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    Widowers' Houses
    Widowers' Houses
    Widowers' Houses
    Ebook79 pages1 hour

    Widowers' Houses

    By George Bernard Shaw

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    George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) is revered as one of the great British dramatists, credited not only with memorable works, but the revival of the then-suffering English theatre. Shaw was born in Dublin, Ireland, left mostly to his own devices after his mother ran off to London to pursue a musical career. He educated himself for the most part, and eventually worked for a real estate agent. This experience founded in him a concern for social injustices, seeing poverty and general unfairness afoot, and would go on to address this in many of his works. In 1876, Shaw joined his mother in London where he would finally attain literary success. First performed in 1892, "Widower's Houses" was the first of Shaw's plays to see the stage. This play was included in a collection of plays called "Plays Unpleasant", named so because Shaw's intention in writing them was not to entertain, but to raise awareness in certain areas of social concern. The source of social concern here in this play is the income derived from slum housing and the play focuses on the rift it forms between the two main characters, Henry Trench who has a moral problem with the way the father of his wife earns his money and his wife, Blanch who has no problem taking money from her father.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2011
    ISBN9781420942125
    Author

    George Bernard Shaw

    GEORGE BERNARD SHAW (1856-1950) was an Irish playwright, critic, polemicist, journalist, and political activist. Unrivaled in his lifetime and since as the leading English-language dramatist of the twentieth century, Shaw was a master of prose style. He wrote more than sixty plays, among them Man and Superman (1902), Pygmalion (1913), and Saint Joan (1923). He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1925.

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      Book preview

      Widowers' Houses - George Bernard Shaw

      WIDOWERS' HOUSES

      BY GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

      A Digireads.com Book

      Digireads.com Publishing

      Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4133-3

      Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4212-5

      This edition copyright © 2011

      Please visit www.digireads.com

      CONTENTS

      ACT I

      ACT II

      ACT III

      ACT I

      In the garden restaurant of a hotel at Remagen on the Rhine, on a fine afternoon in August in the eighteen-eighties. Looking down the Rhine towards Bonn, the gate leading from the garden to the riverside is seen on the right. The hotel is on the left. It has a wooden annexe with an entrance marked Table d'Hôte. A waiter is in attendance.

      A couple of English tourists come out of the hotel. The younger, Dr. Harry Trench, is about 24, stoutly built, thick in the neck, close-cropped and black in the hair, with undignified medical-student manners, frank, hasty, rather boyish. The other, Mr. William de Burgh Cokane, is older probably over 40, possibly 50 an ill-nourished, scanty-haired gentleman, with affected manners; fidgety, touchy, and constitutionally ridiculous in uncompassionate eyes.

      COKANE. [on the threshold of the hotel, calling peremptorily to the waiter] Two beers for us out here. [The waiter goes for the beer. Cokane comes into the garden.] We have got the room with the best view in the hotel, Harry, thanks to my tact. We'll leave in the morning and do Mainz and Frankfurt. There is a very graceful female statue in the private house of a nobleman in Frankfurt. Also a zoo. Next day, Nuremberg! finest collection of instruments of torture in the world.

      TRENCH. All right. You look out the trains, will you? [He takes out a Continental Brads haw, and tosses it on one of the tables.]

      COKANE. [baulking himself in the act of sitting down] Pah! the seat is all dusty. These foreigners are deplorably unclean in their habits.

      TRENCH. [buoyantly] Never mind: it don't matter, old chappie. Buck up, Billy, buck up. Enjoy yourself. [He throws Cokane into the chair, and sits down opposite him, taking out his pipe, and singing noisily] Pour out the Rhine wine: let it flow Like a free and bounding river.

      COKANE. [scandalized] In the name of common decency, Harry, will you remember that you are a gentleman and not a coster on Hampstead Heath on Bank Holiday? Would you dream of behaving like this in London?

      TRENCH. Oh, rot! I've come abroad to enjoy myself. So would you if you'd just passed an examination after four years in the medical school and walking the hospital. [He again bursts into song.]

      COKANE. [rising] Trench: either you travel as a gentleman, or you travel alone. This is what makes Englishmen unpopular on the Continent. It may not matter before the natives; but the people who came on board the steamer at Bonn are English. I have been uneasy all the afternoon about what they must think of us. Look at our appearance.

      TRENCH. Whats wrong with our appearance?

      COKANE. Négligé, my dear fellow, négligé. On the steamboat a little négligé was quite en règle; but here, in this hotel, some of them are sure to dress for dinner; and you have nothing but that Norfolk jacket. How are they to know that you are well connected if you do not shew it by your manners?

      TRENCH. Pooh! the steamboat people were the scum of the earth Americans and all sorts. They may go hang themselves, Billy. I shall not bother about them. [He strikes a match, and proceeds to light his pipe.]

      COKANE. Do drop calling me Billy in public, Trench. My name is Cokane. I am sure they were persons of consequence: you were struck with the distinguished appearance of the father yourself.

      TRENCH. [sobered at once] What! those people? [He blows out the match and puts up his pipe.]

      COKANE. [following up his advantage triumphantly] Here, Harry, here: at this hotel. I recognized the father's umbrella in the hall.

      TRENCH. [with a touch of genuine shame] I suppose I ought to have brought a change. But a lot of luggage is such a nuisance; and [rising abruptly] at all events we can go and have a wash. [He turns to go into the hotel, but stops in consternation, seeing some people coming up to the riverside gate.] Oh, I say! Here they are.

      [A lady and gentleman, followed by a porter with some light parcels, not luggage, but shop purchases, come into the garden. They are apparently father and daughter. The gentleman is 50, tall, well preserved, and of upright carriage. His incisive, domineering utterance and imposing style, with his strong aquiline nose and resolute clean-shaven mouth, give him an air of importance. He wears a light grey frock-coat with silk linings, a white hat, and a field-glass slung in a new leather case. A self-made man, formidable to servants, not easily accessible to anyone. His daughter is a well-dressed, well-fed, good-looking, strong-minded young woman, presentably ladylike, but still her father's daughter. Nevertheless fresh and attractive, and none the worse for being vital and energetic rather than delicate and refined.]

      COKANE. [quickly taking the arm of Trench, who is staring as if transfixed] Recollect yourself, Harry: presence of mind, presence of mind! [He strolls with him towards the hotel. The waiter comes out with the beer.] Kellner: ceci-la est notre table. Est ce que vous comprenez Français?

      WAITER. Yes, zare. Oil right, zare.

      THE GENTLEMAN. [to his porter] Place those things on that table. [The porter does not understand.]

      WAITER. [interposing] Zese zhentellmen are using zis table, zare. Vould you mind—

      THE GENTLEMAN. [severely] You should have told me so before. [To Cokane, with fierce condescension] I regret the mistake, sir.

      COKANE. Don't mention it, my dear sir: don't mention it. Retain the place, I beg.

      THE GENTLEMAN. [coldly turning his back on him] Thank you. [To the porter] Place them on that table. [The porter makes no movement until the gentleman points to the parcels and peremptorily raps on another table, nearer the gate.]

      PORTER. Ja wohl, gnäd'g' Herr. [He puts down the parcels.]

      THE GENTLEMAN. [taking out a handful of money] Waiter.

      WAITER. [awestruck] Yes, zare.

      THE GENTLEMAN. Tea. For two. Out here.

      WAITER. Yes, zare. [He goes into the hotel.]

      [The gentleman selects a small coin from his handful of money, and gives it to the porter, who receives

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