The origin of the idea for Lerner and Loewe to undertake a
musical play based on George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion
been retold many times, with some variation. Apparently, promoter Gabriel
Pascal, who owned the rights to musical versions of Shaw’s plays, tried to
interest a number of composer-lyricists in the task of converting Pygmalion. Rodgers and Hammerstein are
said to have turned the opportunity down, feeling that Shaw’s play is not a
romance – romance being the essential foundation in their conception of a Broadway
musical. According to Lerner, when he and Loewe were first offered the play,
they were skeptical of the ability to musicalize Pygmalion because of the lack of a subplot. After further reflection,
however, the pair decided to tackle the task because “times had changed”; a
subplot was not required because of perceived evolution in the stage musical
over the previous few years, or so Lerner says.
As far as Hammerstein’s apocryphal reservation is concerned,
it is quite clear that Lerner and Loewe interpreted the play as intrinsically
romantic, no matter how vehemently Shaw had claimed it was not. Their
interpretation of Pygmalion is not without
in independent support, I recall reading a high school anthology (my first
encounter with Pygmalion) edited by J.
B. Priestly, in which he describes Shaw as “anti-romantic” since the character
of Eliza certainly falls in love with Higgins, whether Shaw, her ultimate “creator”
acknowledged the fact or not. Maybe GBS was pulling every one’s leg, including
that extremely small (future) Shavian minority who disdain My Fair Lady because of its failure to adhere to its hero-author’s extra-textual
assertions. Or, perhaps that which occurs in a play such as Pygmalion extends beyond the intent of
its author, taking on a life of its own.
And, is there actually no subplot in either Pygmalion or My Fair Lady? Further, is Pygmalion
like its offspring, itself a romance? I believe the answers to both questions
are related, particularly insofar as the individual audience member is
concerned; never mind George Bernard Shaw.
Applying the concept of the inner experience of the onstage
story, the play becomes a whole with discrete but related parts. Henry Higgins
and Eliza Doolittle and Alfred Doolittle and Mrs. Higgins and Freddie and
Pickering all are part of the seated individual in the audience. What is My Fair Lady about: Eliza or Higgins? Certainly
it is Eliza who seems to experience the most profound external change. Her
speech, manner, appearance: all are transformed. But, looking more closely,
consider what has happened to her character: there does not seem to be that
much of a difference between the dirty flower girl who saucily asks Higgins to
teach her to speak correctly and the defiant woman who tells him to “go to
Hertford, Hereford ,
and Hampshire”. Higgins’ claim that he has made a woman of Eliza is baldly wrong.
She is still very much her own person, much more refined, self-assured, and attractive,
but still herself. Perhaps the one profound change that has occurred in her is her
willingness to forgive, Lerner’s most explicit addition to Shaw’s tale, else how
could she possibly return to Henry?
And, what do we make of Henry Higgins? Virtually nothing
external of the “professor” has changed from the beginning of the play to the
end, except that he has not only allowed a woman into his home (besides the
servants and the American heiresses), he has unwittingly allowed a woman into
his life. Early on, it is clear that Eliza would welcome a man into her life,
his head resting on her knee. But never would Henry permit a woman into his. It
is the male lead who experiences the most unsettling transformation in both
plays, in that he is forced to confront his profound self-deception. Shortly
thereafter, Lerner salves Higgins’ self-inflicted wound with Eliza’s return.
Is Eliza Galatea to Higgins’ Pygmalion or is Higgins really
both mythical characters? The task of transforming Eliza is perhaps better viewed
as an unconscious effort at Higgins’ own re-creation. The struggle to realize
one’s, internal maturation and integration can often express itself in our relationships
with others, as we project our unconscious on them. Higgins is a master
projector, particularly when we look closely at his own self-image. Of the
principal characters, the professor is most repulsed by Eliza: “Look at her,” he
says, “a prisoner...” Eliza is not the only prisoner here; in his disdain for
the flower girl, Higgins is expressing a kind of self-description for that
which is within and of which he is virtually and completely unaware. The lack
of self-knowledge displayed by Professor Henry Higgins is nowhere more clearly
shown than in his two “hymns”: “An ordinary man” and “Why can’t a woman”. There
is, of course, Higgins’ own self-directed and aware irony in calling himself “ordinary”,
he clearly realizes his own brilliance and uniqueness: “Let the others of my sex”
get married; he will “never let a woman in”.
What of the “missing subplot”? There is the pitiful Freddie
(completing, with Higgins, a most peculiar triangle). And, there is the
appalling Alfred Doolittle. Higgins aptly and accurately describes the idea of
Eliza’s possible marriage to Freddie as “infantile”. As enamored as Freddie is
of Eliza, it is clear that his “Miss Doolittle” is an illusion. He would rather
“drink in” the street where she lives, encouraging the maid to tell Eliza not
to rush. And, Eliza eventually sees through Freddie, too (according to Lerner,
if not Shaw); all he wants to do is sing (“talk”) and fantasize, not relate to
her as a person. Eliza realizes that Freddie is no better than Higgins. In a
sense, Freddie’s Galatea is stranded on the pedestal.
Isn’t Freddie really a kind of shallow, mushy complement to
Higgins? Freddie no more wants a real woman in his life than does the good
professor. Both have a fantasy view of the feminine. In his relative maturity,
Henry sees women as manipulative and irrational. The idea of relationship is alien.
His intellectual and masculine “superiority” fail to recognize anything of
value in any woman, except, perhaps, to maintain his household. Freddie’s worship
of femininity, whether lower class or elevated Eliza, places women at a
distance. Eliza and Freddie never really communicate. And for virtually all of My Fair Lady, Eliza and Higgins fail to
establish conscious communication, although both seem to try in their own ways.
Is there anything more absent from Higgins that the romanticism
of a Freddie? For, even if he expressed even a glimmer of infatuation for Eliza
or any woman, would not he still keep himself distant? In his initial “hymn”,
his self-described “ordinariness” is accompanied by the infernce that he lacks
the ability to relate to a woman. He has had to deal with “social-climbing heiresses”
from the Colonies and finds it necessary to deal with them crudely and
insensitively. It is clear that Eliza is not the first woman of any status to
be treated so badly; the romanticism of a Freddie would only encourage them; better
to wear the hostile facade of the misogynist than to risk entanglement with “irrational,
mutton-headed hags”.
Could a romantic Freddie lay dormant deep within Higgins,
suppressed and imprisoned for fear of the master losing control? Freddie
doesn’t care what other people think. Presumably, Higgins doesn’t either, but
woe to the man who is perceived by others as weak. Better to be in control of
every situation and to be the omnipotent one.
The typical masculine inclination is to be “in-charge”. Where
that is not possible, the male wants to know precisely who is in charge and what
the limits of authority are, so that he can be master of at least a small part
of his fate. In Freddie’s fantasy world (which is the only realm he controls),
there are no constraints, but in the real world he is incompetent; he is unable
to find a taxicab after the theater, and is dominated by his mother and sister
(although the latter appears only in Pygmalion).
Higgins’ relationship with his mother is equally unsatisfactory, as, rightly, her
view of him is not as an adult male. Both Mrs. Eynesford-Hill and Mrs. Higgins presumably
want their sons to grow up, but neither has had much success.
Combine Higgins and Freddie, and the result would probably
still be grotesquely unsatisfactory. Not only are there direct incompatibilities
and contradictions in their characters, something is still missing. Enter
Alfred Doolittle. Higgins claims to like Eliza’s father. Is that because he
sees a kind of soul-mate? Is not Doolittle as much an “ordinary” man as Higgins?
“With a little bit” is as unrealistic and deceptive as the self-image of an “ordinary
man.” Doolittle, who sees himself as a “do-little”, indeed, pretends to be
utterly depraved and dissolute; but he still maintains a puzzling paternal
relationship with his daughter, who is presumably illegitimate. Who heard of a
stereotypical ne’er-do-well who acknowledges his paternity? And where is Eliza’s
mother? This is a curious plot element.
Explicitly, Doolittle has relationships with women well beyond
the apparent experience of Higgins or Freddie. But unlike Henry, Doolittle
seems to be unaffected by them, except that he is apparently faithful, after a
fashion, to his daughter and his paramour.
Higgins rationalizes his life in a way analogous to Doolittle’s;
no wonder he likes the old man. But, the professor cannot leave well enough
alone, and, as with the daughter, Higgins intervenes in Doolittle’s life, putting
him in touch with an American heiress who munificently endows the dustman with
a financial foundation and the obligation to become a professional moralist.
Higgins, by his conscious meddling in the lives of Eliza and
Alfred, unconsciously begins to effect change in himself as well. As Eliza
begins to grow in the mold Higgins has crafted (a mold which is really not that
different from Eliza herself), Higgins is reshaped as well (and far more drastically).
New attitudes, unwelcome emotions, and recognition of a degree of less
independence than previously thought all begin to emerge from within Henry, in
spite of himself.
There is a secondary meaning to “ordinary”, in addition to a
“self-description” as typical, average man-on-t he-street, “ordinary” can also
imply “responsible,” “in-charge,” or “controlled”. Like Pygmalion, Higgins believes he is entirely responsible for the
education of Eliza. Thus he takes (unconvincing) credit for even her mature,
self-assured rejection of her former professor. But, unlike sculpture crafted
by the Greek hero, Eliza was also being affected by Pickering , Mrs. Pierce, and even Freddie. It is
the housekeeper and the Colonel who acquaint Eliza with Edwardian culture from
the inside, not Higgins. When Henry claims to have made a woman of Eliza, his
self-deception reaches its apogee. Eliza has learned how to be in relationship
with equals of all strata without relying on guile or deception. What has
Higgins learned? Quite a lot! For the repressed and denied Freddie inside of
Higgins finally emerges, as Henry faces the bald cold reality of his affection
for Eliza. She has stirred something within him. Disoriented and irrational, he
rants and raves in a complex of sentimentality, anger, wistfulness, bitter rage,
bargaining, and despair. Higgins is no longer ordinary, average, typical, or in
control of the sea and sky, the tides and seasons.
The cryptic adventures of Alfred Doolittle are highlighted
to the extent that they provide comic relief, yes, but also insofar as they
illuminate the change going on inside Higgins. Doolittle recognizes that his
world is changed by his “unwelcome” affluence. And, he must respond by marrying
his hidden woman. He must acknowledge her and make of them both “honest people”.
And, there is bitterness in Doolittle’s “involuntary” change, expressed in Shaw’s
Fabian socialist vocabulary, deriding middle-class mores and facades which must
now be assumed by the ex-dustman.
DoolittIe’s marriage foreshadows Higgins’ necessary acknowledgment
of his inner feminine, romantic self. In Alan Lerner’s defense, the marriage in
the morning prophesies the transformed relationship of Eliza and Henry; their
marriage presumable comes shortly after the curtain falls (the time of My Fair Lady is Edwardian England, and
the time of Lerner and Loewe is the late Forties to mid-Fifties; in neither
time were publicly acknowledged live-in relationships without marriage socially
acceptable).
For the male in the audience, Higgins is a caricature, but a
man in whom one can recognize himself: Self-controlled and ordinary master of
his fate (however illusory), in fear of or in denial of relationship with the
feminine. The truthfulness of Eliza, who is never dishonest, contrasts with the
deceptive male ego, which cannot trust another, nor make the humble but risky investment
in real relationship.
Higgins, who consciously separates himself from women (except
to survive on the means which they provide), Freddie who idealizes the feminine,
and Doolittle who explicitly uses them for whatever is convenient, are – none
of them – the best representatives of the male sex. Only by integration of
responsibility, imagination, eros, and trust, and by relaxation of control does
the male begin to approach balance with that which is hidden beneath the
surface, so as to produce a marriage of the opposites.
My Fair Lady-Pygmalion
is not real, so the debate about which ending is correct is a bit sterile. However,
as a symbol of the maturation-individuation of the individual, Pygmalion is more realistic in the sense
that failed opportunities (denied relationships) seem to be far more common in
affluent Western life that the ideal fulfillment postulated by Lerner. My Fair Lady represents the romantic and
spiritual ideal, however rocky the road to married life of a Henry Higgins and
Eliza Doolittle would be.
For the femaIe in the audience, recognition of the true nature
of the play probably comes easier than for the male. Women recognize Higgins,
Freddie, and Doolittle, although the recognition may be born more from experience
than nature. The extent to which a primitive attraction for any of the three is
experienced may well be symbolic of that unconscious masculine within the woman
which as not yet been realized. Each of the three types can deceive, just as
Eliza was initially misled into believing that the conscious Higgins really
cared. As she saw her desires for culture, and gentility (really relationship with
her “betters”) being realized, she attributes to Higgins total responsibility
for her growth and success. Her awakening is to awareness of his profound
conscious shortcomings and her own inner strength and potential independence.
As she tells him of her discovery ("Without you"), the cynical young
flower-girl is revealed as a realistic and balanced woman, not that far removed
from her roots. She has become fully capable of balancing her desires for relationship
with a realistic understanding and ability to tap traditionally masculine qualities
within herself, not the least of which is her self-sufficiency.
Higgins’ gruesome fantasy of Eliza and Freddie starving in a
flat overlooks the fact that even in her flower-girl days, Eliza was surviving.
No, Eliza would not fail, although a marriage with Freddie would be beneath
her, unless Freddie were to grow up.
Fortunately for Eliza (and more so for Higgins), Henry begins
to grow up first, before Freddie. However slow and painful the process maybe –
Eliza may still be fetching his slippers – but their relationship will be an
adult one. With a significant amount of work ahead, Higgins must begin to let go
of his ordinariness, and Eliza must teach him about life.
As with Oklahoma !, music and plot elements reinforce My Fair Lady’s essential theme. The
self-similarities of the various character relationships, combined with their
elaboration in song, forge a profound coherence that, like the R&H’s “ground-breaker”,
remains a classic. The interacting strange loops of each character with the
strange loop that is the audience member reinforce a sense of growth, maturation,
and fulfillment.
[This article was previously posted on maxfrac; a few edits and observations have been added.]
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