HIGGINS. Of course I do, you little fool. Five minutes ago you were
like a millstone round my neck. Now you're 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?
LIZA. Quite. Is the Professor coming?
MRS. HIGGINS. Certainly not. He can't 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].
LIZA [disdainfully] Buy them yourself. [She sweeps out].
MRS. HIGGINS. I'm afraid you've spoiled that girl, Henry. But never
mind, dear: I'll buy you the tie and gloves.
HIGGINS [sunnily] Oh, don't 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.
***********************
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-makes 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.
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.