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    The Title: A Comedy in Three Acts
    The Title: A Comedy in Three Acts
    The Title: A Comedy in Three Acts
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    The Title: A Comedy in Three Acts

    By Arnold Bennett

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    Dodo Collections brings you another classic from Arnold Bennett, ‘"The Title: A Comedy in Three Acts."’
     
    Set against the backdrop of World War I, this play is a rollicking send-up of Britain's class system and its growing absurdity in the heady period of democratization that began to transpire in the early twentieth century. When mild-mannered protagonist Culver finds out that he is entitled to a formal honor (i.e., a title), he begins to reconsider the age-old hierarchy and all that it entails.
     
    Enoch Arnold Bennett (always known as Arnold Bennett) was one of the most remarkable literary figures of his time, a product of the English Potteries that he made famous as the Five Towns. Yet he could hardly wait to escape his home town, and he did so by the sheer force of his ambition to succeed as an author. In his time he turned his hand to every kind of writing, but he will be remembered for such novels as The Old Wives' Tale, the Clayhanger trilogy (Clayhanger, Hilda Lessways, and These Twain), and The Card. He also wrote such intriguing self-improvement books as Literary Taste, How To Live on 24 Hours a Day, The Human Machine, etc.
     
    After a local education Bennett finished his education at the University of London and for a time was editor of Woman magazine. After 1900 he devoted himself entirely to writing; dramatic criticism was one of his foremost interests. Bennett is best known, however, for his novels, several of which were written during his residence in France.
     
    Bennett's infancy was spent in genteel poverty, which gave way to prosperity as his father succeeded as a solicitor. From this provincial background he became a novelist.
    His enduring fame is as a Chronicler of the Potteries towns, the setting and inspiration of some of his most famous and enduring literary work and the place where he grew up.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDead Dodo Presents Arnold Bennett
    Release dateSep 5, 2015
    ISBN9781508026310
    The Title: A Comedy in Three Acts
    Author

    Arnold Bennett

    Arnold Bennett (1867–1931) was an English novelist renowned as a prolific writer throughout his entire career. The most financially successful author of his day, he lent his talents to numerous short stories, plays, newspaper articles, novels, and a daily journal totaling more than one million words.

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      Book preview

      The Title - Arnold Bennett

      THE TITLE

      ..................

      A Comedy in Three Acts

      Arnold Bennett

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of nonfiction and is intended to be factually accurate.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2015 by Arnold Bennett

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      CHARACTERS

      ACT I

      ACT II

      ACT III

      CHARACTERS

      ..................

      MR. CULVER

      MRS. CULVER

      HILDEGARDE CULVER} their children

      JOHN CULVER}

      TRANTO

      MISS STARKEY

      SAMPSON STRAIGHT

      PARLOURMAID

      ..................

      ACT I

      ..................

      ..................

      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

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