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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
Arthur Wing Pinero's "The Big Drum" is a poignant exploration of the human experience, woven into a narrative that reflects the shifting societal norms of the early 20th century. The play, characterized by its realistic dialogue and emotional depth, delves into themes of love, loyalty, and the conflict between personal desires and social expectations. Set against a backdrop of a close-knit community, Pinero masterfully captures the nuances of relationships, utilizing a blend of humor and pathos that marks his significant contribution to the Edwardian theatre landscape. Pinero, a prominent playwright and a key figure in the dramatic movement of his time, brought personal insights to his work stemming from his own experiences in Victorian England. His understanding of theatrical conventions, combined with a commitment to social commentary, informed his craft, making him one of the leading voices in modern drama. "The Big Drum" showcases Pinero's evolution as a writer who deftly negotiates between traditional and innovative narrative forms, reflecting his deep engagement with contemporary issues. This compelling play is highly recommended for readers who appreciate a rich tapestry of character-driven stories that challenge societal norms. Pinero's eloquent prose and empathetic characterizations invite readers to reflect on their values, making "The Big Drum" an essential addition to any literary collection.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Big Drum
Table of Contents
This play was Produced in London, at the St. James's Theatre, on Wednesday, September 1, 1915
PREFACE
The Big Drum is published exactly as it was written, and as it was originally performed. At its first representation, however, the audience was reported to have been saddened by its "unhappy ending." Pressure was forthwith put upon me to reconcile Philip and Ottoline at the finish, and at the third performance of the play the curtain fell upon the picture, violently and crudely brought about, of Ottoline in Philip's arms.
I made the alteration against my principles and against my conscience, and yet not altogether unwillingly. For we live in depressing times; and perhaps in such times it is the first duty of a writer for the stage to make concessions to his audiences and, above everything, to try to afford them a complete, if brief, distraction from the gloom which awaits them outside the theatre.
My excuse for having at the start provided an "unhappy" ending is that I was blind enough not to regard the ultimate break between Philip and Ottoline as really unhappy for either party. On the contrary, I looked upon the separation of these two people as a fortunate occurrence for both; and I conceived it as a piece of ironic comedy which might not prove unentertaining that the falling away of Philip from his high resolves was checked by the woman he had once despised and who had at last grown to know and to despise herself.
But comedy of this order has a knack of cutting rather deeply, of ceasing, in some minds, to be comedy at all; and it may be said that this is what has happened in the present instance. Luckily it is equally true that certain matters are less painful, because less actual, in print than upon the stage. The "wicked publisher," therefore, even when bombs are dropping round him, can afford to be more independent than the theatrical manager; and for this reason I have not hesitated to ask my friend Mr. Heinemann to publish The Big Drum in its original form.
Arthur Pinero
London,September 1915
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
Philip Mackworth
Sir Randle Filson, Knt.
Bertram Filson
(
his son
)
Sir Timothy Barradell, Bart.
Robert Roope
Collingham Green
Leonard Westrip
(
Sir Randle's secretary
)
Alfred Dunning
(
of Sillitoe and Dunning's Private Detective Agency
)
Noyes
(
Mr. Roope's servant
)
Underwood
(
servant at Sir Randle's
)
John
(
Mr. Mackworth's servant
)
A Waiter
Ottoline de Chaumié, Comtesse de Chaumié,
née
Filson
Lady Filson
Hon. Mrs. Godfrey Anslow
Mrs. Walter Quebec
Miss Tracer
(
Lady Filson's secretary
)
Period—1913
ACT I.
Robert Roope's Flat in South Audley Street. June.
ACT II.
Morning-room at Sir Randle Filson's, Ennismore Gardens. The next day.
ACT III.
Mackworth's Chambers, Gray's Inn. November.
ACT IV.
The same place. The following morning.
The curtain falls for a moment in the course of the First and Third Acts.
THE BIG DRUM
THE FIRST ACT
The scene is a room, elegantly decorated, in a flat in South Audley Street. On the right, two windows give a view, through muslin curtains, of the opposite houses. In the wall facing the spectator are two doors, one on the right, the other on the left. The left-hand door opens into the room from a dimly-lighted corridor, the door on the right from the dining-room. Between the doors there is a handsome fireplace. No fire is burning and the grate is banked with flowers. When the dining-room door is opened, a sideboard and a side-table are seen in the further room, upon which are dishes of fruit, an array of ice-plates and finger-bowls, liqueurs in decanters, glasses, silver, etc.
The pictures, the ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and the articles of furniture are few but choice. A high-backed settee stands on the right of the fireplace; near the settee is a fauteuil-stool; facing the settee is a Charles II arm-chair. On the left of the room there is a small table with a chair beside it; on the right, not far from the nearer window, are a writing-table and writing-chair. Pieces of bric-à-brac lie upon the tables, where there are also some graceful statuettes in ivory and bronze. Another high-backed settee fills the space between the windows, and in each window there is an arm-chair of the same period as the one at the fireplace.
The street is full of sunlight.
(Note: Throughout, "right" and "left" are the spectators' right and left, not the actor's.)
[Robert Roope, seated at the writing-table, is sealing a letter.Noyesenters at the door on the left, followed byPhilip Mackworth.
Noyes.
[AnnouncingPhilip.] Mr. Mackworth.
Roope.
[A simple-looking gentleman of fifty, scrupulously attired—jumping up and shaking hands warmly withPhilipas the servant withdraws.] My dear Phil!
Philip.
[A negligently—almost shabbily—dressed man in his late thirties, with a handsome but worn face.] My dear Robbie!
Roope.
A triumph, to have dragged you out! [Looking at his watch.] Luncheon isn't till a quarter-to-two. I asked you for half-past-one because I want to have a quiet little jaw with you beforehand.
Philip.
Delightful.
Roope.
Er—I'd better tell you at once, old chap, whom you'll meet here to-day.
Philip.
Aha! Your tone presages a most distinguished guest. [Seating himself in the chair by the small table.] Is she a grande-duchesse, or is he a crowned head?
Roope.
[Smiling rather uneasily.] Wait. I work up to my great effect by degrees. We shall only be six. Collingham Green——
Philip.
[In disgust.] Oh, lord!
Roope.
Now, Phil, don't be naughty.
Philip.
The fellow who does the Society gossip for the Planet!
Roope.
And does it remarkably neatly, in my opinion.
Philip.
Pouah! [Leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, and spouting.] "Mrs. Trevelyan Potter, wearing a gown of yellow charmeuse exquisitely draped with chiffon, gave a dance for her niece Miss Hermione Stubbs at the Ritz Hotel last night." That sort o' stuff!
Roope.
[Pained.] Somebody has to supply it.
Philip.
"Pretty Mrs. Claud Grymes came on from the opera in her pearls, and Lady Beakly looked younger than her daughter in blue."
Roope.
[Ruefully.] You don't grow a bit more reasonable, Phil; not a bit.
Philip.
I beg pardon. Go ahead.
Roope.
[Sitting on the fauteuil-stool.] Mrs. Godfrey Anslow and Mrs. Wally Quebec. Abuse them.
Philip.
Bless their innocent hearts! They'll be glad to meet Mr. Green.
Roope.
I trust so.
Philip.
[Scowling.] A couple of pushing, advertising women.
Roope.
Really——!
Philip.
Ha, ha! Sorry. That's five, with you and me.
Roope.
That's five, as you justly observe. [Clearing his throat.] H'm! H'm!
Philip.
The sixth? I prepare myself for your great effect.
Roope.
[With an effort.] Er—Madame de Chaumié is in London, Phil.
Philip.
[Sitting upright.] Madame de Chaumié! [Disturbed.] Is she coming?
Roope.
Y-y-yes.
Philip.
[Rising.] Confound you, Robbie——!
Roope.
[Hastily.] She has got rid of her house in Paris and rejoined her people. She's with them in Ennismore Gardens.
Philip.
Thank you, I'm aware of it. One reads of Ottoline's movements in every rag one picks up. [Walking over to the right.] She's the biggest chasseuse of the crowd.
Roope.
I assure you she appears very much altered.
Philip.
What, can the leopard change his spots!
Roope.
Her family may still bang the big drum occasionally, and give it an extra whack on her account; but Ottoline herself——
Philip.
Faugh! [Returning toRoope.] Why the devil have you done this?
Roope.
[Feebly.] I confess, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation.
Philip.
You—you good-natured old meddler. [Quickly.] Does she expect to find me here?
Roope.
No.
Philip.
[Making for the door on the left.] I'll bolt, then.
Roope.
[Rising and seizing him.] You shall do nothing of the kind. [Forcing him down upon the fauteuil-stool.] You'll upset my luncheon-table! [Tidying himself.] You're most inconsiderate; you are positively. And you've disarranged my necktie.
Philip.
[In a low voice.] How is she looking, Robbie?
Roope.
Brilliant. [Putting his necktie in order.] Is that straight? Brilliant.
Philip.
[Gazing into space.] Ten years ago, old man!
Roope.
Quite.
Philip.
It was at her father and mother's, in Paris, that I made your acquaintance. Recollect?
Roope.
Perfectly; in the Avenue Montaigne. I had a flat in the Palais-Royal at the time.
Philip.
[Scornfully.] You were one of the smart set. It was worth their while to get hold of you.
Roope.
My dear Phil, do be moderately fair. You weren't in the smart set.
Philip.
No; I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Dreadful trade! I was Paris correspondent to the Whitehall Gazette. That's why I was favoured. [Abruptly.] Robbie——
Roope.
Hey?
Philip.
You'll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Ottoline turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Soufflot, sent the maid out of the room, and proposed that I should "mention" her family in my letters to the Whitehall.
Roope.
Mention them?
Philip.
Drag in allusions to 'em constantly—their entertainments and so forth; boom them, in fact.
Roope.
Was that the cause of the—the final——?
Philip.
[Nodding.] Yes. The following week her engagement to de Chaumié was announced.
Roope.
[After a slight pause.] Well, in spite of all this, I'm convinced she was genuinely attached to you, Phil—as fond of you as you were of her.
Philip.
[Resting his head on his hands.] Oh, shut up!
Roope.
Anyhow, here's an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend. She's been a widow twelve months; you need have no delicacy on that score.
Philip.
[Looking up.] Why, do you suggest——?
Roope.
Certainly; and without delay. I hear there's a shoal of men after her, including Tim Barradell.
Philip.
[With a grim smile.] "Bacon" Barradell?
Roope.
[Assentingly.] They say Sir Timothy's in constant attendance.
Philip.
And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand against a real live baronet—and the largest bacon-curer in Ireland?
Roope.
[Rubbing his chin.] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She might prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose pages often wrap up Tim Barradell's rashers.
Philip.
[Rising.] Ha, ha, ha! [Giving himself a shake.] Even so it can't be done, Robbie; though I'm grateful to you for your amiable little plot. [Walking about.] Heavens above, if Ottoline married me, she'd be puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over!
Roope.
And a jolly good job too. [Moving to the left, peevishly.] The truth is, my dear Phil, you're a crank—an absolute crank—on the subject of the—ah—the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the public eye. Mercy on us, if it comes to that, I'm an advertiser!
Philip.
If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you are.
Roope.
I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little dinner-parties and tea-parties, here or at my club, chronicled in the press. And it gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn't honour me at all if my list of guests wasn't in the fashionable intelligence next morning.
Philip.
Oh——!
Roope.
Yes, you may roar. I declare I shudder to think of the difference it 'ud make to me socially if I didn't advertise.
Philip.
Robbie, I blush for you.
Roope.
Tosh! It's an advertising age.
Philip.
[Stalking to the fireplace.] It's a beastly vulgar age.
Roope.
It's the age I happen to live in, and I accommodate myself to it. [Pacing the room as he warms to his theme.] And if it's necessary for a private individual such as myself to advertise, as I maintain it is, how much more necessary is it for you to do so—a novelist, a poet, a would-be playwright, a man with something to sell! Dash it, they've got to advertise soap, and soap's essential! Why not literature, which isn't? And yet you won't find the name of Mr. Philip Mackworth in the papers from one year's end to another, except in a scrubby criticism now and again.
Philip.
[Calmly.] Excuse me, there are the publisher's announcements.
Roope.
Publishers' announcements! I'm not speaking of the regular advertising columns. What I want to see are paragraphs concerning you mixed up with the news of the day, information about you and your habits, interviews with you, letters from you on every conceivable topic——
Philip.
[Grinning.] Do you!
Roope.
[JoiningPhilip.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers! It isn't as if you hadn't talent; you have. Advertising minus talent goes a long way; advertising plus talent is irresistible. Feed the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you. Quid pro quo. To the advertiser shall advertisement be given. Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with bright and amusin' "copy," as you term it, and they'll love and protect you for ever.
Philip.
Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.
Roope.
It's fickle, you mean—some day it'll turn and rend you? Perhaps. Still, if you make hay while the sun shines——
Philip.
The sun! You don't call that the sun! [Disdainfully.] P'ssh!
Roope.
[Leaving him.] Oh, I've no patience with you! [Spluttering.] Upon my word, your hatred of publicity is—is—is—is morbid. It's worse than morbid—it's Victorian. [Sitting in the chair by the small table.] There! I can't say anything severer.
Philip.
[Advancing.] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred of publicity? I haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for the public?
Roope.
Exactly!
Philip.
[Standing nearRoope.] I have no dislike for publicity—for fame. By George, sir, I covet it, if I can win it honestly and decently!
Roope.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] Ah——!
Philip.
And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft—and they are many—who succeed in winning it in that fashion, or who are content to remain obscure. But for the rest—the hustlers of the pen, the seekers after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity—I've a profound contempt for them and their methods.
Roope.
You can't deny the ability of some of 'em.
Philip.
Deny it! Of course I don't deny it. But no amount of ability, of genius if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of conducting himself as a modest gentleman——
Roope.
Ah, there's where you're so hopelessly Victorian and out o' date!
Philip.
Well, that's my creed; and, whether I've talent or not, I'd rather snuff out, when my time comes, neglected and a pauper than go back on it. [Walking away and pacing the room.] Oh, but I'm not discouraged, my dear Robbie—not a scrap! I'm not discouraged, though you do regard me as a dismal failure.
Roope.
[Deprecatingly.] No, no!
Philip.
I shall collar the great public yet. You mark me, I shall collar 'em yet, and without stooping to the tricks and devices you advocate! [Returning toRoope.] Robbie——
Roope.
[Rising.] Hey?
Philip.
[Laying his hands onRoope's shoulders.] If my next book—my autumn book—isn't a mighty go, I—I'll eat my hat.
Roope.
[Sadly.] Dear excellent friend, perhaps you'll be obliged to, for nourishment.
Philip.
Ha, ha, ha! [TakingRoope's arm.] Oddly enough—oddly enough, the story deals with the very subject we've been discussing.
Roope.
[Without enthusiasm.] Indeed?
Philip.
Yes. You hit on the title a few minutes ago.
Roope.
Really?
Philip.
When you were talking of Ottoline and her people. [Dropping his voice.] "The Big Drum."
Roope.
[Thoughtfully.] C-c-capital!
Philip.
Titterton, my new publisher, is tremendously taken with the scheme of the thing—keen as mustard about it.
Roope.
Er—pardon me, Phil——
Philip.
Eh?
Roope.
[Fingering the lapel ofPhilip's coat.] I say, old man, you wouldn't be guilty of the deplorably bad taste of putting me into it, would you?
Philip.
[Slapping him on the back.] Ha, ha! My dear Robbie, half the polite world is in it. Don't tell me you wish to be left out in the cold!
Roope.
[Thoroughly alarmed.] Dear excellent friend——!
[Noyesenters again at the door on the left, precedingCollingham Green.
Noyes.
[AnnouncingGreen, and then retiring.] Mr. Collingham Green.
Green.
[A gaily-dressed, genial soul, with a flower in his button-hole, a monocle, a waxed moustache, and a skilful arrangement of a sparse head of hair—shaking hands withRoope.] How are you, my deah fellow?
Roope.
My dear Colly, delighted to see you.
Green.
An awful scramble to get heah. I was afraid I shouldn't be able to manage it.
Roope.
You'd have broken our hearts if you hadn't. You know Mackworth?
Green.
And his charming works. [Shaking hands withPhilip.] Haven't met you for evah so long.
Philip.
How d'ye do?
Green.
Ouf! I must sit down. [Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and taking off a pair of delicately tinted gloves.] The Season is killing me. I'm shaw I sha'n't last till Goodwood, Robbie.
Roope.
Yes, it's a shockin' rush, isn't it!
Green.
Haw! You only fancy you're rushed. Your life is a rest-cure compared with mine. You've no conception, either of you, what my days are just now.
Philip.
[Finding himself addressed.] Exhausting, no doubt.
Green.
Take to-day, for example. I was in my bath at half-past-seven——
Roope.
Half-past-seven!
Green.
Though I wasn't in bed till two this morning. At eight I had a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast, and skimmed the papers. From eight-thirty till ten I dictated a special article on our modern English hostesses—"The Hostesses of England: Is Hospitality Declining?", a question I answer in the negative——
Roope.
[In a murmur.] Quite right.
Green.
