CHAPTER

Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab whistlesrnblowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians running for shelterrninto the market and under the portico of St. Paul’s Church, where therernare already several people, among them a lady and her daughter inrnevening dress. They are all peering out gloomily at the rain, exceptrnone man with his back turned to the rest, who seems wholly preoccupiedrnwith a notebook in which he is writing busily.rnrnThe church clock strikes the first quarter.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to thernone on her left] I’m getting chilled to the bone. What can Freddy berndoing all this time? He’s been gone twenty minutes.rnrnTHE MOTHER [on her daughter’s right] Not so long. But he ought to haverngot us a cab by this.rnrnA BYSTANDER [on the lady’s right] He won’t get no cab not untilrnhalf-past eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping theirrntheatre fares.rnrnTHE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can’t stand here until half-pastrneleven. It’s too bad.rnrnTHE BYSTANDER. Well, it ain’t my fault, missus.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got one atrnthe theatre door.rnrnTHE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn’t he?rnrnFreddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street side, andrncomes between them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a young man ofrntwenty, in evening dress, very wet around the ankles.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Well, haven’t you got a cab?rnrnFREDDY. There’s not one to be had for love or money.rnrnTHE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can’t have tried.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. It’s too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get onernourselves?rnrnFREDDY. I tell you they’re all engaged. The rain was so sudden: nobodyrnwas prepared; and everybody had to take a cab. I’ve been to CharingrnCross one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other; and they were allrnengaged.rnrnTHE MOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square?rnrnFREDDY. There wasn’t one at Trafalgar Square.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Did you try?rnrnFREDDY. I tried as far as Charing Cross Station. Did you expect me tornwalk to Hammersmith?rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. You haven’t tried at all.rnrnTHE MOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and don’trncome back until you have found a cab.rnrnFREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in thisrndraught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig—rnrnFREDDY. Oh, very well: I’ll go, I’ll go. [He opens his umbrella andrndashes off Strandwards, but comes into collision with a flower girl,rnwho is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. Arnblinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattling peal ofrnthunder, orchestrates the incident]rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh’ y’ gowin, deah.rnrnFREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing them inrnthe basket] There’s menners f’ yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod intornthe mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the column, sorting herrnflowers, on the lady’s right. She is not at all an attractive person.rnShe is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. She wears arnlittle sailor hat of black straw that has long been exposed to the dustrnand soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needsrnwashing rather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wearsrna shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped tornher waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots arernmuch the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as she can afford tornbe; but compared to the ladies she is very dirty. Her features are nornworse than theirs; but their condition leaves something to be desired;rnand she needs the services of a dentist].rnrnTHE MOTHER. How do you know that my son’s name is Freddy, pray?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y’ de-ootyrnbawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore gel’s flahrznrnthan ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f’them? [Here, withrnapologies, this desperate attempt to represent her dialect without arnphonetic alphabet must be abandoned as unintelligible outside London.]rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea!rnrnTHE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies?rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. No. I’ve nothing smaller than sixpence.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner, kindrnlady.rnrnTHE MOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly]. Now [tornthe girl] This is for your flowers.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Thank you kindly, lady.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Make her give you the change. These things are only arnpenny a bunch.rnrnTHE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can keep thernchange.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.rnrnTHE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman’s name.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. I didn’t.rnrnTHE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don’t try to deceive me.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who’s trying to deceive you? I called himrnFreddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you was talking to arnstranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside her basket].rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might havernspared Freddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the pillar].rnrnAn elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter,rnand closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight as Freddy,rnvery wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a lightrnovercoat. He takes the place left vacant by the daughter’s retirement.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. Phew!rnrnTHE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of itsrnstopping?rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. I’m afraid not. It started worse than ever about twornminutes ago. [He goes to the plinth beside the flower girl; puts up hisrnfoot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser ends].rnrnTHE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman’s proximityrnto establish friendly relations with him]. If it’s worse it’s a signrnit’s nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off a poorrngirl.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. I’m sorry, I haven’t any change.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain,rnrnTHE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I’ve nothing less.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can changernhalf-a-crown. Take this for tuppence.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. Now don’t be troublesome: there’s a good girl. [Tryingrnhis pockets] I really haven’t any change—Stop: here’s three hapence,rnif that’s any use to you [he retreats to the other pillar].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence better thanrnnothing] Thank you, sir.rnrnTHE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for it.rnThere’s a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word you’rernsaying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain’t done nothing wrong byrnspeaking to the gentleman. I’ve a right to sell flowers if I keep offrnthe kerb. [Hysterically] I’m a respectable girl: so help me, I neverrnspoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [General hubbub,rnmostly sympathetic to the flower girl, but deprecating her excessivernsensibility. Cries of Don’t start hollerin. Who’s hurting you? Nobody’srngoing to touch you. What’s the good of fussing? Steady on. Easy, easy,rnetc., come from the elderly staid spectators, who pat her comfortingly.rnLess patient ones bid her shut her head, or ask her roughly what isrnwrong with her. A remoter group, not knowing what the matter is, crowdrnin and increase the noise with question and answer: What’s the row?rnWhat she do? Where is he? A tec taking her down. What! him? Yes: himrnover there: Took money off the gentleman, etc. The flower girl,rndistraught and mobbed, breaks through them to the gentleman, cryingrnmildly] Oh, sir, don’t let him charge me. You dunno what it means tornme. They’ll take away my character and drive me on the streets forrnspeaking to gentlemen. They—rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding afterrnhim] There, there, there, there! Who’s hurting you, you silly girl?rnWhat do you take me for?rnrnTHE BYSTANDER. It’s all right: he’s a gentleman: look at his boots.[Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a copper’s nark, sir.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What’s a copper’s nark?rnrnTHE BYSTANDER [inept at definition] It’s a—well, it’s a copper’s nark,rnas you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of informer.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said arnword—rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut up. DornI look like a policeman?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down myrnwords for? How do I know whether you took me down right? You just showrnme what you’ve wrote about me. [The note taker opens his book and holdsrnit steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the mob trying tornread it over his shoulders would upset a weaker man]. What’s that? Thatrnain’t proper writing. I can’t read that.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation exactly]“Cheer ap, Keptin; n’ haw ya flahr orf a pore gel.”rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [much distressed] It’s because I called him Captain. Irnmeant no harm. [To the gentleman] Oh, sir, don’t let him lay a chargernagen me for a word like that. You—rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker] Really,rnsir, if you are a detective, you need not begin protecting me againstrnmolestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see that therngirl meant no harm.rnrnTHE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage]rnCourse they could. What business is it of yours? You mind your ownrnaffairs. He wants promotion, he does. Taking down people’s words! Girlrnnever said a word to him. What harm if she did? Nice thing a girl can’trnshelter from the rain without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [She isrnconducted by the more sympathetic demonstrators back to her plinth,rnwhere she resumes her seat and struggles with her emotion].rnrnTHE BYSTANDER. He ain’t a tec. He’s a blooming busybody: that’s what hernis. I tell you, look at his boots.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your peoplerndown at Selsey?rnrnTHE BYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from Selsey?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do you comernto be up so far east? You were born in Lisson Grove.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving LissonrnGrove? It wasn’t fit for a pig to live in; and I had to payrnfour-and-six a week. [In tears] Oh, boo—hoo—oo—rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Live where you like; but stop that noise.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he can’t touch you: you have arnright to live where you please.rnrnA SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker and therngentleman] Park Lane, for instance. I’d like to go into the HousingrnQuestion with you, I would.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her basket,rnand talking very low-spiritedly to herself] I’m a good girl, I am.rnrnTHE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where _I_rncome from?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton.rnrnTitterings. Popular interest in the note taker’s performance increases.rnrnTHE SARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didn’t? Bly me! You knowrneverything, you do.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Ain’t no call tornmeddle with me, he ain’t.rnrnTHE BYSTANDER [to her] Of course he ain’t. Don’t you stand it from him.[To the note taker] See here: what call have you to know about peoplernwhat never offered to meddle with you? Where’s your warrant?rnrnSEVERAL BYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes:rnwhere’s your warrant?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I don’t want to have norntruck with him.rnrnTHE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, don’t you? Catchrnyou taking liberties with a gentleman!rnrnTHE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell HIM where he come from if you wantrnto go fortune-telling.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the noterntaker’s favor. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him proper.rnHear him tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I ask, sir, dornyou do this for your living at a music hall?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. I’ve thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day.rnrnThe rain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd beginrnto drop off.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] He’s no gentleman, he ain’t,rnto interfere with a poor girl.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the front andrndisplacing the gentleman, who politely retires to the other side of thernpillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if I stayrnin this draught any longer.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her pronunciationrnof “monia”] Earlscourt.rnrnTHE DAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent remarksrnto yourself?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean to. I beg yourrnpardon. Your mother’s Epsom, unmistakeably.rnrnTHE MOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker] How veryrncurious! I was brought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a name!rnExcuse me. [To the daughter] You want a cab, do you?rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. Don’t dare speak to me.rnrnTHE MOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates her withrnan angry shrug and retires haughtily.] We should be so grateful to you,rnsir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker produces a whistle]. Oh,rnthank you. [She joins her daughter]. The note taker blows a piercingrnblast.rnrnTHE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a plain-clothes copper.rnrnTHE BYSTANDER. That ain’t a police whistle: that’s a sporting whistle.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings] He’s nornright to take away my character. My character is the same to me as anyrnlady’s.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed it; but the rainrnstopped about two minutes ago.rnrnTHE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn’t you say so before? and us losingrnour time listening to your silliness. [He walks off towards the Strand].rnrnTHE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come fromrnAnwell. Go back there.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [helpfully] _H_anwell.rnrnTHE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech] Thenkrnyou, teacher. Haw haw! So long [he touches his hat with mock respectrnand strolls off].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like itrnhimself.rnrnTHE MOTHER. It’s quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor bus.rnCome. [She gathers her skirts above her ankles and hurries off towardsrnthe Strand].rnrnTHE DAUGHTER. But the cab—[her mother is out of hearing]. Oh, howrntiresome! [She follows angrily].rnrnAll the rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and thernflower girl, who sits arranging her basket, and still pitying herselfrnin murmurs.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without beingrnworrited and chivied.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker’s left]rnHow do you do it, if I may ask?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That’s myrnprofession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living byrnhis hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. Irncan place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles inrnLondon. Sometimes within two streets.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward!rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts.rnMen begin in Kentish Town with 80 pounds a year, and end in Park Lanernwith a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but they givernthemselves away every time they open their mouths. Now I can teachrnthem—rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl—rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooingrninstantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I’ve a right to be here if Irnlike, same as you.rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgustingrnsounds has no right to be anywhere—no right to live. Remember that yournare a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech:rnthat your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton andrnThe Bible; and don’t sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingledrnwonder and deprecation without daring to raise her head]rnAh—ah—ah—ow—ow—oo!rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [Hernwrites; then holds out the book and reads, reproducing her vowelsrnexactly] Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—ow—oo!rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite ofrnherself] Garn!rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: thernEnglish that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well,rnsir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at anrnambassador’s garden party. I could even get her a place as lady’s maidrnor shop assistant, which requires better English. That’s the sort ofrnthing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I dorngenuine scientific work in phonetics, and a little as a poet onrnMiltonic lines.rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and—rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, thernauthor of Spoken Sanscrit?rnrnTHE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you?rnrnTHE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins’s Universal Alphabet.rnrnPICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you.rnrnHIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you.rnrnPICKERING. Where do you live?rnrnHIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow.rnrnPICKERING. I’m at the Carlton. Come with me now and let’s have a jawrnover some supper.rnrnHIGGINS. Right you are.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kindrngentleman. I’m short for my lodging.rnrnPICKERING. I really haven’t any change. I’m sorry [he goes away].rnrnHIGGINS [shocked at girl’s mendacity] Liar. You said you could changernhalf-a-crown.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed withrnnails, you ought. [Flinging the basket at his feet] Take the wholernblooming basket for sixpence.rnrnThe church clock strikes the second quarter.rnrnHIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaicrnwant of charity to the poor girl] A reminder. [He raises his hatrnsolemnly; then throws a handful of money into the basket and followsrnPickering].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah—ow—ooh! [Picking up arncouple of florins] Aaah—ow—ooh! [Picking up several coins]rnAaaaaah—ow—ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign]rnAasaaaaaaaaah—ow—ooh!!!rnrnFREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To therngirl] Where are the two ladies that were here?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped.rnrnFREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation!rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I’m goingrnhome in a taxi. [She sails off to the cab. The driver puts his handrnbehind him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quiternunderstanding his mistrust, she shows him her handful of money].rnEightpence ain’t no object to me, Charlie. [He grins and opens therndoor]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, round the corner of Micklejohn’s oilrnshop. Let’s see how fast you can make her hop it. [She gets in andrnpulls the door to with a slam as the taxicab starts].rnrnFREDDY. Well, I’m dashed!