Plays Pleasant

by George Bernard Shaw

  NAPOLEON [echoing her, with his elbows on the table and his cheeks on his hands, looking at the letter] I wonder!

  The Strange Lady puts the letter down alight on the snuffers tray, and sits down beside Napoleon, in the same attitude, elbows on table, cheeks on hands, watching it burn. When it is burnt, they simultaneously turn their eyes and look at one another. The curtains steals down and hides them.

  YOU NEVER CAN TELL

  You Never Can Tell first produced in London (publicly) and in New York, 1905; in Berlin, 1906; in Paris, 1913

  YOU NEVER CAN TELL

  ACT I

  In a dentist’s operating room on a fine August morning in 1896. It is the best sitting room of a furnished lodging in a terrace on the sea front at a watering place on the coast of Torbay in Devon. The operating chair, with a gas pump and cylinder beside it, is half way between the centre of the room and one of the corners. If you could look into the room through the window facing the chair, you would see the fireplace in the middle of the wall opposite you, with the door beside it to your left, a dental surgeon’s diploma in a frame above the mantelshelf, an easy chair on the hearth, and a neat stool and bench, with vice, tools, and a mortar and pestle, in the corner to the right. In the wall on your left is a broad window looking on the sea. Beneath it a writing table with a blotter and a diary on it, and a chair. Also a sofa, farther along. A cabinet of instruments is handy to the operating chair. The furniture, carpet, and wallpaper are those of a mid-Victorian drawing room, formally bright and festive, not for everyday use.

  Two persons just now occupy the room. One of them, a very pretty woman in miniature, her tiny figure dressed with the daintiest gaiety, is hardly eighteen yet. This darling little creature clearly does not belong to the room, or even to the country; for her complexion, though very delicate, has been burnt biscuit colour by some warmer sun than England’s. She has a glass of water in her hand, and a rapidly clearing cloud of Spartan endurance on her small firm set mouth and quaintly squared eyebrows.

  The dentist, contemplating her with the self-satisfaction of a successful operator, is a young man of thirty or thereabouts. He does not give the impression of being much of a workman: the professional manner of the newly set-up dentist in search of patients is underlain by a thoughtless pleasantry which betrays the young gentleman, still unsettled and in search of amusing adventures. He is not without gravity of demeanor; but the strained nostrils stamp it as the gravity of the humorist. His eyes are clear, alert, of sceptically moderate size, and yet a little rash; his forehead is an excellent one, with plenty of room behind it; his nose and chin are cavalierly handsome. On the whole, an attractive noticeable beginner, of whose prospects a man of business might form a tolerably favorable estimate.

  THE YOUNG LADY [handing him the glass] Thank you. [In spite of the biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent].

  THE DENTIST [putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of instruments] That was my first tooth.

  THE YOUNG LADY [aghast] Your first! Do you mean to say that you began practising on me?

  THE DENTIST. Every dentist has to begin with somebody.

  THE YOUNG LADY. Yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay.

  THE DENTIST [laughing] Oh, the hospital doesnt count. I only meant my first tooth in private practice. Why didnt you let me give you gas?

  THE YOUNG LADY. Because you said it would be five shillings extra.

  THE DENTIST [shocked] Oh, dont say that. It makes me feel as if I had hurt you for the sake of five shillings.

  THE YOUNG LADY [with cool insolence] Well, so you have. [She gets up] Why shouldnt you? it’s your business to hurt people. [It amuses him to be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean and replace his instruments. She shakes her dress into order: looks inquisitively about her; and goes to the broad window]. You have a good view of the sea from your rooms! Are they expensive?

  THE DENTIST. Yes.

  THE YOUNG LADY. You dont own the whole house, do you?

  THE DENTIST. No.

  THE YOUNG LADY. I thought not. [Tilting the chair which stands at the writing-table and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg] Your furniture isnt quite the latest thing, is it?

  THE DENTIST. It’s my landlord’s.

  THE YOUNG LADY. Does he own that toothache chair [pointing to the operating chair].

  THE DENTIST. No: I have that on the hire-purchase system.

  THE YOUNG LADY [disparagingly] I thought so. [Looking about in search of further conclusions] I suppose you havnt been here long?

  THE DENTIST. Six weeks. Is there anything else you would like to know?

  THE YOUNG LADY [the hint quite lost on her] Any family?

  THE DENTIST. I am not married.

  THE YOUNG LADY. Of course not: anybody can see that. I meant sisters and mother and that sort of thing.

  THE DENTIST. Not on the premises.

  THE YOUNG LADY. Hm! If youve been here six weeks, and mine was your first tooth, the practice cant be very large, can it?

  THE DENTIST. Not as yet. [He shuts the cabinet, having tidied up everything].

  THE YOUNG LADY. Well, good luck! [She takes out her purse]. Five shillings, you said it would be?

  THE DENTIST. Five shillings.

  THE YOUNG LADY [producing a crown piece] Do you charge five shillings for everything?

  THE DENTIST. Yes.

  THE YOUNG LADY. Why?

  THE DENTIST. It’s my system. I’m whats called a five shilling dentist.

  THE YOUNG LADY. HOW nice! Well, here! [holding up the crown piece] a nice new five-shilling piece! your first fee! Make a hole in it with the thing you drill people’s teeth with; and wear it on your watch-chain.

  THE DENTIST. Thank you.

  THE PARLORMAID [appearing at the door] The young lady’s brother, sir.

  A handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady’s twin, comes in eagerly. He wears a suit of terra cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat and tan gloves to match. He has his sister’s delicate biscuit complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal style which might be envied by a man twice his age. Suavity and self-possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly considered, is only a mode of boyish self-consciousness, its effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be quite insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. He is promptitude itself, and has a question ready the moment he enters.

  THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Am I in time?

  THE YOUNG LADY. No: it’s all over.

  THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Did you howl?

  THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, something awful. Mr Valentine: this is my brother Phil. Phil: this is Mr Valentine, our new dentist. [Valentine and Phil bow to one another. She proceeds, all in one breath] He’s only been here six weeks and he’s a bachelor the house isnt his and the furniture is the landlord’s but the professional plant is hired he got my tooth out beautifully at the first go and he and I are great friends.

  PHILIP. Been asking a lot of questions?

  THE YOUNG LADY [as if incapable of doing such a thing] Oh no.

  PHILIP. Glad to hear it. [To Valentine] So good of you not to mind us, Mr Valentine. The fact is, weve never been in England before; and our mother tells us that the people here simply wont stand us. Come and lunch with us.

  Valentine, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps, but has no time to reply, as the conversation of the twins is swift and continuous.

  THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, do, Mr Valentine.

  PHILIP. At the Marine Hotel: half past one.

  THE YOUNG LADY. We shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable Englishman has promised to lunch with us.

  PHILIP. Say no more, Mr Valentine: youll
come.

  VALENTINE. Say no more! I havnt said anything. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of entertaining? It’s really quite impossible for me to lunch at the Marine Hotel with two perfect strangers.

  THE YOUNG LADY [flippantly] Ooooh! what bosh! One patient in six weeks! What difference does it make to you?

  PHILIP [maturely] No, Dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms Mr Valentine’s judgment. He is right. Let me introduce Miss Dorothy Clandon, commonly called Dolly. [Valentine bows to Dolly. She nods to him]. I’m Philip Clandon. We’re from Madeira, but perfectly respectable so far.

  VALENTINE. Clandon! Are you related to –

  DOLLY [unexpectedly crying out in despair] Yes we are.

  VALENTINE [astonished] I beg your pardon?

  DOLLY. Oh, we are, we are. It’s all over, Phil: they know all about us in England. [To Valentine] Oh, you cant think how maddening it is to be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our own sakes.

  VALENTINE. But excuse me: the gentleman I was thinking of is not celebrated.

  DOLLY AND PHILIP [staring at him] Gentleman!

  VALENTINE. Yes. I was going to ask whether you were by any chance a daughter of Mr Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall.

  DOLLY [vacantly] No.

  PHILIP. Well, come, Dolly: how do you know youre not?

  DOLLY [cheered] Oh, I forgot. Of course. Perhaps I am.

  VALENTINE. Dont you know?

  PHILIP. Not in the least.

  DOLLY. It’s a wise child –

  PHILIP [cutting her short] Sh! [Valentine starts nervously; for the sound made by Phil, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of silk in two with a flash of lightning. It is the result of long practice in checking Dolly’s indiscretions]. The fact is, Mr Valentine, we are the children of the celebrated Mrs Lanfrey Clandon, an authoress of great repute – in Madeira. No household is complete without her works. We came to England to get away from them. They are called the Twentieth Century Treatises.

  DOLLY. Twentieth Century Cooking.

  PHILIP. Twentieth Century Creeds.

  DOLLY. Twentieth Century Clothing.

  PHILIP. Twentieth Century Conduct.

  DOLLY. Twentieth Century Children.

  PHILIP. Twentieth Century Parents.

  DOLLY. Cloth limp, half a dollar.

  PHILIP. Or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. No family should be without them. Read them, Mr Valentine: theyll improve your mind.

  DOLLY. But not till weve gone, please.

  PHILIP. Quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. Our own minds have successfully resisted all our mother’s efforts to improve them.

  VALENTINE [dubiously] Hm!

  DOLLY [echoing him inquiringly] Hm? Phil: he prefers people whose minds are improved.

  PHILIP. In that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member of the family: the Woman of the Twentieth Century: our sister Gloria!

  DOLLY [dithyrambically] Nature’s masterpiece!

  PHILIP. Learning’s daughter!

  DOLLY. Madeira’s pride!

  PHILIP. Beauty’s paragon!

  DOLLY [suddenly descending to prose] Bosh! No complexion.

  VALENTINE [desperately] May I have a word?

  PHILIP [politely] Excuse us. Go ahead.

  DOLLY [very nicely] So sorry.

  VALENTINE [attempting to take them paternally] I really must give a hint to you young people –

  DOLLY [breaking out again] Oh come! I like that. How old are you?

  PHILIP. Over thirty.

  DOLLY. He’s not.

  PHILIP [confidently] He is.

  DOLLY [emphatically] Twenty-seven.

  PHILIP [imperturbably] Thirty-three.

  DOLLY. Stuff.

  PHILIP [to Valentine] I appeal to you, Mr Valentine.

  VALENTINE [remonstrating] Well, really – [resigning himself] Thirty-one.

  PHILIP [to Dolly] You were wrong.

  DOLLY. So were you.

  PHILIP [suddenly conscientious] We’re forgetting our manners, Dolly.

  DOLLY [remorseful] Yes, so we are.

  PHILIP [apologetic] We interrupted you, Mr Valentine.

  DOLLY. You were going to improve our minds, I think.

  VALENTINE. The fact is, your –

  PHILIP [anticipating him] Our manners?

  DOLLY. Our appearance?

  VALENTINE [ad misericordiam] Oh do let me speak.

  DOLLY. The old story. We talk too much.

  PHILIP. We do. Shut up, both. [He seats himself on the arm of the operating chair].

  DOLLY. Mum! [She sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her lips with the tips of her fingers].

  VALENTINE. Thank you. [He brings the stool from the bench in the corner; places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. They attend to him with extreme gravity. He addresses himself first to Dolly]. Now may I ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an English seaside resort before? [She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. He turns to Phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively]. I thought so. Well, Mr Clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble; and I have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you capable of conceiving what life in an English seaside resort is. Believe me, it’s not a question of manners and appearance. In those respects we enjoy a freedom unknown in Madeira [Dolly shakes her head vehemently]. Oh yes, I assure you. Lord de Cresci’s sister bicycles in knickerbockers; and the rector’s wife advocates dress reform and wears hygienic boots. [Dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: Valentine catches her in the act, and deftly adds] No, thats not the sort of boot I mean. [Dolly’s shoe vanishes]. We dont bother much about dress and manners in England, because, as a nation, we dont dress well and weve no manners. But – and now will you excuse my frankness? [They nod]. Thank you. Well, in a seaside resort theres one thing you must have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and thats a father, alive or dead. Am I to infer that you have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? [They confirm him by melancholy nods]. Then I’m sorry to say that if you are going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to accept your kind invitation to lunch. [He rises with an air of finality, and replaces the stool by the bench].

  PHILIP [rising with grave politeness] Come, Dolly. [He gives her his arm].

  DOLLY. Good morning. [They go together to the door with perfect dignity].

  VALENTINE [overwhelmed with remorse] Oh stop! stop! [They halt and turn, arm in arm]. You make me feel a perfect beast.

  DOLLY. Thats your conscience: not us.

  VALENTINE [energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional manner] My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me. Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously, and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told. Result, ruin. Now Ive set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and Ive done with conscience for ever. This is my last chance. I spent my last sovereign on moving in; and I havnt paid a shilling of rent yet. I’m eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a Jew and as hard as nails; and Ive made five shillings in six weeks. If I swerve by a hair’s breadth from the straight line of the most rigid respectability, I’m done for. Under such circumstances is it fair to ask me to lunch with you when you dont know your own father?

  DOLLY. After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral.

  VALENTINE [like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon] What! Have you a grandfather?

  DOLLY. Only one.

  VALENTINE. My dear good young friends, why on earth didnt you tell me that before? A canon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of course. Just excuse me while I change my coat. [He reaches the door in a bound and vanishes].

  Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then at one another. Missing their audience, they discar
d their style at once.

  PHILIP [throwing away Dolly’s arm and coming ill-humoredly towards the operating chair] That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch: probably the first square meal he has had for months. [He gives the chair a kick, as if it were Valentine].

  DOLLY. It’s too beastly. I wont stand it any longer, Phil. Here in England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing.

  PHILIP. I wont stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was.

  DOLLY. Or who he is. He may be alive.

  PHILIP. I hope not. No man alive shall father me.

  DOLLY. He might have a lot of money, though.

  PHILIP. I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldnt have got rid of his affectionate family so easily. Anyhow, let’s look at the bright side of things. Depend on it, he’s dead.

  He goes to the hearth and stands with his back to the fireplace. The parlormaid appears.

  THE PARLORMAID. Two ladies for you, miss. Your mother and sister, miss, I think.

  Mrs Clandon and Gloria come in. Mrs Clandon is a veteran of the Old Guard of the Women’s Rights movement which had for its Bible John Stuart Mill’s treatise on The Subjection of Women. She has never made herself ugly or ridiculous by affecting masculine waistcoats, collars, and watchchains, like some of her old comrades who had more aggressiveness than taste; and she is too militant an Agnostic to care to be mistaken for a Quaker. She therefore dresses in as businesslike a way as she can without making a guy of herself, ruling out all attempt at sex attraction and imposing respect on frivolous mankind and fashionable womankind. She belongs to the forefront of her own period (say 1860–80) in a jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being a woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed personal affections. Her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane; and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her; passion in her is humanitarian rather than human; she feels strongly about social questions and principles, not about persons. Only, one observes that this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her relations with Gloria and Phil much as they might be between her and the children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of Dolly. Though almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance have left Dolly hopelessly spoiled.