I Shall Miss You, Eliza

Well, Eliza, you’ve 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?

You want me back only to pick up your slippers and put up with your tempers and fetch and carry for you.

I haven’t said I wanted you back at all.

Oh, indeed. Then what are we talking about?

About you, not about me. If you come back I shall treat you just as I have always treated you. I can’t change my nature; and I don’t intend to change my manners. My manners are exactly the same as Colonel Pickering’s.

That’s not true. He treats a flower girl as if she was a duchess.

And I treat a duchess as if she was a flower girl.

I see.

The same to everybody.

Just so.

Like father.

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.

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.

Amen. You are a born preacher.

The question is not whether I treat you rudely, but whether you ever heard me treat anyone else better.

I don’t care how you treat me. I don’t mind your swearing at me. I don’t mind a black eye: I’ve had one before this.

But I won’t be passed over.

Then get out of my way; for I won’t stop for you. You talk about me as if I were a motor bus.

So you are a motor bus: all bounce and go, and no consideration for anyone. But I can do without you: don’t think I can’t.

I know you can. I told you you could.

I know you did, you brute. You wanted to get rid of me.

Liar.

Thank you.

You never asked yourself, I suppose, whether I could do without YOU.

Don’t you try to get round me. You’ll HAVE to do without me.

I can do without anybody. I have my own soul: my own spark of divine fire.

But I shall miss you, Eliza.

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.

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.

I can’t turn your soul on. Leave me those feelings; and you can take away the voice and the face. They are not you.

Oh, you ARE 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 don’t care a bit for her. And you don’t care a bit for me.

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?

I won’t care for anybody that doesn’t care for me.

Commercial principles, Eliza. Like s’yollin voylets, isn’t it?

Don’t sneer at me. It’s mean to sneer at me.

I have never sneered in my life. Sneering doesn’t become either the human face or the human soul. I am expressing my righteous contempt for Commercialism. I don’t and won’t trade in affection.

You call me a brute because you couldn’t 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 YOUR 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 you’ll get nothing else. You’ve 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.

What did you do it for if you didn’t care for me?

Why, because it was my job.

You never thought of the trouble it would make for me.

Would the world ever have been made if its maker had been afraid of making trouble? Making life means making trouble. There’s only one way of escaping trouble; and that’s killing things. Cowards, you notice, are always shrieking to have troublesome people killed.

I’m no preacher: I don’t notice things like that. I notice that you don’t notice me.

Eliza: you’re 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.

What am I to come back for?

For the fun of it. That’s why I took you on.

And you may throw me out tomorrow if I don’t do everything you want me to?

Yes; and you may walk out tomorrow if I don’t do everything YOU want me to.

And live with my stepmother?

Yes, or sell flowers.

Oh! if I only COULD 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.

Not a bit. I’ll adopt you as my daughter and settle money on you if you like. Or would you rather marry Pickering?

I wouldn’t marry YOU if you asked me; and you’re nearer my age than what he is.

Than he is: not “than what he is.”

I’ll talk as I like. You’re not my teacher now.

I don’t suppose Pickering would, though. He’s as confirmed an old bachelor as I am.

That’s not what I want; and don’t you think it. I’ve always had chaps enough wanting me that way. Freddy Hill writes to me twice and three times a day, sheets and sheets.

Damn his impudence!

He has a right to if he likes, poor lad. And he does love me.

You have no right to encourage him.

Every girl has a right to be loved.

What! By fools like that?

Freddy’s not a fool. And if he’s weak and poor and wants me, may be he’d make me happier than my betters that bully me and don’t want me.

Can he MAKE anything of you? That’s the point.

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.

In short, you want me to be as infatuated about you as Freddy? Is that it?

No I don’t. That’s not the sort of feeling I want from you. And don’t you be too sure of yourself or of me. I could have been a bad girl if I’d liked. I’ve 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.

Of course they do. Then what in thunder are we quarrelling about?

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 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.

Well, of course. That’s just how I feel. And how Pickering feels. Eliza: you’re a fool.

That’s not a proper answer to give me.

It’s all you’ll get until you stop being a common idiot. If you’re going to be a lady, you’ll have to give up feeling neglected if the men you know don’t spend half their time snivelling over you and the other half giving you black eyes. If you can’t 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, don’t 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 can’t appreciate what you’ve got, you’d better get what you can appreciate.

Oh, you are a cruel tyrant. I can’t talk to you: you turn everything against me: I’m always in the wrong. But you know very well all the time that you’re nothing but a bully. You know I can’t 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 couldn’t 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 don’t 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 he’s able to support me.

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.

You think I like you to say that. But I haven’t forgot what you said a minute ago; and I won’t be coaxed round as if I was a baby or a puppy. If I can’t have kindness, I’ll have independence.