Drawing Rooms, Second Floor, and Attics: A Farce, in One Act — Text and Context

Vertical Stagecraft and Social Geography

The play’s structure is architectural. Scene I is set in an attic with a small door and window; Scene II takes place in a “Second Floor” apartment; Scene III returns to the second floor; Scene IV opens onto the drawing rooms with folding doors, a corridor, and a ballroom beyond. Each change of scene is a change of social altitude. The attic is Phœbe’s domain, where she sings and works; the second floor belongs to Captain Hardaport and Arabella; the drawing rooms are Bunny’s public stage. Morton uses doors and windows as comic valves: Phœbe’s window looks out for Triptolemus, Bunny bolts the shutters against rain, and a “small door” leads to a back staircase—a servant’s shortcut that collapses distance between floors. The farce’s pace depends on characters entering and exiting through these precisely plotted apertures, often at cross-purposes.

Props as Personality: Clothesline, Tray, and Wig

Morton loads his stage with objects that define character and drive action. Phœbe’s clothesline is both a practical task and a visual marker of her attic workspace. Jonathan’s loaded tray becomes a site of temptation: he eats a cake and drinks a glass of negus before Bunny corrects his posture (“Present the tray at the end of a poker”). Bunny himself appears in a “light flaxen wig,” a comic sign of vanity or disguise. The table in Scene IV is “covered with pastry, cakes, decanters, wine glasses”—a feast that promises chaos. Even the weather intrudes: rain is heard, and Bunny closes the shutters, trapping characters inside. These props are not decorative; they are mechanisms for mishap. A tray improperly presented, a wig askew, a bolted window—each creates a beat of physical comedy that the dialogue then amplifies.

Dialogue as Misdirection and Repetition

Morton’s characters speak in overlapping registers. Phœbe’s folk-song (“I’m off to Charlestown”) contrasts with Bunny’s fussy commands (“the cakes are totally incapable of handing themselves about”). Jonathan’s malapropism—“Present the tray at the end of a poker”—shows a servant mishearing “polka” as a physical threat. The dialogue often works by repetition: Bunny’s “What the devil are you at?” echoes his earlier “What’s that?” as he peers at Jonathan. Characters speak in asides, revealing private fears (“Oh, dear! oh, dear! he’ll be drownded!”) while maintaining public composure. This layering of spoken and unspoken creates the farce’s central tension: everyone is trying to manage a performance, and the script gives them just enough rope to trip over.

Readers should attend to the stage directions as closely as the dialogue. Morton specifies not only where characters stand but how they move—a “graceful attitude” for presenting a tray, a “slightly tipsy” entrance with a red comforter. The farce’s humor lives in these physical details, which the text preserves with unusual precision. Treat the play as a blueprint for performance: every door slam, every misplaced cake, every bolted shutter is a cue for laughter.

There’s something oddly tender about Morton’s stacked rooms—everyone colliding yet never quite seeing each other, like old neighbors sharing a wall. I found myself thinking of that loneliness while rereading The Parlor Car’s quieter moments, where movement promises connection but mostly delivers proximity. That same wistful ache lingers there, a soft echo of shutters banging in the dark. The Parlor Car — Key Ideas to Explore stays with me like a half-remembered train whistle.