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Arnold Bennett >> ject Gutenberg EBook of The Title, by Arnold Bennett
_The Title_
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
MCMXVIII
CHARACTERS
MR. CULVER
MRS. CULVER
HILDEGARDE CULVER } their children
JOHN CULVER }
TRANTO
MISS STARKEY
SAMPSON STRAIGHT
PARLOURMAID
ACT I
An evening between Christmas and New Year, before dinner.
ACT II
The next evening, after dinner.
ACT III
The next day, before lunch.
The scene throughout is a sitting-room in the well-furnished West End
abode of the Culvers. There is a door, back. There is also another door
(L) leading to Mrs. Culver's boudoir and elsewhere.
ACT I
ACT I
Hildegarde _is sitting at a desk, writing_. John, _in a lounging
attitude, is reading a newspaper_.
_Enter_ Tranto, _back_.
TRANTO. Good evening.
HILDEGARDE (_turning slightly in her seat and giving him her left hand,
the right still holding a pen_). Good evening. Excuse me one moment.
TRANTO. All right about my dining here to-night? (Hildegarde _nods_.)
Larder equal to the strain?
HILDEGARDE. Macaroni.
TRANTO. Splendid.
HILDEGARDE. Beefsteak.
TRANTO. Great heavens! (_imitates sketchily the motions of cutting up a
piece of steak. Shaking hands with_ John, _who has risen_). Well, John.
How are things? Don't let me disturb you. Have a cigarette.
JOHN (_flattered_). Thanks. (_As they light cigarettes_.) You're the
first person here that's treated me like a human being.
TRANTO. Oh!
JOHN. Yes. They all treat me as if I was a schoolboy home for the hols.
TRANTO. But you are, aren't you?
JOHN. In a way, of course. But--well, don't you see what I mean?
TRANTO (_sympathetically_). You mean that a schoolboy home for the hols
isn't necessarily something escaped out of the Zoo.
JOHN (_warming_). That's it.
TRANTO. In fact, what you mean is you're really an individual very like
the rest of us, subject, if I may say so, to the common desires,
weaknesses and prejudices of humanity--and not a damned freak.
JOHN (_brightly_). That's rather good, that is. If it's a question of
the Zoo, what I say is--what price home? Now, homes _are_ extraordinary
if you like--I don't know whether you've ever noticed it. School--you
can understand school. But home--! Strange things happen here while I'm
away.
TRANTO. Yes?
JOHN. It was while I was away they appointed Dad a controller. When I
heard--I laughed. Dad a controller! Why, he can't even control mother.
HILDEGARDE (_without looking round_). Oh yes he can.
JOHN (_pretending to start back_). Stay me with flagons! (_Resuming to_
Tranto.) And _you're_ something new here since the summer holidays.
TRANTO. I never looked at myself in that light. But I suppose I _am_
rather new here.
JOHN. Not quite new. But you've made a lot of progress during the last
term.
TRANTO. That's comforting.
JOHN. You understand what I mean. You were rather stiff and prim in
August--now you aren't a bit.
TRANTO. Just so. Well, I won't ask you what you think of _me_, John--you
might tell me--but what do you think of my newspaper?
JOHN. _The Echo_? I don't know what to think. You see, we don't read
newspapers much at school. Some of the masters do. And a few chaps in
the Fifth--swank, of course. But speaking generally we don't. Prefects
don't. No time.
TRANTO. How strange! Aren't you interested in the war?
JOHN. Interested in the war! Would you mind if I spoke plainly?
TRANTO. I should love it.
JOHN. Each time I come home I wonder more and more whether you people in
London have got the slightest notion what war really is. Fact! At
school, it's just because we _are_ interested in the war that we've no
time for newspapers.
TRANTO. How's that?
JOHN. How's that? Well, munition workshops--with government inspectors
tumbling all over us about once a week. O.T.C. work. Field days.
Cramming fellows for Sandhurst. Not to mention female masters.
'Mistresses,' I ought to say, perhaps. All these things take time.
TRANTO. I never thought of that.
JOHN. No. People don't. However, I've decided to read newspapers in
future--it'll be part of my scheme. That's why I was reading _The
Echo_. Now, I should like to ask you something about this paper of
yours.
TRANTO. Yes.
JOHN. Why do you let Hilda write those articles for you about food
economy stunts in the household?
TRANTO. Well--(_hesitating_)
JOHN. Now, I look at things practically. When Hilda'd spent all her
dress allowance and got into debt besides, about a year and a half ago,
she suddenly remembered she wasn't doing much to help the war, and so
she went into the Food Ministry as a typist at thirty-five shillings a
week. Next she learnt typing. Then she became an authority on
everything. And now she's concocting these food articles for you.
Believe me, the girl knows nothing whatever about cookery. She couldn't
fry a sausage for nuts. Once the mater insisted on her doing the
housekeeping--in the holidays, too! Stay me with flagons!
HILDEGARDE (_without looking round_). Stay you with chocolates, you
mean, Johnnie, dear.
JOHN. There you are! Her thoughts fly instantly to chocolates--and in
the fourth year of the greatest war that the world--
HILDEGARDE. Etcetera, etcetera.
TRANTO. Then do I gather that you don't entirely approve of your
sister's articles?
JOHN. Tripe, I think. My fag could write better. I'll tell you what I do
approve of. I approve of that article to-day by that chap Sampson
Straight about titles and the shameful traffic in honours, and the rot
of the hereditary principle, and all that sort of thing.
TRANTO. I'm glad. Delivers the goods, doesn't he, Mr. Sampson Straight?
JOHN. Well, _I_ think so. Who is he?
TRANTO. One of my discoveries, John. He sent me in an article about--let
me see, when was it?--about eight months ago. I at once perceived that
in Mr. Sampson Straight I had got on to a bit of all right. And I was
not mistaken. He has given London beans pretty regularly once a week
ever since.
JOHN. He must have given the War Cabinet neuralgia this afternoon,
anyhow. I should like to meet him.
TRANTO. I'm afraid that's impossible.
JOHN. Is it? Why?
TRANTO. Well, I haven't met him myself yet. He lives at a quiet country
place in Cornwall. Hermit, I believe. Hates any kind of publicity.
Absolutely refuses to be photographed.
JOHN. Photographed! I should think not! But couldn't you get him to come
and lecture at school? We have frightful swells, you know.
TRANTO. I expect you do. But he wouldn't come.
JOHN. I wish he would. We had a debate the other Saturday night on,
Should the hereditary principle be abolished?
TRANTO. And did you abolish it?
JOHN. Did we abolish it? I should say we did. Eighty-five to twenty-one.
Some debate, believe _me_!
HILDEGARDE (_looking round_). Yes, but didn't you tell us once that in
your Debating Society the speakers always tossed for sides beforehand?
JOHN (_shrugging his shoulders. More confidentially to_ Tranto). As I
was saying, I'm going to read the papers in future, as part of my
scheme. And d'you know what the scheme is? (_Impressively_.) I've
decided to take up a political career.
TRANTO. Good!
JOHN. Yes, it was during that hereditary principle debate that I
decided. It came over me all of a sudden while I was on the last lap of
my speech and the fellows were cheering. And so I want to understand
first of all the newspaper situation in London. There are one or two
things about it I _don't_ understand.
TRANTO. Not more? I can explain the newspaper situation to you in ten
words. You know I've got a lot of uncles. I daresay I've got more uncles
than anybody else in 'Who's Who.' Well, I own _The Echo_,--inherited it
from my father. My uncles own all the rest of the press--(_airily_) with
a few trifling exceptions. That's the London newspaper situation. Quite
simple, isn't it?
JOHN. But of course _The Echo_ is up against all your uncles' papers--at
least it seems so.
TRANTO. Absolutely up against them. Tooth and nail. Daggers drawn. No
quarter. Death or victory.
JOHN. But do you and your uncles speak to each other?
TRANTO. Best of friends.
JOHN. But aren't two of your uncles lords?
TRANTO. Yes. Uncle Joe was made an earl not long since--you may have
heard of the fuss about it. Uncle Sam's only a miserable baron yet. And
Uncle Cuthbert is that paltry insect--a baronet.
JOHN. What did they get their titles for?
TRANTO. Ask me another.
JOHN. Of course I don't want to be personal, but _how_ did they get
them? Did they--er--buy them?
TRANTO. Don't know.
JOHN. Haven't you ever asked them?
TRANTO. Well, John, you've got relatives yourself, and you probably know
there are some things that even the most affectionate relatives _don't_
ask each other.
HILDEGARDE (_rising from the desk and looking at John's feet_). Yes,
indeed! This very morning I unwisely asked Johnnie whether his socks
ever talked. Altercation followed. 'Some debate, believe _me_!'
JOHN (_rising; with scornful tranquillity_). I'd better get ready for
dinner. Besides, you two would doubtless like to be alone together for a
few precious moments.
HILDEGARDE (_sharply and self-consciously_). What do you mean?
JOHN (_lightly_). Nothing. I thought editor and contributor--
HILDEGARDE. Oh! I see.
JOHN (_stopping at door, and turning round_). Do you mean to say your
uncles won't be frightfully angry at Mr. Sampson Straight's articles?
Why, dash it, when he's talking about traffic in honours, if he doesn't
mean them who does he mean?
TRANTO. My dear friend, stuff like that's meat and drink to my uncles.
They put it down like chocolates.
JOHN. Well my deliberate opinion is--it's a jolly strange world. (_Exit
quickly, back)_.
TRANTO (_looking at_ Hildegarde). So it is. Philosopher, John! Questions
rather pointed perhaps; but result in the discovery of new truths. By
the way, have I come too early?
HILDEGARDE (_archly)_. How could you? But father's controlling the
country half an hour more than usual this evening, and I expect mamma
was so angry about it she forgot to telephone you that dinner's moved
accordingly. (_With piquancy and humour_.) I was rather surprised to
hear when I got home from my Ministry that you'd sent word you'd like to
dine to-night.
TRANTO. Were you? Why?
HILDEGARDE. Because last week when mamma _asked_ you for to-night, you
said you had another engagement.
TRANTO. Oh! I'd forgotten I'd told her that. Still, I really had
another engagement.
HILDEGARDE. The Countess of Blackfriars--you said.
TRANTO. Yes. Auntie Joe's. I've just sent her a telephone message to say
I'm ill and confined to the house.
HILDEGARDE. Which house?
TRANTO. I didn't specify any particular house.
HILDEGARDE. And are you ill?
TRANTO. I am not.... To get back to the realm of fact, when I read
Sampson Straight's article about the degradation of honours this
afternoon--
HILDEGARDE. Didn't you read it before you published it?
TRANTO. No. I had to rush off and confront the Medical Board at 9 a.m. I
felt certain the article would be all right.
HILDEGARDE. And it wasn't all right.
TRANTO (_positively_). Perfectly all right.
HILDEGARDE. You don't seem quite sure. Are we still in the realm of
fact, or are we slipping over the frontier?
TRANTO. The article was perfectly all right. It rattled off from
beginning to end like a machine-gun, and must have caused enormous
casualties. Only I thought Auntie Joe might be one of the casualties. I
thought it might put her out of action as a hostess for a week or so.
You see, for me to publish such an onslaught on new titles in the
afternoon, and then attempt to dine with the latest countess the same
night--and she my own aunt--well, it might be regarded as a bit--thick.
So I'm confined to the house--this house as it happens.
HILDEGARDE. But you told John your people would take the article like
meat and drink.
TRANTO. What if I did? John can't expect to discover the whole truth
about everything at one go. He's found out it's a jolly strange world.
That ought to satisfy him for to-day. Besides, he only asked me about my
uncles. He said nothing about my uncles' wives. You know what women
are--I mean wives.
HILDEGARDE. Oh, I do! Mother is a marvellous specimen.
TRANTO. I haven't told you the worst.
HILDEGARDE. I hope no man ever will.
TRANTO. The worst is this. Auntie Joe actually thinks _I_'m Sampson
Straight.
HILDEGARDE. She doesn't!
TRANTO. She does. She has an infinite capacity for belief. The
psychology of the thing is as follows. My governor died a comparatively
poor man. A couple of hundred thousand pounds, more or less. Whereas
Uncle Joe is worth five millions--and Uncle Joe was going to adopt me,
when Auntie Joe butted in and married him. She used to arrange the
flowers for his first wife. Then she arranged _his_ flowers. Then she
became a flower herself and he had to gather her. Then she had twins,
and my chances of inheriting that five millions (_he imitates the noise
of a slight explosion_) short-circuited! Well, I didn't care a volt--not
a volt! I've got lots of uncles left who are quite capable of adopting
me. But I didn't really want to be adopted at all. To adopt me was only
part of Uncle Joe's political game. It was my _Echo_ that he was after
adopting. But I'd sooner run my _Echo_ on my own than inherit Uncle
Joe's controlling share in twenty-five daily papers, seventy-one weekly
papers, six monthly magazines, and three independent advertising
agencies. I know I'm a poor man, but I'm quite ready to go on facing the
world bravely with my modest capital of a couple of hundred thousand
pounds. Only Auntie Joe can't understand that. She's absolutely
convinced that I have a terrific grudge against her and her twins, and
that in order to gratify that grudge I myself personally write articles
against all her most sacred ideals under the pseudonym of Sampson
Straight. I've pointed out to her that I'm a newspaper proprietor, and
no newspaper proprietor ever _could_ write. No use! She won't listen.
HILDEGARDE. Then she thinks you're a liar.
TRANTO. Oh, not at all. Only a journalist. But you perceive the widening
rift in the family lute. (_A silence_.) Pardon this glimpse into the
secret history of the week.
HILDEGARDE (_formidably_). Mr. Tranto, you and I are sitting on the edge
of a volcano.
TRANTO. We are. I like it. Thrilling, and yet so warm and cosy.
HILDEGARDE. I used to like it once. But I don't think I like it any
more.
TRANTO. Now please don't let Auntie Joe worry you. She's my cross, not
yours.
HILDEGARDE. Yes. But considered as a cross, your Auntie Joe is nothing
to my brother John, who quite justly calls his sister's cookery stuff
'tripe.' It was a most ingenious camouflage of yours to have me
pretending to be the author of that food economy 'tripe,' so as to cover
my writing quite different articles for _The Echo_ and your coming here
to see me so often. Most ingenious. Worthy of a newspaper proprietor.
But why should I be saddled with 'tripe' that isn't mine?
TRANTO. Why, indeed! Then you think we ought to encourage the volcano
with a lighted match--and run?
HILDEGARDE. I'm ready if you are.
TRANTO. Oh! I'm ready. Secrecy was a great stunt at first. Letting out
the secret will be an even greater stunt now. It'll make the finest
newspaper story since the fearful fall of the last Cabinet. Sampson
Straight--equals Miss Hildegarde Culver, the twenty-one year old
daughter of the Controller of Accounts! Typist in the Food Department,
by day! Journalistic genius by night! The terror of Ministers! Read by
all London! Raised the circulation of _The Echo_ two hundred per cent!
Phenomenon unique in the annals of Fleet Street! (_In a different tone,
noticing_ Hildegarde's _face_). Crude headlines, I admit, but that's
what Uncle Joe has brought us to. We have to compete with Uncle Joe....
HILDEGARDE. Of course I shall have to leave home.
TRANTO. Leave home!
HILDEGARDE. Yes, and live by myself in rooms.
TRANTO. But why?
HILDEGARDE. I couldn't possibly stay here. Think how it would compromise
father with the War Cabinet if I did. It might ruin him. And as accounts
are everything in modern warfare, it might lose the war. But that's
nothing--it's mamma I'm thinking of. Do you forget that Sampson
Straight, being a young woman of advanced ideas, has written about
everything, _everything_--yes, and several other subjects besides? For
instance, here's the article I was revising when you came in. (_Shows
the title-page to_ Tranto.)
TRANTO. Splendid! You're the most courageous creature I ever met.
HILDEGARDE. Possibly. But not courageous enough to offer to kiss mamma
when I went to bed on the night that _that (indicating the article_) had
appeared in print under my own name. You don't know mamma.
TRANTO. But dash it! You could eat your mother!
HILDEGARDE. Pardon me. The contrary is the fact. Mamma could eat me.
TRANTO. But you're the illustrious Sampson Straight. There's more
intelligence in your little finger than there is in your mother's whole
body. See how you write.
HILDEGARDE. Write! I only began to write as a relief from mamma. I
escaped secretly into articles like escaping into an underground
passage. But as for facing mamma in the open!... Even father scarcely
ever does that; and when he does, we hold our breath, and the cook turns
teetotal. It wouldn't be the slightest use me trying to explain the
situation logically to mamma. She wouldn't understand. She's far too
clever to understand anything she doesn't like. Perhaps that's the
secret of her power. No, if the truth about Sampson Straight is to come
out I must leave home--quietly but firmly leave home. And why not? I can
keep myself in splendour on Sampson's earnings. And the break is bound
to come sooner or later. I admit I didn't begin very seriously, but
reading my own articles has gradually made me serious. I feel I have a
cause. A cause may be inconvenient, but it's magnificent. It's like
champagne or high heels, and one must be prepared to suffer for it.
TRANTO. Cause be hanged! Suffer be hanged! High heels be hanged!
Champagne--(_stops_). Miss Culver, if a disclosure means your leaving
home I won't agree to any disclosure whatever. I will--not--agree.
We'll sit tight on the volcano.
HILDEGARDE. But why won't you agree?
TRANTO (_excited_). Why won't I agree! Why won't I agree! Because I
don't want you to leave home. I know you're a born genius--a marvel, a
miracle, a prodigy, an incredible orchid, the most brilliant journalist
in London. I'm fully aware of all that. But I do not and will not see
you as a literary bachelor living with a cause and holding receptions of
serious people in chambers furnished by Roger Fry. I like to think of
you at home, here, in this charming atmosphere, amid the delightful
vicissitudes of family existence, and--well, I like to think of you as a
woman.
HILDEGARDE (_calmly and teasingly_). Mr. Tranto, we are forgetting one
thing.
TRANTO. What's that?
HILDEGARDE. You're an editor, and I'm a contributor whom you've never
met.
_Enter_ Mrs. Culver (_L_).
MRS. CULVER. Mr. Tranto, how are you? (_Shaking hands_.) I'm delighted
to see you. So sorry I didn't warn you we dine half an hour
later--thanks to the scandalous way the Government slave-drives my poor
husband. Please do excuse me. (_She sits_).
TRANTO. On the contrary, it's I who should ask to be excused--proposing
myself like this at the last moment.
MRS. CULVER. It was very nice of you to think of us. Come and sit down
here. (_Indicating a place by her side on the sofa_.) Now in my poor
addled brain I had an idea you were engaged for to-night at your aunt's,
Lady Blackfriars'.
TRANTO (_sitting_). Mrs. Culver, you forget nothing. I _was_ engaged for
Auntie Joe's, but she's ill and she's put me off.
MRS. CULVER. Dear me! How very sudden!
TRANTO. Sudden?
MRS. CULVER. I met Lady Blackfriars at tea late this afternoon and it
struck me how well she was looking.
TRANTO. Yes, she always looks particularly well just before she's going
to be ill. She's very brave, very brave.
MRS. CULVER. D'you mean in having twins? It was more than brave of her;
it was beautiful--both boys, too.
HILDEGARDE (_innocently_). Budgeting for a long war.
MRS. CULVER (_affectionately_). My dear girl! Come here, darling, you
haven't changed. Excuse me, Mr. Tranto.
HILDEGARDE (_approaching_). I've been so busy. And I thought nobody was
coming.
MRS. CULVER. Is your father nobody? (_stroking and patting_ Hildegarde's
_dress into order_). What have you been so busy on?
HILDEGARDE. Article for _The Echo_. (Tranto, _who has been holding the
MS., indicates it_.)
MRS. CULVER. I do wish you would let me see those cookery articles of
yours before they're printed.
TRANTO (_putting MS. in his pocket_). I'm afraid that's quite against
the rules. You see, in Fleet Street--
MRS. CULVER (_very pleasantly_). As you please. I don't pretend to be
intellectual. But I confess I'm just a wee bit disappointed in
Hildegarde's cookery articles. I'm a great believer in good cookery. I
put it next to the Christian religion--and far in front of mere
cleanliness. I've just been trying to read Professor Metchnikoff's
wonderful book on 'The Nature of Man.' It only confirms me in my
lifelong belief that until the nature of man is completely altered good
cooking is the chief thing that women ought to understand. Now I taught
Hildegarde some cookery myself. She was not what I should call a
brilliant pupil, but she did grasp the great eternal principles. And yet
I find her writing (_with charm and benevolence_) stuff like her last
article--'The Everlasting Boiled Potato,' I think she called it.
Hildegarde, it was really very naughty of you to say what you said in
that article. (_Drawing down_ Hildegarde's _head and kissing her_.)
TRANTO. Now why, Mrs. Culver? I thought it was so clever.
MRS. CULVER. It may be clever to advocate fried potatoes and chip
potatoes and saute potatoes as a change from the everlasting boiled. I
daresay it's what you call journalism. But how can you fry potatoes
without fat?
TRANTO. Ah! How?
MRS. CULVER. And where are you to obtain fat? _I_ can't obtain fat. I
stand in queues for hours because my servants won't--it's the latest
form of democracy--but _I_ can't obtain fat. I think the nearest fat is
at Stratford-on-Avon.
TRANTO. Stand in queues! Mrs. Culver, you make me feel very guilty,
plunging in at a moment's notice and demanding a whole dinner in a
fatless world. I shall eat nothing but dry bread.
MRS. CULVER. We never serve bread at lunch or dinner unless it's
specially asked for. But if soup, macaroni, eggs, and jelly will keep
you alive till breakfast--
HILDEGARDE. But there's beefsteak, mamma--I've told Mr. Tranto.
MRS. CULVER. Only a little, and that's for your father. Beefsteak's the
one thing that keeps off his neuralgia, Mr. Tranto. (_With apologetic
persuasiveness_.) I'm sure you'll understand.
TRANTO. Dear lady, I've never had neuralgia in my life. Macaroni, eggs,
and jelly are my dream. I've always wanted to feel like an invalid.
MRS. CULVER. And how did you get on with your Medical Board this
morning?
TRANTO. How marvellous of you to remember that I had a Medical Board
this morning! I believe I've found out your secret, Mrs. Culver--you're
undergoing a course of Pelman with those sixty generals and forty
admirals. Well, the Medical Board have given me a new complaint. You'll
be sorry to hear that I'm deformed.
MRS. CULVER. Not deformed!
TRANTO. Yes. It appears I'm flat-footed. (_Extending his leg_.) Have I
ever told you that I had a dashing military career extending over four
months, three of which I spent in hospital for a disease I hadn't got?
Then I was discharged as unfit. After a year they raked me in again.
Since then I've been boarded five times, and on the unimpeachable
authority of various R.A.M.C. Colonels I've been afflicted with valvular
disease of the heart, incipient tuberculosis, rickets, varicose veins,
diabetes--practically everything, except spotted fever and leprosy. And
now flat feet are added to all the rest. Even the Russian collapse and
the transfer of the entire German army to the Western Front hasn't
raised me higher than C 3.
MRS. CULVER. How annoying for you! You might have risen to be a captain
by this time.
HILDEGARDE (_reflectively_). No doubt, in a home unit. But if he'd gone
to the Front he would still have been a second lieutenant.
MRS. CULVER. My _dear_!
TRANTO. Whereas in fact I'm still one of those able-bodied young
shirkers in mufti that patriotic old gentlemen in clubs are always
writing to my uncles' papers about.
MRS. CULVER. Please! please! (_A slight pause; pulling herself
together; cheerfully_.) Let me see, you were going in for Siege
Artillery, weren't you?
TRANTO. Me! Siege Artillery. My original ambition was trench
mortars--not so noisy.
MRS. CULVER (_simply_). Oh! Then it must have been somebody else who was
talking to me about Siege Artillery. I understand it's very
scientific--all angles and degrees and wind-pressures and things. John
will soon be eighteen, and his father and I want him to be really useful
in the Army. We don't want him to be thrown away. He has brains, and so
we are thinking of Siege Artillery for him.