Arms and the Man, George Bernard Shaw [comprehension books txt] 📗

the shutters so that I can just close them if I hear any noise. Catherine Authoritatively, turning on her way to the door. Oh, no, dear, you must keep them fastened. You would be sure to drop off to sleep and leave them open. Make them fast, Louka. Louka Yes, madam. She fastens them. Raina Don’t be anxious about me. The moment I hear a shot, I shall blow out the candles and roll myself up in bed with my ears well covered. Catherine Quite the wisest thing you can do, my love. Good night. Raina Good night. They kiss one another, and Raina’s emotion comes back for a moment. Wish me joy of the happiest night of my life⁠—if only there are no fugitives. Catherine Go to bed, dear; and don’t think of them. She goes out. Louka Secretly, to Raina. If you would like the shutters open, just give them a push like this. She pushes them: they open: she pulls them to again. One of them ought to be bolted at the bottom; but the bolt’s gone. Raina With dignity, reproving her. Thanks, Louka; but we must do what we are told. Louka makes a grimace. Good night. Louka Carelessly. Good night. She goes out, swaggering. Raina, left alone, goes to the chest of drawers, and adores the portrait there with feelings that are beyond all expression. She does not kiss it or press it to her breast, or show it any mark of bodily affection; but she takes it in her hands and elevates it like a priestess. Raina Looking up at the picture with worship. Oh, I shall never be unworthy of you any more, my hero⁠—never, never, never. She replaces it reverently, and selects a novel from the little pile of books. She turns over the leaves dreamily; finds her page; turns the book inside out at it; and then, with a happy sigh, gets into bed and prepares to read herself to sleep. But before abandoning herself to fiction, she raises her eyes once more, thinking of the blessed reality and murmurs. My hero! my hero! A distant shot breaks the quiet of the night outside. She starts, listening; and two more shots, much nearer, follow, startling her so that she scrambles out of bed, and hastily blows out the candle on the chest of drawers. Then, putting her fingers in her ears, she runs to the dressing-table and blows out the light there, and hurries back to bed. The room is now in darkness: nothing is visible but the glimmer of the light in the pierced ball before the image, and the starlight seen through the slits at the top of the shutters. The firing breaks out again: there is a startling fusillade quite close at hand. Whilst it is still echoing, the shutters disappear, pulled open from without, and for an instant the rectangle of snowy starlight flashes out with the figure of a man in black upon it. The shutters close immediately and the room is dark again. But the silence is now broken by the sound of panting. Then there is a scrape; and the flame of a match is seen in the middle of the room. Raina Crouching on the bed. Who’s there? The match is out instantly. Who’s there? Who is that? A man’s voice In the darkness, subduedly, but threateningly. Sh⁠—sh! Don’t call out or you’ll be shot. Be good; and no harm will happen to you. She is heard leaving her bed, and making for the door. Take care, there’s no use in trying to run away. Remember, if you raise your voice my pistol will go off. Commandingly. Strike a light and let me see you. Do you hear? Another moment of silence and darkness. Then she is heard retreating to the dressing-table. She lights a candle, and the mystery is at an end. A man of about 35, in a deplorable plight, bespattered with mud and blood and snow, his belt and the strap of his revolver case keeping together the torn ruins of the blue coat of a Serbian artillery officer. As far as the candlelight and his unwashed, unkempt condition make it possible to judge, he is a man of middling stature and undistinguished appearance, with strong neck and shoulders, a roundish, obstinate looking head covered with short crisp bronze curls, clear quick blue eyes and good brows and mouth, a hopelessly prosaic nose like that of a strong-minded baby, trim soldierlike carriage and energetic manner, and with all his wits about him in spite of his desperate predicament⁠—even with a sense of humor of it, without, however, the least intention of trifling with it or throwing away a chance. He reckons up what he can guess about Raina⁠—her age, her social position, her character, the extent to which she is frightened⁠—at a glance, and continues, more politely but still most determinedly. Excuse my disturbing you; but you recognise my uniform⁠—Serbian. If I’m caught I shall be killed. Determinedly. Do you understand that? Raina Yes. Man Well, I don’t intend to get killed if I can help it. Still more determinedly. Do you understand that? He locks the door with a snap. Raina Disdainfully. I suppose not. She draws herself up superbly, and looks him straight in the face, saying with emphasis. Some soldiers, I know, are afraid of death. Man With grim goodhumor. All of them, dear lady, all of them, believe me. It is our duty to live as long as we can, and kill as many of the enemy as we can. Now if you raise an alarm⁠— Raina Cutting him short. You will shoot me. How do you know that I am afraid to die? Man Cunningly. Ah; but suppose I don’t shoot you, what will happen then? Why, a lot of your cavalry⁠—the greatest blackguards in your army⁠—will burst into this