Parlour Maid: Jane Knowles. Originally born out of a bet that Shaw couldn't write a "seaside comedy" a popular theatrical genre at that time. The result is perhaps the most surprising of Shaw's plays, complete with marital mayhem, tangled romance, and even doubtful dentistry. Despite the play's lighthearted tone, it's really another of Shaw's brilliantly observed social treatises, this time in the guise of a light comedy.
Artistic Significance: Considered the second greatest English language playwright after Shakespeare, George Bernard Shaw was equally as prolific, writing 29 plays and countless books, essays, articles and reviews in his lifetime. Uploaded by radioannouncer on December 30, Internet Archive's 25th Anniversary Logo. Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. User icon An illustration of a person's head and chest.
Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book. Come along, man. He grips the arms of the chair and braces himself. What do you bet that I don't get that tooth out without your feeling it? Are you ready? Crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright: and prepares for the worst. Valentine lets down the back of the chair to an obtuse angle.
Take care man. I'm quite helpless in this po—-. You'll be more helpless presently. He presses the mouthpiece over Crampton's mouth and nose, leaning over his chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair. Crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay hands on Valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. After a moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. He is quite insensible. Valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied triumph, throws aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps adroitly from the glass: and—the curtain falls.
On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform, with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff. The head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to the beach.
When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three wasps on it, reading the Standard, with his umbrella up to defend him from the sun, which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is toasting his protended insteps. Just opposite him, at the hotel side of the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern.
Access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised pavement. Nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by a little trellis porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is a long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at each side and one at the end next the hotel.
Against the parapet another table is prepared as a buffet to serve from. The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man, white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the actual.
He has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of the vanity of success, are untouched by envy. The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He wears his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table beside the sugar bowl. The excellent condition and quality of these garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading the Standard, and the Times at his elbow overlaying the local paper, all testify to his respectability.
He is about fifty, clean shaven, and close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to let them have their way. He has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes, and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious.
Still, he is by no means to be laughed at. There is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and responsibility. Just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his papers and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them.
Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir. The gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with a lazy smile.
It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing them, nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he continues Not that yet, sir, is it? Only two minutes more to wait, sir.
Nice morning, sir? Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family, Mrs. Clandon's, sir. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very taking, sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like of that, will say, "Remember, William, we came to this hotel on your account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are. Soothing, sunny cadence.
Oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and pleasant indeed! Oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. Of course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the resemblance, too, sir. No, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in Stratford Church, sir. That is why she calls me William, sir. My real name is Walter, sir. He turns to go back to the table, and sees Mrs. Clandon coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.
Here is Mrs. Clandon, sir. Clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential tone Gentleman for you, ma'am. Right, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. He withdraws into the hotel. Clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but passes over the gentleman without any sign of recognition. Can't you guess? He shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected. I believe you are. She gives him her hand.
The shake that ensues is that of old friends after a long separation. Where's your beard? I have thought of you all these eighteen years with the beard and the sombrero.
She sits down on the garden seat. McComas takes his chair again. Do you go to the meetings of the Dialectical Society still? Bless me! And you are still ready to make speeches in public, in spite of your sex Mrs. Clandon nods ; to insist on a married woman's right to her own separate property she nods again ; to champion Darwin's view of the origin of species and John Stuart Mill's essay on Liberty nod ; to read Huxley, Tyndall and George Eliot three nods ; and to demand University degrees, the opening of the professions, and the parliamentary franchise for women as well as men?
Yes: I have not gone back one inch; and I have educated Gloria to take up my work where I left it. That is what has brought me back to England: I felt that I had no right to bury her alive in Madeira—my St. Helena, Finch. I suppose she will be howled at as I was; but she is prepared for that.
Howled at! My dear good lady: there is nothing in any of those views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. You reproached me just now for having become respectable. You were wrong: I hold to our old opinions as strongly as ever. I don't go to church; and I don't pretend I do. I call myself what I am: a Philosophic Radical, standing for liberty and the rights of the individual, as I learnt to do from my master Herbert Spencer.
Am I howled at? No: I'm indulged as an old fogey. I'm out of everything, because I've refused to bow the knee to Socialism. Yes, Socialism. That's what Miss Gloria will be up to her ears in before the end of the month if you let her loose here.
It is by proving that, Mrs. Clandon, that I have lost all my young disciples. Be careful what you do: let her go her own way. With some bitterness. We're old-fashioned: the world thinks it has left us behind. There is only one place in all England where your opinions would still pass as advanced.
They know nothing; and now that we have come back to England, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer. Finch: I cannot bring myself to tell them. I— She is interrupted by the twins and Gloria. Dolly comes tearing up the steps, racing Philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of bearing which, however, costs him the race, as Dolly reaches her mother first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her arrival.
DOLLY breathless. It's all right, mamma. The dentist is coming; and he's bringing his old man. Dolly, dear: don't you see Mr.
McComas rises, smilingly. DOLLY her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious disappointment. Where are the flowing locks? Where the beard? Oh, Mr. McComas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. Why didn't you wait till we'd seen you? Because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having his hair cut. How do you do, Mr. He turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight look into his eyes.
We are glad to meet you at last. Miss Gloria, I presume? Gloria smiles assent, and releases his hand after a final pressure. She then retires behind the garden seat, leaning over the back beside Mrs.
And this young gentleman? DOLLY completing his sentence for him declamatorily. On the Grampian hills"—. Dear, dear children: don't be silly. Everything is so new to them here, Finch, that they are in the wildest spirits. They think every Englishman they meet is a joke.
My knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, Mr. McComas; but I find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island seriously.
I was Master Philip—was so for many years; just as you were once Master Finch. He gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away, exclaiming meditatively How strange it is to look back on our boyhood! McComas stares after him, not at all pleased. He'll be here at half past one. To McComas. Are we like what you expected? Dolly: Mr. McComas has something more serious than that to tell you. Children: I have asked my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning.
He is your father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the story more fairly than I could. Turning her head from them to Gloria. Gloria: are you satisfied? Not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. At the same time, this is rather sudden. I was hardly prepared—er—. I hope it will deserve it, Mr. My knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too much. Dolly holds her lips. McComas takes a chair from the luncheon table; places it between the little table and the garden seat with Dolly on his right and Philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the air of a man about to begin a long communication.
The Clandons match him expectantly. Thank you, Mrs. To Dolly. Your father is fifty-seven. Let me answer that, Mrs. The answer will surprise you considerably. He lives in this town. Clandon rises. She and Gloria look at one another in the greatest consternation. Oh, Crampstones, or whatever it is. He said I was like his mother. I knew he must mean his daughter. McComas: I desire to consider your feelings in every possible way: but I warn you that if you stretch the long arm of coincidence to the length of telling me that Mr.
Crampton of this town is my father, I shall decline to entertain the information for a moment. Because I have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit to be my father, or Dolly's father, or Gloria's father, or my mother's husband. Oh, indeed! Well, sir, let me tell you that whether you like it or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and Mrs.
Clandon's husband. What have you to say to that! McComas: your conduct is heartless. Here you find a family enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. We have never seen the face of a relative—never known a claim except the claim of freely chosen friendship. And now you wish to thrust into the most intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know—.
DOLLY vehemently. An awful old man! How do you know that he is not nice? And what right have you to choose your own father? Let me tell you, Miss Clandon, that you are too young to—. Dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too hastily. Proceed, Mr. Finch: do you realize what is happening? Do you understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and that he will be here in a few moments? Steady, Finch.
Think it out slowly and carefully. He's coming—coming to lunch. Look at the mess he has made of telling us. My dear: we cannot sit down to lunch just as we are. We shall come back again.
We must have no bravado. Gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word. Come, Dolly. As she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out with plates, etc. Two more to come yet, thank you. They will be here, immediately. She goes into the hotel.
The waiter takes his tray to the service table. I have an idea. McComas: this communication should be made, should it not, by a man of infinite tact?
McComas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and expression desert his eyes. He sits down stupefied. William: at the very outset of your career as my father, a rival has appeared on the scene. Your real father, sir? Well, that was to be expected, sooner or later, sir, wasn't it? Turning with a happy smile to McComas. Is it you, sir?
Certainly not. My children know how to behave themselves. No, William: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he wooed my mother, but wooed her in vain. Consequently, he is only our solicitor. Do you know one Crampton, of this town? No, no, no. Your father, sir, is a well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here.
Oh, beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. A son of Mr. Dear me! Don't usually lunch with his family, perhaps, sir? William: he does not know that we are his family. He has not seen us for eighteen years. He won't know us. To emphasize the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a spring, and looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs swinging. But I should think he'd guess when he sees your mother, miss.
Philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. He contemplates the waiter raptly. Nor I. Coming off the table and turning reproachfully on McComas. Nor you. Finch: Your professional incompetence is appalling.
William: your sagacity puts us all to shame. Not at all, sir. Don't mention it, miss. Most happy, I'm sure, sir. Goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two additional covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to make a third on the side furthest from the balustrade. Finch: come and wash your hands. Seizes his arm and leads him toward the hotel. You will get used to us.
McComas shakes him off and marches into the hotel. Philip follows with unruffled composure. DOLLY turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them. Keep your wits about you, William.
There will be fire-works. Valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed doggedly by Crampton. Valentine carries a walking stick. Crampton, either because he is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating the unfashionableness of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat.
He stops at the chair left by McComas in the middle of the terrace, and steadies himself for a moment by placing his hand on the back of it. Those steps make me giddy. He passes his hand over his forehead. I have not got over that infernal gas yet. He goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the little table to prop his head as he sits. He soon recovers, and begins to unbutton his overcoat.
Meanwhile Valentine interviews the waiter. We're expecting you, sir. That is your table, sir. Clandon will be down presently, sir. The young lady and young gentleman were just talking about your friend, sir. Yes, sire. Great flow of spirits, sir. A vein of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. Quickly, to Crampton, who has risen to get the overcoat off. Beg pardon, sir, but if you'll allow me helping him to get the overcoat off and taking it from him.
Thank you, sir. Crampton sits down again; and the waiter resumes the broken melody. The young gentleman's latest is that you're his father, sir. Only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. Yesterday, I was to be his father.
To-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father—not seen you for eighteen years, he said. With gentle archness. But I was up to his tricks, sir. I saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking what new joke he'd have with me. Yes, sir: that's the sort he is: very pleasant, ve—ry off hand and affable indeed, sir.
Again changing his tempo to say to Valentine, who is putting his stick down against the corner of the garden seat If you'll allow me, sir? Taking Valentine's stick. Valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and looks at the menu. The waiter turns to Crampton and resumes his lay. Even the solicitor took up the joke, although he was in a manner of speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman, sir.
Yes, sir, I assure you, sir. You would never imagine what respectable professional gentlemen from London will do on an outing, when the sea air takes them, sir.
The family solicitor, sir—yes, sir. Name of McComas, sir. He goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious of the bomblike effect the name has produced on Crampton. Calls to Valentine. Again, fiercely. Valentine turns. This is a plant, a conspiracy. This is my family—my children—my infernal wife. On, indeed! Interesting meeting! He resumes his study of the menu. Not for me. Let me out of this. Calling to the waiter.
Give me that coat. He comes back, puts Valentine's stick carefully down against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds it for Crampton to put on. I seem to have done the young gentleman an injustice, sir, haven't I, sir. He stops on the point of putting his arms into the sleeves, and turns to Valentine with sudden suspicion. Valentine: you are in this. You made this plot.
He throws the menu down and goes round the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet. What d'ye— McComas, followed by Philip and Dolly, comes out. He vacillates for a moment on seeing Crampton. Steady, sir. Here they come, sir. He takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat across his arm. McComas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down and crosses to Crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands behind him.
McComas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in the majesty of a spotless conscience. Startled at first, miss; but resigned—very resigned, indeed, miss. He takes the stick and coat into the hotel. Yes, here—caught in a trap—a mean trap. Are those my children? DOLLY conventionally. Pleased to meet you again.
She wanders idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with Valentine on the way. Allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your wine. He takes the wine list from the table. His polite attention, and Dolly's unconcerned indifference, leave Crampton on the footing of the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's.
The consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that he trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at his son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly. Finch: some crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh? Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing heating. He walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation behind him. We'll order some.
Dolly takes it. Turning to Crampton with cheerful politeness. And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we do for you? Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.
The whisky's on the last page but one. No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you mustn't call me child. She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two stand looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger. McComas: we are—ha! There is no reason why it should not be pleasant. He looks abjectly gloomy. Finch's face is a feast in itself. Clandon and Gloria come from the hotel. Clandon advances with courageous self-possession and marked dignity of manner.
She stops at the foot of the steps to address Valentine, who is in her path. Charlie is caring, genuine, and happy—all things Liam needs. But he also carries scars and a secret that makes him less of a stranger after all. While Liam is beginning to fall in love again, Charlie is trying not to, hiding the fact that the bullies have only been hurting Liam to get closer to Charlie.
Because the truth is that darkness is hungry.
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