In health and hypocrisy

George Bernard Shaw argued passionately that Britain should create a public health service. And he lived long enough (1856–1950) to become one of its earliest victims. This play from 1906 shows the very best and the very worst of his creative abilities. He had a plan: to strip bare the iniquities of private medicine and stick the knife in deep. We open in Harley Street where a gang of slick and prosperous doctors are bantering away, like tipsy clubmen, about their patients. I cured this one. I killed that one. Each quack has his preferred treatment. One thinks all disease is caused by blood poisoning. Another that surgery cures every ailment. A third that cheerful nurses and a decorative sick-bay are an infallible panacea. We sit back, for an enjoyable hour or so, as these deceitful charmers engage in eloquent and revealing chit-chat. Then Shaw suddenly remembers he’s got a play to write. So he whips up a plot. One of the medics, Sir Colenso Ridgeon, has discovered a costly new cure for TB but he can spare only one extra place in his private ward. Two consumptives present themselves: a do-gooding twerp who caught the lurgy while helping urchins in the slums; and a young artist of genius who is also an incorrigible swindler.

To complete the dilemma, Sir Colenso hatches an evil scheme to seduce the genius’s beautiful wife if her husband’s treatment fails. The manipulative romance between doctor and wife fails to catch fire properly, nor does it provide the drama with the amorous twists and surprises it ought to. So why is it there at all? The answer illuminates Shaw’s besetting problem. His commercial sense obliged him to include a love affair. And his romantic sense compelled him to bungle it.