Act II

The yard of the West Ham shelter of the Salvation Army is a cold

place on a January morning. The building itself, an old

warehouse, is newly whitewashed. Its gabled end projects into the

yard in the middle, with a door on the ground floor, and another

in the loft above it without any balcony or ladder, but with a

pulley rigged over it for hoisting sacks. Those who come from

this central gable end into the yard have the gateway leading to

the street on their left, with a stone horse-trough just beyond

it, and, on the right, a penthouse shielding a table from the

weather. There are forms at the table; and on them are seated a

man and a woman, both much down on their luck, finishing a meal

of bread [one thick slice each, with margarine and golden syrup]

and diluted milk.

The man, a workman out of employment, is young, agile, a talker,

a poser, sharp enough to be capable of anything in reason except

honesty or altruistic considerations of any kind. The woman is a

commonplace old bundle of poverty and hard-worn humanity. She

looks sixty and probably is forty-five. If they were rich people,

gloved and muffed and well wrapped up in furs and overcoats, they

would be numbed and miserable; for it is a grindingly cold, raw,

January day; and a glance at the background of grimy warehouses

and leaden sky visible over the whitewashed walls of the yard

would drive any idle rich person straight to the Mediterranean.

But these two, being no more troubled with visions of the

Mediterranean than of the moon, and being compelled to keep more

of their clothes in the pawnshop, and less on their persons, in

winter than in summer, are not depressed by the cold: rather are

they stung into vivacity, to which their meal has just now given

an almost jolly turn. The man takes a pull at his mug, and then

gets up and moves about the yard with his hands deep in his

pockets, occasionally breaking into a stepdance.

THE WOMAN. Feel better otter your meal, sir?

THE MAN. No. Call that a meal! Good enough for you, props; but

wot is it to me, an intelligent workin man.

THE WOMAN. Workin man! Wot are you?

THE MAN. Painter.

THE WOMAN [sceptically] Yus, I dessay.

THE MAN. Yus, you dessay! I know. Every loafer that can't do

nothink calls isself a painter. Well, I'm a real painter:

grainer, finisher, thirty-eight bob a week when I can get it.

THE WOMAN. Then why don't you go and get it?

THE MAN. I'll tell you why. Fust: I'm intelligent—fffff! it's

rotten cold here [he dances a step or two]—yes: intelligent

beyond the station o life into which it has pleased the

capitalists to call me; and they don't like a man that sees

through em. Second, an intelligent bein needs a doo share of

appiness; so I drink somethink cruel when I get the chawnce.

Third, I stand by my class and do as little as I can so's to

leave arf the job for me fellow workers. Fourth, I'm fly enough

to know wots inside the law and wots outside it; and inside it I

do as the capitalists do: pinch wot I can lay me ands on. In a

proper state of society I am sober, industrious and honest: in

Rome, so to speak, I do as the Romans do. Wots the consequence?

When trade is bad—and it's rotten bad just now—and the

employers az to sack arf their men, they generally start on me.

THE WOMAN. What's your name?

THE MAN. Price. Bronterre O'Brien Price. Usually called Snobby

Price, for short.

THE WOMAN. Snobby's a carpenter, ain't it? You said you was a

painter.

PRICE. Not that kind of snob, but the genteel sort. I'm too

uppish, owing to my intelligence, and my father being a Chartist

and a reading, thinking man: a stationer, too. I'm none of your

common hewers of wood and drawers of water; and don't you forget

it. [He returns to his seat at the table, and takes up his mug].

Wots YOUR name?

THE WOMAN. Rummy Mitchens, sir.

PRICE [quaffing the remains of his milk to her] Your elth, Miss

Mitchens.

RUMMY [correcting him] Missis Mitchens.

PRICE. Wot! Oh Rummy, Rummy! Respectable married woman, Rummy,

gittin rescued by the Salvation Army by pretendin to be a bad un.

Same old game!

RUMMY. What am I to do? I can't starve. Them Salvation lasses is

dear good girls; but the better you are, the worse they likes to

think you were before they rescued you. Why shouldn't they av a

bit o credit, poor loves? They're worn to rags by their work. And

where would they get the money to rescue us if we was to let on

we're no worse than other people? You know what ladies and

gentlemen are.

PRICE. Thievin swine! Wish I ad their job, Rummy, all the same.

Wot does Rummy stand for? Pet name props?

RUMMY. Short for Romola.

PRICE. For wot!?

RUMMY. Romola. It was out of a new book. Somebody me mother

wanted me to grow up like.

PRICE. We're companions in misfortune, Rummy. Both on us got

names that nobody cawnt pronounce. Consequently I'm Snobby and

you're Rummy because Bill and Sally wasn't good enough for our

parents. Such is life!

RUMMY. Who saved you, Mr. Price? Was it Major Barbara?

PRICE. No: I come here on my own. I'm goin to be Bronterre

O'Brien Price, the converted painter. I know wot they like. I'll

tell em how I blasphemed and gambled and wopped my poor old

mother—

RUMMY [shocked] Used you to beat your mother?

PRICE. Not likely. She used to beat me. No matter: you come and

listen to the converted painter, and you'll hear how she was a

pious woman that taught me me prayers at er knee, an how I used

to come home drunk and drag her out o bed be er snow white airs,

an lam into er with the poker.

RUMMY. That's what's so unfair to us women. Your confessions is

just as big lies as ours: you don't tell what you really done no

more than us; but you men can tell your lies right out at the

meetins and be made much of for it; while the sort o confessions

we az to make az to be wispered to one lady at a time. It ain't

right, spite of all their piety.

PRICE. Right! Do you spose the Army'd be allowed if it went and

did right? Not much. It combs our air and makes us good little

blokes to be robbed and put upon. But I'll play the game as good

as any of em. I'll see somebody struck by lightnin, or hear a

voice sayin "Snobby Price: where will you spend eternity?" I'll

ave a time of it, I tell you.

RUMMY. You won't be let drink, though.

PRICE. I'll take it out in gorspellin, then. I don't want to

drink if I can get fun enough any other way.

Jenny Hill, a pale, overwrought, pretty Salvation lass of 18,

comes in through the yard gate, leading Peter Shirley, a half

hardened, half worn-out elderly man, weak with hunger.

JENNY [supporting him] Come! pluck up. I'll get you something to

eat. You'll be all right then.

PRICE [rising and hurrying officiously to take the old man off

Jenny's hands] Poor old man! Cheer up, brother: you'll find rest

and peace and appiness ere. Hurry up with the food, miss: e's

fair done. [Jenny hurries into the shelter]. Ere, buck up, daddy!

She's fetchin y'a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o

skyblue. [He seats him at the corner of the table].

RUMMY [gaily] Keep up your old art! Never say die!

SHIRLEY. I'm not an old man. I'm ony 46. I'm as good as ever I

was. The grey patch come in my hair before I was thirty. All it

wants is three pennorth o hair dye: am I to be turned on the

streets to starve for it? Holy God! I've worked ten to twelve

hours a day since I was thirteen, and paid my way all through;

and now am I to be thrown into the gutter and my job given to a

young man that can do it no better than me because I've black

hair that goes white at the first change?

PRICE [cheerfully] No good jawrin about it. You're ony a

jumped-up, jerked-off, orspittle-turned-out incurable of an ole

workin man: who cares about you? Eh? Make the thievin swine give

you a meal: they've stole many a one from you. Get a bit o your

own back. [Jenny returns with the usual meal]. There you are,

brother. Awsk a blessin an tuck that into you.

SHIRLEY [looking at it ravenously but not touching it, and crying

like a child] I never took anything before.

JENNY [petting him] Come, come! the Lord sends it to you: he

wasn't above taking bread from his friends; and why should you

be? Besides, when we find you a job you can pay us for it if you

like.

SHIRLEY [eagerly] Yes, yes: that's true. I can pay you back: it's

only a loan. [Shivering] Oh Lord! oh Lord! [He turns to the table

and attacks the meal ravenously].

JENNY. Well, Rummy, are you more comfortable now?

RUMMY. God bless you, lovey! You've fed my body and saved my

soul, haven't you? [Jenny, touched, kisses her] Sit down and rest

a bit: you must be ready to drop.

JENNY. I've been going hard since morning. But there's more work

than we can do. I mustn't stop.

RUMMY. Try a prayer for just two minutes. You'll work all the

better after.

JENNY [her eyes lighting up] Oh isn't it wonderful how a few

minutes prayer revives you! I was quite lightheaded at twelve

o'clock, I was so tired; but Major Barbara just sent me to pray

for five minutes; and I was able to go on as if I had only just

begun. [To Price] Did you have a piece of bread?

PAIGE [with unction] Yes, miss; but I've got the piece that I

value more; and that's the peace that passeth hall hannerstennin.

RUMMY [fervently] Glory Hallelujah!

Bill Walker, a rough customer of about 25, appears at the yard

gate and looks malevolently at Jenny.

JENNY. That makes me so happy. When you say that, I feel wicked

for loitering here. I must get to work again.

She is hurrying to the shelter, when the new-comer moves quickly

up to the door and intercepts her. His manner is so threatening

that she retreats as he comes at her truculently, driving her

down the yard.

BILL. I know you. You're the one that took away my girl. You're

the one that set er agen me. Well, I'm goin to av er out. Not

that I care a curse for her or you: see? But I'll let er know;

and I'll let you know. I'm goin to give er a doin that'll teach

er to cut away from me. Now in with you and tell er to come out

afore I come in and kick er out. Tell er Bill Walker wants er.

She'll know what that means; and if she keeps me waitin it'll be

worse. You stop to jaw back at me; and I'll start on you: d'ye

hear? There's your way. In you go. [He takes her by the arm and

slings her towards the door of the shelter. She falls on her hand

and knee. Rummy helps her up again].

PRICE [rising, and venturing irresolutely towards Bill]. Easy

there, mate. She ain't doin you no arm.

BILL. Who are you callin mate? [Standing over him threateningly].

You're goin to stand up for her, are you? Put up your ands.

RUMMY [running indignantly to him to scold him]. Oh, you great

brute—[He instantly swings his left hand back against her

face. She screams and reels back to the trough, where she

sits down, covering her bruised face with her hands and rocking

and moaning with pain].

JENNY [going to her]. Oh God forgive you! How could you strike an

old woman like that?

BILL [seizing her by the hair so violently that she also screams,

and tearing her away from the old woman]. You Gawd forgive me

again and I'll Gawd forgive you one on the jaw that'll stop you

prayin for a week. [Holding her and turning fiercely on Price].

Av you anything to say agen it? Eh?

PRICE [intimidated]. No, matey: she ain't anything to do with me.

BILL. Good job for you! I'd put two meals into you and fight you

with one finger after, you starved cur. [To Jenny] Now are you

goin to fetch out Mog Habbijam; or am I to knock your face off

you and fetch her myself?

JENNY [writhing in his grasp] Oh please someone go in and tell

Major Barbara—[she screams again as he wrenches her head down;

and Price and Rummy, flee into the shelter].

BILL. You want to go in and tell your Major of me, do you?

JENNY. Oh please don't drag my hair. Let me go.

BILL. Do you or don't you? [She stifles a scream]. Yes or no.

JENNY. God give me strength—

BILL [striking her with his fist in the face] Go and show her

that, and tell her if she wants one like it to come and interfere

with me. [Jenny, crying with pain, goes into the shed. He goes to

the form and addresses the old man]. Here: finish your mess; and

get out o my way.

SHIRLEY [springing up and facing him fiercely, with the mug in

his hand] You take a liberty with me, and I'll smash you over the

face with the mug and cut your eye out. Ain't you satisfied—

young whelps like you—with takin the bread out o the mouths of

your elders that have brought you up and slaved for you, but you

must come shovin and cheekin and bullyin in here, where the bread

o charity is sickenin in our stummicks?

BILL [contemptuously, but backing a little] Wot good are you, you

old palsy mug? Wot good are you?

SHIRLEY. As good as you and better. I'll do a day's work agen you

or any fat young soaker of your age. Go and take my job at

Horrockses, where I worked for ten year. They want young men

there: they can't afford to keep men over forty-five. They're

very sorry—give you a character and happy to help you to get

anything suited to your years—sure a steady man won't be long

out of a job. Well, let em try you. They'll find the differ. What

do you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself—layin your

dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman!

BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear?

SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to

hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen

you hit a young one yet.

BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a

young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not?

SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a

crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's

brother?

BILL. Who's he?

SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off

the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes

4 seconds agen him.

BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box?

SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't.

BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening

him]?

SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I

put him on to you? Say the word.

BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive,

if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a

perfessional.

SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box!

Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the

sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it,

you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the

jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she

wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if

he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's

feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the

table to finish his meal].

BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in]

You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here

to beg.

SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old

pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it

yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a

teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the

mornin!

BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give

my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me:

see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted

o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in

there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter

door].

SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely;

and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they

get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the

Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter.

BILL [checked] Garn!

SHIRLEY. You'll see.

BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er.

SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you?

BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse]

Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them

people can do! I'm as good as er.

SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do.

Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a

note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits

down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them.

BARBARA. Good morning.

SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss.

BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she

puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now

then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all

about you. Names and addresses and trades.

SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago

because I was too old.

BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you

dye your hair?

SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me

daughter.

BARBARA. Steady?

SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And

sent to the knockers like an old horse!

BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his.

SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody

but myself.

BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist?

SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it?

BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think.

Our Father—yours and mine—fulfils himself in many ways; and I

daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of

you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man

like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him

to Bill]. What's your name?

BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you?

BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any

trade?

BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of

heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord

Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She

waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker.

BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how]

Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny

Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her

note book].

BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me?

BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip.

BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid

o you.

BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're

a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here;

but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for

fear of her father in heaven.

BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you

think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here.

Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't

believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself.

BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing

with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr.

Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out.

BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you

let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book?

BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down

your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's

your trade?

BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours.

BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as

[writing] the man who—struck—poor little Jenny Hill—in the

mouth.

BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this.

BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for?

BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and

to break er jaws for her.

BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade.

[Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his

great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down

again suddenly]. What's her name?

BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is.

BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there.

BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she?

[Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses

to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you

lyin to me to get shut o me?

BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here

and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad

time today, Bill.

BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props.

BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad

afterwards.

BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o

your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if

I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you,

selp me Gawd if I don't!

BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's

got another bloke.

BILL. Wot!

BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when

he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair

washed.

BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's

red.

BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in

her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has

put your nose out of joint, Bill.

BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a

curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I

was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz

bleedin name?

BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile.

SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to

see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over.

BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was

speakin on?

SHIRLEY. That's him.

BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all?

SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth

nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so

he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to.

He'll be glad to see you. Come along.

BILL. Wots is weight?

SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires].

BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you.

SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato.

BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of

ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down

moodily on the edge of the horse trough].

SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat].

BARBARA [calling] Jenny!

JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner

of her mouth] Yes, Major.

BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here.

JENNY. I think she's afraid.

BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment]

Nonsense! she must do as she's told.

JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must

come.

Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill,

lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice.

BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the

wounded cheek] Does it hurt?

JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing.

BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect.

Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you?

JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor

heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the

shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and

alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from

the shelter].

BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those

mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the

birds.

Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his

mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it.

RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good

bread on birds.

PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the

shelter, Major. Says he's your father.

BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter,

followed by Barbara].

RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued

voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you

flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no

gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things

moving in him, takes no notice].

SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself

into more trouble by talking.

RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced

to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the

plates].

BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me

alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet,

anyway.

SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime

company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to

go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on

her right].

BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my

father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll

be able to comfort one another.

UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world:

on the contrary, a confirmed mystic.

BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your

religion—in case I have to introduce you again?

UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That

is my religion.

BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to

comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you,

Peter?

SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it.

UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be

proud of.

SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like.

What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your

conscience, not for all your income.

UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your

conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down

on a form].

BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You

wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go

into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're

worked off our feet.

SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I?

BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of

them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is

rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and

give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the

shelter].

SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to

use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on

Secularism.

Barbara turns to her father.

UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let

me watch it for a while.

BARBARA. All right.

UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient

over there?

BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and

whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall

cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and

waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again,

uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on

Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill?

BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I

never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my

mind?

BARBARA. Only your new friend.

BILL. Wot new friend?

BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get

miserable, just like you.

HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care

cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and

stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent].

BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we

do?

BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I

tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I

ain't smashed your face, av I?

BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at

you, Bill.

BILL. Who else is it?

BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces,

I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you.

BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a

man? Who sez I'm not a man?

BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did

he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of

him, was it?

BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick

of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face.

BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep

coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted,

are you?

BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf.

BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your

strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he

wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he

ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the

Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his

salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll

escape that. You haven't any heart, have you?

BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody

else?

BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little

Jenny's face, would he?

BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered

to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk

this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes].

BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle

voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you,

Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with

us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and

eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down].

Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp,

escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters

from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let

me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my

bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick].

BILL. Goin to marry im?

BARBARA. Yes.

BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im!

BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me?

BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it

for a lifetime.

CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't

tear myself away from her.

BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin

to, and wot I'm goin to do?

BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here

before the week's out to tell me so.

BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger

Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me

own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me

ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that

fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know.

BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill.

BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I

ast the genlmn.

CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes:

I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek

would have done.

BARBARA. But what good will it do?

CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will

satisfy Mr Walker's soul.

BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell

wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it.

BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it.

BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took

the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd

feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop

er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression]

Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through

the gate].

CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder!

BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner].

CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you.

If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young.

BARBARA. Should you mind?

CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over

the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss

over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs].

BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly:

explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into

the shelter].

Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves.

Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks

hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him.

UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr

Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of

beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But

suppose Barbara finds you out!

CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I

am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army.

The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the

curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way,

have you any religion?

UNDERSHAFT. Yes.

CUSINS. Anything out of the common?

UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to

Salvation.

CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism.

Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church.

UNDERSHAFT. The two things are—

CUSINS. Baptism and—

UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder.

CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of

our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess

it.

UNDERSHAFT. Just so.

CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor,

justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth?

UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich,

strong, and safe life.

CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or

gunpowder?

UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of

both you cannot afford the others.

CUSINS. That is your religion?

UNDERSHAFT. Yes.

The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation.

Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft.

Undershaft contemplates him.

CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between

your religion and Barbara.

UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that

drum of yours is hollow.

CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere

Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the

army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and

remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it

marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and

dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by

its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house

and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back

kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and

daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek,

the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from

his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals

the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public

street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the

drum].

UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter.

CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of

piety. However, if the drum worries you—[he pockets the

drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground

opposite the gateway].

UNDERSHAFT. Thank you.

CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and

gunpowder?

UNDERSHAFT. No.

CUSINS [declaiming]

One and another

In money and guns may outpass his brother;

And men in their millions float and flow

And seethe with a million hopes as leaven;

And they win their will; or they miss their will;

And their hopes are dead or are pined for still:

But whoe'er can know

As the long days go

That to live is happy, has found his heaven.

My translation: what do you think of it?

UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know,

as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first

acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be

your own master.

CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his

declamation].

Is it so hard a thing to see

That the spirit of God—whate'er it be—

The Law that abides and changes not, ages long,

The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong.

What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor,

Or God's high grace so lovely and so great?

To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait?

To hold a hand uplifted over Fate?

And shall not Barbara be loved for ever?

UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he?

CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness.

UNDERSHAFT. May I ask—as Barbara's father—how much a year she

is to be loved for ever on?

CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine.

I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all.

UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her?

CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a