| MR. CULVER | |
| MRS. CULVER | |
| HILDEGARDE CULVER | } their children |
| JOHN CULVER | } |
| TRANTO | |
| MISS STARKEY | |
| SAMPSON STRAIGHT | |
| PARLOURMAID |
An evening between Christmas and New Year, before dinner.
The next evening, after dinner.
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.
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?