Book: ject Gutenberg EBook of The Title, by Arnold Bennett
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Arnold Bennett >> ject Gutenberg EBook of The Title, by Arnold Bennett
(_During this speech_ John _has entered, in evening dress_.)
JOHN. Are you on Siege again, mater? The mater's keen on Siege because
she's heard somewhere it's the safest thing there is.
MRS. CULVER. And if it does happen to be the safest--what then?
TRANTO. I suppose you're all for the Flying Corps, John?
JOHN (_with condescension_). Not specially. Since one of the old boys
came and did looping the loop stunts over the school the whole Fifth
has gone mad on the R.F.C. Most fellows are just like sheep. _Somebody_
in the Sixth has to be original. I want to fight as much as any chap
with wings across his chest, but I've got my private career to think of
too. If you ask me, the mater's had a brain-wave for once.
_Enter_ Mr. Culver, _back. He stands a moment at the door, surveying the
scene_. Mrs. Culver _springs up, and_ Tranto _also rises, moving towards
the door_.
MRS. CULVER. Arthur, have you come?
CULVER (_advancing a little_). Apparently. Hello, Tranto, glad to see
you. I wanted to. (_Shakes hands with_ Tranto.)
MRS. CULVER. What's the matter, Arthur?
CULVER. Everything.
MRS. CULVER (_alarmed, but carefully coaxing_). Why are you wearing your
velvet coat? (_To_ Tranto.) He always puts on his velvet coat instead of
dressing when something's gone wrong. (_To_ Mr. Culver.) Have you got
neuralgia again?
CULVER. I don't think so.
MRS. CULVER. But surely you must know! You look terribly pale.
CULVER. The effect of the velvet coat, my dear--nicely calculated in
advance.
MRS. CULVER (_darting at him, holding him by the shoulders, and then
kissing him violently. With an intonation of affectionate protest_).
Darling!
JOHN. Oh! I say, mater, look here!
MRS. CULVER (_to_ Culver, _still holding him_). I'm very annoyed with
you. It's perfectly absurd the way you work. (_To_ Tranto.) Do you know
he was at the office all day Christmas Day and all day Boxing Day? (_To_
Culver.) You really must take a holiday.
CULVER. But what about the war, darling?
MRS. CULVER (_loosing him_). Oh! You're always making the war an excuse.
I know what I shall do. I shall just go--
CULVER. Yes, darling, just go and suggest a short armistice to the
Germans while you take me to Brighton for a week's fondling.
MRS. CULVER. I shall just speak to Miss Starkey. Strange that the wife,
in order to influence the husband, should have to appeal to
(_disdainfully_) the lady secretary! But so it is.
CULVER. Hermione, I must beg you not to interfere between Miss Starkey
and me. Interference will upset Miss Starkey, and I cannot stand her
being upset. I depend upon her absolutely. First, Miss Starkey is the
rock upon which my official existence is built. She is a serious and
conscientious rock. She is hard and expects me to be hard. Secondly,
Miss Starkey is the cushion between me and the world. She knows my
tender spots, and protects them. Thirdly, Miss Starkey is my rod--and I
kiss it.
MRS. CULVER. Arthur!... (_tries to be agreeable_). But I really am
vexed.
CULVER. Well, I'm only hungry.
_Enter_ Parlourmaid.
PARLOURMAID. Cook's compliments, madam, and dinner will be twenty
minutes late. (_Exit_.)
(_A shocked silence_.)
CULVER (_with an exhausted sigh_). And yet I gave that cook one of my
most captivating smiles this morning.
MRS. CULVER (_settling_ Mr. Culver _into a chair_). She's done it simply
because I told her to-night that rationing is definitely coming in. Her
reply was that the kitchen would never stand it, whatever the Government
said. She was quite upset--and so she's gone and done something to the
dinner.
CULVER. Surely rather illogical of her, isn't it? Or have I missed a
link in the chain of reasoning?
MRS. CULVER. I shall give her notice--after dinner.
JOHN. Couldn't you leave it till after the holidays, mother?
HILDEGARDE. And where shall you find another cook, mamma?
MRS. CULVER. The first thing is to get rid of the present one. Then we
shall see.
CULVER. My dear, you talk as if she was a prime minister. Still, it
might be a good plan to sack all the servants before rationing comes in,
and engage deaf-mutes.
MRS. CULVER. Deaf-mutes!
CULVER. Deaf-mutes. Then they wouldn't be worried by the continual
groaning of _my_ hunger, and I shouldn't hear any complaints about
_theirs_.
MRS. CULVER (_to_ Hildegarde). My pet, you've time to change now. Do run
and change. You're so sombre.
HILDEGARDE. I can't do it in twenty minutes.
MRS. CULVER. Then put a bright shawl on--for papa's sake.
HILDEGARDE. I haven't got a bright shawl.
MRS. CULVER. Then take mine. The one with the pink beads on it. It's in
my wardrobe--right-hand side.
JOHN. That means it'll be on the left-hand side.
(_Exit_ Hildegarde, _back, with a look at Tranto, who opens the door for
her_.)
MRS. CULVER (_with sweet apprehensiveness_). Now Arthur, I'm afraid
after all you have something on your mind.
CULVER. I've got nothing on my stomach, anyway. (_Bracing himself_.)
Yes, darling, it's true. I have got something on my mind. Within the
last hour I've had a fearful shock--
MRS. CULVER. I knew it!
CULVER. And I need sustaining. I hadn't meant to say anything until
after dinner, but in view of cook's drastic alterations in the
time-table I may as well tell you (_looking round_) at once.
MRS. CULVER. It's something about the Government again.
CULVER. The Government has been in a very serious situation.
MRS. CULVER (_alarmed_). You mean they're going to ask you to resign?
CULVER. I wish they would!
MRS. CULVER. Arthur! Do please remember the country is at war.
CULVER. Is it? So it is. You see, my pet, I remember such a lot of
things. I remember that my brainy partner is counting khaki trousers in
the Army clothing department. I remember that my other partner ought to
be in a lunatic asylum, but isn't. I remember that my business is going
to the dogs at a muzzle velocity of about five thousand feet a second. I
remember that from mere snobbishness I work for the Government without a
penny of salary, and that my sole reward is to be insulted and libelled
by high-brow novelists who write for the press. Therefore you ought not
to be startled if I secretly yearn to resign. However, I shall not be
asked to resign. I said that the Government had been in a very serious
situation. It was. But it will soon recover.
MRS. CULVER. How soon?
CULVER. On New Year's Day.
JOHN. Then what's the fearful shock, dad?
MRS. CULVER. Yes. Have you heard anything special?
CULVER. No. But I've seen something special. I saw it less than an hour
ago. It was shown to me without the slightest warning, and I admit it
shook me. You can perceive for yourselves that it shook me.
MRS. CULVER. But what?
CULVER. The New Year's Honours List--or rather a few choice selections
from the more sensational parts of it.
_Enter_ Hildegarde.
MRS. CULVER. Arthur, _what_ do you mean? (_To_ Hildegarde, _in
despair_.) My chick, your father grows more and more puzzling every day!
How well that shawl suits you! You look quite a different girl. But
you've--(_arranges the shawl on_ Hildegarde) I really don't know what
your father has on his mind! I really don't!
JOHN (_impatient of this feminine manifestation_). Oh, dad, go on. Go
on! I want to get at the bottom of this titles business. I'm hanged if I
can understand it. What strikes me as an unprejudiced observer is that
titles are supposed to be such a terrific honour, and yet the people who
deal them out scarcely ever keep any for themselves. Look at Mr.
Gladstone, for instance. He must have made about forty earls and seven
thousand baronets in his time. Now if I was a Prime Minister, and I
believed in titles--which I jolly well don't--I should make myself a
duke right off; and I should have several marquises and viscounts round
me in the Cabinet like a sort of bodyguard, and my private secretaries
would have to be knights. There'd be some logic in that arrangement
anyhow.
CULVER. In view of your political career, John, will you mind if I give
you a brief lesson on elementary politics--though you _are_ on your
holidays?
JOHN (_easily_). I'm game.
CULVER. What is the first duty of modern Governments?
JOHN. To govern.
CULVER. My innocent boy. I thought better of you. I know that you look
on the venerable Mr. Tranto as a back number, and I suspect that Mr.
Tranto in his turn regards me as prehistoric; and yet you are so behind
the times as to imagine that the first duty of modern Governments is to
govern! My dear Rip van Winkle, wake up. The first duty of a Government
is to live. It has no right to be a Government at all unless it is
convinced that if it fell the country would go to everlasting smash.
Hence its first duty is to survive. In order to survive it must do three
things--placate certain interests, influence votes, and obtain secret
funds. All these three things can be accomplished by the ingenious
institution of Honours. Only the simple-minded believe that Honours are
given to honour. Honours are given to save the life of the Government.
Hence the Honours List. Examine the Honours List and you can instantly
tell how the Government feels in its inside. When the Honours List is
full of rascals, millionaires, and--er--chumps, you may be quite sure
that the Government is dangerously ill.
TRANTO. But that amounts to what we've been saying in _The Echo_ to-day.
CULVER. Yes, I've read the _The Echo_.
JOHN. I thought you never had a free moment at the office--always rushed
to death--at least that's the mater's theory.
CULVER. I've read _The Echo_, and my one surprise is that you're here
to-night, Tranto.
TRANTO. Why?
CULVER. I quite thought you'd have been shoved into the Tower under the
Defence of the Realm Act. Or Sampson Straight, anyway. (Hildegarde
_starts_.) Your contributor has committed the unpardonable sin of
hitting the nail on the head. He might almost have seen an advance copy
of the Honours List.
TRANTO. He hadn't. Nor had I. Who's in it?
CULVER. You might ask who isn't in it. (_Taking a paper from his
pocket_.) Well, Gentletie's in it. He gets a knighthood.
TRANTO. Never heard of him. Who is he?
HILDEGARDE. Oh, yes, you've heard of him. (John _glances at her
severely_.) He's M.P. for some earthly paradise or other in the South
Riding.
TRANTO. Oh!
CULVER. Perhaps I might read you something written by my private
secretary--he's one of these literary wags. You see there's been a
demand that the Government should state clearly, in every case of an
Honour, exactly what services the Honour is given for. This (_taking
paper from his pocket_) is supposed to be the stuff sent round to the
Press by the Press Bureau. (_Reads_.) 'Mr. Gentletie has gradually made
a solid reputation for himself as the dullest man in the House of
Commons. Whenever he rises to his feet the House empties as if by magic.
In cases of inconvenience, when the Government wishes abruptly to close
a debate by counting out the House, it has invariably put up Mr.
Gentletie to speak. The device has never been known to fail. Nobody can
doubt that Mr. Gentletie's patriotic devotion to the Allied cause well
merits the knighthood which is now bestowed on him.'
JOHN (_astounded_.) Stay me with flagons!
TRANTO. So that's that! And who else?
CULVER. Another of your esteemed uncles.
TRANTO. Well, that's not very startling, seeing that my uncle's chief
daily organ is really a department of the Government.
JOHN. What I say is--
HILDEGARDE (_simultaneously with_ John). Wouldn't it be more
correct--(_continuing alone_) wouldn't it be more correct to say that
the Government is really a department of your uncle's chief daily organ?
JOHN. Hilda, old girl, I wish you wouldn't interrupt. Cookery's your
line.
HILDEGARDE. Sorry, Johnnie. I see I was in danger of becoming unsexed.
CULVER (_to_ John). Yes? You were about to say?
JOHN. Oh, nothing.
CULVER (_to_ Tranto). Shall I read the passage on your uncle?
TRANTO. Don't trouble. Who's the next?
CULVER. The next is--Ullivant, munitions manufacturer. Let me see.
(_Reads_.) By the simple means of saying that the cost price of shells
was eighteen shillings and ninepence each, whereas it was in fact only
ten shillings and ninepence, Mr. Joshua Ullivant has made a fortune of
two million pounds during the war. He has given a hundred thousand to
the Prince of Wales's Fund, a hundred thousand to the Red Cross, and a
hundred thousand to the party funds. Total net profit on the war, one
million seven hundred thousand pounds, not counting the peerage which is
now bestowed upon him, and which it must be admitted is a just reward
for his remarkable business acumen.'
TRANTO. Very agreeable fellow Ullivant is, nevertheless.
CULVER. Oh, he is. They're most of them too damned agreeable for
anything. Another prominent name is Orlando Bush.
TRANTO. Ah!
MRS. CULVER. I've met his wife. She dances beautifully at charity
matinees.
CULVER. No doubt. But apparently that's not the reason.
TRANTO. I know Orlando. I've just bought the serial rights of his book.
CULVER. Have you paid him?
TRANTO. No.
CULVER. How wise of you! (_Reads_). 'Mr. Orlando Bush has written a
historical sketch, with many circumstantial details, of the political
origins of the present Government. For his forbearance in kindly
consenting to withold publication until the end of the war Mr. Bush
receives a well-earned'--
TRANTO. What?
CULVER. Knighthood.
TRANTO. Cheap! But what a sell for me!
CULVER. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the last name with which I will
trouble you is that of Mr. James Brill.
TRANTO. Not Jimmy Brill!
CULVER. Jimmy Brill.
TRANTO. But he's a--
CULVER. Stop, my dear Tranto. No crude phrases, please. (_Reads_.) 'Mr.
James Brill, to use the language of metaphor, possessed a pistol, which
pistol he held point blank at the head of the Government. The Government
has thought it wise to purchase Mr. James Brill's pistol--'
TRANTO. But he's a--
CULVER (_raising a hand_). He is merely the man with the pistol, and in
exchange for the pistol he gets a baronetcy.
TRANTO. A baronetcy!
CULVER. His title and pistol will go rattling down the ages, my dear
Tranto, from generation to generation. For the moment the fellow's name
stinks, but only for the moment. In the nostrils of his grandson (third
baronet), it will have a most sweet odour.
MRS. CULVER. But all this is perfectly shocking.
CULVER. Now I hope you comprehend my emotion, darling.
MRS. CULVER But surely there are some _nice_ names on the List.
CULVER. Of course. There have to be some nice names, for the sake of the
psychological effect on the public mind on New Year's Day. The public
looks for a good name, or for a name it can understand. It skims down
the List till it sees one. Then it says: 'Ah! That's not so bad!' Then
it skims down further till it sees another one, and it says again: 'Ah!
That's not so bad!' And so on. So that with about five or six decent
names you can produce the illusion that after all the List is really
rather good.
HILDEGARDE. The strange thing to me is that decent people condescend to
receive titles at all.
MRS. CULVER. Bravo, Hildegarde! Yes, if it's so bad as you make out,
Arthur, why _do_ decent people take Honours?
CULVER. I'll tell you. Decent people have wives, and their wives lead
them by the nose. That's why decent people take Honours.
MRS. CULVER. Well, I think it's monstrous!
CULVER. So it is. I've been a Conservative all my life; I am a
Conservative. I swear I am. And yet, now when I look back, I'm amazed at
the things I used to do. Why, once I actually voted against a candidate
who stood for the reform of the House of Lords. Seems incredible. This
war is changing my ideas. (_Suddenly, after a slight pause_.) I'm
dashed if I don't join the Labour party and ask Ramsay Macdonald to
lunch.
_Enter_ Parlourmaid, _back_.
PARLOURMAID. You are wanted on the telephone, madam.
MRS. CULVER. Oh, Arthur! (_Pats him on the shoulder as she goes out_.)
(_Exit_ Mrs. Culver _and_ Parlourmaid, _back_.)
CULVER. Hildegarde, go and see if you can hurry up dinner.
HILDEGARDE. No one could.
CULVER. Never mind, go and see. (_Exit_ Hildegarde, _back_.) John, just
take these keys, and get some cigars out of the cabinet, you know,
Partagas.
JOHN. Oh! Is it a Partaga night? (_Exit, back_.)
CULVER (_watching the door close_). Tranto, we are conspirators.
TRANTO. You and I?
CULVER. Yes. But we must have no secrets. Who wrote that article in _The
Echo_? Who is Sampson Straight?
TRANTO (_temporising, lightly_). You remind me of the man with the
pistol.
CULVER. Is it Hildegarde?
TRANTO. How did you guess?
CULVER. Well; first, I knew my daughter couldn't be the piffling lunatic
who does your war cookery articles. Second, I asked myself: What reason
has she for pretending to be that piffling lunatic? Third, I have an
exceedingly high opinion of my daughter's brains. Fourth, she gave a
funny start just now when I mentioned the idea of Sampson Straight going
to the Tower.
TRANTO. Perhaps I ought to explain--
CULVER. No you oughn't. There's no time. I simply wanted a bit of
information. I've got it. Now I have a bit of information for you. I've
been offered a place in this beautiful Honours List. Baronetcy! Me! I am
put on the same high plane as Mr. James Brill, the unspeakable. The
formal offer hasn't actually arrived--it's late; I expect the letter'll
be here in the morning--but I know for a fact I'm in the List for a
baronetcy.
TRANTO. Well, I congratulate you.
CULVER. You'd better not.
TRANTO. You deserve more than a baronetcy. Your department has been a
striking success--one of the very few in the whole length of Whitehall.
CULVER. I know my department has been a success. But that's not why I'm
offered a baronetcy. Good heavens, I haven't even spoken to any member
of the War Cabinet yet. I've been trying to for about a year, but in
spite of powerful influences to help me I've never been able to bring
off a meeting with the mandarins. No! I'm offered a baronetcy because
I'm respectable; I'm decent; and at the last moment they thought the
List looked a bit too thick--so they pushed me in. One of their
brilliant afterthoughts!... No damned merit about the thing, I can tell
you!
TRANTO. Do you mean you intend to refuse?
CULVER. Do you mean you ever imagined that I should accept? Me, in the
same galley with Brill--who daren't go into his own clubs--and Ullivant,
and a few more pretty nearly as bad! Of course, I shall refuse. Nothing
on earth would induce me to accept. Nothing! (_More calmly_.) Mind you,
I don't blame the Government; probably the Government can't help itself.
Therefore the Government must be helped; and sometimes the best way to
help a fellow creature is to bring him to his senses by catching him one
across the jaw.
TRANTO. Why are you making a secret of it? The offer is surely bound to
come out.
CULVER. Of course. I'm only making a secret of it for the moment, while
I prepare the domestic ground for my refusal.
TRANTO. You wish me to understand--
CULVER. You know what women are. (_With caution_.) I speak of the sex in
general.
TRANTO. I see.
CULVER. That's all right.
TRANTO. Well, if I mayn't congratulate you on the title, let me
congratulate you on your marvellous skill in this delicate operation of
preparing the domestic ground for your refusal of the title. Your
success is complete, absolute.
CULVER (_sardonic_.) Complete? Absolute?
TRANTO. You have--er--jockeyed Mrs.--er--the sex into committing itself
quite definitely against titles. Hence I look on your position as
impregnable.
CULVER. Good heavens, Tranto! How old are you?
TRANTO. Twenty-five.
CULVER. A quarter of a century--and you haven't learnt that no position
is impregnable against--er--the sex! You never know where the offensive
will come, nor when, nor how. The offensive is bound to be a surprise.
You aren't married. When you are you'll soon find out that being a
husband is a whole-time job. That's why so many husbands fail. They
can't give their entire attention to it. Tranto, my position must be
still further strengthened--during dinner. It can't be strengthened too
much. I've brought you into the conspiracy because you're on the spot
and I want you to play up.
TRANTO. Certainly, sir.
CULVER. The official letter _might_ come by to-night's post. If it does,
a considerable amount of histrionic skill will be needed.
TRANTO. Trust me for that.
CULVER. Oh! I do! Indeed I fancy after all I'm fairly safe. There's only
one danger.
TRANTO. Yes?
CULVER. My--I mean the sex, must hear of the offered title from me
first. If the news came to her indirectly she'd--
_Enter_ Mrs. Culver _rapidly, back_.
MRS. CULVER (_rushing to him_). Darling! Dearest! What a tease you are!
You needn't pretend any longer. Lady Prockter has just whispered to me
over the telephone that you're to have a baronetcy. Of course she'd be
bound to know. She said I might tell you. I never _dreamed_ of a title.
I'm so glad. Oh! But you _are_ a tease! (_Kisses him enthusiastically_.)
CURTAIN.
ACT II
ACT II
_The next day after dinner_. Culver _and_ Parlourmaid.
CULVER (_handing_ Parlourmaid _a letter_). That's for the post. Is Miss
Starkey here?
PARLOURMAID. Yes, sir. She is waiting.
CULVER. Ask her to be good enough to keep on waiting. She may come in
when I ring twice.
PARLOURMAID. Yes, sir.
_Enter_ Mrs. Culver, _back_.
MRS. CULVER (_to_ Parlourmaid, _stopping her as she goes out,
dramatically_). Give me that letter. (_She snatches the letter from the_
Parlourmaid.) You can go. (Culver _rises_.) (_Exit_ Parlourmaid.)
MRS. CULVER. I am determined to make a stand this time.
CULVER (_soothingly_). So I see, darling.
MRS. CULVER. I have given way to you all my life. But I won't give way
now. This letter shall not go.
CULVER. As you like, darling.
MRS. CULVER. No. (_She tears the envelope open, without having looked at
it, and throws the letter into the fire. In doing so she lets fall a
cheque_.)
CULVER (_rising and picking up the cheque_). I'll keep the cheque as a
memento.
MRS. CULVER. Cheque? What cheque?
CULVER. Darling, once in the old, happy days--I think it was last
week--you and I were walking down Bond Street, almost hand in hand, but
not quite, and you saw a brooch in a shop window. You simply had to have
that brooch. I offered it to you for a Christmas present. You are
wearing it now, and very well it suits you. This (_indicating the
cheque_) was to pay the bill.
MRS. CULVER. Arthur!
CULVER. Moral: Look before you burn. Miss Starkey will now have to write
a fresh letter.
MRS. CULVER. Arthur! You must forgive me. I'm in a horrid state of
nerves, and you said you were positively going to write to Lord Woking
to-night to refuse the title.
CULVER. I did say so.
MRS. CULVER (_hopefully_). But you haven't written?
CULVER. I haven't.
MRS. CULVER. You don't know how relieved I am!
CULVER (_sitting down, drawing her to him, and setting her on his
knee_). Infant! Cherub! Angel! Dove!... Devil! (_Caressing her_.) Are we
friends?
MRS. CULVER. It kills me to quarrel with you. (_They kiss_.)
CULVER. Darling, we are absurd.
MRS. CULVER. I don't care.
CULVER. Supposing that anyone came in and caught us!
MRS. CULVER. Well, we're married.
CULVER.--But it's so long since. Hildegarde's twenty-one! John,
seventeen!
MRS. CULVER. It seems to me like yesterday.
CULVER. Yes, you're incurably a girl.
MRS. CULVER. I'm not.
CULVER. You are. And I'm a boy. I say we are absurd. We're continually
absurd. We were absurd all last evening when we pretended before the
others, with the most disastrous results, that nothing was the matter.
We were still more absurd when we went to our twin beds and argued
savagely with each other from bed to bed until four o'clock this
morning. Do you know that I had exactly one hour and fifty-five minutes'
sleep? (_Yawns_.) Do you know that owing to extreme exhaustion my
behaviour at my office to-day has practically lost the war? But the most
absurd thing of all was you trying to do the Roman matron business at
dinner to-night. Mind you, I adore you for being absurd, but--
MRS. CULVER (_very endearingly, putting her hand on his mouth_).
Dearest, you needn't continue. I know you're wiser and stronger than me
in every way. But I love that. Most women wouldn't; but I do. (_Kisses
him_.) Oh! I'm so glad you've at last seen the force of my arguments
about the title.
CULVER (_gently warning_). Now, now! You're behaving like a journalist.
MRS. CULVER. Like a journalist?
CULVER. Journalists say a thing that they know isn't true, in the hope
that if they keep on saying it long enough it _will_ be true.
MRS. CULVER. But you do see the force of my arguments!
CULVER. Quite. But I also see the force of mine, and, as an impartial
judge, I'm bound to say that yours aren't in it with mine.
MRS. CULVER. Then you've refused the title after all?
CULVER (_ingratiatingly_). No. I told you I hadn't. But I'm going to. I
was just thinking over the terms of the fatal letter to Lord Woking when
you came in. Starkey is now waiting for me to dictate it. You see it
positively must be posted to-night.