Arms and the Man | Page 6

The audience which demands the truth
and despises the contemptible conventions that dominate alike our
stage and our life is daily growing. Shaw and men like him--if indeed
he is not absolutely unique--will not for the future lack a hearing.
M.

ARMS AND THE MAN
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