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    Arms and The Man
    Arms and The Man
    Arms and The Man
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    Arms and The Man

    By George Bernard Shaw

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    Arms and the Man is a comedy by George Bernard Shaw, whose title comes from the opening words of Virgil's Aeneid in Latin: Arma virumque cano ("Arms and the man I sing"). The play was first produced on April 21, 1894 at the Avenue Theatre, and published in 1898 as part of Shaw's Plays Pleasant volume, which also included Candida, You Never Can Tell, and The Man of Destiny. The play was one of Shaw's first commercial successes. He was called onto stage after the curtain, where he received enthusiastic applause. However, amidst the cheers, one audience member booed. Shaw replied, in characteristic fashion, "My dear fellow, I quite agree with you, but what are we two against so many?" Arms and the Man is a humorous play which shows the futility of war and deals with the hypocrisies of human nature in a comedic fashion (font: Wikipedia)
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGeorge Bernard Shaw
    Release dateApr 7, 2016
    ISBN9788892590687
    Author

    George Bernard Shaw

    Bernard Shaw, acclaimed Irish playwright and Nobel laureate, has left an indelible mark on Western theater, culture, and politics. Over the course of his life, he wrote more than sixty plays that addressed prevailing social problems through comedy. Shaw was also a prolific essayist and lecturer on economics and sociological subjects, and was eventually awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for his work, marked by its use of stunning satire to encapsulate humanity.

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    • 5/5
      As always, Bernard Shaw captured my heart with his book, drawing me into a world of beautiful and detailed fiction. As soon as I picked it, I couldn’t put it down until I finished it.

    Book preview

    Arms and The Man - George Bernard Shaw

    Arms and the Man

    by

    George Bernard Shaw

    To the best of our knowledge, the text of this work is in the Public Domain in

    Australia.

    HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under

    copyright in the country from which you are downloading this work.

    It is your responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country

    before downloading this ebook.

    Act I

    Act II

    Act I

    Act I

    Night. A lady’s bedchamber in Bulgaria, in a small town near the Dragoman Pass. It is late in November in the year 1885, and through an open window with a little balcony on the left can be seen a peak of the Balkans, wonderfully white and beautiful in the starlit snow. The interior of the room is not like anything to be seen in the east of Europe. It is half rich Bulgarian, half cheap Viennese. The counterpane and hangings of the bed, the window curtains, the little carpet, and all the ornamental textile fabrics in the room are oriental and gorgeous: the paper on the walls is occidental and paltry. Above the head of the bed, which stands against a little wall cutting off the right hand corner of the room diagonally, is a painted wooden shrine, blue and gold, with an ivory image of Christ, and a light hanging before it in a pierced metal ball suspended by three chains. On the left, further forward, is an ottoman. The washstand, against the wall on the left, consists of an enamelled iron basin with a pail beneath it in a painted metal frame, and a single towel on the rail at the side. A chair near it is Austrian bent wood, with cane seat. The dressing table, between the bed and the window, is an ordinary pine table, covered with a cloth of many colors, but with an expensive toilet mirror on it. The door is on the right; and there is a chest of drawers between the door and the bed. This chest of drawers is also covered by a variegated native cloth, and on it there is a pile of paper backed novels, a box of chocolate creams, and a miniature easel, on which is a large photograph of an extremely handsome officer, whose lofty bearing and magnetic glance can be felt even from the portrait. The room is lighted by a candle on the chest of drawers, and another on the dressing table, with a box of matches beside it.

    The window is hinged doorwise and stands wide open, folding back to the left. Outside a pair of wooden shutters, opening outwards, also stand open. On the balcony, a young lady, intensely conscious of the romantic beauty of the night, and of the fact that her own youth and beauty is a part of it, is on the balcony, gazing at the snowy Balkans. She is covered by a long mantle of furs, worth, on a moderate estimate, about three times the furniture of her room.

    Her reverie is interrupted by her mother, Catherine Petkoff, a woman over forty, imperiously energetic, with magnificent black hair and eyes, who might be a very splendid specimen of the wife of a mountain farmer, but is determined to be a Viennese lady, and to that end wears a fashionable tea gown on all occasions.

    Catherine [entering hastily, full of good news]. Raina —[she pronounces it Rah-eena, with the stress on the ee] Raina —[she goes to the bed, expecting to find Raina there.] Why, where —[Raina looks into the room.] Heavens! child, are you out in the night air instead of in your bed? You’ll catch your death. Louka told me you were asleep.

    Raina [coming in]. I sent her away. I wanted to be alone. The stars are so beautiful! What is the matter?

    Catherine. Such news. There has been a battle!

    Raina [her eyes dilating]. Ah! [She throws the cloak on the ottoman, and comes eagerly to Catherine in her nightgown, a pretty garment, but evidently the only one she has on.]

    Catherine. A great battle at Slivnitza! A victory! And it was won by Sergius.

    Raina [with a cry of delight]. Ah! [Rapturously.] Oh, mother! [Then, with sudden anxiety] Is father safe?

    Catherine. Of course: he sent me the news. Sergius is the hero of the hour, the idol of the regiment.

    Raina. Tell me, tell me. How was it! [Ecstatically] Oh, mother, mother, mother! [Raina pulls her mother down on the ottoman; and they kiss one another frantically.]

    Catherine [with surging enthusiasm]. You can’t guess how splendid it is. A cavalry charge — think of that! He defied our Russian commanders — acted without orders — led a charge on his own responsibility — headed it himself — was the first man to sweep through their guns. Can’t you see it, Raina; our gallant splendid Bulgarians with their swords and eyes flashing, thundering down like an avalanche and scattering the wretched Servian dandies like chaff. And you — you kept Sergius waiting a year before you would be betrothed to him. Oh, if you have a drop of Bulgarian blood in your veins, you will worship him when he comes back.

    Raina. What will he care for my poor little worship after the acclamations of a whole army of heroes? But no matter: I am so happy — so proud! [She rises and walks about excitedly.] It proves that all our ideas were real after all.

    Catherine [indignantly]. Our ideas real! What do you mean?

    Raina. Our ideas of what Sergius would do — our patriotism — our heroic ideals. Oh, what faithless little creatures girls are! — I sometimes used to doubt whether they were anything but dreams. When I buckled on Sergius’s sword he looked so noble: it was treason to think of disillusion or humiliation or failure. And yet — and yet —[Quickly.] Promise me you’ll never tell him.

    Catherine. Don’t ask me for promises until I know what I am promising.

    Raina. Well, it came into my head just as he was holding me in his arms and looking into my eyes, that perhaps we only had our heroic ideas because we are so fond of reading Byron and Pushkin, and because we were so delighted with the opera that season at Bucharest. Real life is so seldom like that — indeed never, as far as I knew it then. [Remorsefully.] Only think, mother, I doubted him: I wondered whether all his heroic qualities and his soldiership might not prove mere imagination when he went into a real battle. I had an uneasy fear that he might cut a poor figure there beside all those clever Russian officers.

    Catherine. A poor figure! Shame on you! The Servians have Austrian officers who are just as clever as our Russians; but we have beaten them in every battle for all that.

    Raina [laughing and sitting down again]. Yes, I

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