 
        THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a plain-clothes copper. 
        THE BYSTANDER. That aint a police whistle: thats a sporting whistle. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings] Hes no 
      right to take away my character. My character is the same to me as any 
      lady's. 
        THE NOTE TAKER. I dont know whether youve noticed it; but the rain 
      stopped about two minutes ago.100
        THE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didnt you say so before? and us losing our 
      time listening to your silliness. [He walks off towards the Strand]. 
        THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come from 
      Anwell. Go back there. 
        THE NOTE TAKER [helpfully] Hanwell. 
        THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech] Thenk 
      you, teacher. Haw haw! So long [he touches his hat with mock respect and 
      strolls off]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like it 
      himself.105
        THE MOTHER. It's quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor bus. 
      Come. [She gathers her skirts above her ankles and hurries off towards the 
      Strand]. 
        THE DAUGHTER. But the cab—[her mother is out of hearing]. Oh, how 
      tiresome! [She follows angrily]. 

        All the rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and the 
      flower girl, who sits arranging her basket, and still pitying herself in 
      murmurs. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to 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 I may ask? 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. Thats my 
      profession: also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living by his 
      hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I can 
      place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in 
      London. Sometimes within two streets.110
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward! 
        THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that? 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts. Men 
      begin in Kentish Town with £80 a year, and end in Park Lane with a hundred 
      thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but they give themselves away 
      every time they open their mouths. Now I can teach them— 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl— 
        THE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooing 
      instantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship.115
        THE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] Ive a right to be here if I like, 
      same as you. 
        THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting sounds 
      has no right to be anywhere—no right to live. Remember that you are a 
      human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech: that 
      your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton and The 
      Bible; and dont sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingled 
      wonder and deprecation without daring 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 out the book and reads, reproducing her vowels exactly] 
      Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-ow-oo! 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite of 
      herself] Garn!120
        THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the 
      English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well, 
      sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an 
      ambassador's garden party. I could even get her a place as lady's maid or 
      shop assistant, which requires better English. Thats the sort of thing I 
      do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do genuine 
      scientific work in phonetics, and a little as a poet on Miltonic lines. 
        THE GENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and— 
        THE NOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, the 
      author of Spoken Sanscrit? 
        THE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you? 
        THE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins's Universal 
Alphabet.125
        PICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you. 
        HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you. 
        PICKERING. Where do you live? 
        HIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow. 
        PICKERING. I'm at the Carlton. Come with me now and lets have a jaw over 
      some supper.130
        HIGGINS. Right you are. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kind 
      gentleman. I'm short for my lodging. 
        PICKERING. I really havnt any change. I'm sorry [he goes away]. 
        HIGGINS [shocked at girl's mendacity] Liar. You said you could change 
      half-a-crown. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed with 
      nails, you ought. [Flinging the basket at his feet] Take the whole 
      blooming basket for sixpence. 

        The church clock strikes the second quarter.135
        HIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaic 
      want of charity to the poor girl] A reminder. [He raises his hat solemnly; 
      then throws a handful of money into the basket and follows Pickering]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah-ow-ooh! [Picking up a 
      couple of florins] Aaah-ow-ooh! [Picking up several coins] Aaaaaah-ow-ooh! 
      [Picking up a half-sovereign] Aaaaaaaaaaaah-ow-ooh!!! 
        FREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To the 
      girl] Where are the two ladies that were here? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped. 
        FREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation!140
        THE FLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I'm going 
      home in a taxi. [She sails off to the cab. The driver puts his hand behind 
      him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quite understanding his 
      mistrust, she shews him her handful of money.] Eightpence aint no object 
      to me, Charlie. [He grins and opens the door]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, 
      round the corner of Micklejohn's oil shop. Lets see how fast you can make 
      her hop it. [She gets in and pulls the door to with a slam as the taxicab 
      starts]. 
        FREDDY. Well, I'm dashed!  

      ACT II
       
        Next day at 11 a.m. Higgins's laboratory in Wimpole Street. It is a room 
      on the first floor, looking on the street, and was meant for the 
      drawing-room. The double doors are in the middle of the back wall; and 
      persons entering find in the corner to their right two tall file cabinets 
      at right angles to one another against the walls. In this corner stands a 
      flat writing-table, on which are a phonograph, a laryngoscope, a row of 
      tiny organ pipes with a bellows, a set of lamp chimneys for singing flames 
      with burners attached to a gas plug in the wall by an indiarubber tube, 
      several tuning-forks of different sizes, a life-size image of half a human 
      head, showing in section the vocal organs, and a box containing a supply 
      of wax cylinders for the phonograph. 

        Further down the room, on the same side, is a fireplace, with a 
      comfortable leather-covered easy-chair at the side of the hearth nearest 
      the door, and a coal-scuttle. There is a clock on the mantelpiece. Between 
      the fireplace and the phonograph table is a stand for newspapers. 

        On the other side of the central door, to the left of the visitor, is a 
      cabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a telephone 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, and a 
      bench for the player extending the full length of the keyboard. On the 
      piano is a dessert dish heaped with fruit and sweets, mostly chocolates. 

        The middle of the room is clear. Besides the easy-chair, the piano 
      bench, and two chairs at the phonograph table, there is one stray chair. 
      It stands near the fireplace. On the walls, engravings; mostly Piranesis 
      and mezzotint portraits. No paintings. 

        Pickering is seated at the table, putting down some cards and a 
      tuning-fork which he has been using. Higgins is standing up near him, 
      closing two or three file drawers which are hanging out. He appears in the 
      morning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of man of forty or 
      thereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat with a 
      white linen collar and black silk tie. He is of the energetic, scientific 
      type, heartily, even violently interested in everything that can be 
      studied 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 impetuous baby "taking notice" eagerly and 
      loudly, and requiring almost as much watching to keep him out of 
      unintended mischief. His manner varies from genial bullying when he is in 
      a good humor to stormy petulance when anything goes wrong; but he is so 
      entirely frank and void of malice that he remains likeable even in his 
      least reasonable moments. 
       
        HIGGINS [as he shuts the last drawer] Well, I think thats the whole 
      show. 
        PICKERING. It's really amazing. I havnt taken half 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 
      this morning.   5
        HIGGINS [following him, and standing beside him on his left] Tired of 
      listening to sounds? 
        PICKERING. Yes. It's a fearful strain. I rather fancied myself because I 
      can pronounce twenty-four distinct vowel sounds; but your hundred and 
      thirty beat me. I cant hear a bit of difference between most of them. 
        HIGGINS [chuckling, and going over to the piano to eat sweets] Oh, that 
      comes with practice. You hear no difference at first; but you keep on 
      listening, and presently you find theyre all as different as A from B. 
      [Mrs. Pearce looks in: she is Higgins's housekeeper] Whats the matter? 
        MRS. PEARCE [hesitating, evidently perplexed] A young woman wants to see 
      you, sir. 
        HIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want?10
        MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, she says youll be glad to see her when you know 
      what shes come about. Shes quite a common girl, sir. Very common indeed. I 
      should have sent her away, only I thought perhaps you wanted her to talk 
      into your machines. I hope Ive not done wrong; but really you see such 
      queer people sometimes—youll excuse me, I'm sure, sir— 
        HIGGINS. Oh, thats all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has she an interesting 
      accent? 
        MRS. PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. I dont know how you 
      can take an interest in it. 
        HIGGINS [to Pickering] Lets have her up. Shew her up, Mrs. Pearce [he 
      rushes across to his working table and picks out a cylinder to use on the 
      phonograph]. 
        MRS. PEARCE [only half resigned to it] Very well, sir. It's for you to 
      say. [She goes downstairs].15
        HIGGINS. This is rather a bit of luck. I'll shew you how I make records. 
      We'll set her talking; and I'll take it down first in Bell's visible 
      Speech; then in broad Romic; and then we'll get her on the phonograph so 
      that you can turn her on as often as you like with the written transcript 
      before you. 
        MRS. PEARCE [returning] This is the young woman, sir. 

        The flower girl enters in state. She has a hat with three ostrich 
      feathers, orange, sky-blue, and red. She has a nearly clean apron, and the 
      shoddy coat has been tidied a little. The pathos of this deplorable 
      figure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air, touches Pickering, 
      who has already straightened himself in the presence of Mrs. Pearce. But 
      as to Higgins, the only distinction he makes between men and women is that 
      when he is neither bullying nor exclaiming to the heavens against some 
      featherweight cross, he coaxes women as a child coaxes its nurse when it 
      wants to get anything out of her. 
        HIGGINS [brusquely, recognizing her with unconcealed disappointment, and 
      at once, babylike, making an intolerable grievance of it] Why, this is the 
      girl I jotted down last night. Shes no use: Ive got all the records I want 
      of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I'm not going to waste another cylinder on 
      it. [To the girl] Be off with you: I dont want you. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Dont you be so saucy. You aint heard what I come for 
      yet. [To Mrs. Pearce, who is waiting at the door for further instruction] 
      Did you tell him I come in a taxi? 
        MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think a gentleman like Mr. 
      Higgins cares what you came in?20
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He aint above giving lessons, not 
      him: I heard him say so. Well, I aint come here to ask for any compliment; 
      and if my money's not good enough I can go elsewhere. 
        HIGGINS. Good enough for what? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Good enough for ye-oo. Now you know, dont you? I'm come 
      to have lessons, I am. And to pay for em too: make no mistake. 
        HIGGINS [stupent] W e l l ! ! ! [Recovering his breath with a gasp] What 
      do you expect me to say to you? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Well, if you was a gentleman, you might ask me to sit 
      down, I think. Dont I tell you I'm bringing you business?25
        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-ah-ow-ow-ow-oo! [Wounded and whimpering] I wont be called a 
      baggage when Ive offered to pay like any lady. 

        Motionless, the two men stare at her from the other side of the room, 
      amazed. 
        PICKERING [gently] What is it you want, my girl? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. I want to be a lady in a flower shop stead of selling 
      at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. But they wont take me unless I can 
      talk more genteel. He said he could teach me. Well, here I am ready to pay 
      him—not asking any favor—and he treats me as if I was dirt. 
        MRS. PEARCE. How can you be such a foolish ignorant girl as to think you 
      could afford to pay Mr. Higgins?30
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Why shouldnt I? I know what lessons cost as well as you 
      do; and I'm ready to pay. 
        HIGGINS. How much? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL [coming back to him, triumphant] Now youre talking! I 
      thought youd come off it when you saw a chance of getting back a bit of 
      what you chucked at me last night. [Confidentially] Youd had a drop in, 
      hadnt you? 
        HIGGINS [peremptorily] Sit down. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, if youre going to make a compliment of it—35
        HIGGINS [thundering at her] Sit down. 
        MRS. PEARCE [severely] Sit down, girl. Do as youre told. [She places the 
      stray chair near the hearthrug between Higgins and Pickering, and stands 
      behind it waiting for the girl to sit down]. 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo! [She stands, half rebellious, half 
      bewildered]. 
        PICKERING [very courteous] Wont you sit down? 
        LIZA [coyly] Dont mind if I do. [She sits down. Pickering returns to the 
      hearthrug].40
        HIGGINS. Whats your name? 
        THE FLOWER GIRL. Liza Doolittle. 
        HIGGINS [declaiming gravely] 
                Eliza, Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess, 
                They went to the woods to get a bird nes': 
          PICKERING. They found a nest with four egg in it: 
          HIGGINS. They took one apiece, and left three in it. 

        They laugh heartily at their own wit. 
        LIZA. Oh, dont be silly. 
        MRS. PEARCE. You mustnt speak to the gentleman like that.45
        LIZA. Well, why wont he speak sensible to me? 
        HIGGINS. Come back to business. How much do you propose to pay me for 
      the lessons? 
        LIZA. Oh, I know whats right. A lady friend of mine gets French lessons 
      for eighteenpence an hour from a real French gentleman. Well, you wouldnt 
      have the face to ask me the same for teaching me my own language as you 
      would for French; so I wont give more than a shilling. Take it or leave 
      it. 
        HIGGINS [walking up and down the room, rattling his keys and his cash in 
      his pockets] You know, Pickering, if you consider a shilling, not as a 
      simple shilling, but as a percentage of this girl's income, it works out 
      as fully equivalent to sixty or seventy guineas from a millionaire. 
        PICKERING. How so?50
        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 of her day's income for a 
      lesson. Two-fifths of a millionaire's income for a day would be somewhere 
      about £60. It's handsome. By George, it's enormous! it's the biggest offer 
      I ever had. 
        LIZA [rising, terrified] Sixty pounds! What are you talking about? I 
      never offered you sixty pounds. Where would I get— 
        HIGGINS. Hold your tongue.55
        LIZA [weeping] But I aint got sixty pounds. Oh— 
        MRS. PEARCE. Dont cry, you silly girl. Sit down. Nobody is going to 
      touch your money. 
        HIGGINS. Somebody is going to touch you, with a broomstick, if you dont 
      stop snivelling. Sit down. 
        LIZA [obeying slowly] Ah-ah-ah-ow-oo-o! One would think you was my 
      father. 
        HIGGINS. If I decide to teach you, I'll be worse than two fathers to 
      you. Here [he offers her his silk handkerchief]!60
        LIZA. Whats this for? 
        HIGGINS. To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part of your face that feels 
      moist. Remember: thats your handkerchief; and thats your sleeve. Dont 
      mistake the one for the other if you wish to become a lady in a shop. 

        Liza, utterly bewildered, stares helplessly at him. 
        MRS. PEARCE. It's no use talking to her like that, Mr. Higgins: she 
      doesnt understand you. Besides, youre quite wrong: she doesnt do it that 
      way at all [she takes the handkerchief]. 
        LIZA [snatching it] Here! You give me that handkerchief. He give it to 
      me, not to you. 
        PICKERING [laughing] He did. I think it must be regarded as her 
      property, Mrs. Pearce.65
        MRS. PEARCE [resigning herself] Serve you right, Mr. Higgins. 
        PICKERING. Higgins: I'm interested. What about the ambassador's garden 
      party? I'll say youre the greatest teacher alive if you make that good. 
      I'll bet you all the expenses of the experiment you cant do it. And I'll 
      pay for the lessons. 
        LIZA. Oh, you are real good. Thank you, Captain. 
        HIGGINS [tempted, looking at her] It's almost irresistible. Shes so 
      deliciously low—so horribly dirty— 
        LIZA [protesting extremely] Ah-ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo-oo!!! I aint dirty: I 
      washed my face and hands afore I come, I did.70
        PICKERING. Youre certainly not going to turn her head with flattery, 
      Higgins. 
        MRS. PEARCE [uneasy] Oh, dont say that, sir: theres more ways than one 
      of turning a girl's head; and nobody can do it better than Mr. Higgins, 
      though he may not always mean it. I do hope, sir, you wont encourage him 
      to do anything foolish. 
        HIGGINS [becoming excited as the idea grows on him] What is life but a 
      series of inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Never 
      lose a chance: it doesnt come every day. I shall make a duchess of this 
      draggle-tailed guttersnipe. 
        LIZA [strongly deprecating this view of her] Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-oo! 
        HIGGINS [carried away] Yes: in six months—in three if she has a good ear 
      and a quick tongue—I'll take her anywhere and pass her off as anything. 
      We'll start today: now! this moment! Take her away and clean her, Mrs. 
      Pearce. Monkey Brand, if it wont come off any other way. Is there a good 
      fire in the kitchen?75
        MRS. PEARCE [protesting]. Yes; but— 
        HIGGINS [storming on] Take all her clothes off and burn them. Ring up 
      Whiteley or somebody for new ones. Wrap her up in brown paper til they 
      come. 
        LIZA. Youre no gentleman, youre not, to talk of such things. I'm a good 
      girl, I am; and I know what the like of you are, I do. 
        HIGGINS. We want none of your Lisson Grove prudery here, young woman. 
      Youve got to learn to behave like a duchess. Take her away, Mrs. Pearce. 
      If she gives you any trouble wallop her. 
        LIZA [springing up and running between Pickering and Mrs. Pearce for 
      protection] No! I'll call the police, I will.80
        MRS. PEARCE. But Ive 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 reasonable, Mr. Higgins: really you 
      must. You cant walk over everybody like this. 

        Higgins, thus scolded, subsides. The hurricane is succeeded by a zephyr 
      of amiable surprise.85
        HIGGINS [with professional exquisiteness of modulation] I walk over 
      everybody! My dear Mrs. Pearce, my dear Pickering, I never had the 
      slightest intention of walking over anyone. All I propose is that we 
      should be kind to this poor girl. We must help her to prepare and fit 
      herself for her new station in life. If I did not express myself clearly 
      it was because I did not wish to hurt her delicacy, or yours. 

        Liza, reassured, steals back to her chair. 
        MRS. PEARCE [to Pickering] Well, did you ever hear anything like that, 
      sir? 
        PICKERING [laughing heartily] Never, Mrs. Pearce: never. 
        HIGGINS [patiently] Whats the matter? 
        MRS. PEARCE. Well, the matter is, sir, that you cant take a girl up like 
      that as if you were picking up a pebble on the beach.90
        HIGGINS. Why not? 
        MRS. PEARCE. Why not! But you dont know anything about her. What about 
      her parents? She may be married. 
        LIZA. Garn! 
        HIGGINS. There! As the girl very properly says, Garn! Married indeed! 
      Dont you know that a woman of that class looks a worn out drudge of fifty 
      a year after shes married. 
        LIZA. Whood marry me?95
        HIGGINS [suddenly resorting to the most thrillingly beautiful low tones 
      in his best elocutionary style] By George, Eliza, the streets will be 
      strewn with the bodies of men shooting themselves for your sake before Ive 
      done with you. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, sir. You mustnt talk like that to her. 
        LIZA [rising and squaring herself determinedly] I'm going away. He's off 
      his chump, he is. I dont want no balmies teaching me. 
        HIGGINS [wounded in his tenderest point by her insensibility to his 
      elocution] Oh, indeed! I'm mad, am I? Very well, Mrs. Pearce: you neednt 
      order the new clothes for her. Throw her out. 
        LIZA [whimpering] Nah-ow. You got no right to touch me.100
        MRS. PEARCE. You see now what comes of being saucy. [Indicating the 
      door] This way, please. 
        LIZA [almost in tears] I didnt want no clothes. I wouldnt have taken 
      them [she throws away the handkerchief]. I can buy my own clothes. 
        HIGGINS [deftly retrieving the handkerchief and intercepting her on her 
      reluctant way to the door] Youre an ungrateful wicked girl. This is my 
      return for offering to take you out of the gutter and dress you 
      beautifully and make a lady of you. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Stop, Mr. Higgins. I wont 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 aint got no parents. They told me I was big enough to earn my 
      own living and turned me out.105
        MRS. PEARCE. Wheres your mother? 
        LIZA. I aint got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixth 
      stepmother. But I done without them. And I'm a good girl, I am. 
        HIGGINS. Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about? The girl 
      doesnt belong to anybody—is no use to anybody but me. [He goes to Mrs. 
      Pearce and begins coaxing]. You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce: I'm sure a 
      daughter would be a great amusement to you. Now dont make any more fuss. 
      Take her downstairs; and— 
        MRS. PEARCE. But whats to become of her? Is she to be paid anything? Do 
      be sensible, sir. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, pay her whatever is necessary: put it down in the 
      housekeeping book. [Impatiently] What on earth will she want with money? 
      She'll have her food and her clothes. She'll only drink if you give her 
      money.110
        LIZA [turning on him] Oh you are a brute. It's a lie: nobody ever saw 
      the sign of liquor on me. [She goes back to her chair and plants herself 
      there defiantly]. 
        PICKERING [in good-humored remonstrance] Does it occur to you, Higgins, 
      that the girl has some feelings? 
        HIGGINS [looking critically at her] Oh no, I dont think so. Not any 
      feelings that we need bother about. [Cheerily] Have you, Eliza? 
        LIZA. I got my feelings same as anyone else. 
        HIGGINS [to Pickering, reflectively] You see the difficulty?115
        PICKERING. Eh? What difficulty? 
        HIGGINS. To get her to talk grammar. The mere pronunciation is easy 
      enough. 
        LIZA. I dont want to talk grammar. I want to talk like a lady. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Will you please keep to the point, Mr. Higgins. I want to 
      know on what terms the girl is to be here. Is she to have any wages? And 
      what is to become of her when youve finished your teaching? You must look 
      ahead a little. 
        HIGGINS [impatiently] Whats to become of her if I leave her in the 
      gutter? Tell me that, Mrs. Pearce.120
        MRS. PEARCE. Thats her own business, not yours, Mr. Higgins. 
        HIGGINS. Well, when Ive done with her, we can throw her back into the 
      gutter; and then it will be her own business again; so thats all right. 
        LIZA. Oh, youve no feeling heart in you: you dont care for nothing but 
      yourself [she rises and takes the floor resolutely]. Here! Ive had enough 
      of this. I'm going [making for the door]. You ought to be ashamed of 
      yourself, you ought. 
        HIGGINS [snatching a chocolate cream from the piano, his eyes suddenly 
      beginning to twinkle with mischief] Have some chocolates, Eliza. 
        LIZA [halting, tempted] How do I know what might be in them? Ive heard 
      of girls being drugged by the like of you. 

        Higgins whips out his penknife; cuts a chocolate in two; puts one half 
      into his mouth and bolts it; and offers her the other half.125
        HIGGINS. Pledge of good faith, Eliza. I eat one half: you eat the other. 
      [Liza opens her mouth to retort: he pops the half chocolate into it]. You 
      shall have boxes of them, barrels of them, every day. You shall live on 
      them. Eh? 
        LIZA [who has disposed of the chocolate after being nearly choked by it] 
      I wouldnt have ate it, only I'm too ladylike to take it out of my mouth. 
        HIGGINS. Listen, Eliza. I think you said you came in a taxi. 
        LIZA. Well, what if I did? Ive as good a right to take a taxi as anyone 
      else. 
        HIGGINS. You have, Eliza; and in future you shall have as many taxis as 
      you want. You shall go up and down and round the town in a taxi every day. 
      Think of that, Eliza.130
        MRS. PEARCE. Mr. Higgins: youre tempting the girl. It's not right. She 
      should think of the future. 
        HIGGINS. At her age! Nonsense! Time enough to think of the future when 
      you havnt any future to think of. No, Eliza: do as this lady does: think 
      of other people's futures; but never think of your own. Think of 
      chocolates, and taxis, and gold, and diamonds. 
        LIZA. No: I dont want no gold and no diamonds. I'm a good girl, I am. 
      [She sits down again, with an attempt at dignity]. 
        HIGGINS. You shall remain so, Eliza, under the care of Mrs. Pearce. And 
      you shall marry an officer in the Guards, with a beautiful moustache: the 
      son of a marquis, who will disinherit him for marrying you, but will 
      relent when he sees your beauty and goodness— 
        PICKERING. Excuse me, Higgins; but I really must interfere. Mrs. Pearce 
      is quite right. If this girl is to put herself in your hands for six 
      months for an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughly what 
      shes doing.135
        HIGGINS. How can she? Shes incapable of understanding anything. Besides, 
      do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it? 

        PICKERING. Very clever, Higgins; but not sound sense. [To Eliza] Miss 
      Doolittle— 
        LIZA [overwhelmed] Ah-ah-ow-oo! 
        HIGGINS. There! Thats all you get out of Eliza. Ah-ah-ow-oo! No use 
      explaining. As a military man you ought to know that. Give her her orders: 
      thats what she wants. Eliza: you are to live here for the next six months, 
      learning how to speak beautifully, like a lady in a florist's shop. If 
      youre good and do whatever youre told, you shall sleep in a proper 
      bedroom, and have lots to eat, and money to buy chocolates and take rides 
      in taxis. If youre naughty and idle you will sleep in the back kitchen 
      among the black beetles, and be walloped by Mrs. Pearce with a broomstick. 
      At the end of six months you shall go to Buckingham Palace in a carriage, 
      beautifully dressed. If the King finds out youre not a lady, you will be 
      taken by the police to the Tower of London, where your head 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. If you refuse this offer you will be a most ungrateful 
      and 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 and 
      fairly, Mrs. Pearce? 
        MRS. PEARCE [patiently] I think youd better let me speak to the girl 
      properly in private. I dont know that I can take charge of her or consent 
      to the arrangement at all. Of course I know you dont mean her any harm; 
      but when you get what you call interested in people's accents, you never 
      think or care what may happen to them or you. Come with me, Eliza.140
        HIGGINS. Thats all right. Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. Bundle her off to the 
      bath-room. 
        LIZA [rising reluctantly and suspiciously] Youre a great bully, you are. 
      I wont stay here if I dont like. I wont let nobody wallop me. I never 
      asked to go to Bucknam Palace, I didnt. I was never in trouble with the 
      police, not me. I'm a good girl— 
        MRS. PEARCE. Dont answer back, girl. You dont understand the gentleman. 
      Come with me. [She leads the way to the door, and holds it open for 
      Eliza]. 
        LIZA [as she goes out] Well, what I say is right. I wont go near the 
      king, not if I'm going to have my head cut off. If I'd known what I was 
      letting myself in for, I wouldnt have come here. I always been a good 
      girl; and I never offered to say a word to him; and I dont owe him 
      nothing; and I dont care; and I wont be put upon; and I have my feelings 
      the same as anyone else— 

        Mrs. Pearce shuts the door; and Eliza's plaints are no longer audible. 
      Pickering comes from the hearth to the chair and sits astride it with his 
      arms on the back. 
        PICKERING. Excuse the straight question, Higgins. Are you a man of good 
      character where women are concerned?145
        HIGGINS [moodily] Have you ever met a man of good character where women 
      are concerned? 
        PICKERING. Yes: very frequently. 
        HIGGINS [dogmatically, lifting himself on his hands to the level of the 
      piano, and sitting on it with a bounce] Well, I havnt. I find that the 
      moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, 
      suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that the moment I let myself 
      make friends with a woman, I become selfish and tyrannical. Women upset 
      everything. When you let them into your life, you find that the woman is 
      driving at one thing and youre driving at another. 
        PICKERING. At what, for example? 
        HIGGINS [coming off the piano restlessly] Oh, Lord knows! I suppose the 
      woman wants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; and each 
      tries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to go north and 
      the other south; and the result is that both have to go east, though they 
      both hate the east wind. [He sits down on the bench at the keyboard]. So 
      here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so.150
        PICKERING [rising and standing over him gravely] Come, Higgins! You know 
      what I mean. If I'm to be in this business I shall feel responsible for 
      that girl. I hope it's understood that no advantage is to be taken of her 
      position. 
        HIGGINS. What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you. [Rising to explain] You 
      see, she'll be a pupil; and teaching would be impossible unless pupils 
      were sacred. Ive taught scores of American millionairesses how to speak 
      English: the best looking women in the world. I'm seasoned. They might as 
      well be blocks of wood. I might as well be a block of wood. It's— 

        Mrs. Pearce opens the door. She has Eliza's hat in her hand. Pickering 
      retires to the easy-chair at the hearth and sits down. 
        HIGGINS [eagerly] Well, Mrs. Pearce: is it all right? 
        MRS. PEARCE [at the door] I just wish to trouble you with a word, if I 
      may, Mr. Higgins. 
        HIGGINS. Yes, certainly. Come in. [She comes forward]. Dont burn that, 
      Mrs. Pearce. I'll keep it as a curiosity. [He takes the hat].155
        MRS. PEARCE. Handle it carefully, sir, please. I had to promise her not 
      to burn it; but I had better put it 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 at all, sir. Mr. Higgins: will you please be very 
      particular what you say before the girl? 
        HIGGINS [sternly] Of course. I'm always particular about what I say. Why 
      do you say this to me?160
        MRS. PEARCE [unmoved] No, sir: youre not at all particular when youve 
      mislaid anything or when you get a little impatient. Now it doesnt matter 
      before me: I'm used to it. But you really must not swear before the girl. 
        HIGGINS [indignantly] I swear! [Most emphatically] I never swear. I 
      detest the habit. What the devil do you mean? 
        MRS. PEARCE [stolidly] Thats what I mean, sir. You swear a great deal 
      too much. I dont mind your damning and blasting, and what the devil and 
      where the devil and who the devil— 
        HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce: this language from your lips! Really! 
        MRS. PEARCE [not to be put off]—but there is a certain word I must ask 
      you not to use. The girl has just used it herself because the bath was too 
      hot. It begins with the same letter as bath. She knows no better: she 
      learnt it at her mother's knee. But she must not hear it from your 
lips.165
        HIGGINS [loftily] I cannot charge myself with having ever uttered it, 
      Mrs. Pearce. [She looks at him steadfastly. He adds, hiding an uneasy 
      conscience with a judicial air] Except perhaps in a moment of extreme and 
      justifiable excitement. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Only this morning, sir, you applied it to your boots, to 
      the butter, and to the brown bread. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, that! Mere alliteration, Mrs. Pearce, natural to a poet. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, whatever you choose to call it, I beg you not to 
      let the girl hear you repeat it. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, very well, very well. Is that all?170
        MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. We shall have to be very particular with this girl 
      as to personal cleanliness. 
        HIGGINS. Certainly. Quite right. Most important. 
        MRS. PEARCE. I mean not to be slovenly about her dress or untidy in 
      leaving things about. 
        HIGGINS [going to her solemnly] Just so. I intended to call your 
      attention to that [He passes on to Pickering, who is enjoying the 
      conversation immensely]. It is these little things that matter, Pickering. 
      Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves is as 
      true of personal habits as of money. [He comes to anchor on the hearthrug, 
      with the air of a man in an unassailable position]. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Yes, sir. Then might I ask you not to come down to 
      breakfast in your dressing-gown, or at any rate not to use it as a napkin 
      to the extent you do, sir. And if you would be so good as not to eat 
      everything off the same plate, and to remember not to put the porridge 
      saucepan out of your hand on the clean tablecloth, it would be a better 
      example to the girl. You know you nearly choked yourself with a fishbone 
      in the jam only last week.175
        HIGGINS [routed from the hearthrug and drifting back to the piano] I may 
      do these things sometimes in absence of mind; but surely I dont do them 
      habitually. [Angrily] By the way: my dressing-gown smells most damnably of 
      benzine. 
        MRS. PEARCE. No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins. But if you will wipe your 
      fingers— 
        HIGGINS [yelling] Oh very well, very well: I'll wipe them in my hair in 
      future. 
        MRS. PEARCE. I hope youre not offended, Mr. Higgins. 
        HIGGINS [shocked at finding himself thought capable of an unamiable 
      sentiment] Not at all, not at all. Youre quite right, Mrs. Pearce: I shall 
      be particularly careful before the girl. Is that all?180
        MRS. PEARCE. No, sir. Might she use some of those Japanese dresses you 
      brought from abroad? I really cant put her back into her old things. 
        HIGGINS. Certainly. Anything you like. Is that all? 
        MRS. PEARCE. Thank you, sir. Thats all. [She goes out]. 
        HIGGINS. You know, Pickering, that woman has the most extraordinary 
      ideas about me. Here I am, a shy, diffident sort of man. Ive never been 
      able to feel really grown-up and tremendous, like other chaps. And yet 
      shes firmly persuaded that I'm an arbitrary overbearing bossing kind of 
      person. I cant account for it. 

        Mrs. Pearce returns. 
        MRS. PEARCE. If you please, sir, the trouble's beginning already. Theres 
      a dustman downstairs, Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you. He says you have 
      his daughter here.185
        PICKERING [rising] Phew! I say! [He retreats to the hearthrug]. 
        HIGGINS [promptly] Send the blackguard up. 
        MRS. PEARCE. Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out]. 
        PICKERING. He may not be a blackguard, Higgins. 
        HIGGINS. Nonsense. Of course hes a blackguard.190
        PICKERING. Whether he is or not, I'm afraid we shall have some trouble 
      with him. 
        HIGGINS [confidently] Oh no: I think not. If theres any trouble he shall 
      have it with me, not I with him. And we are sure to get something 
      interesting out of him. 
        PICKERING. About the girl? 
        HIGGINS. No. I mean his dialect. 
        PICKERING. Oh!195
        MRS. PEARCE [at the door] Doolittle, sir. [She admits Doolittle and 
      retires]. 

        Alfred Doolittle is an elderly but vigorous dustman, clad in the costume 
      of his profession, including a hat with a back brim covering his neck and 
      shoulders. He has well marked and rather interesting features, and seems 
      equally free from fear and conscience. He has a remarkably expressive 
      voice, the result of a habit of giving vent to his feelings without 
      reserve. His present pose is that of wounded honor and stern resolution. 
        DOOLITTLE [at the door, uncertain which of the two gentlemen is his man] 
      Professor Higgins? 
        HIGGINS. Here. Good morning. Sit down. 
        DOOLITTLE. Morning, Governor. [He sits down magisterially] I come about 
      a very serious matter, Governor. 
        HIGGINS [to Pickering] Brought up in Hounslow. Mother Welsh, I should 
      think. [Doolittle opens his mouth, amazed. Higgins continues] What do you 
      want, Doolittle?200
        DOOLITTLE [menacingly] I want my daughter: thats what I want. See? 
        HIGGINS. Of course you do. Youre her father, arnt you? You dont suppose 
      anyone else wants her, do you? I'm glad to see you have some spark of 
      family feeling left. Shes upstairs. Take her away at once. 
        DOOLITTLE [rising, fearfully taken aback.] What! 
        HIGGINS. Take her away. Do you suppose I'm going to keep your daughter 
      for you? 
        DOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, look here, Governor. Is this 
      reasonable? Is it fairity to take advantage of a man like this? The girl 
      belongs to me. You got her. Where do I come in? [He sits down again].205
        HIGGINS. Your daughter had the audacity to come to my house and ask me 
      to teach her how to speak properly so that she could get a place in a 
      flower-shop. This gentleman and my housekeeper have been here all the 
      time. [Bullying him] How dare you come here and attempt to blackmail me? 
      You sent her here on purpose. 
        DOOLITTLE [protesting] No, Governor. 
        HIGGINS. You must have. How else could you possibly know that she is 
      here? 
        DOOLITTLE. Dont take a man up like that, Governor. 
        HIGGINS. The police shall take you up. This is a plant—a plot to extort 
      money by threats. I shall telephone for the police [he goes resolutely to 
      the telephone and opens the directory].210
        DOOLITTLE. Have I asked you for a brass farthing? I leave it to the 
      gentleman here: have I said a word about money? 
        HIGGINS [throwing the book aside and marching down on Doolittle with a 
      poser] What else did you come for? 
        DOOLITTLE [sweetly] Well, what would a man come for? Be human, Governor. 

        HIGGINS [disarmed] Alfred: did you put her up to it? 
        DOOLITTLE. So help me, Governor, I never did. I take my Bible oath I 
      aint seen the girl these two months past.215
        HIGGINS. Then how did you know she was here? 
        DOOLITTLE ["most musical, most melancholy"] I'll tell you, Governor, if 
      youll only let me get a word in. 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 natural gift of rhetoric. 
      Observe the rhythm of his native woodnotes wild. "I'm willing to tell you: 
      I'm wanting to tell you: I'm waiting to tell you." Sentimental rhetoric! 
      thats the Welsh strain in him. It also accounts for his mendacity and 
      dishonesty. 
        PICKERING. Oh, p l e a s e, Higgins: I'm west country myself. [To 
      Doolittle] How did you know the girl was here if you didnt send her? 
        DOOLITTLE. It was like this, Governor. The girl took a boy in the taxi 
      to give him a jaunt. Son of her landlady, he is. He hung about on the 
      chance of her giving him another ride home. Well, she sent him back for 
      her luggage when she heard you was willing for her to stop here. I met the 
      boy at the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street.220
        HIGGINS. Public house. Yes? 
        DOOLITTLE. The poor man's club, Governor: why shouldnt I? 
        PICKERING. Do let him tell his story, Higgins. 
        DOOLITTLE. He told me what was up. And I ask you, what was my feelings 
      and my duty as a father? I says to the boy, "You bring me the luggage," I 
      says— 
        PICKERING. Why didnt you go for it yourself?225
        DOOLITTLE. Landlady wouldnt have trusted me with it, Governor. Shes that 
      kind of woman: you know. I had to give the boy a penny afore he trusted me 
      with it, the little swine. I brought it to her just to oblige you like, 
      and make myself agreeable. Thats all. 
        HIGGINS. How much luggage? 
        DOOLITTLE. Musical instrument, Governor. A few pictures, a trifle of 
      jewelry, and a bird-cage. She said she didnt want no clothes. What was I 
      to think from that, Governor? I ask you as a parent what was I to think? 
        HIGGINS. So you came to rescue her from worse than death, eh? 
        DOOLITTLE [appreciatively: relieved at being so well understood] Just 
      so, Governor. Thats right.230
        PICKERING. But why did you bring her luggage if you intended to take her 
      away? 
        DOOLITTLE. Have I said a word about taking her away? Have I now? 
        HIGGINS [determinedly] Youre going to take her away, double quick. [He 
      crosses to the hearth and rings the bell]. 
        DOOLITTLE [rising] No, Governor. Dont say that. I'm not the man to stand 
      in my girl's light. Heres 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 has come to take her 
      away. Give her to him. [He goes back to the piano, with an air of washing 
      his hands of the whole affair].235
        DOOLITTLE. No. This is a misunderstanding. Listen here— 
        MRS. PEARCE. He cant take her away, Mr. Higgins: how can he? You told me 
      to burn her clothes. 
        DOOLITTLE. Thats right. I cant carry the girl through the streets like a 
      blooming monkey, can I? I put it to you. 
        HIGGINS. You have put it to me that you want your daughter. Take your 
      daughter. If she has no clothes go out and buy her some. 
        DOOLITTLE [desperate] Wheres the clothes she come in? Did I burn them or 
      did your missus here?240
        MRS. PEARCE. I am the housekeeper, if you please. I have sent for some 
      clothes for your girl. When they come you can take her away. You can wait 
      in the kitchen. This way, please. 

        Doolittle, much troubled, accompanies her to the door; then hesitates; 
      finally turns confidentially to Higgins. 
        DOOLITTLE. Listen here, Governor. You and me is men of the world, aint 
      we? 
        HIGGINS. Oh! Men of the world, are we? Youd better go, Mrs. Pearce. 
        MRS. PEARCE. I think so, indeed, sir. [She goes, with dignity]. 
        PICKERING. The floor is yours, Mr. Doolittle.245
        DOOLITTLE [to Pickering] I thank you, Governor. [To Higgins, who takes 
      refuge on the piano bench, a little overwhelmed by the proximity of his 
      visitor; for Doolittle has a professional flavor of dust about him]. Well, 
      the truth is, Ive taken a sort of fancy to you, Governor; and if you want 
      the girl, I'm not so set on having her back home again but what I might be 
      open to an arrangement. Regarded in the light of a young woman, shes a 
      fine handsome girl. As a daughter shes not worth her keep; and so I tell 
      you straight. All I ask is my rights as a father; and youre the last man 
      alive to expect me to let her go for nothing; for I can see youre one of 
      the straight sort, Governor. Well, whats a five pound note to you? And 
      whats 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 I thought they wasnt, Id ask 
      fifty. 
        HIGGINS [revolted] Do you mean to say, you callous rascal, that you 
      would sell your daughter for £50? 
        DOOLITTLE. Not in a general way I wouldnt; but to oblige a gentleman 
      like you I'd do do a good deal, I do assure you.250
        PICKERING. Have you no morals, man? 
        DOOLITTLE [unabashed] Cant afford them, Governor. Neither could you if 
      you was as poor as me. Not that I mean any harm, you know. But if Liza is 
      going to have a bit out of this, why not me too? 
        HIGGINS [troubled] I dont know what to do, Pickering. There can be no 
      question that as a matter of morals it's a positive crime to give this 
      chap a farthing. And yet I feel a sort of rough justice in his claim. 
        DOOLITTLE, Thats it, Governor. Thats all I say. A father's heart, as it 
      were. 
        PICKERING. Well, I know the feeling; but really it seems hardly 
right—255
        DOOLITTLE. Dont say that, Governor. Dont look at it that way. What am I, 
      Governors both? I ask you, what am I? I'm one of the undeserving poor: 
      thats what I am. Think of what that means to a man. It means that hes up 
      agen middle class morality all the time. If theres anything going, and I 
      put in for a bit of it, it's always the same story: "Youre undeserving; so 
      you cant have it." But my needs is as great as the most deserving widow's 
      that ever got money out of six different charities in one week for the 
      death of the same husband. I dont need less than a deserving man: I need 
      more. I dont 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 a song 
      and a band when I feel low. Well, they charge me just the same for 
      everything as they charge the deserving. What is middle class morality? 
      Just an excuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, I ask you, as two 
      gentlemen, not to play that game on me. I'm playing straight with you. I 
      aint pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on 
      being undeserving. I like it; and thats the truth. Will you take advantage 
      of a man's nature to do him out of the price of his own daughter what hes 
      brought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of his brow until shes growed 
      big enough to be interesting to 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 for three months, he could choose between a seat in 
      the Cabinet and a popular pulpit in Wales. 
        PICKERING. What do you say to that, Doolittle? 
        DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, thank you kindly. Ive heard all the 
      preachers and all the prime ministers—for I'm a thinking man and game for 
      politics or religion or social reform same as all the other amusements—and 
      I tell you it's a dog's life anyway you look at it. Undeserving poverty is 
      my line. Taking one 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.260
        PICKERING. He'll make a bad use of it, I'm afraid. 
        DOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, so help me I wont. Dont you be afraid that 
      I'll save it and spare it and live idle on it. There wont be a penny of it 
      left by Monday: I'll have to go to work same as if I'd never had it. It 
      wont pauperize me, you bet. Just one good spree for myself and the missus, 
      giving pleasure to ourselves and employment to others, and satisfaction to 
      you to think it's not been throwed away. You couldnt spend it better. 
        HIGGINS [taking out his pocket book and coming between Doolittle and the 
      piano] This is irresistible. Lets give him ten. [He offers two notes to 
      the dustman]. 
        DOOLITTLE. No, Governor. She wouldnt have the heart to spend ten; and 
      perhaps I shouldnt neither. Ten pounds is a lot of money: it makes a man 
      feel prudent like; and then goodbye to happiness. You give me what I ask 
      you, Governor: not a penny more, and not a penny less. 
        PICKERING. Why dont you marry that missus of yours? I rather draw the 
      line at encouraging that sort of immorality.265
        DOOLITTLE. Tell her so, Governor: tell her so. I'm willing. It's me that 
      suffers by it. Ive no hold on her. I got to be agreeable to her. I got to 
      give her presents. I got to buy her clothes something sinful. I'm a slave 
      to that woman, Governor, just because I'm not her lawful husband. And she 
      knows it too. Catch her marrying me! Take my advice, Governor: marry Eliza 
      while shes young and dont know no better. If you dont youll be sorry for 
      it after. If you do, she'll be sorry for it after; but better you than 
      her, because youre a man, and shes only a woman and dont know how to be 
      happy anyhow. 
        HIGGINS. Pickering: if we listen to this man another minute, we shall 
      have no convictions left. [To Doolittle] Five pounds I think you said. 
        DOOLITTLE. Thank you kindly, Governor. 
        HIGGINS. Youre sure you wont take ten? 
        DOOLITTLE. Not now. Another time, Governor.270
        HIGGINS [handing him a five-pound note] Here you are. 
        DOOLITTLE. Thank you, Governor. Good morning. [He hurries to the door, 
      anxious to get away with his booty. When he opens it he is confronted with 
      a dainty and exquisitely clean young Japanese lady in a simple blue cotton 
      kimono printed cunningly with small white jasmine blossoms. Mrs. Pearce is 
      with her. He gets out of her way deferentially and apologizes]. Beg 
      pardon, miss. 
        THE JAPANESE LADY. Garn! Dont you know your own daughter? 
             DOOLITTLE 
             HIGGINS 
             PICKERINGexclaiming 
            simultaneouslyBly me! it's Eliza! 
            Whats that! This! 
            By Jove!
       
        LIZA. Dont I look silly?275
        HIGGINS. Silly? 
        MRS. PEARCE [at the door] Now, Mr. Higgins, please dont say anything to 
      make the girl conceited 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.280
        LIZA. I should look all right with my hat on. [She takes up her hat; 
      puts it on; and walks across the room to the fireplace with a fashionable 
      air]. 
        HIGGINS. A new fashion, by George! And it ought to look horrible! 
        DOOLITTLE [with fatherly pride] Well, I never thought she'd clean up as 
      good looking as that, Governor. Shes a credit to me, aint she? 
        LIZA. I tell you, it's easy to clean up here. Hot and cold water on tap, 
      just as much as you like, there is. Woolly towels, there is; and a towel 
      horse so hot, it burns your fingers. Soft brushes to scrub yourself, and a 
      wooden bowl of soap smelling like primroses. Now I know why ladies is so 
      clean. Washing's a treat for them. Wish they saw what it is for the like 
      of me! 
        HIGGINS. I'm glad the bath-room met with your approval.285
        LIZA. It didnt: not all of it; and I dont care who hears me say it. Mrs. 
      Pearce knows. 
        HIGGINS. What was wrong, Mrs. Pearce? 
        MRS. PEARCE [blandly] Oh, nothing, sir. It doesnt matter. 
        LIZA. I had a good mind to break it. I didnt know which way to look. But 
      I hung a towel over it, I did. 
        HIGGINS. Over what?290
        MRS. PEARCE. Over the looking-glass, sir. 
        HIGGINS. Doolittle: you have brought your daughter up too strictly. 
        DOOLITTLE. Me! I never brought her up at all, except to give her a lick 
      of a strap now and again. Dont put it on me, Governor. She aint accustomed 
      to it, you see: thats all. But she'll soon pick up your free-and-easy 
      ways. 
        LIZA. I'm a good girl, I am; and I wont pick up no free and easy ways. 
        HIGGINS. Eliza: if you say again that youre a good girl, your father 
      shall take you home.295
        LIZA. Not him. You dont know my father. All he come here for was to 
      touch you for some money to get drunk on. 
        DOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I want money for? To put into the plate 
      in church, I suppose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is so incensed 
      by this that Pickering presently finds it necessary to step between them]. 
      Dont you give me none of your lip; and dont let me hear you giving this 
      gentleman any of it neither, or youll hear from me about it. See? 
        HIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go, 
      Doolittle? Your blessing, for instance. 
        DOOLITTLE. No, Governor: I aint such a mug as to put up my children to 
      all I know myself. Hard enough to hold them in without that. If you want 
      Eliza's mind improved, Governor, you do it yourself with a strap. So long, 
      gentlemen. [He turns to go]. 
        HIGGINS [impressively] Stop. Youll come regularly to see your daughter. 
      It's your duty, you know. My brother is a clergyman; and he could help you 
      in your talks with her.300
        DOOLITTLE [evasively] Certainly. I'll come, Governor. Not just this 
      week, because I have a job at a distance. But later on you may depend on 
      me. Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, maam. [He takes off his hat to Mrs. 
      Pearce, who disdains the salutation and goes out. He winks at Higgins, 
      thinking him probably a fellow-sufferer from Mrs. Pearce's difficult 
      disposition, and follows her]. 
        LIZA. Dont you believe the old liar. He'd as soon you set a bull-dog on 
      him as a clergyman. You wont see him again in a hurry. 
        HIGGINS. I dont want to, Eliza. Do you? 
        LIZA. Not me. I dont want never to see him again, I dont. Hes a disgrace 
      to me, he is, collecting dust, instead of working at his trade. 
        PICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza?305
        LIZA. Talking money out of other people's pockets into his own. His 
      proper trade's a navvy; and he works at it sometimes too—for exercise—and 
      earns good money at it. Aint you going to call me Miss Doolittle any more? 

        PICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. It was a slip of the 
      tongue. 
        LIZA. Oh, I dont mind; only it sounded so genteel. I should just like to 
      take a taxi to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and get out there and 
      tell it to wait for me, just to put the girls in their place a bit. I 
      wouldnt speak to them, you know. 
        PICKERING. Better wait til we get you something really fashionable. 
        HIGGINS. Besides, you shouldnt cut your old friends now that you have 
      risen in the world. Thats what we call snobbery.310
        LIZA. You dont call the like of them my friends now, I should hope. 
      Theyve took it out of me often enough with their ridicule when they had 
      the chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my own back. But if I'm to have 
      fashionable clothes, I'll wait. I should like to have some. Mrs. Pearce 
      says youre going to give me some to wear in bed at night different to what 
      I wear in the daytime; but it do seem a waste of money when you could get 
      something to shew. Besides, I never could fancy changing into cold things 
      on a winter night. 
        MRS. PEARCE [coming back] Now, Eliza. The new things have come for you 
      to try on. 
        LIZA. Ah-ow-oo-ooh! [She rushes out]. 
        MRS. PEARCE [following her] Oh, dont rush about like that, girl [She 
      shuts the door behind her]. 
        HIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job.315
        PICKERING [with conviction] Higgins: we have.  

      ACT III
       
        It is Mrs. Higgins's at-home day. Nobody has yet arrived. Her 
      drawing-room, in a flat on Chelsea embankment, has three windows looking 
      on the river; and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would be in an older 
      house of the same pretension. The windows are open, giving access to a 
      balcony with flowers in pots. If you stand with your face to the windows, 
      you have the fireplace on your left and the door in the right-hand wall 
      close to the corner nearest the windows. 

        Mrs. Higgins was brought up on Morris and Burne Jones; and her room, 
      which is very unlike her son's room in Wimpole Street, is not crowded with 
      furniture and little tables and nicknacks. In the middle of the room there 
      is a big ottoman; and this, with the carpet, the Morris wall-papers, and 
      the Morris chintz window curtains and brocade covers of 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 
      to-day? 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.   5
        MRS. HIGGINS. But you mustnt. 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 dont mind. 
      [He sits on the settee]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! dont they? Small talk indeed! What about your large 
      talk? Really, dear, you mustnt stay. 
        HIGGINS. I must. Ive a job for you. A phonetic job. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. I'm sorry; but I cant 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.10
        HIGGINS. Well, this isnt a phonetic job. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was. 
        HIGGINS. Not your part of it. Ive picked up a girl. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl has picked you up? 
        HIGGINS. Not at all. I dont mean a love affair.15
        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 cant 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, theyre all idiots. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know what you would do if you really loved me, 
      Henry?20
        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]. Thats 
      a good boy. Now tell me about the girl. 
        HIGGINS. She coming to see you. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. I dont remember asking her. 
        HIGGINS. You didnt. I asked her. If youd known her you wouldnt have 
      asked her.25
        MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why? 
        HIGGINS. Well, it's like this. Shes 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, thatll be all right. 
      Ive taught her to speak properly; and she has strict orders as to her 
      behavior. Shes 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?30
        HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, she must talk about something. [He controls 
      himself and sits down again]. Oh, she'll be all right: dont you fuss. 
      Pickering is in it with me. Ive 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 shes 
      getting on like a house on fire. I shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; 
      and shes been easier to teach than my middle-class pupils because shes had 
      to learn a complete new language. She talks English almost as you talk 
      French. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Thats satisfactory, at all events. 
        HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isnt. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean? 
        HIGGINS. You see, Ive got her pronunciation all right; but you have to 
      consider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she pronounces; and 
      thats where— 

        They are interrupted by the parlor-maid, announcing guests.35
        THE PARLOR-MAID. 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.40
        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 HILL [going to him with confident familiarity] How do you 
      do? 
        HIGGINS [staring at her] Ive seen you before somewhere. I havnt the 
      ghost of a notion where; but Ive heard your voice. [Drearily] It doesnt 
      matter. Youd better sit down. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. I'm sorry to say that my celebrated son has no manners. 
      You mustnt mind him.45
        MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] I dont. [She sits in the Elizabethan chair]. 
        MISS EYNSFORD HILL [a little bewildered] Not at all. [She sits on the 
      ottoman between her daughter and Mrs. Higgins, who has turned her chair 
      away from the writing-table]. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didnt mean to be. 

        He goes to the central window, through which, with his back to the 
      company, he contemplates the river and the flowers in Battersea Park on 
      the opposite bank as if they were a frozen desert. 

        The parlor-maid returns, ushering in Pickering. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Colonel Pickering [She withdraws]. 
        PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins?50
        MRS. HIGGINS. So glad youve come. Do you know Mrs. Eynsford Hill—Miss 
      Eynsford Hill? [Exchange of bows. The Colonel brings the Chippendale chair 
      a little forward between Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Higgins, and sits down]. 
        PICKERING. Has Henry told you what weve 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?55
        MRS. HIGGINS [rising and making her sit down again] No, no. You couldnt 
      have come more fortunately: we want you to meet a friend of ours. 
        HIGGINS [turning hopefully] Yes, by George! We want two or three people. 
      Youll do as well as anybody else. 

        The parlor-maid returns, ushering Freddy. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Mr. Eynsford Hill. 
        HIGGINS [almost audibly, past endurance] God of Heaven! another of them. 

        FREDDY [shaking hands with Mrs. Higgins] Ahdedo?60
        MRS. HIGGINS. Very good of you to come. [Introducing] Colonel Pickering. 

        FREDDY [bowing] Ahdedo? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. I dont think you know my son, Professor Higgins. 
        FREDDY [going to Higgins] Ahdedo? 
        HIGGINS [looking at him much as if he were a pickpocket] I'll take my 
      oath Ive met you before somewhere. Where was it?65
        FREDDY. I dont think so. 
        HIGGINS [resignedly] It dont matter, anyhow. Sit down. 

        He shakes Freddy's hand, and almost slings him on the ottoman with his 
      face to the windows; then comes round to the other side of it. 
        HIGGINS. Well, here we are, anyhow! [He sits down on the ottoman next 
      Mrs. Eynsford Hill, on her left]. And now, what the devil are we going to 
      talk about until Eliza comes? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: you are the life and soul of the Royal Society's 
      soirées; but really youre rather trying on more commonplace occasions. 
        HIGGINS. Am I? Very sorry. [Beaming suddenly] I suppose I am, you know. 
      [Uproariously] Ha, ha!70
        MISS EYNSFORD HILL [who considers Higgins quite eligible matrimonially] 
      I sympathize. I havnt any small talk. If people would only be frank and 
      say what they really think! 
        HIGGINS [relapsing into gloom] Lord forbid! 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [taking up her daughter's cue] But why? 
        HIGGINS. What they think they ought to think is bad enough, Lord knows; 
      but what they really think would break up the whole show. Do you suppose 
      it would be really agreeable if I were to come out now with what I really 
      think? 
        MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] Is it so very cynical?75
        HIGGINS. Cynical! Who the dickens said it was cynical? I mean it wouldnt 
      be decent. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [seriously] Oh! I'm sure you dont mean that, Mr. 
      Higgins. 
        HIGGINS. You see, we're all savages, more or less. We're supposed to be 
      civilized and cultured—to know all about poetry and philosophy and art and 
      science, 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? [Indicating Freddy] What does he know of art or 
      science or anything else? What the devil do you imagine I know of 
      philosophy? 
        MRS. HIGGINS [warningly] Or of manners, Henry? 
        THE PARLOR-MAID [opening the door] Miss Doolittle. [She withdraws].80
        HIGGINS [rising hastily and running to Mrs. Higgins] Here she is, 
      mother. [He stands on tiptoe and makes signs over his mother's head to 
      Eliza to indicate to her which lady is her hostess]. 

        Eliza, who is exquisitely dressed, produces an impression of such 
      remarkable distinction and beauty 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 pronunciation and great 
      beauty of tone] How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? [She gasps slightly in making 
      sure of the H in Higgins, but is quite successful]. Mr. Higgins told me I 
      might come. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [cordially] Quite right: I'm very glad indeed to see you. 
        PICKERING. How do you do, Miss Doolittle? 
        LIZA [shaking hands with him] Colonel Pickering, is it not?85
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I feel sure we have met before, Miss Doolittle. I 
      remember your eyes. 
        LIZA. How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman gracefully in the 
      place just left vacant by Higgins]. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My daughter Clara. 
        LIZA. How do you do? 
        CLARA [impulsively] How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman beside 
      Eliza, devouring her with her eyes].90
        FREDDY [coming to their side of the ottoman] Ive certainly had the 
      pleasure. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My son Freddy. 
        LIZA. How do you do? 

        Freddy bows and sits down in the Elizabethan chair, infatuated. 
        HIGGINS [suddenly] By George, yes: it all comes back to me! [They stare 
      at him]. Covent Garden! [Lamentably] What a damned thing! 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, please! [He is about to sit on the edge of the 
      table]. Dont sit on my writing-table: youll break it.95
        HIGGINS [sulkily] Sorry. 

        He goes to the divan, stumbling into the fender and over the fire-irons 
      on his way; extricating himself with muttered imprecations; and finishing 
      his disastrous journey by throwing himself so impatiently on the divan 
      that he almost breaks it. Mrs. Higgins looks at him, but controls herself 
      and says nothing. 

        A long and painful pause ensues. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [at last, conversationally] Will it rain, do you think? 
        LIZA. The shallow depression in the west of these islands is likely to 
      move slowly in an easterly direction. There are no indications of any 
      great change in the barometrical situation. 
        FREDDY. Ha! ha! how awfully funny! 
        LIZA. What is wrong with that, young man? I bet I got it right.100
        FREDDY. Killing! 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I'm sure I hope it wont turn cold. Theres so much 
      influenza about. It runs right through our whole family regularly every 
      spring. 
        LIZA [darkly] My aunt died of influenza: so they said. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [clicks her tongue sympathetically]!!! 
        LIZA [in the same tragic tone] But it's my belief they done the old 
      woman in.105
        MRS. HIGGINS [puzzled] Done her in? 
        LIZA. Y-e-e-e-es, Lord love you! Why should she die of influenza? She 
      come through diphtheria right enough the year before. I saw her with my 
      own eyes. Fairly blue with it, she was. They all thought she was dead; but 
      my father he kept ladling gin down her throat til she came to so sudden 
      that she bit the bowl off the spoon. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [startled] Dear me! 
        LIZA [piling up the indictment] What call would a woman with that 
      strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new straw hat 
      that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and what I say is, them 
      as pinched it done her in. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. What does doing her in mean?110
        HIGGINS [hastily] Oh, thats the new small talk. To do a person in means 
      to kill them. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Eliza, horrified] You surely dont believe that 
      your aunt was killed? 
        LIZA. Do I not! Them she lived with would have killed her for a hat-pin, 
      let alone a hat. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. But it cant have been right for your father to pour 
      spirits down her throat like that. It might have killed her. 
        LIZA. Not her. Gin was mother's milk to her. Besides, he'd poured so 
      much down his own throat that he knew the good of it.115
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Do you mean that he drank? 
        LIZA. Drank! My word! Something chronic. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. How dreadful for you! 
        LIZA. Not a bit. It never did him no harm what I could see. But then he 
      did not keep it up regular. [Cheerfully] On the burst, as you might say, 
      from time to time. And always more agreeable when he had a drop in. When 
      he was out of work, my mother used to give him fourpence and tell him to 
      go out and not come back until he'd drunk himself cheerful and 
      loving-like. Theres lots of women has to make their husbands drunk to make 
      them fit to live with. [Now quite at her ease] You see, it's like this. If 
      a man has a bit of a conscience, it always takes him when he's sober; and 
      then it makes him low-spirited. A drop of booze just takes that off and 
      makes him happy. [To Freddy, who is in convulsions of suppressed laughter] 
      Here! what are you sniggering at? 
        FREDDY. The new small talk. You do it so awfully well.120
        LIZA. If I was doing it proper, what was you laughing at? [To Higgins] 
      Have I said anything I oughtnt? 
        MRS. HIGGINS [interposing] Not at all, Miss Doolittle. 
        LIZA. Well, thats 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 rising] Well: I must 
      go. [They all rise. Freddy goes to the door]. So pleased to have met you. 
      Good-bye. [She shakes hands with Mrs. Higgins].125
        MRS. HIGGINS. Good-bye. 
        LIZA. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. 
        PICKERING. Good-bye, Miss Doolittle. [They shake hands]. 
        LIZA [nodding to the others] Good-bye, all. 
        FREDDY [opening the door for her] Are you walking across the Park, Miss 
      Doolittle? If so—130
        LIZA. Walk! Not bloody likely. [Sensation]. I am going in a taxi. [She 
      goes out]. 

        Pickering gasps and sits down. Freddy goes out on the balcony to catch 
      another glimpse of Eliza. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [suffering from shock] Well, I really cant get used 
      to the new ways. 
        CLARA [throwing herself discontentedly into the Elizabethan chair]. Oh, 
      it's all right, mamma, quite right. People will think we never go anywhere 
      or see anybody if you are so old-fashioned. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I daresay I am very old-fashioned; but I do hope you 
      wont begin using that expression, Clara. I have got accustomed to hear you 
      talking about men as rotters, and calling everything filthy and beastly; 
      though I do think it horrible and unlady-like. But this last is really too 
      much. Dont you think so, Colonel Pickering? 
        PICKERING. Dont ask me. Ive been away in India for several years; and 
      manners have changed so much that I sometimes dont know whether I'm at a 
      respectable dinner-table or in a ship's forecastle.135
        CLARA. It's all a matter of habit. Theres no right or wrong in it. 
      Nobody means anything by it. And it's so quaint, and gives such a smart 
      emphasis to things that are not in themselves very witty. I find the new 
      small talk delightful and quite innocent. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [rising] Well, after that, I think it's time for us 
      to go. 

        Pickering and Higgins rise. 
        CLARA [rising] Oh yes: we have three at-homes to go to still. Good-bye, 
      Mrs. Higgins. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. Good-bye, Professor Higgins. 
        HIGGINS [coming grimly at her from the divan, and accompanying her to 
      the door] Good-bye. Be sure you try on that small talk at the three 
      at-homes. Dont be nervous about it. Pitch it in strong. 
        CLARA [all smiles] I will. Good-bye. Such nonsense, all this early 
      Victorian prudery!140
        HIGGINS [tempting her] Such damned nonsense! 
        CLARA. Such bloody nonsense! 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [convulsively] Clara! 
        CLARA. Ha! ha! [She goes out radiant, conscious of being thoroughly up 
      to date, and is heard descending the stairs in a stream of silvery 
      laughter]. 
        FREDDY [to the heavens at large] Well, I ask you— [He gives it up, and 
      comes to Mrs. Higgins]. Good-bye.145
        MRS. HIGGINS. [shaking hands] Good-bye. Would you 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 goes out]. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Good-bye, Mr. Higgins.150
        HIGGINS. Good-bye. Good-bye. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Pickering] It's no use. I shall never be able to 
      bring myself to use that word. 
        PICKERING. Dont. It's not compulsory, you know. Youll get on quite well 
      without it. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Only, Clara is so down on me if I am not positively 
      reeking with the latest slang. Good-bye. 
        PICKERING. Good-bye [They shake hands].155
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] You mustnt mind Clara. [Pickering, 
      catching from her lowered tone that this is not meant for him to hear, 
      discreetly joins Higgins at the window]. We're so poor! and she gets so 
      few parties, poor child! She doesnt quite know. [Mrs. Higgins, seeing that 
      her eyes are moist, takes her hand sympathetically and goes with her to 
      the door]. But the boy is nice. Dont you think so? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Oh, quite nice. I shall always be delighted to see him. 
        MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Thank you, dear. Good-bye. [She goes out]. 
        HIGGINS [eagerly] Well? Is Eliza presentable [he swoops on his mother 
      and drags her to the ottoman, where she sits down in Eliza's place with 
      her son on her left]? 

        Pickering returns to his chair on her right. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. You silly boy, of course shes not presentable. Shes a 
      triumph of your art and of her dressmaker's; but if you suppose for a 
      moment that she doesnt give herself away in every sentence she utters, you 
      must be perfectly cracked about her.160
        PICKERING. But dont you think something might be done? I mean something 
      to eliminate the sanguinary element from her conversation. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Not as long as she is in Henry's hands. 
        HIGGINS [aggrieved] Do you mean that my language is improper? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. No, dearest: it would be quite proper—say on a canal 
      barge; but it would not be proper for her at a garden party. 
        HIGGINS [deeply injured] Well I must say—165
        PICKERING [interrupting him] Come, Higgins: you must learn to know 
      yourself. I havnt heard such language as yours since we used to review the 
      volunteers in Hyde Park twenty years ago. 
        HIGGINS [sulkily] Oh, well, if you say so, I suppose I dont always talk 
      like a bishop. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [quieting Henry with a touch] Colonel Pickering: will you 
      tell me what is the exact state of things in Wimpole Street? 
        PICKERING [cheerfully: as if this completely changed the subject] Well, 
      I have come to live there with Henry. We work together at my Indian 
      Dialects; and we think it more convenient— 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Quite so. I know all about that: it's an excellent 
      arrangement. But where does this girl live?170
        HIGGINS. With us, of course. Where would she live? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. But on what terms? Is she a servant? If not, what is she? 
        PICKERING [slowly] I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Higgins. 
        HIGGINS. Well, dash me if I do! Ive had to work at the girl every day 
      for months to get her to her present pitch. Besides, shes useful. She 
      knows where my things are, and remembers my appointments and so forth. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. How does your housekeeper get on with her?175
        HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce? Oh, shes jolly glad to get so much taken off her 
      hands; for before Eliza came, she used to have to find things and remind 
      me of my appointments. But shes got some silly bee in her bonnet about 
      Eliza. She keeps saying "You dont think, sir": doesnt she, Pick? 
        PICKERING. Yes: thats the formula. "You dont think, sir." Thats the end 
      of every conversation about Eliza. 
        HIGGINS. As if I ever stop thinking about the girl and her confounded 
      vowels and consonants. I'm worn out, thinking about her, and watching her 
      lips and her teeth and her tongue, not to mention her soul, which is the 
      quaintest of the lot. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. You certainly are a pretty pair of babies, playing with 
      your live doll. 
        HIGGINS. Playing! The hardest job I ever tackled: make no mistake about 
      that, mother. But you have no idea how frightfully interesting it is to 
      take a human being and change her into a quite different human being by 
      creating a new speech for her. It's filling up the deepest gulf that 
      separates class from class and soul from soul.180
        PICKERING [drawing his chair closer to Mrs. Higgins and bending over to 
      her eagerly] Yes: it's enormously interesting. I assure you, Mrs. Higgins, 
      we take Eliza very seriously. Every week—every day almost—there is some 
      new change. [Closer again] We keep records of every stage—dozens of 
      gramophone disks and photographs— 
        HIGGINS [assailing her at the other ear] Yes, by George: it's the most 
      absorbing experiment I ever tackled. She regularly fills our lives up; 
      doesnt she, Pick? 
        PICKERING. We're always talking Eliza. 
        HIGGINS. Teaching Eliza. 
        PICKERING. Dressing Eliza.185
        MRS. HIGGINS. What! 
        HIGGINS. Inventing new Elizas. 
             HIGGINS.[speaking
            together]You know, she has the most extraordinary quickness of ear:
             PICKERING.I assure you, my dear Mrs. Higgins, that girl 
             HIGGINS.just like a parrot. Ive tried her with every
             PICKERING.is a genius. She can play the piano quite beautifully.
             HIGGINS.possible sort of sound that a human being can make—
             PICKERING.We have taken her to classical concerts and to music
             HIGGINSContinental dialects, African dialects, Hottentot
             PICKERING.halls; and its all the same to her: she plays everything
             HIGGINS.clicks, things it took me years to get hold of; and
             PICKERING.she hears right off when she comes home, whether it's
             HIGGINS.she picks them up like a shot, right away, as if she had
             PICKERING.Beethoven and Brahms or Lehar and Lionel Monckton;
             HIGGINS.been at it all her life.
             PICKERING.though six months ago, she'd never as much as touched a 
            piano—
       
        MRS. HIGGINS [putting her fingers in her ears, as they are by this time 
      shouting one another down with an intolerable noise] Sh-sh-sh—sh! [They 
      stop]. 
        PICKERING. I beg your pardon. [He draws his chair back 
      apologetically].190
        HIGGINS. Sorry. When Pickering starts shouting nobody can get a word in 
      edgeways. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Be quiet, Henry. Colonel Pickering: dont you realize that 
      when Eliza walked into Wimpole Street, something walked in with her? 
        PICKERING. Her father did. But Henry soon got rid of him. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. It would have been more to the point if her mother had. 
      But as her mother didnt something else did. 
        PICKERING. But what?195
        MRS. HIGGINS [unconsciously dating herself by the word] A problem. 
        PICKERING. Oh, I see. The problem of how to pass her off as a lady. 
        HIGGINS. I'll solve that problem. Ive half solved it already. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. No, you two infinitely stupid male creatures: the problem 
      of what is to be done with her afterwards. 
        HIGGINS. I dont see anything in that. She can go her own way, with all 
      the advantages I have given her.200
        MRS. HIGGINS. The advantages of that poor woman who was here just now! 
      The manners and habits that disqualify a fine lady from earning her own 
      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 light employment. 
        PICKERING. Shes happy enough. Dont you worry about her. Good-bye. [He 
      shakes hands as if he were consoling a frightened child, and makes for the 
      door]. 
        HIGGINS. Anyhow, theres no good bothering now. The things done. 
      Good-bye, mother. [He kisses her, and follows Pickering].205
        PICKERING [turning for a final consolation] There are plenty of 
      openings. We'll do whats right. Good-bye. 
        HIGGINS [to Pickering as they go out together] Let's take her to the 
      Shakespear exhibition at Earls Court. 
        PICKERING. Yes: lets. Her remarks will be delicious. 
        HIGGINS. She'll mimic all the people for us when we get home. 
        PICKERING. Ripping. [Both are heard laughing as they go downstairs].210
        MRS. HIGGINS [rises with an impatient bounce, and returns to her work at 
      the writing-table. She sweeps a litter of disarranged papers out of her 
      way; snatches a sheet of paper from her stationery case; and tries 
      resolutely to write. At the third line she gives it up; flings down her 
      pen; grips the table angrily and exclaims] Oh, men! men!! men!!! 

      ACT IV
       
        The Wimpole Street laboratory, Midnight. Nobody in the 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 the stars. 
       
        HIGGINS [calling down to Pickering] I say, Pick: lock up, will you. I 
      shant be going out again. 
        PICKERING. Right. Can Mrs. Pearce go to bed? We dont want anything more, 
      do we? 
        HIGGINS. Lord, no! 

        Eliza opens the door and is seen on the lighted landing in opera cloak, 
      brilliant evening dress, and diamonds, with fan, flowers, and all 
      accessories. She comes to the hearth, and switches on the electric lights 
      there. She is tired: her pallor contrasts strongly with her dark eyes and 
      hair; and her expression is almost tragic. She takes off her cloak; puts 
      her fan and flowers on the piano; and sits down on the bench, brooding and 
      silent. Higgins, in evening dress, with overcoat and hat, comes in, 
      carrying a smoking jacket which he has picked up downstairs. He takes off 
      the hat and overcoat; throws them carelessly on the newspaper stand; 
      disposes of his coat in the same way; puts on the smoking jacket; and 
      throws himself wearily into the easy-chair at the hearth. Pickering, 
      similarly attired, comes in. He also takes off his hat and overcoat, and 
      is about to throw them on Higgins's when he hesitates. 
        PICKERING. I say: Mrs. Pearce will row if we leave these things lying 
      about in the drawing-room.   5
        HIGGINS. Oh, chuck them over the bannisters into the hall. She'll find 
      them there in the morning and put them away all right. She'll think we 
      were drunk. 
        PICKERING. We are, slightly. Are there any letters? 
        HIGGINS. I didnt look. [Pickering takes the overcoats and hats and goes 
      down stairs. Higgins begins half singing half yawning an air from La 
      Fanciulla del Golden West. Suddenly he stops and exclaims] I wonder where 
      the devil my slippers are! 

        Eliza looks at him darkly; then rises suddenly and leaves 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 coroneted billet-doux for you. [He 
      throws the circulars into the fender, and posts himself on the hearthrug, 
      with his back 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-heel slippers. She places 
      them on the carpet before Higgins, and sits as before without a word.10
        HIGGINS [yawning again] Oh Lord! What an evening! What a crew! What a 
      silly tomfoollery! [He raises his shoe to unlace it, and catches sight of 
      the slippers. He stops unlacing and looks at them as if they had appeared 
      there of their own accord]. Oh! theyre there, are they? 
        PICKERING [stretching himself] Well, I feel a bit tired. It's been a 
      long day. The garden party, a dinner party, and the opera! Rather too much 
      of a good thing. But youve won your bet, Higgins. Eliza did the trick, and 
      something to spare, eh? 
        HIGGINS [fervently] Thank God it's over! 

        Eliza flinches violently; but they take no notice of her; and she 
      recovers herself and sits stonily as before. 
        PICKERING. Were you nervous at the garden party? I was. Eliza didnt seem 
      a bit nervous. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, she wasnt nervous. I knew she'd be all right. No: it's the 
      strain of putting the job through all these months that has told on me. It 
      was interesting enough at first, while we were at the phonetics; but after 
      that I got deadly sick of it. If I hadnt backed myself to do it I should 
      have chucked the whole thing up two months ago. It was a silly notion: the 
      whole thing has been a bore.15
        PICKERING. Oh come! the garden party was frightfully exciting. My heart 
      began beating like anything. 
        HIGGINS. Yes, for the first three minutes. But when I saw we were going 
      to win hands down, I felt like a bear in a cage, hanging about doing 
      nothing. The dinner was worse: sitting gorging there for over an hour, 
      with nobody but a damned fool of a fashionable woman to talk to! I tell 
      you, Pickering, never again for me. No more artificial duchesses. The 
      whole thing has been simple purgatory. 
        PICKERING. Youve never been broken in properly to the social routine. 
      [Strolling over to the piano] I rather enjoy dipping into it occasionally 
      myself: it makes me feel young again. Anyhow, it was a great success: an 
      immense success. I was quite frightened once or twice because Eliza was 
      doing it so well. You see, lots of the real people cant do it at all: 
      theyre such fools that they think style comes by nature to people in their 
      position; and so they never learn. Theres always something professional 
      about doing a thing superlatively well. 
        HIGGINS. Yes: thats what drives me mad: the silly people dont know their 
      own silly business. [Rising] However, it's over and done with; and now I 
      can go to bed at last without dreading tomorrow. 

        Eliza's beauty becomes murderous. 
        PICKERING. I think I shall turn in too. Still, it's been a great 
      occasion: a triumph for you. Good-night. [He goes].20
        HIGGINS [following him] Good-night. [Over his shoulder, at the door] Put 
      out the lights, Eliza; and tell Mrs. Pearce not to make coffee for me in 
      the morning: I'll take tea. [He goes out]. 

        Eliza tries to control herself and feel indifferent as she rises and 
      walks across to the hearth to switch off the lights. By the time she gets 
      there she is on the point of screaming. She sits down in Higgins's chair 
      and holds on hard to the arms. Finally she gives way and flings herself 
      furiously on the floor raging. 
        HIGGINS [in despairing wrath outside] What the devil have I done with my 
      slippers? [He appears at the door]. 
        LIZA [snatching up the slippers, and hurling them at him one after the 
      other with all her force] There are your slippers. And there. Take your 
      slippers; and may you never have a day's luck with them! 
        HIGGINS [astounded] What on earth—! [He comes to her]. Whats the matter? 
      Get up. [He pulls her up]. Anything wrong? 
        LIZA [breathless] Nothing wrong—with y o u. Ive won your bet for you, 
      havnt I? Thats enough for you. I dont matter, I suppose.25
        HIGGINS. Y o u won my bet! You! Presumptuous insect! I won it. What did 
      you throw those slippers at me for? 
        LIZA. Because I wanted to smash your face. I'd like to kill you, you 
      selfish brute. Why didnt you leave me where you picked me out of—in the 
      gutter? You thank God it's all over, and that now you can throw me back 
      again there, do you? [She crisps her fingers frantically]. 
        HIGGINS [looking at her in cool wonder] The creature i s nervous, after 
      all. 
        LIZA [gives a suffocated scream of fury, and instinctively darts her 
      nails at his face] !! 
        HIGGINS [catching her wrists] Ah! would you? Claws in, you cat. How dare 
      you shew your temper to me? Sit down and be quiet. [He throws her roughly 
      into the easy-chair].30
        LIZA [crushed by superior strength and weight] Whats to become of me? 
      Whats to become of me? 
        HIGGINS. How the devil do I know whats to become of you? What does it 
      matter what becomes of you? 
        LIZA. You dont care. I know you dont care. You wouldnt care if I was 
      dead. I'm nothing to you—not so much as them slippers. 
        HIGGINS [thundering] T h o s e slippers. 
        LIZA [with bitter submission] Those slippers. I didnt think it made any 
      difference now. 

        A pause. Eliza hopeless and crushed. Higgins a little uneasy.35
        HIGGINS [in his loftiest manner] Why have you begun going on like this? 
      May I ask whether you complain 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 dont pretend that I have treated you badly.40
        LIZA. No. 
        HIGGINS. I am glad to hear it. [He moderates his tone]. Perhaps youre 
      tired after the strain of the day. Will you have a glass of champagne? [He 
      moves towards the door]. 
        LIZA. No. [Recollecting her manners] Thank you. 
        HIGGINS [good-humored again] This has been coming on you for some days. 
      I suppose it was natural for you to be anxious about the garden party. But 
      thats all over now. [He pats her kindly on the shoulder. She writhes]. 
      Theres nothing more to worry about. 
        LIZA. No. Nothing more for y o u to worry about. [She suddenly rises and 
      gets away from him by going to the piano bench, where she sits and hides 
      her face]. Oh God! I wish I was dead.45
        HIGGINS [staring after her in sincere surprise] Why? in heaven's name, 
      why? [Reasonably, going to her] Listen to me, Eliza. All this irritation 
      is purely subjective. 
        LIZA. I dont understand. I'm too ignorant. 
        HIGGINS. It's only imagination. Low spirits and nothing else. Nobody's 
      hurting you. Nothing's wrong. You go to bed like a good girl and sleep it 
      off. Have a little cry and say your prayers: that will make you 
      comfortable. 
        LIZA. I heard y o u r prayers. "Thank God it's all over!" 
        HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, dont you thank God it's all over? Now you 
      are free and can do what you like.50
        LIZA [pulling herself together in desperation] What am I fit for? What 
      have you left me fit for? Where am I to go? What am I to do? Whats to 
      become of me? 
        HIGGINS [enlightened, but not at all impressed] Oh, thats whats worrying 
      you, is it? [He thrusts his hands into 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 shouldnt bother about it if I 
      were you. I should imagine you wont have much difficulty in settling 
      yourself somewhere or other, though I hadnt quite realized that you were 
      going away. [She looks quickly at him: he does not look at her, but 
      examines the dessert stand on the piano and decides that he will eat an 
      apple]. You might marry, you know. [He bites a large piece out of the 
      apple, and munches it noisily]. You see, Eliza, all men are not confirmed 
      old bachelors like me and the Colonel. Most men are the marrying sort 
      (poor devils!); and youre not bad-looking; it's quite a pleasure to look 
      at you sometimes—not now, of course, because youre crying and looking as 
      ugly as the very devil; but when youre all right and quite yourself, youre 
      what I should call attractive. That is, to the people in the marrying 
      line, you understand. You go to bed and have a good nice rest; and then 
      get up and look at yourself in the glass; and you wont feel so cheap. 

        Eliza again looks at him, speechless, and does not stir. 

        The look is quite lost on him: he eats his apple with a dreamy 
      expression of happiness, as it is quite a good one. 
        HIGGINS [a genial afterthought occurring to him] I daresay my mother 
      could find some chap or other who would do very well. 
        LIZA. We were above that at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. 
        HIGGINS [waking up] What do you mean?55
        LIZA. I sold flowers. I didnt sell myself. Now youve made a lady of me 
      I'm not fit to sell anything else. I wish youd left me where you found me. 

        HIGGINS. [slinging the core of the apple decisively into the grate] 
      Tosh, Eliza. Dont you insult human relations by dragging all this cant 
      about buying and selling into it. You neednt marry the fellow if you dont 
      like him. 
        LIZA. What else am I to do? 
        HIGGINS. Oh, lots of things. What about your old idea of a florist's 
      shop? Pickering could set you up in one: hes lots of money. [Chuckling] 
      He'll have to pay for all those togs you have been wearing today; and 
      that, with the hire of the jewellery, will make a big hole in two hundred 
      pounds. Why, six months ago you would have thought it the millennium to 
      have a flower shop of your own. Come! youll be all right. I must clear off 
      to bed: I'm devilish sleepy. By the way, I came down for something: I 
      forget what it was. 
        LIZA. Your slippers.60
        HIGGINS. Oh yes, of course. You shied them at me. [He picks them up, and 
      is going out when she rises and speaks to him]. 
        LIZA. Before you go, sir— 
        HIGGINS [dropping the slippers in his surprise at her calling him Sir] 
      Eh? 
        LIZA. Do my clothes belong to me or to Colonel Pickering? 
        HIGGINS [coming back into the room as if her question were the very 
      climax of unreason] What the devil use would they be to Pickering?65
        LIZA. He might want them for the next girl you pick up to experiment on. 

        HIGGINS [shocked and hurt] Is t h a t the way you feel towards us? 
        LIZA. I dont want to hear anything more about that. All I want to know 
      is whether anything belongs to me. My own clothes were burnt. 
        HIGGINS. But what does it matter? Why need you start bothering about 
      that in the middle of the night? 
        LIZA. I want to know what I may take away with me. I dont want to be 
      accused of stealing.70
        HIGGINS [now deeply wounded] Stealing! You shouldnt have said that, 
      Eliza. That shews a want of feeling. 
        LIZA. I'm sorry. I'm only a common ignorant girl; and in my station I 
      have to be careful. There cant be any feelings between the like of you and 
      the like of me. Please will you tell me what belongs to me and what 
      doesn't? 
        HIGGINS [very sulky] You may take the whole damned houseful if you like. 
      Except the jewels. Theyre hired. Will that satisfy you? [He turns on his 
      heel and is about to go in extreme dudgeon]. 
        LIZA [drinking in his emotion like nectar, and nagging him to provoke a 
      further supply] Stop, please. [She takes off her jewels]. Will you take 
      these to your room and keep them safe? I dont want to run the risk of 
      their being missing. 
        HIGGINS [furious] Hand them over. [She puts them into his hands]. If 
      these belonged to me instead of to the jeweler, I'd ram them down your 
      ungrateful throat. [He perfunctorily thrusts them into his pockets, 
      unconsciously decorating himself with the protruding ends of the 
chains].75
        LIZA [taking a ring off] This ring isnt the jeweler's: it's the one you 
      bought me in Brighton. I dont want it now. [Higgins dashes the ring 
      violently into the fireplace, and turns on her so threateningly that she 
      crouches over the piano with her hands over her face, and exclaims] Dont 
      you hit me. 
        HIGGINS. Hit you! You infamous creature, how dare you accuse me of such 
      a thing? It is you who have hit me. You have wounded me to the heart. 
        LIZA [thrilling with hidden joy] I'm glad. Ive got a little of my own 
      back, anyhow. 
        HIGGINS [with dignity, in his finest professional style] You have caused 
      me to lose my temper: a thing that has hardly ever happend to me before. I 
      prefer to say nothing more tonight. I am going to bed. 
        LIZA [pertly] Youd better leave a note for Mrs. Pearce about the coffee; 
      for she wont be told by me.80
        HIGGINS [formally] Damn Mrs. Pearce; and damn the coffee; and damn you; 
      and damn my own folly in having lavished hard-earned knowledge and the 
      treasure of my regard and intimacy on a heartless guttersnipe. [He goes 
      out with impressive decorum, and spoils it by slamming the door savagely]. 


        Eliza smiles for the first time; expresses her feelings by a wild 
      pantomime in which an imitation of Higgins's exit is confused with her own 
      triumph; and finally goes down on her knees on the hearthrug to look for 
      the ring. 

      ACT V
       
        Mrs. Higgins's drawing-room. She is at her writing-table as before. The 
      parlor-maid comes in. 
       
        THE PARLOR-MAID [at the door] Mr. Henry, mam, is downstairs with Colonel 
      Pickering. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Well, shew them up. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Theyre using the telephone, mam. Telephoning to the 
      police, I think. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. What!   5
        THE PARLOR-MAID [coming further in and lowering her voice] Mr. Henry's 
      in a state, mam. I thought I'd better tell you. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. If you had told me that Mr. Henry was not in a state it 
      would have been more surprising. Tell them to come up when theyve finished 
      with the police. I suppose hes lost something. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, mam [going]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Go upstairs and tell Miss Doolittle that Mr. Henry and the 
      Colonel are here. Ask her not to come down till I send for her. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, mam. 

        Higgins bursts in. He is, as the parlor-maid has said, in a state.10
        HIGGINS. Look here, mother: heres a confounded thing! 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Yes, dear. Good-morning. [He checks his impatience and 
      kisses her, whilst the parlor-maid goes out]. What is it? 
        HIGGINS. Eliza's bolted. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [calmly continuing her writing] You must have frightened 
      her. 
        HIGGINS. Frightened her! nonsense! She was left last night, as usual, to 
      turn out the lights and all that; and instead of going to bed she changed 
      her clothes and went right off: her bed wasnt slept in. She came in a cab 
      for her things before seven this morning; and that fool Mrs. Pearce let 
      her have them without telling me a word about it. What am I to do?15
        MRS. HIGGINS. Do without, I'm afraid, Henry. The girl has a perfect 
      right to leave if she chooses. 
        HIGGINS [wandering distractedly across the room] But I cant find 
      anything. I dont know what appointments Ive got. I'm— [Pickering comes in. 
      Mrs. Higgins puts down her pen and turns away from the writing-table]. 
        PICKERING [shaking hands] Good-morning, Mrs. Higgins. Has Henry told 
      you? [He sits down on the ottoman]. 
        HIGGINS. What does that ass of an inspector say? Have you offered a 
      reward? 
        MRS. HIGGINS [rising in indignant amazement] You dont mean to say you 
      have set the police after Eliza?20
        HIGGINS. Of course. What are the police for? What else could we do? [He 
      sits in the Elizabethan chair]. 
        PICKERING. The inspector made a lot of difficulties. I really think he 
      suspected us of some improper purpose. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Well, of course he did. What right have you to go to the 
      police and give the girl's name as if she were a thief, or a lost 
      umbrella, or something? Really! [She sits down again, deeply vexed]. 
        HIGGINS. But we want to find her. 
        PICKERING. We cant let her go like this, you know, Mrs. Higgins. What 
      were we to do?25
        MRS. HIGGINS. You have no more sense, either of you, than two children. 
      Why— 

        The parlor-maid comes in and breaks off the conversation. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Mr. Henry: a gentleman wants to see you very 
      particular. Hes been sent on from Wimpole Street. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, bother! I cant see anyone now. Who is it? 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. A Mr. Doolittle, sir. 
        PICKERING. Doolittle! Do you mean the dustman?30
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Dustman! Oh no, sir: a gentleman. 
        HIGGINS [springing up excitedly] By George, Pick, it's some relative of 
      hers that shes gone to. Somebody we know nothing about. [To the 
      parlor-maid] Send him up, quick. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, sir. [She goes]. 
        HIGGINS [eagerly, going to his mother] Genteel relatives! now we shall 
      hear something. [He sits down in the Chippendale chair]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know any of her people?35
        PICKERING. Only her father: the fellow we told you about. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID [announcing] Mr. Doolittle. [She withdraws]. 

        Doolittle enters. He is brilliantly dressed in a new fashionable 
      frock-coat, with white waistcoat and grey trousers. A flower in his 
      buttonhole, a dazzling silk hat, and patent leather shoes complete the 
      effect. He is too concerned with the business he has come on to notice 
      Mrs. Higgins. He walks straight to Higgins, 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 at this hat. Look at this 
      coat.40
        PICKERING. Has Eliza been buying you clothes? 
        DOOLITTLE. Eliza! not she. Not half. Why would she buy me clothes? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Good-morning, Mr. Doolittle. Wont you sit down? 
        DOOLITTLE [taken aback as he becomes conscious that he has forgotten his 
      hostess] Asking your pardon, maam. [He approaches her and shakes her 
      proffered hand]. Thank you. [He sits down on the ottoman, on Pickering's 
      right]. I am that full of what has happened to me that I cant think of 
      anything else. 
        HIGGINS. What the dickens has happened to you?45
        DOOLITTLE. I shouldnt mind if it had only happened to me: anything might 
      happen to anybody and nobody to blame but Providence, as you might say. 
      But this is something that you done to me: yes, you, Henry Higgins. 
        HIGGINS. Have you found Eliza? Thats the point. 
        DOOLITTLE. Have you lost her? 
        HIGGINS. Yes. 
        DOOLITTLE. You have all the luck, you have. I aint found her; but she'll 
      find me quick enough now after what you done to me.50
        MRS. HIGGINS. But what has my son done to you, Mr. Doolittle? 
        DOOLITTLE. Done to me! Ruined me. Destroyed my happiness. Tied me up and 
      delivered me into the hands of middle class morality. 
        HIGGINS [rising intolerantly and standing over Doolittle] Youre raving. 
      Youre drunk. Youre mad. I gave you five pounds. After that I had two 
      conversations with you, at half-a-crown an hour. Ive never seen you since. 

        DOOLITTLE. Oh! Drunk! am I? Mad! am I? Tell me this. Did you or did you 
      not write a letter to an old blighter in America that was giving five 
      millions to found Moral Reform Societies all over the world, and that 
      wanted you to invent a universal language for him? 
        HIGGINS. What! Ezra D. Wannafeller! Hes dead. [He sits down again 
      carelessly].55
        DOOLITTLE. Yes: hes dead; and I'm done for. Now did you or did you not 
      write a letter to him to say that the most original moralist at present in 
      England, to the best of your knowledge, was Alfred Doolittle, a common 
      dustman. 
        HIGGINS. Oh, after your last visit I remember making 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 the chance he wanted to shew that Americans is 
      not like us: that they recognize and respect merit in every class of life, 
      however humble. Them words is in his blooming will, in which, Henry 
      Higgins, thanks to your silly joking, he leaves me a share in his 
      Pre-digested Cheese Trust worth three thousand a year on condition that I 
      lecture for his Wannafeller Moral Reform World League as often as they ask 
      me up to six times a year. 
        HIGGINS. The devil he does! Whew! [Brightening suddenly] What a lark! 
        PICKERING. A safe thing for you, Doolittle. They wont ask you twice.60
        DOOLITTLE. It aint the lecturing I mind. I'll lecture them blue in the 
      face, I will, and not turn a hair. It's making a gentleman of me that I 
      object to. Who asked him to make a gentleman of me? I was happy. I was 
      free. I touched pretty nigh everybody for money when I wanted it, same as 
      I touched you, Henry Higgins. Now I am worrited; tied neck and heels; and 
      everybody touches me for money. It's a fine thing for you, says my 
      solicitor. Is it? says I. You mean it's a good thing for you, I says. When 
      I was a poor man and had a solicitor once when they found a pram in the 
      dust cart, he got me off, and got shut of me and got me shut of him as 
      quick as he could. Same with the doctors: used to shove me out of the 
      hospital before I could hardly stand on my legs, and nothing to pay. Now 
      they finds out that I'm not a healthy man and cant live unless they looks 
      after me twice a day. In the house I'm not let do a hand's turn for 
      myself: somebody else must do it and touch me for it. A year ago I hadnt a 
      relative in the world except two or three that wouldnt speak to me. Now 
      Ive fifty, and not a decent week's wages among the lot of them. I have to 
      live for others and not for myself: thats middle class morality. You talk 
      of losing Eliza. Dont you be anxious: I bet shes on my doorstep by this: 
      she that could support herself easy by selling flowers if I wasnt 
      respectable. And the next one to touch me will be you, Henry Higgins. I'll 
      have to learn to speak middle class language from you, instead of speaking 
      proper English. Thats where youll come in; and I daresay thats what you 
      done it for. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. But, my dear Mr. Doolittle, you need not suffer all this 
      if you are really in earnest. Nobody can force you to accept this bequest. 
      You can repudiate it. Isnt that so, Colonel Pickering? 
        PICKERING. I believe so. 
        DOOLITTLE: [softening his manner in deference to her sex] Thats the 
      tragedy of it, maam. It's easy to say chuck it; but I havent the nerve. 
      Which of us has? We're all intimidated. Intimidated, maam: thats what we 
      are. What is there for me if I chuck it but the workhouse in my old age? I 
      have to dye my hair already to keep my job as a dustman. If I was one of 
      the deserving poor, and had put by a bit, I could chuck it; but then why 
      should I, acause the deserving poor might as well be millionaires for all 
      the happiness they ever has. They dont know what happiness is. But I, as 
      one of the undeserving poor, have nothing between me and the pauper's 
      uniform but this here blasted three thousand a year that shoves me into 
      the middle class. (Excuse the expression, maam: youd use it yourself if 
      you had my provocation). Theyve got you every way you turn: it's a choice 
      between the Skilly of the workhouse and the Char Bydis of the middle 
      class; and I havnt the nerve for the workhouse. Intimidated: thats what I 
      am. Broke. Bought up. Happier men than me will call for my dust, and touch 
      me for their tip; and I'll look on helpless, and envy them. And thats what 
      your son has brought me to. [He is overcome by emotion]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I'm very glad youre not going to do anything 
      foolish, Mr. Doolittle. For this solves the problem of Eliza's future. You 
      can provide for her now.65
        DOOLITTLE [with melancholy resignation] Yes, maam: I'm expected to 
      provide for everyone now, out of three thousand a year. 
        HIGGINS [jumping up] Nonsense! he cant provide for her. He shant provide 
      for her. She doesnt belong to him. I paid him five pounds for her. 
      Doolittle: either youre an honest man or a rogue. 
        DOOLITTLE [tolerantly] A little of both, Henry, like the rest of us: a 
      little of both. 
        HIGGINS. Well, you took that money for the girl; and you have no right 
      to take her as well. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: dont be absurd. If you really want to know where 
      Eliza is, she is upstairs.70
        HIGGINS [amazed] Upstairs!!! Then I shall jolly soon fetch her 
      downstairs. [He makes resolutely for the door]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [rising and following him] Be quiet, Henry. Sit down. 
        HIGGINS. I— 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Sit down, dear; and listen to me. 
        HIGGINS. Oh very well, very well, very well. [He throws himself 
      ungraciously on the ottoman, with his face towards the windows]. But I 
      think you might have told me this half an hour ago.75
        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 and 
      being 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, shes been telling you 
      stories. We didnt treat her brutally. We hardly said a word to her; and we 
      parted on particularly good terms. [Turning on Higgins]. Higgins did you 
      bully her after I went to bed? 
        HIGGINS. Just the other way about. She threw my slippers in my face. She 
      behaved in the most outrageous way. I never gave her the slightest 
      provocation. The slippers came bang into my face the moment I entered the 
      room—before I had uttered a word. And used perfectly awful language. 
        PICKERING [astonished] But why? What did we do to her?80
        MRS. HIGGINS. I think I know pretty well what you did. The girl is 
      naturally rather affectionate, I think. Isnt she, Mr. Doolittle? 
        DOOLITTLE. Very tender-hearted, maam. Takes after me. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Just so. She had become attached to you both. She worked 
      very hard for you, Henry! I dont think you quite realize what anything in 
      the nature of brain work means to a girl like that. Well, it seems that 
      when the great day of trial came, and she did this wonderful thing for you 
      without making a single mistake, you two sat there and never said a word 
      to her, but talked together of how glad you were that it was all over and 
      how you had been bored with the whole thing. And then you were surprised 
      because she threw your slippers at you! I should have thrown the 
      fire-irons at you. 
        HIGGINS. We said nothing except that we were tired and wanted to go to 
      bed. Did we, Pick? 
        PICKERING [shrugging his shoulders] That was all.85
        MRS. HIGGINS [ironically] Quite sure? 
        PICKERING. Absolutely. Really, that was all. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. You didn't thank her, or pet her, or admire her, or tell 
      her how splendid she'd been. 
        HIGGINS [impatiently] But she knew all about that. We didnt make 
      speeches to her, if thats what you mean. 
        PICKERING [conscience stricken] Perhaps we were a little inconsiderate. 
      Is she very angry?90
        MRS. HIGGINS [returning to her place at the writing-table] Well, I'm 
      afraid she wont go back to Wimpole Street, especially now that Mr. 
      Doolittle is able to keep up the position you have thrust on her; but she 
      says she is quite willing to meet you on friendly terms and to let bygones 
      be bygones. 
        HIGGINS [furious] Is she, by George? Ho! 
        MRS. HIGGINS. If you promise to behave yourself, Henry, I'll ask her to 
      come down. If not, go home; for you have taken up quite enough of my time. 

        HIGGINS. Oh, all right. Very well. Pick: you behave yourself. Let us put 
      on our best Sunday manners for this creature that we picked out of the 
      mud. [He flings himself sulkily into the Elizabethan chair]. 
        DOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, Henry Higgins! have some 
      consideration for my feelings as a middle class man.95
        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 the balcony for a moment. I dont want Eliza to have the shock of your 
      news until she has made it up with these two gentlemen. Would you mind? 
        DOOLITTLE. As you wish, lady. Anything to help Henry to keep her off my 
      hands. [He disappears through the window]. 

        The parlor-maid answers the bell. Pickering sits down in Doolittle's 
      place. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Ask Miss Doolittle to come down, please. 
        THE PARLOR-MAID. Yes, mam. [She goes out]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Now, Henry: be good.100
        HIGGINS. I am behaving myself perfectly. 
        PICKERING. He is doing his best, Mrs. Higgins. 

        A pause. Higgins throws back his head; stretches out his legs; and 
      begins to whistle. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, dearest, you dont look at all nice in that 
      attitude. 
        HIGGINS [pulling himself together] I was not trying to look nice, 
      mother. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. It doesnt matter, dear. I only wanted to make you 
speak.105
        HIGGINS. Why? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Because you cant speak and whistle at the same time. 

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

        Eliza enters, sunny, self-possessed, and giving a staggeringly 
      convincing exhibition of ease of manner. She carries a little work-basket, 
      and is very much at home. Pickering is too much taken aback to rise. 
        LIZA. How do you do, Professor Higgins? Are you quite well? 
        HIGGINS [choking] Am I— [He can say no more].110
        LIZA. But of course you are: you are never ill. So glad to see you 
      again, Colonel Pickering. [He rises hastily; and they shake hands]. Quite 
      chilly this morning, isnt it? [She sits down on his left. He sits beside 
      her]. 
        HIGGINS. Dont you dare try this game on me. I taught it to you; and it 
      doesnt take me in. Get up and come home; and dont be a fool. 

        Eliza takes a piece of needlework from her basket, and begins to stitch 
      at it, without taking the least notice of this outburst. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Very nicely put, indeed, Henry. No woman could resist such 
      an invitation. 
        HIGGINS. You let her alone, mother. Let her speak for herself. You will 
      jolly soon see whether she has an idea that I havnt put into her head or a 
      word that I havnt put into her mouth. I tell you I have created this thing 
      out of the squashed cabbage leaves of Covent Garden; and now she pretends 
      to play the fine lady with me. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [placidly] Yes, dear; but youll sit down, wont you? 

        Higgins sits down again, savagely.115
        LIZA [to Pickering, taking no apparent notice of Higgins, and working 
      away deftly] Will you drop me altogether now that the experiment is over, 
      Colonel Pickering? 
        PICKERING. Oh dont. You mustnt think of it as an 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 to you that I should be very 
      unhappy if you forgot me.120
        PICKERING. It's very kind of you to say so, Miss Doolittle. 
        LIZA. It's not because you paid for my dresses. I know you are generous 
      to everybody with money. But it was from you that I learnt really nice 
      manners; and that is what makes one a lady, isnt it? You see it was so 
      very difficult for me with the example of Professor Higgins always before 
      me. I was brought up to be just like him, unable to control myself, and 
      using bad language on the slightest provocation. And I should never have 
      known that ladies and gentlemen didnt behave like that if you hadnt been 
      there. 
        HIGGINS. Well!! 
        PICKERING. Oh, thats only his way, you know. He doesnt mean it. 
        LIZA. Oh, I didnt mean it either, when I was a flower girl. It was only 
      my way. But you see I did it; and thats what makes the difference after 
      all.125
        PICKERING. No doubt. Still, he taught you to speak; and I couldnt have 
      done that, you know. 
        LIZA [trivially] Of course: that is his profession. 
        HIGGINS. Damnation! 
        LIZA [continuing] It was just like learning to dance in the fashionable 
      way: there was nothing more than that in it. But do you know what began my 
      real education? 
        PICKERING. What?130
        LIZA [stopping her work for a moment] Your calling me Miss Doolittle 
      that day when I first came to Wimpole Street. That was the beginning of 
      self-respect for me. [She resumes her stitching]. And there were a hundred 
      little things you never noticed, because they came naturally to you. 
      Things about standing up and taking off your hat and opening door— 
        PICKERING. Oh, that was nothing. 
        LIZA. Yes: things that shewed you thought and felt about me as if I were 
      something better than a scullery-maid; though of course I know you would 
      have been just the same to a scullery-maid if she had been let in the 
      drawing-room. You never took off your boots in the dining room when I was 
      there. 
        PICKERING. You mustnt mind that. Higgins takes off his boots all over 
      the place. 
        LIZA. I know. I am not blaming him. It is his way, isnt it? But it made 
      such a difference to me that you didnt do it. You see, really and truly, 
      apart from the things anyone can pick up (the dressing and the proper way 
      of speaking, and so on), the difference between a lady and a flower girl 
      is not how she behaves, but how shes treated. I shall always be a flower 
      girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me as a flower girl, 
      and always will; but I know I can be a lady to you, because you always 
      treat me as a lady, and always will.135
        MRS. HIGGINS. Please dont 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 you would. 
        PICKERING. Thank you. Eliza, of course. 
        LIZA. And I should like Professor Higgins to call me Miss Doolittle.140
        HIGGINS. I'll see you damned first. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Henry! Henry! 
        PICKERING [laughing] Why dont you slang back at him? Dont stand it. It 
      would do him a lot of good. 
        LIZA. I cant. I could have done it once; but now I cant go back to it. 
      Last night, when I was wandering about, a girl spoke to me; and I tried to 
      get back into the old way with her; but it was no use. You told me, you 
      know, that when a child is brought to a foreign country, it picks up the 
      language in a few weeks, and forgets its own. Well, I am a child in your 
      country. I have forgotten my own language, and can speak nothing but 
      yours. Thats the real break-off with the corner of Tottenham Court Road. 
      Leaving Wimpole Street finishes it. 
        PICKERING [much alarmed] Oh! but youre coming back to Wimpole Street, 
      arnt you? Youll forgive Higgins?145
        HIGGINS [rising] Forgive! Will she, by George! Let her go. Let her find 
      out how she can get on without us. She will relapse into the gutter in 
      three weeks without me at her elbow. 

        Doolittle appears at the centre window. With a look of dignified 
      reproach at Higgins, he comes slowly and silently to his daughter, who, 
      with her back to the window, is unconscious of his approach. 
        PICKERING. Hes incorrigible, Eliza. You wont relapse, will you? 
        LIZA. No: Not now. Never again. I have learnt my lesson. I dont believe 
      I could utter one of the old sounds if I tried. [Doolittle touches her on 
      her left shoulder. She drops her work, losing her self-possession utterly 
      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 on 
      the divan, folding his arms, and spraddling arrogantly]. 
        DOOLITTLE. Can you blame the girl? Dont look at me like that, Eliza. It 
      aint my fault. Ive come into some money.150
        LIZA. You must have touched a millionaire this time, dad. 
        DOOLITTLE. I have. But I'm dressed something special today. I'm going to 
      St. George's, Hanover Square. Your stepmother is going to marry me. 
        LIZA [angrily] Youre going to let yourself down to marry that low common 
      woman! 
        PICKERING [quietly] He ought to, Eliza. [To Doolittle] Why has she 
      changed her mind? 
        DOOLITTLE [sadly] Intimidated, Governor. Intimidated. Middle class 
      morality claims its victim. Wont you put on your hat, Liza, and come and 
      see me turned off?155
        LIZA. If the Colonel says I must, I—I'll [almost sobbing] I'll demean 
      myself. And get insulted for my pains, like enough. 
        DOOLITTLE. Dont be afraid: she never comes to words with anyone now, 
      poor woman! respectability has broke all the spirit out of her. 
        PICKERING [squeezing Eliza's elbow gently] Be kind to them, Eliza. Make 
      the best of it. 
        LIZA [forcing a little smile for him through her vexation] Oh well, just 
      to shew theres no ill feeling. I'll be back in a moment. [She goes out]. 
        DOOLITTLE [sitting down beside Pickering] I feel uncommon nervous about 
      the ceremony, Colonel. I wish youd come and see me through it.160
        PICKERING. But youve 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 concluded—naturally— 
        DOOLITTLE. No: that aint the natural way, Colonel: it's only the middle 
      class way. My way was always the undeserving way. But dont say nothing to 
      Eliza. She dont know: I always had a delicacy about telling her. 
        PICKERING. Quite right. We'll leave it so, if you dont mind.165
        DOOLITTLE. And youll 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? I should be very sorry to miss 
      your wedding. 
        DOOLITTLE. I should indeed be honored by your condescension, maam; and 
      my poor old woman would take it as a tremenjous compliment. Shes been very 
      low, thinking of the happy days that are no more. 
        MRS. HIGGINS [rising] I'll order the carriage and get ready. [The men 
      rise, except Higgins]. I shant be more than fifteen minutes. [As she goes 
      to the door Eliza comes in, hatted and buttoning her gloves]. I'm going to 
      the church to see your father married, Eliza. You had better come in the 
      brougham with me. Colonel Pickering can go on with the bridegroom. 

        Mrs. Higgins goes out. Eliza comes to the middle of the room between the 
      centre window and the ottoman. Pickering joins her.170
        DOOLITTLE. Bridegroom! What a word! It makes a man realize his position, 
      somehow. [He takes up his hat and goes towards the door]. 
        PICKERING. Before I go, Eliza, do forgive him and come back to us. 
        LIZA. I dont think papa would allow me. Would you, dad? 
        DOOLITTLE [sad but magnanimous] They played you off very cunning, Eliza, 
      them two sportsmen. If it had been only one of them, you could have nailed 
      him. But you see, there was two; and one of them chaperoned the other, as 
      you might say. [To Pickering] It was artful of you, Colonel; but I bear no 
      malice: I should have done the same myself. I been the victim of one woman 
      after another all my life; and I dont grudge you two getting the better of 
      Eliza. I shant interfere. It's time for us to go, Colonel. So long, Henry. 
      See you in St. George's, Eliza. [He goes out]. 
        PICKERING [coaxing] Do stay with us, Eliza. [He follows Doolittle]. 

        Eliza goes out on the balcony to avoid being alone with Higgins. He 
      rises and joins her there. She immediately comes back into the room and 
      makes for the door; but he goes along the balcony quickly and gets his 
      back to the door before she reaches it.175
        HIGGINS. Well, Eliza, youve had a bit of your own back, as you call it. 
      Have you had enough? and are you going to be reasonable? Or do you want 
      any more? 
        LIZA. You want me back only to pick up your slippers and put up with 
      your tempers and fetch and carry for you. 
        HIGGINS. I havnt said I wanted you back at all. 
        LIZA. Oh, indeed. Then what are we talking about? 
        HIGGINS. About you, not about me. If you come back I shall treat you 
      just as I have always treated you. I cant change my nature; and I dont 
      intend to change my manners. My manners are exactly the same as Colonel 
      Pickering's.180
        LIZA. Thats not true. He treats a flower girl as if she was a duchess. 
        HIGGINS. And I treat a duchess as if she was a flower girl. 
        LIZA. I see. [She turns away composedly, and sits on the ottoman, facing 
      the window]. The same to everybody. 
        HIGGINS. Just so. 
        LIZA. Like father.185
        HIGGINS [grinning, a little taken down] Without accepting the comparison 
      at all points, Eliza, it's quite true that your father is not a snob, and 
      that he will be quite at home in any station of life to which his 
      eccentric destiny may call him. [Seriously] The great secret, Eliza, is 
      not having bad manners or good manners or any other particular sort of 
      manners, but having the same manner for all human souls: in short, 
      behaving as if you were in Heaven, 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 I treat you rudely, but 
      whether you ever heard me treat anyone else better. 
        LIZA [with sudden sincerity] I dont care how you treat me. I dont mind 
      your swearing at me. I dont mind a black eye: Ive had one before this. But 
      [standing up and facing him] I wont be passed over. 
        HIGGINS. Then get out of my way; for I wont stop for you. You talk about 
      me as if I were a motor bus.190
        LIZA. So you are a motor bus: all bounce and go, and no consideration 
      for anyone. But I can do without you: dont think I cant. 
        HIGGINS. I know you can. I told you you could. 
        LIZA [wounded, getting away from him to the other side of the ottoman 
      with her face to the hearth] I know you did, you brute. You wanted to get 
      rid of me. 
        HIGGINS. Liar. 
        LIZA. Thank you. [She sits down with dignity].195
        HIGGINS. You never asked yourself, I suppose, whether I could do without 
      y o u. 
        LIZA [earnestly] Dont you try to get round me. Youll h a v e to do 
      without me. 
        HIGGINS [arrogant] I can do without anybody. I have my own soul: my own 
      spark of divine fire. But [with sudden humility] I shall miss you, Eliza. 
      [He sits down near her on the ottoman]. I have learnt something from your 
      idiotic notions: I confess that humbly and gratefully. And I have grown 
      accustomed to your voice and appearance. I like them, rather. 
        LIZA. Well, you have both of them on your gramophone and in your book of 
      photographs. When you feel lonely without me, you can turn the machine on. 
      It's got no feelings to hurt. 
        HIGGINS. I cant turn your soul on. Leave me those feelings; and you can 
      take away the voice and the face. They are not you.200
        LIZA. Oh, you a r e a devil. You can twist the heart in a girl as easy 
      as some could twist her arms to hurt her. Mrs. Pearce warned me. Time and 
      again she has wanted to leave you; and you always got round her at the 
      last minute. And you dont care a bit for her. And you dont care a bit for 
      me. 
        HIGGINS. I care for life, for humanity; and you are a part of it that 
      has come my way and been built into my house. What more can you or anyone 
      ask? 
        LIZA. I wont care for anybody that doesnt care for me. 
        HIGGINS. Commercial principles, Eliza. Like [reproducing her Covent 
      Garden pronunciation with professional exactness] s'yollin voylets 
      [selling violets], isnt it? 
        LIZA. Dont sneer at me. It's mean to sneer at me.205
        HIGGINS. I have never sneered in my life. Sneering doesnt become either 
      the human face or the human soul. I am expressing my righteous contempt 
      for Commercialism. I dont and wont trade in affection. You call me a brute 
      because you couldnt buy a claim on me by fetching my slippers and finding 
      my spectacles. You were a fool: I think a woman fetching a man's slippers 
      is a disgusting sight: did I ever fetch y o u r slippers? I think a good 
      deal more of you for throwing them in my face. No use slaving for me and 
      then saying you want to be cared for: who cares for a slave? If you come 
      back, come back for the sake of good fellowship; for youll get nothing 
      else. Youve had a thousand times as much out of me as I have out of you; 
      and if you dare to set up your little dog's tricks of fetching and 
      carrying slippers against my creation of a Duchess Eliza, I'll slam the 
      door in your silly face. 
        LIZA. What did you do it for if you didnt care for me? 
        HIGGINS [heartily] Why, because it was my job. 
        LIZA. You never thought of the trouble it would make for me. 
        HIGGINS. Would the world ever have been made if its maker had been 
      afraid of making trouble? Making life means making trouble. Theres only 
      one way of escaping trouble; and thats killing things. Cowards, you 
      notice, are always shrieking to have troublesome people killed.210
        LIZA. I'm no preacher: I dont notice things like that. I notice that you 
      dont notice me. 
        HIGGINS [jumping up and walking about intolerantly] Eliza: youre an 
      idiot. I waste the treasures of my Miltonic mind by spreading them before 
      you. Once for all, understand that I go my way and do my work without 
      caring twopence what happens to either of us. I am not intimidated, like 
      your father and your stepmother. So you can come back or go to the devil: 
      which you please. 
        LIZA. What am I to come back for? 
        HIGGINS [bouncing up on his knees on the ottoman and leaning over it to 
      her] For the fun of it. Thats why I took you on. 
        LIZA [with averted face] And you may throw me out tomorrow if I dont do 
      everything you want me to?215
        HIGGINS. Yes; and you may walk out tomorrow if I dont do everything y o 
      u want me to. 
        LIZA. And live with my stepmother? 
        HIGGINS. Yes, or sell flowers. 
        LIZA. Oh! if I only c o u l d go back to my flower basket! I should be 
      independent of both you and father and all the world! Why did you take my 
      independence from me? Why did I give it up? I'm a slave now, for all my 
      fine clothes. 
        HIGGINS. Not a bit. I'll adopt you as my daughter and settle money on 
      you if you like. Or would you rather marry Pickering?220
        LIZA [looking fiercely round at him] I wouldnt marry y o u if you asked 
      me; and youre nearer my age than what he is. 
        HIGGINS [gently] Than he is: not "than what he is." 
        LIZA [losing her temper and rising] I'll talk as I like. Youre not my 
      teacher now. 
        HIGGINS [reflectively] I dont suppose Pickering would, though. Hes as 
      confirmed an old bachelor as I am. 
        LIZA. Thats not what I want; and dont you think it. Ive always had chaps 
      enough wanting me that way. Freddy Hill writes to me twice and three times 
      a day, sheets and sheets.225
        HIGGINS [disagreeably surprised] Damn his impudence! [He recoils and 
      finds himself sitting on his heels]. 
        LIZA. He has a right to if he likes, poor lad. And he does love me. 
        HIGGINS [getting off the ottoman] You have no right to encourage him. 
        LIZA. Every girl has a right to be loved. 
        HIGGINS. What! By fools like that?230
        LIZA. Freddy's not a fool. And if hes weak and poor and wants me, may be 
      hed make me happier than my betters that bully me and dont want me. 
        HIGGINS. Can he m a k e anything of you? Thats the point. 
        LIZA. Perhaps I could make something of him. But I never thought of us 
      making anything of one another; and you never think of anything else. I 
      only want to be natural. 
        HIGGINS. In short, you want me to be as infatuated about you as Freddy? 
      Is that it? 
        LIZA. No I dont. Thats not the sort of feeling I want from you. And dont 
      you be too sure of yourself or of me. I could have been a bad girl if I'd 
      liked. Ive seen more of some things than you, for all your learning. Girls 
      like me can drag gentlemen down to make love to them easy enough. And they 
      wish each other dead the next minute.235
        HIGGINS. Of course they do. Then what in thunder are we quarrelling 
      about? 
        LIZA [much troubled] I want a little kindness. I know I'm a common 
      ignorant girl, and you a book-learned gentleman; but I'm not dirt under 
      your feet. What I done [correcting herself] what I did was not for the 
      dresses and the taxis: I did it because we were pleasant together and I 
      come—came—to care for you; not to want you to make love to me, and not 
      forgetting the difference between us, but more friendly like. 
        HIGGINS. Well, of course. Thats just how I feel. And how Pickering 
      feels. Eliza: youre a fool. 
        LIZA. Thats not a proper answer to give me [she sinks on the chair at 
      the writing-table in tears]. 
        HIGGINS. It's all youll get until you stop being a common idiot. If 
      youre going to be a lady, youll have to give up feeling neglected if the 
      men you know dont spend half their time snivelling over you and the other 
      half giving you black eyes. If you cant stand the coldness of my sort of 
      life, and the strain of it, go back to the gutter. Work til you are more a 
      brute than a human being; and then cuddle and squabble and drink til you 
      fall asleep. Oh, it's a fine life, the life of the gutter. It's real: it's 
      warm: it's violent: you can feel it through the thickest skin: you can 
      taste it and smell it without any training or any work. Not like Science 
      and Literature and Classical Music and Philosophy and Art. You find me 
      cold, unfeeling, selfish, dont you? Very well: be off with you to the sort 
      of people you like. Marry some sentimental hog or other with lots of 
      money, and a thick pair of lips to kiss you with and a thick pair of boots 
      to kick you with. If you cant appreciate what youve got, youd better get 
      what you can appreciate.240
        LIZA [desperate] Oh, you are a cruel tyrant. I cant talk to you: you 
      turn everything against me: I'm always in the wrong. But you know very 
      well all the time that youre nothing but a bully. You know I cant go back 
      to the gutter, as you call it, and that I have no real friends in the 
      world but you and the Colonel. You know well I couldnt bear to live with a 
      low common man after you two; and it's wicked and 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. But dont you be too sure 
      that you have me under your feet to be trampled on and talked down. I'll 
      marry Freddy, I will, as soon as hes able to support me. 
        HIGGINS [sitting down beside her] Rubbish! you shall marry an 
      ambassador. You shall marry the Governor-General of India or the 
      Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, or somebody who wants a deputy-queen. I'm not 
      going to have my masterpiece thrown away on Freddy. 
        LIZA. You think I like you to say that. But I havnt forgot what you said 
      a minute ago; and I wont be coaxed round as if I was a baby or a puppy. If 
      I cant have kindness, I'll have independence. 
        HIGGINS. Independence? Thats middle class blasphemy. We are all 
      dependent on one another, every soul of us on earth. 
        LIZA [rising determinedly] I'll let you see whether I'm dependent on 
      you. If you can preach, I can teach. I'll go and be a teacher.245
        HIGGINS. Whatll 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 Professor Nepean. 
        HIGGINS [rising in a fury] What! That impostor! that humbug! that 
      toadying ignoramus! Teach him my methods! my discoveries! You take one 
      step in his direction and I'll wring your neck. [He lays hands on her]. Do 
      you hear?250
        LIZA [defiantly non-resistant] Wring away. What do I care? I knew youd 
      strike me some day. [He lets her go, stamping with rage at having 
      forgotten himself, and recoils so hastily that he stumbles back into his 
      seat on the ottoman]. Aha! Now I know how to deal with you. What a fool I 
      was not to think of it before! You cant take away the knowledge you gave 
      me. You said I had a finer ear than you. And I can be civil and kind to 
      people, which is more than you can. Aha! Thats done you, Henry Higgins, it 
      has. Now I dont care that [snapping her fingers] for your bullying and 
      your big talk. I'll advertize it in the papers that your duchess is only a 
      flower girl that you taught, and that she'll teach anybody to be a duchess 
      just the same in six months for a thousand guineas. Oh, when I think of 
      myself crawling under your feet and being trampled on and called names, 
      when all the time I had only to lift up my finger to be as good as you, I 
      could just kick myself. 
        HIGGINS [wondering at her] You damned impudent slut, you! But it's 
      better than snivelling; better than fetching slippers and finding 
      spectacles, isnt it? [Rising] By George, Eliza, I said I'd make a woman of 
      you; and I have. I like you like this. 
        LIZA. Yes: you turn round and make up to me now that I'm not afraid of 
      you, and can do without you. 
        HIGGINS. Of course I do, you little fool. Five minutes ago you were like 
      a millstone round my neck. Now youre a tower of strength: a consort 
      battleship. You and I and Pickering will be three old bachelors together 
      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. Are you ready?255
        LIZA. Quite. Is the Professor coming? 
        MRS. HIGGINS. Certainly not. He cant behave himself in church. He makes 
      remarks out loud all the 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 kiss her, 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, number eights, and a tie to 
      match that new suit of mine, at Eale & Binman's. You can choose the color. 
      [His cheerful, careless, vigorous voice shows that he is incorrigible].260
        LIZA [disdainfully] Buy them yourself. [She sweeps out]. 
        MRS. HIGGINS. I'm afraid youve spoiled that girl, Henry. But never mind, 
      dear: I'll buy you the tie and gloves. 
        HIGGINS [sunnily] Oh, dont bother. She'll buy em all right enough. 
      Good-bye. 

        They kiss. Mrs. Higgins runs out. Higgins, left alone, rattles his cash 
      in his pocket; chuckles; and disports himself in a highly self-satisfied 
      manner. 

      Sequel 
      What Happened Afterwards
       
      THE rest of the story need not be shown in action, and indeed, would 
      hardly need telling if our imaginations were not so enfeebled by their 
      lazy dependence on the ready-mades and reach-me-downs of the ragshop in 
      which Romance keeps its stock of "happy endings" to misfit all stories. 
      Now, the history of Eliza Doolittle, though called a romance because of 
      the transfiguration it records seems exceedingly improbable, is common 
      enough. Such transfigurations have been achieved by hundreds of resolutely 
      ambitious young women since Nell Gwynne set them the example by playing 
      queens and fascinating kings in the theatre in which she began by selling 
      oranges. Nevertheless, people in all directions have assumed, for no other 
      reason than that she became the heroine of a romance, that she must have 
      married the hero of it. This is unbearable, not only because her little 
      drama, if acted on such a thoughtless assumption, must be spoiled, but 
      because the true sequel is patent to anyone with a sense of human nature 
      in general, and of feminine instinct in particular.   1
        Eliza, in telling Higgins she would not marry him if he asked her, was 
      not coquetting: she was announcing a well-considered decision. When a 
      bachelor interests, and dominates, and teaches, and becomes important to a 
      spinster, as Higgins with Eliza, she always, if she has character enough 
      to be capable of it, considers very seriously indeed whether she will play 
      for becoming that bachelor's wife, especially if he is so little 
      interested in marriage that a determined and devoted woman might capture 
      him if she set herself resolutely to do it. Her decision will depend a 
      good deal on whether she is really free to choose; and that, again, will 
      depend on her age and income. If she is at the end of her youth, and has 
      no security for her livelihood, she will marry him because she must marry 
      anybody who will provide for her. But at Eliza's age a good-looking girl 
      does not feel that pressure: she feels free to pick and choose. She is 
      therefore guided by her instinct in the matter. Eliza's instinct tells her 
      not to marry Higgins. It does not tell her to give him up. It is not in 
      the slightest doubt as to his remaining one of the strongest personal 
      interests in her life. It would be very sorely strained if there was 
      another woman likely to supplant her with him. But as she feels sure of 
      him on that last point, she has no doubt at all as to her course, and 
      would not have any, even if the difference of twenty years in age, which 
      seems so great to youth, did not exist between them.2
        As our own instincts are not appealed to by her conclusion, let us see 
      whether we cannot discover some reason in it. When Higgins excused his 
      indifference to young women on the ground that they had an irresistible 
      rival in his mother, he gave the clue to his inveterate old-bachelordom. 
      The case is uncommon only to the extent that remarkable mothers are 
      uncommon. If an imaginative boy has a sufficiently rich mother who has 
      intelligence, personal grace, dignity of character without harshness, and 
      a cultivated sense of the best art of her time to enable her to make her 
      house beautiful, she sets a standard for him against which very few women 
      can struggle, besides effecting for him a disengagement of his affections, 
      his sense of beauty, and his idealism from his specifically sexual 
      impulses. This makes him a standing puzzle to the huge number of 
      uncultivated people who have been brought up in tasteless homes by 
      commonplace or disagreeable parents, and to whom, consequently, 
      literature, painting, sculpture, music, and affectionate personal 
      relations come as modes of sex if they come at all. The word passion means 
      nothing else to them; and that Higgins could have a passion for phonetics 
      and idealize his mother instead of Eliza, would seem to them absurd and 
      unnatural. Nevertheless, when we look round and see that hardly anyone is 
      too ugly or disagreeable to find a wife or a husband if he or she wants 
      one, whilst many old maids and bachelors are above the average in quality 
      and culture, we cannot help suspecting that the disentanglement of sex 
      from the associations with which it is so commonly confused, a 
      disentanglement which persons of genius achieve by sheer intellectual 
      analysis, is sometimes produced or aided by parental fascination.3
        Now, though Eliza was incapable of thus explaining to herself Higgins's 
      formidable powers of resistance to the charm that prostrated Freddy at the 
      first glance, she was instinctively aware that she could never obtain a 
      complete grip of him, or come between him and his mother (the first 
      necessity of the married woman). To put it shortly, she knew that for some 
      mysterious reason he had not the makings of a married man in him, 
      according to her conception of a husband as one to whom she would be his 
      nearest and fondest and warmest interest. Even had there been no 
      mother-rival, she would still have refused to accept an interest in 
      herself that was secondary to philosophic interests. Had Mrs. Higgins 
      died, there would still have been Milton and the Universal Alphabet. 
      Landor's remark that to those who have the greatest power of loving, love 
      is a secondary affair, would not have recommended Landor to Eliza. Put 
      that along with her resentment of Higgins's domineering superiority, and 
      her mistrust of his coaxing cleverness in getting round her and evading 
      her wrath when he had gone too far with his impetuous bullying, and you 
      will see that Eliza's instinct had good grounds for warning her not to 
      marry her Pygmalion.4
        And now, whom did Eliza marry? For if Higgins was a predestinate old 
      bachelor, she was most certainly not a predestinate old maid. Well, that 
      can be told very shortly to those who have not guessed it from the 
      indications she has herself given them.   5
        Almost immediately after Eliza is stung into proclaiming her considered 
      determination not to marry Higgins, she mentions the fact that young Mr. 
      Frederick Eynsford Hill is pouring out his love for her daily through the 
      post. Now Freddy is young, practically twenty years younger than Higgins: 
      he is a gentleman (or, as Eliza would qualify him, a toff), and speaks 
      like one; he is nicely dressed, is treated by the Colonel as an equal, 
      loves her unaffectedly, and is not her master, nor ever likely to dominate 
      her in spite of his advantage of social standing. Eliza has no use for the 
      foolish romantic tradition that all women love to be mastered, if not 
      actually bullied and beaten. "When you go to women," says Nietzsche, "take 
      your whip with you." Sensible despots have never confined that precaution 
      to women: they have taken their whips with them when they have dealt with 
      men, and been slavishly idealized by the men over whom they have 
      flourished the whip much more than by women. No doubt there are slavish 
      women as well as slavish men; and women, like men, admire those that are 
      stronger than themselves. But to admire a strong person and to live under 
      that strong person's thumb are two different things. The weak may not be 
      admired and hero-worshipped; but they are by no means disliked or shunned; 
      and they never seem to have the least difficulty in marrying people who 
      are too good for them. They may fail in emergencies; but life is not one 
      long emergency: it is mostly a string of situations for which no 
      exceptional strength is needed, and with which even rather weak people can 
      cope if they have a stronger partner to help them out. Accordingly, it is 
      a truth everywhere in evidence that strong people, masculine or feminine, 
      not only do not marry stronger people, but do not shew any preference for 
      them in selecting their friends. When a lion meets another with a louder 
      roar "the first lion thinks the last a bore." The man or woman who feels 
      strong enough for two, seeks for every other quality in a partner than 
      strength.6
        The converse is also true. Weak people want to marry strong people who 
      do not frighten them too much; and this often leads them to make the 
      mistake we describe metaphorically as "biting off more than they can 
      chew." They want too much for too little; and when the bargain is 
      unreasonable beyond all bearing, the union becomes impossible: it ends in 
      the weaker party being either discarded or borne as a cross, which is 
      worse. People who are not only weak, but silly or obtuse as well, are 
      often in these difficulties.7
        This being the state of human affairs, what is Eliza fairly sure to do 
      when she is placed between Freddy and Higgins? Will she look forward to a 
      lifetime of fetching Higgins's slippers or to a lifetime of Freddy 
      fetching hers? There can be no doubt about the answer. Unless Freddy is 
      biologically repulsive to her, and Higgins biologically attractive to a 
      degree that overwhelms all her other instincts, she will, if she marries 
      either of them, marry Freddy.8
        And that is just what Eliza did.9
        Complications ensued; but they were economic, not romantic. Freddy had 
      no money and no occupation. His mother's jointure, a last relic of the 
      opulence of Largelady Park, had enabled her to struggle along in 
      Earlscourt with an air of gentility, but not to procure any serious 
      secondary education for her children, much less give the boy a profession. 
      A clerkship at thirty shillings a week was beneath Freddy's dignity, and 
      extremely distasteful to him besides. His prospects consisted of a hope 
      that if he kept up appearances somebody would do something for him. The 
      something appeared vaguely to his imagination as a private secretaryship 
      or a sinecure of some sort. To his mother it perhaps appeared as a 
      marriage to some lady of means who could not resist her boy's niceness. 
      Fancy her feelings when he married a flower girl who had become déclassée 
      under extraordinary circumstances which were now notorious!10
        It is true that Eliza's situation did not seem wholly ineligible. Her 
      father, though formerly a dustman, and now fantastically disclassed, had 
      become extremely popular in the smartest society by a social talent which 
      triumphed over every prejudice and every disadvantage. Rejected by the 
      middle class, which he loathed, he had shot up at once into the highest 
      circles by his wit, his dustmanship (which he carried like a banner), and 
      his Nietzschean transcendence of good and evil. At intimate ducal dinners 
      he sat on the right hand of the Duchess; and in country houses he smoked 
      in the pantry and was made much of by the butler when he was not feeding 
      in the dining-room and being consulted by cabinet ministers. But he found 
      it almost as hard to do all this on four thousand a year as Mrs. Eynsford 
      Hill to live in Earlscourt on an income so pitiably smaller that I have 
      not the heart to disclose its exact figure. He absolutely refused to add 
      the last straw to his burden by contributing to Eliza's support.11
        Thus Freddy and Eliza, now Mr. and Mrs. Eynsford Hill, would have spent 
      a penniless honeymoon but for a wedding present of £500 from the Colonel 
      to Eliza. It lasted a long time because Freddy did not know how to spend 
      money, never having had any to spend, and Eliza, socially trained by a 
      pair of old bachelors, wore her clothes as long as they held together and 
      looked pretty, without the least regard to their being many months out of 
      fashion. Still, £500 will not last two young people for ever; and they 
      both knew, and Eliza felt as well, that they must shift for themselves in 
      the end. She could quarter herself on Wimpole Street because it had come 
      to be her home; but she was quite aware that she ought not to quarter 
      Freddy there, and that it would not be good for his character if she 
did.12
        Not that the Wimpole Street bachelors objected. When she consulted them, 
      Higgins declined to be bothered about her housing problem when that 
      solution was so simple. Eliza's desire to have Freddy in the house with 
      her seemed of no more importance than if she had wanted an extra piece of 
      bedroom furniture. Pleas as to Freddy's character, and the moral 
      obligation on him to earn his own living, were lost on Higgins. He denied 
      that Freddy had any character, and declared that if he tried to do any 
      useful work some competent person would have the trouble of undoing it: a 
      procedure involving a net loss to the community, and great unhappiness to 
      Freddy himself, who was obviously intended by Nature for such light work 
      as amusing Eliza, which, Higgins declared, was a much more useful and 
      honorable occupation than working in the city. When Eliza referred again 
      to her project of teaching phonetics, Higgins abated not a jot of his 
      violent opposition to it. He said she was not within ten years of being 
      qualified to meddle with his pet subject; and as it was evident that the 
      Colonel agreed with him, she felt she could not go against them in this 
      grave matter, and that she had no right, without Higgins's consent, to 
      exploit the knowledge he had given her; for his knowledge seemed to her as 
      much his private property as his watch: Eliza was no communist. Besides, 
      she was superstitiously devoted to them both, more entirely and frankly 
      after her marriage than before it.13
        It was the Colonel who finally solved the problem, which had cost him 
      much perplexed cogitation. He one day asked Eliza, rather shyly, whether 
      she had quite given up her notion of keeping a flower shop. She replied 
      that she had thought 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 
      Colonel confessed that when he said that, he had not quite recovered from 
      the dazzling impression of the day before. They broke the matter to 
      Higgins that evening. The sole comment vouchsafed by him very nearly led 
      to a serious quarrel with Eliza. It was to the effect that she would have 
      in Freddy an ideal errand boy.14
        Freddy himself was next sounded on the subject. He said he had been 
      thinking of a shop himself; though it had presented itself to his 
      pennilessness as a small place in which Eliza should sell tobacco at one 
      counter whilst he sold newspapers at the opposite one. But he agreed that 
      it would be extraordinarily jolly to go early every morning with Eliza to 
      Covent Garden and buy flowers on the scene of their first meeting: a 
      sentiment which earned him many kisses from his wife. He added that he had 
      always been afraid to propose anything of the sort, because Clara would 
      make an awful row about a step that must damage her matrimonial chances, 
      and his mother could not be expected to like it after clinging for so many 
      years to that step of the social ladder on which retail trade is 
      impossible.15
        This difficulty was removed by an event highly unexpected by Freddy's 
      mother. Clara, in the course of her incursions into those artistic circles 
      which were the highest within her reach, discovered that her 
      conversational qualifications were expected to include a grounding in the 
      novels of Mr. H. G. Wells. She borrowed them in various directions so 
      energetically that she swallowed them all within two months. The result 
      was a conversion of a kind quite common today. A modern Acts of the 
      Apostles would fill fifty whole Bibles if anyone were capable of writing 
      it.16
        Poor Clara, who appeared to Higgins and his mother as a disagreeable and 
      ridiculous person, and to her own mother as in some inexplicable way a 
      social failure, had never seen herself in either light; for, though to 
      some extent ridiculed and mimicked in West Kensington like everybody else 
      there, she was accepted as a rational and normal—or shall we say 
      inevitable?—sort of human being. At worst they called her The Pusher; but 
      to them no more than to herself had it ever occurred that she was pushing 
      the air, and pushing it in a wrong direction. Still, she was not happy. 
      She was growing desperate. Her one asset, the fact that her mother was 
      what the Epsom greengrocer called a carriage lady had no exchange value, 
      apparently. It had prevented her from getting educated, because the only 
      education she could have afforded was education with the Earlscourt 
      greengrocer's daughter. It had led her to seek the society of her mother's 
      class; and that class simply would not have her, because she was much 
      poorer than the greengrocer, and, far from being able to afford a maid, 
      could not afford even a housemaid, and had to scrape along at home with an 
      illiberally treated general servant. Under such circumstances nothing 
      could give her an air of being a genuine product of Largelady Park. And 
      yet its tradition made her regard a marriage with anyone within her reach 
      as an unbearable humiliation. Commercial people and professional people in 
      a small way were odious to her. She ran after painters and novelists; but 
      she did not charm them; and her bold attempts to pick up and practise 
      artistic and literary talk irritated them. She was, in short, an utter 
      failure, an ignorant, incompetent, pretentious, unwelcome, penniless, 
      useless little snob; and though she did not admit these disqualifications 
      (for nobody ever faces unpleasant truths of this kind until the 
      possibility of a way out dawns on them) she felt their effects too keenly 
      to be satisfied with her position.17
        Clara had a startling eyeopener when, on being suddenly wakened to 
      enthusiasm by a girl of her own age who dazzled her and produced in her a 
      gushing desire to take her for a model, and gain her friendship, she 
      discovered that this exquisite apparition had graduated from the gutter in 
      a few months' time. It shook her so violently, that when Mr. H. G. Wells 
      lifted her on the point of his puissant pen, and placed her at the angle 
      of view from which the life she was leading and the society to which she 
      clung appeared in its true relation to real human needs and worthy social 
      structure, he effected a conversion and a conviction of sin comparable to 
      the most sensational feats of General Booth or Gypsy Smith. Clara's 
      snobbery went bang. Life suddenly began to move with her. Without knowing 
      how or why, she began to make friends and enemies. Some of the 
      acquaintances to whom she had been a tedious or indifferent or ridiculous 
      affliction, dropped her: others became cordial. To her amazement she found 
      that some "quite nice" people were saturated with Wells, and that this 
      accessibility to ideas was the secret of their niceness. People she had 
      thought deeply religious, and had tried to conciliate on that tack with 
      disastrous results, suddenly took an interest in her, and revealed a 
      hostility to conventional religion which she had never conceived possible 
      except among the most desperate characters. They made her read Galsworthy; 
      and Galsworthy exposed the vanity of Largelady Park and finished her. It 
      exasperated her to think that the dungeon in which she had languished for 
      so many unhappy years had been unlocked all the time, and that the 
      impulses she had so carefully struggled with and stifled for the sake of 
      keeping well with society, were precisely those by which alone she could 
      have come into any sort of sincere human contact. In the radiance of these 
      discoveries, and the tumult of their reaction, she made a fool of herself 
      as freely and conspicuously as when she so rashly adopted Eliza's 
      expletive in Mrs. Higgins's drawing-room; for the new-born Wellsian had to 
      find her bearings almost as ridiculously as a baby; but nobody hates a 
      baby for its ineptitudes, or thinks the worse of it for trying to eat the 
      matches; and Clara lost no friends by her follies. They laughed at her to 
      her face this time; and she had to defend herself and fight it out as best 
      she could.18
        When Freddy paid a visit to Earlscourt (which he never did when he could 
      possibly help it) to make the desolating announcement that he and his 
      Eliza were thinking of blackening the Largelady scutcheon by opening a 
      shop, he found the little household already convulsed by a prior 
      announcement from Clara that she also was going to work in an old 
      furniture shop in Dover Street, which had been started by a fellow 
      Wellsian. This appointment Clara owed, after all, to her old social 
      accomplishment of Push. She had made up her mind that, cost what it might, 
      she would see Mr. Wells in the flesh; and she had achieved her end at a 
      garden party. She had better luck than so rash an enterprise deserved. Mr. 
      Wells came up to her expectations. Age had not withered him, nor could 
      custom stale his infinite variety in half an hour. His pleasant neatness 
      and compactness, his small hands and feet, his teeming ready brain, his 
      unaffected accessibility, and a certain fine apprehensiveness which 
      stamped him as susceptible from his topmost hair to his tipmost toe, 
      proved irresistible. Clara talked of nothing else for weeks and weeks 
      afterwards. And as she happened to talk to the lady of the furniture shop, 
      and that lady also desired above all things to know Mr. Wells and sell 
      pretty things to him, she offered Clara a job on the chance of achieving 
      that end through her.19
        And so it came about that Eliza's luck held, and the expected opposition 
      to the flower shop melted away. The shop is in the arcade of a railway 
      station not very far from the Victoria and Albert Museum; and if you live 
      in that neighborhood you may go there any day and buy a buttonhole from 
      Eliza.20
        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's charms and 
      her early business experience in Covent Garden? Alas! the truth is the 
      truth: the shop did not pay for a long time, simply because Eliza and her 
      Freddy did not know how to keep it. True, Eliza had not to begin at the 
      very beginning: she knew the names and prices of the cheaper flowers; and 
      her elation was unbounded when she found that Freddy, like all youths 
      educated at cheap, pretentious, and thoroughly inefficient schools, knew a 
      little Latin. It was very little, but enough to make him appear to her a 
      Porson or Bentley, and to put him at his ease with botanical nomenclature. 
      Unfortunately he knew nothing else; and Eliza, though she could count 
      money up to eighteen shillings or so, and had acquired a certain 
      familiarity with the language of Milton from her struggles to qualify 
      herself for winning Higgins's bet, could not write out a bill without 
      utterly disgracing the establishment. Freddy's power of stating in Latin 
      that Balbus built a wall and that Gaul was divided into three parts did 
      not carry with it the slightest knowledge of accounts or business: Colonel 
      Pickering had to explain to him what a cheque book and a bank account 
      meant. And the pair were by no means easily teachable. Freddy backed up 
      Eliza in her obstinate refusal to believe that they could save money by 
      engaging a bookkeeper with some knowledge of the business. How, they 
      argued, could you possibly save money by going to extra expense when you 
      already could not make both ends meet? But the Colonel, after making the 
      ends meet over and over again, at last gently insisted; and Eliza, humbled 
      to the dust by having to beg from him so often, and stung by the 
      uproarious derision of Higgins, to whom the notion of Freddy succeeding at 
      anything was a joke that never palled, grasped the fact that business, 
      like phonetics, has to be learned.21
        On the piteous spectacle of the pair spending their evenings in 
      shorthand schools and polytechnic classes, learning bookkeeping and 
      typewriting with incipient junior clerks, male and female, from the 
      elementary schools, let me not dwell. There were even classes at the 
      London School of Economics, and a humble personal appeal to the director 
      of that institution to recommend a course bearing on the flower business. 
      He, being a humorist, explained to them the method of the celebrated 
      Dickensian essay on Chinese Metaphysics by the gentleman who read an 
      article on China and an article on Metaphysics and combined the 
      information. He suggested that they should combine the London School with 
      Kew Gardens. Eliza, to whom the procedure of the Dickensian gentleman 
      seemed perfectly correct (as in fact it was) and not in the least funny 
      (which was only her ignorance) took his advice with entire gravity. But 
      the effort that cost her the deepest humiliation was a request to Higgins, 
      whose pet artistic fancy, next to Milton's verse, was caligraphy, and who 
      himself wrote a most beautiful Italian hand, that he would teach her to 
      write. He declared that she was congenitally incapable of forming a single 
      letter worthy of the least of Milton's words; but she persisted; and again 
      he suddenly threw himself into the task of teaching her with a combination 
      of stormy intensity, concentrated patience, and occasional bursts of 
      interesting disquisition on the beauty and nobility, the august mission 
      and destiny, of human handwriting. Eliza ended by acquiring an extremely 
      uncommercial script which was a positive extension of her personal beauty, 
      and spending three times as much on stationery as anyone else because 
      certain qualities and shapes of paper became indispensable to her. She 
      could not even address an envelope in the usual way because it made the 
      margins all wrong.22
        Their commercial school days were a period of disgrace and despair for 
      the young couple. They seemed to be learning nothing about flower shops. 
      At last they gave it up as hopeless, and shook the dust of the shorthand 
      schools, and the polytechnics, and the London School of Economics from 
      their feet for ever. Besides, the business was in some mysterious way 
      beginning to take care of itself. They had somehow forgotten their 
      objections to employing other people. They came to the conclusion that 
      their own way was the best, and that they had really a remarkable talent 
      for business. The Colonel, who had been compelled for some years to keep a 
      sufficient sum on current account at his bankers to make up their 
      deficits, found that the provision was unnecessary: the young people were 
      prospering. It is true that there was not quite fair play between them and 
      their competitors in trade. Their week-ends in the country cost them 
      nothing, and saved them the price of their Sunday dinners; for the motor 
      car was the Colonel's; and he and Higgins paid the hotel bills. Mr. F. 
      Hill, florist and greengrocer (they soon discovered that there was money 
      in asparagus; and asparagus led to other vegetables), had an air which 
      stamped the business as classy; and in private life he was still Frederick 
      Eynsford Hill, Esquire. Not that there was any swank about him: nobody but 
      Eliza knew that he had been christened Frederick Challoner. Eliza herself 
      swanked like anything.23
        That is all. That is how it has turned out. It is astonishing how much 
      Eliza still manages to meddle in the housekeeping at Wimpole Street in 
      spite of the shop and her own family. And it is notable that though she 
      never nags her husband, and frankly loves the Colonel as if she were his 
      favorite daughter, she has never got out of the habit of nagging Higgins 
      that was established on the fatal night when she won his bet for him. She 
      snaps his head off on the faintest provocation, or on none. He no longer 
      dares to tease her by assuming an abysmal inferiority of Freddy's mind to 
      his own. He storms and bullies and derides; but she stands up to him so 
      ruthlessly that the Colonel has to ask her from time to time to be kinder 
      to Higgins; and it is the only request of his that brings a mulish 
      expression into her face. Nothing but some emergency or calamity great 
      enough to break down all likes and dislikes, and throw them both back on 
      their common humanity—and may they be spared any such trial!—will ever 
      alter this. She knows that Higgins does not need her, just as her father 
      did not need her. The very scrupulousness with which he told her that day 
      that he had become used to having her there, and dependent 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) deepens her inner certainty that she is "no more to him than them 
      slippers", yet she has a sense, too, that his indifference is deeper than 
      the infatuation of commoner souls. She is immensely interested in him. She 
      has even secret mischievous moments in which she wishes she could get him 
      alone, on a desert island, away from all ties and with nobody else in the 
      world to consider, and just drag him off his pedestal and see him making 
      love like any common man. We all have private imaginations of that sort. 
      But when it comes to business, to the life that she really leads as 
      distinguished from the life of dreams and fancies, she likes Freddy and 
      she likes the Colonel; and she does not like Higgins and Mr. Doolittle. 
      Galatea never does quite like Pygmalion: his relation to her is too 
      godlike to be altogether agreeable.24