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diff --git a/4216-h/4216-h.htm b/4216-h/4216-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9e918c --- /dev/null +++ b/4216-h/4216-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5152 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Touch and Go, by D. H. Lawrence + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Touch and Go, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Touch and Go + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Release Date: January 30, 2010 [EBook #4216] +Last Updated: December 17, 2012 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOUCH AND GO *** + + + + +Produced by Douglas Levy, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + TOUCH AND GO + </h1> + <h2> + A Play in Three Acts + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By D. H. Lawrence + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> CHARACTERS </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>TOUCH AND GO</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ACT III </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + A nice phrase: "A People's Theatre." But what about it? There's no such + thing in existence as a People's Theatre: or even on the way to existence, + as far as we can tell. The name is chosen, the baby isn't even begotten: + nay, the would-be parents aren't married, nor yet courting. + </p> + <p> + A People's Theatre. Note the indefinite article. It isn't The People's + Theatre, but A People's Theatre. Not the theatre of Plebs, the + proletariat, but the theatre of A People. What people? Quel peuple donc?—A + People's Theatre. Translate it into French for yourself. + </p> + <p> + A People's Theatre. Since we can't produce it, let us deduce it. Major + premise: the seats are cheap. Minor premiss: the plays are good. + Conclusion: A People's Theatre. How much will you give me for my + syllogism? Not a slap in the eye, I hope. + </p> + <p> + We stick to our guns. The seats are cheap. That has a nasty proletarian + look about it. But appearances are deceptive. The proletariat isn't poor. + Everybody is poor except Capital and Labour. Between these upper and + nether millstones great numbers of decent people are squeezed. + </p> + <p> + The seats are cheap: in decency's name. Nobody wants to swank, to sit in + the front of a box like a geranium on a window-sill—"the cynosure of + many eyes." Nobody wants to profiteer. We all feel that it is as + humiliating to pay high prices as to charge them. No man consents in his + heart to pay high prices unless he feels that what he pays with his right + hand he will get back with his left, either out of the pocket of a man who + isn't looking, or out of the envy of the poor neighbour who IS looking, + but can't afford the figure. The seats are cheap. Why should A People, + fabulous and lofty giraffe, want to charge or pay high prices? If it were + THE PEOPLE now.—But it isn't. It isn't Plebs, the proletariat. The + seats are cheap. + </p> + <p> + The plays are good. Pah!—this has a canting smell. Any play is good + to the man who likes to look at it. And at that rate Chu Chin Chow is + extra-super-good. What about your GOOD plays? Whose good? PFUI to your + goodness! + </p> + <p> + That minor premiss is a bad egg: it will hatch no bird. Good plays? You + might as well say mimsy bomtittle plays, you'd be saying as much. The + plays are—don't say good or you'll be beaten. The plays—the + plays of A People's Theatre are—oh heaven, what are they?—not + popular nor populous nor plebian nor proletarian nor folk nor parish + plays. None of that adjectival spawn. + </p> + <p> + The only clue-word is People's for all that. A People's—-Chaste + word, it will bring forth no adjective. The plays of A People's Theatre + are People's plays. The plays of A People's Theatre are plays about + people. + </p> + <p> + It doesn't look much, at first sight. After all—people! Yes, People! + Not THE PEOPLE, <i>i.e.</i> Plebs, nor yet the Upper Ten. People. Neither + Piccoli nor Grandi in our republic. People. + </p> + <p> + People, ah God! Not mannequins. Not lords nor proletariats nor bishops nor + husbands nor co-respondents nor virgins nor adultresses nor uncles nor + noses. Not even white rabbits nor presidents. People. + </p> + <p> + Men who are somebody, not men who are something. Men who HAPPEN to be + bishops or co-respondents, women who happen to be chaste, just as they + happen to freckle, because it's one of their innumerable odd qualities. + Even men who happen, by the way, to have long noses. But not noses on two + legs, not burly pairs of gaiters, stuffed and voluble, not white meringues + of chastity, not incarnations of co-respondence. Not proletariats, + petitioners, president's, noses, bits of fluff. Heavens, what an + assortment of bits! And aren't we sick of them! + </p> + <p> + People, I say. And after all, it's saying something. It's harder to be a + human being than to be a president or a bit of fluff. You can be a + president, or a bit of fluff, or even a nose, by clockwork. Given a role, + a PART, you can play it by clockwork. But you can't have a clockwork human + being. + </p> + <p> + We're dead sick of parts. It's no use your protesting that there is a man + behind the nose. We can't see him, and he can't see himself. Nothing but + nose. Neither can you make us believe there is a man inside the gaiters. + He's never showed his head yet. + </p> + <p> + It may be, in real life, the gaiters wear the man, as the nose wears + Cyrano. It may be Sir Auckland Geddes and Mr. J. H. Thomas are only + clippings from the illustrated press. It may be that a miner is a + complicated machine for cutting coal and voting on a ballot-paper. It may + be that coal-owners are like the <i>petit bleu</i> arrangement, a system + of vacuum tubes for whooshing Bradburys about from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + It may be that everybody delights in bits, in parts, that the public + insists on noses, gaiters, white rabbits, bits of fluff, automata and + gewgaws. If they do, then let 'em. Chu Chin Chow for ever! + </p> + <p> + In spite of them all: A People's Theatre. A People's Theatre shows men, + and not parts. Not bits, nor bundles of bits. A whole bunch of roles tied + into one won't make an individual. Though gaiters perish, we will have + men. + </p> + <p> + Although most miners may be pick-cum-shovel-cum-ballot implements, and no + more, still, among miners there must be two or three living individuals. + The same among the masters. The majority are suction-tubes for Bradburys. + But is this Sodom of Industrialism there are surely ten men, all told. My + poor little withered grain of mustard seed, I am half afraid to take you + across to the seed-testing department! + </p> + <p> + And if there are men, there is A People's Theatre. + </p> + <p> + How many tragic situations did Goethe say were possible? Something like + thirty-two. Which seems a lot. Anyhow, granted that men are men still, + that not all of them are bits, parts, machine-sections, then we have added + another tragic possibility to the list: the Strike situation. As yet no + one tackles this situation. It is a sort of Medusa head, which turns—no, + not to stone, but to sloppy treacle. Mr. Galsworthy had a peep, and sank + down towards bathos. + </p> + <p> + Granted that men are still men, Labour <i>v</i>. Capitalism is a tragic + struggle. If men are no more than implements, it is non-tragic and merely + disastrous. In tragedy the man is more than his part. Hamlet is more than + Prince of Denmark, Macbeth is more than murderer of Duncan. The man is + caught in the wheels of his part, his fate, he may be torn asunder. He may + be killed, but the resistant, integral soul in him is not destroyed. He + comes through, though he dies. He goes through with his fate, though death + swallows him. And it is in this facing of fate, this going right through + with it, that tragedy lies. Tragedy is not disaster. It is a disaster when + a cart-wheel goes over a frog, but it is not a tragedy, not the hugest; + not the death of ten million men. It is only a cartwheel going over a + frog. There must be a supreme STRUGGLE. + </p> + <p> + In Shakespeare's time it was the people <i>versus</i> king storm that was + brewing. Majesty was about to have its head off. Come what might, Hamlet + and Macbeth and Goneril and Regan had to see the business through. + </p> + <p> + Now a new wind is getting up. We call it Labour <i>versus</i> Capitalism. + We say it is a mere material struggle, a money-grabbing affair. But this + is only one aspect of it. In so far as men are merely mechanical, the + struggle is one which, though it may bring disaster and death to millions, + is no more than accident, an accidental collision of forces. But in so far + as men are men, the situation is tragic. It is not really the bone we are + fighting for. We are fighting to have somebody's head off. The conflict is + in pure, passional antagonism, turning upon the poles of belief. Majesty + was only <i>hors d'oevres</i> to this tragic repast. + </p> + <p> + So, the strike situation has this dual aspect. First it is a + mechanico-material struggle, two mechanical forces pulling asunder from + the central object, the bone. All it can result in is the pulling asunder + of the fabric of civilisation, and even of life, without any creative + issue. It is no more than a frog under a cart-wheel. The mechanical + forces, rolling on, roll over the body of life and squash it. + </p> + <p> + The second is the tragic aspect. According to this view, we see more than + two dogs fighting for a bone, and life hopping under the Juggernaut wheel. + The two dogs are making the bone a pretext for a fight with each other. + That old bull-dog, the British capitalist, has got the bone in his teeth. + That unsatisfied mongrel, Plebs, the proletariat, shivers with rage not so + much at the sight of the bone, as at sight of the great wrinkled jowl that + holds it. There is the old dog, with his knowing look and his massive grip + on the bone: and there is the insatiable mongrel, with his great splay + paws. The one is all head and arrogance, the other all paws and grudge. + The bone is only the pretext. A first condition of the being of Bully is + that he shall hate the prowling great paws of the Plebs, whilst Plebs by + inherent nature goes mad at the sight of Bully's jowl. "Drop it!" cries + Plebs. "Hands off!" growls Bully. It is hands against head, the shambling, + servile body in a rage of insurrection at last against the wrinkled, heavy + head. + </p> + <p> + Labour not only wants his debt. He wants his pound of flesh. It is a + quandary. In our heart of hearts we must admit the debt. We must admit + that it is long overdue. But this last condition! In vain we study our + anatomy to see which part we can best spare. + </p> + <p> + Where is our Portia, to save us with a timely quibble? We've plenty of + Portias. They've recited their heads off—"The quality of mercy is + not strained." But the old Shylock of the proletariat persists. He pops up + again, and says, "All right, I can't have my pound of flesh with the + blood. But then you can't keep my pound of flesh with your blood—you + owe it to me. It is your business to deliver the goods. Deliver it then—with + or without blood—deliver it." The Portia scratches her head, and + thinks again. + </p> + <p> + What's the solution? There is no solution. But still there is a choice. + There's a choice between a mess and a tragedy. If Plebs and Bully hang on + one to each end of the bone, and pull for grim life, they will at last + tear the bone to atoms: in short, destroy the whole material substance of + life, and so perish by accident, no better than a frog under the wheel of + destiny. That may be a disaster, but it is only a mess for all that. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, if they have a fight to fight they might really drop + the bone. Instead of wrangling the bone to bits they might really go + straight for one another. They are like hostile parties on board a ship, + who both proceed to scuttle the ship so as to sink the other party. Down + goes the ship, with all the bally lot on board. A few survivors swim and + squeal among the bubbles—and then silence. + </p> + <p> + It is too much to suppose that the combatants will ever drop the obvious + old bone. But it is not too much to imagine that some men might + acknowledge the bone to be merely a pretext, and hollow <i>casus belli</i>. + If we really could know what we were fighting for, if we if we could + deeply believe in what we were fighting for, then the struggle might have + dignity, beauty, satisfaction for us. If it were a profound struggle for + something that was coming to life in us, a struggle that we were convinced + would bring us to a new freedom, a new life, then it would be a creative + activity, a creative activity in which death is a climax in the + progression towards new being. And this is tragedy. + </p> + <p> + Therefore, if we could but comprehend or feel the tragedy in the great + Labour struggle, the intrinsic tragedy of having to pass through death to + birth, our souls would still know some happiness, the very happiness of + creative suffering. Instead of which we pile accident on accident, we tear + the fabric of our existence fibre by fibre, we confidently look forward to + the time when the whole great structure will come down on our heads. Yet + after all that, when we are squirming under the debris, we shall have no + more faith or hope or satisfaction than we have now. We shall crawl from + under one cart-wheel straight under another. + </p> + <p> + The essence of tragedy, which is creative crisis, is that a man should go + through with his fate, and not dodge it and go bumping into an accident. + And the whole business of life, at the great critical periods of mankind, + is that men should accept and be one with their tragedy. Therefore we + should open our hearts. For one thing we should have a People's Theatre. + Perhaps it would help us in this hour of confusion better than anything. + </p> + <p> + HERMITAGE, + </p> + <p> + June, 1919. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHARACTERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GERALD BARLOW. + MR. BARLOW (his father). + OLIVER TURTON. + JOB ARTHUR FREER. + WILLIE HOUGHTON. + ALFRED BREFFITT. + WILLIAM (a butler). + CLERKS, MINERS, etc. + ANABEL WRATH. + MRS. BARLOW. + WINIFRED BARLOW. + EVA (a maid). +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TOUCH AND GO + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div class="play"> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + SCENE I +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sunday morning. Market-place of a large mining village in the + Midlands. A man addressing a small gang of colliers from the + foot of a stumpy memorial obelisk. Church bells heard. + Churchgoers passing along the outer pavements. +</pre> + <p> + WILLIE HOUGHTON. What's the matter with you folks, as I've told you + before, and as I shall keep on telling you every now and again, though + it doesn't make a bit of difference, is that you've got no idea of + freedom whatsoever. I've lived in this blessed place for fifty years, + and I've never seen the spark of an idea, nor of any response to an + idea, come out of a single one of you, all the time. I don't know what + it is with colliers—whether it's spending so much time in the + bowels of the earth—but they never seem to be able to get their + thoughts above their bellies. If you've got plenty to eat and drink, and + a bit over to keep the missis quiet, you're satisfied. I never saw such + a satisfied bloomin' lot in my life as you Barlow & Wasall's men + are, really. Of course you can growse as well as anybody, and you do + growse. But you don't do anything else. You're stuck in a sort of mud of + contentment, and you feel yourselves sinking, but you make no efforts to + get out. You bleat a bit, like sheep in a bog—but you like it, you + know. You like sinking in—you don't have to stand on your own feet + then. + </p> + <p> + I'll tell you what'll happen to you chaps. I'll give you a little + picture of what you'll be like in the future. Barlow & Walsall's 'll + make a number of compounds, such as they keep niggers in in South + Africa, and there you'll be kept. And every one of you'll have a little + brass collar round his neck, with a number on it. You won't have names + any more. And you'll go from the compound to the pit, and from the pit + back again to the compound. You won't be allowed to go outside the + gates, except at week-ends. They'll let you go home to your wives on + Saturday nights, to stop over Sunday. But you'll have to be in again by + half-past nine on Sunday night; and if you're late, you'll have your + next week-end knocked off. And there you'll be—and you'll be quite + happy. They'll give you plenty to eat, and a can of beer a day, and a + bit of bacca—and they'll provide dominoes and skittles for you to + play with. And you'll be the most contented set of men alive.—But + you won't be men. You won't even be animals. You'll go from number one + to number three thousand, a lot of numbered slaves—a new sort of + slaves—- + </p> + <p> + VOICE. An' wheer shall thee be, Willie? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Oh, I shall be outside the palings, laughing at you. I shall + have to laugh, because it'll be your own faults. You'll have nobody but + yourself to thank for it. You don't WANT to be men. You'd rather NOT be + free—much rather. You're like those people spoken of in + Shakespeare: "Oh, how eager these men are to be slaves!" I believe it's + Shakespeare—or the Bible—one or the other—it mostly is—- + </p> + <p> + ANABEL WRATH (she was passing to church). It was Tiberius. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Eh? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Tiberius said it. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Tiberius!—Oh, did he? (Laughs.) Thanks! Well, if Tiberius + said it, there must be something in it, and he only just missed being in + the Bible anyway. He was a day late, or they'd have had him in. "Oh, how + eager these men are to be slaves!"—It's evident the Romans + deserved all they got from Tiberius—and you'll deserve all you + get, every bit of it. But don't you bother, you'll get it. You won't be + at the mercy of Tiberius, you'll be at the mercy of something a jolly + sight worse. Tiberius took the skin off a few Romans, apparently. But + you'll have the soul taken out of you—every one of you. And I'd + rather lose my skin than my soul, any day. But perhaps you wouldn't. + </p> + <p> + VOICE. What art makin' for, Willie? Tha seems to say a lot, but tha goes + round it. Tha'rt like a donkey on a gin. Tha gets ravelled. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Yes, that's just it. I am precisely like a donkey on a gin—a + donkey that's trying to wind a lot of colliers up to the surface. + There's many a donkey that's brought more colliers than you up to see + daylight, by trotting round.—But do you want to know what I'm + making for? I can soon tell you that. You Barlow & Wasall's men, you + haven't a soul to call your own. Barlow & Wasall's have only to say + to one of you, Come, and he cometh, Go, and he goeth, Lie VOICE. Ay—an' + what about it? Tha's got a behind o' thy own, hasn't yer? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Do you stand there and ask me what about it, and haven't the + sense to alter it? Couldn't you set up a proper Government to-morrow, if + you liked? Couldn't you contrive that the pits belonged to you, instead + of you belonging to the pits, like so many old pit-ponies that stop down + till they are blind, and take to eating coal-slack for meadow-grass, not + knowing the difference? If only you'd learn to think, I'd respect you. + As you are, I can't, not if I try my hardest. All you can think of is to + ask for another shilling a day. That's as far as your imagination + carries you. And perhaps you get sevenpence ha'penny, but pay for it + with half-a-crown's worth of sweat. The masters aren't fools—as + you are. They'll give you two-thirds of what you ask for, but they'll + get five-thirds of it back again—and they'll get it out of your + flesh and blood, too, in jolly hard work. Shylock wasn't in it with + them. He only wanted a pound of flesh. But you cheerfully give up a + pound a week, each one of you, and keep on giving it up.—But you + don't seem to see these things. You can't think beyond your dinners and + your 'lowance. You think if you can get another shilling a day you're + set up. You make me tired, I tell you. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR FREER. We think of others besides ourselves. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Hello, Job Arthur—are you there? I didn't recognise you + without your frock-coat and silk hat—on the Sabbath.—What + was that you said? You think of something else, besides yourselves?—Oh + ay—I'm glad to hear it. Did you mean your own importance? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (A motor car, GERALD BARLOW driving, OLIVER TURTON with him has + pulled up.) +</pre> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR (glancing at the car). No, I didn't. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Didn't you, though?—Come, speak up, let us have it. The + more the merrier. You were going to say something. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Nay, you were doing the talking. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Yes, so I was, till you interrupted, with a great idea on the + tip of your tongue. Come, spit it out. No matter if Mr. Barlow hears + you. You know how sorry for you we feel, that you've always got to make + your speeches twice—once to those above, and once to us here below + I didn't meant the angels and the devils, but never mind. Speak up, Job + Arthur. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. It's not everybody as has as much to say as you, Mr. + Houghton. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. No, not in the open—that's a fact. Some folks says a great + deal more, in semi-private. You were just going to explain to me, on + behalf of the men, whom you so ably represent and so wisely lead, Job + Arthur—we won't say by the nose—you were just going to tell + me—on behalf of the men, of course, not of the masters—that + you think of others, besides yourself. Do you mind explaining WHAT + others? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Everybody's used to your talk, Mr. Houghton, and for that + reason it doesn't make much impression. What I meant to say, in plain + words, was that we have to think of what's best for everybody, not only + of ourselves. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Oh, I see. What's best for everybody! I see! Well, for myself, + I'm much obliged—there's nothing for us to do, gentlemen, but for + all of us to bow acknowledgments to Mr. Job Arthur Freer, who so kindly + has ALL our interests at heart. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't profess to be a red-rag Socialist. I don't pretend + to think that if the Government had the pits it would be any better for + us. No. What I mean is, that the pits are there and every man on this + place depends on them, one way or another. They're the cow that gives + the milk. And what I mean is, how every man shall have a proper share of + the milk, which is food and living. It's like killing the goose that + laid the golden egg. I want to keep the cow healthy and strong. And the + cow is the pits, and we're the men that depend on the pits. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Who's the cat that's going to lick the cream? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. My position is this—and I state it before masters and + men—that it's our business to strike such a balance between the + interests of the men and the interests of the masters that the pits + remain healthy, and everybody profits. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. You're out for the millennium, I can see—with Mr. Job + Arthur Freer striking the balance. We all see you, Job Arthur, one foot + on either side of the fence, balancing the see-saw, with masters at one + end and men at the other. You'll have to give one side a lot of pudding.—But + go back a bit, to where we were before the motor car took your breath + away. When you said, Job Arthur, that you think of others besides + yourself, didn't you mean, as a matter of fact, the office men? Didn't + you mean that the colliers, led—we won't mention noses—by + you, were going to come out in sympathy with the office clerks, + supposing they didn't get the rise in wages which they've asked for—the + office clerks? Wasn't that it? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. There's been some talk among the men of standing by the + office. I don't know what they'll do. But they'll do it of their own + decision, whatever it is. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. There's not a shadow of doubt about it, Job Arthur. But it's a + funny thing the decisions all have the same foxy smell about them, Job + Arthur. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER TURTON (calling from the car). What was the speech about, in the + first place? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. I beg pardon? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. What was the address about, to begin with? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Oh, the same old hat—Freedom. But partly it's given to + annoy the Unco Guid, as they pass to their Sabbath banquet of + self-complacency. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. What ABOUT Freedom? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Very much as usual, I believe. But you should have been here ten + minutes sooner, before we began to read the lessons. (Laughs.) + </p> + <p> + ANABEL W. (moving forward, and holding out her hand). You'd merely have + been told what Freedom ISN'T; and you know that already. How are you, + Oliver? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Good God, Anabel!—are you part of the meeting? How long + have you been back in England? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Some months, now. My family have moved here, you know. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Your family! Where have they moved from?—from the moon? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, only from Derby.—How are you, Gerald? + </p> + <p> + (GERALD twists in his seat to give her his hand.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I saw you before. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I know you did. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (JOB ARTHUR has disappeared. The men disperse sheepishly into groups, + to stand and sit on their heels by the walls and the causeway + edge. WILLIE HOUGHTON begins to talk to individuals.) +</pre> + <p> + OLIVER. Won't you get in and drive on with us a little way? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, I was going to church. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Going to church! Is that a new habit? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Not a habit. But I've been twice since I saw you last. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I see. And that's nearly two years ago. It's an annual thing, + like a birthday? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No. I'll go on, then. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You'll be late now. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Shall I? It doesn't matter. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. We are going to see you again, aren't we? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL (after a pause). Yes, I hope so, Oliver. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. How have you been these two years—well?—happy? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, neither. How have you? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, fairly happy. Have you been ill? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, in France I was very ill. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Your old neuritis? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No. My chest. Pneumonia—oh, a complication. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. How sickening! Who looked after you? Is it better? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, it's a great deal better. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. But, Anabel—we must fix a meeting. I say, wait just a + moment. Could I call on your people? Go into town with me one day. I + don't know whether Gerald intends to see you—whether he intends to + ask you to Lilley Close. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, it's all right. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. He's no need. I'm fixed up there already. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I am at Lilley Close every day—or most days—to work + with your sister Winifred in the studio. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What?—why, how's that? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Your father asked me. My father was already giving her some + lessons. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And you're at our house every day? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Most days. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, I'm—well, I'll be—you managed it very sharp, + didn't you? I've only been away a fort-night. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Your father asked me—he offered me twelve pounds a month—I + wanted to do something. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh yes, but you didn't hire yourself out at Lilley Close as a + sort of upper servant just for twelve pounds a month. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You're wrong—you're wrong. I'm not a sort of upper servant + at all—not at all. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, yes, you are, if you're paid twelve pounds a month—three + pounds a week. That's about what father's sick-nurse gets, I believe. + You don't do it for twelve pounds a month. You can make twelve pounds in + a day, if you like to work at your little models: I know you can sell + your statuette things as soon as you make them. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But I CAN'T make them. I CAN'T make them. I've lost the spirit—the—<i>joi + de vivre</i>—I don't know what, since I've been ill. I tell you + I've GOT to earn something. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Nevertheless, you won't make me believe, Anabel, that you've + come and buried yourself in the provinces—SUCH provinces—just + to earn father's three pounds a week. Why don't you admit it, that you + came back to try and take up the old threads. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Why not, Gerald? Don't you think we ought to take up the old + threads? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't think we ought to be left without choice. I don't think + Anabel ought to come back and thrust herself on me—for that's what + it amounts to, after all—when one remembers what's gone before. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I DON'T thrust myself on you at all. I know I'm a fool, a fool, + to come back. But I wanted to. I wanted to see you again. Now I know + I've presumed. I've made myself CHEAP to you. I wanted to—I wanted + to. And now I've done it, I won't come to Lilley Close again, nor + anywhere where you are. Tell your father I have gone to France again—it + will be true. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You play tricks on me—and on yourself. You know you do. + You do it for the pure enjoyment of it. You're making a scene here in + this filthy market-place, just for the fun of it. You like to see these + accursed colliers standing eyeing you, and squatting on their heels. You + like to catch me out, here where I'm known, where I've been the object + of their eyes since I was born. This is a great <i>coup de main</i> for + you. I knew it the moment I saw you here. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. After all, we ARE making a scene in the market-place. Get in, + Anabel, and we'll settle the dispute more privately. I'm glad you came + back, anyhow. I'm glad you came right down on us. Get in, and let us run + down to Whatmore. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, Oliver. I don't want to run down to Whatmore. I wanted to + see you—I wanted to see Gerald—and I've seen him—and + I've heard him. That will suffice me. We'll make an end of the scene in + the market-place. (She turns away.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I knew it wasn't ended. I knew she would come back and tell us + she'd come. But she's done her bit—now she'll go again. My God, + what a fool of a world!—You go on, Gerald—I'll just go after + her and see it out. (Calls.) One moment, Anabel. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL (calling). Don't come, Oliver. (Turns.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Anabel! (Blows the horn of the motor car violently and + agitatively—she looks round—turns again as if frightened.) + God damn the woman! (Gets down from the car.) Drive home for me, Oliver. + </p> + <p> + (Curtain.) + </p> + SCENE II +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WINIFRED'S studio at Lilley Close. ANABEL and WINIFRED working + at a model in clay. +</pre> + <p> + WINIFRED. But isn't it lovely to be in Paris, and to have exhibitions, + and to be famous? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Paris WAS a good place. But I was never famous. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. But your little animals and birds were famous. Jack said so. + You know he brought us that bronze thrush that is singing, that is in + his room. He has only let me see it twice. It's the loveliest thing I've + ever seen. Oh, if I can do anything like that!—I've worshipped it, + I have. It is your best thing? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. One of the best. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. It must be. When I see it, with its beak lifted, singing, + something comes loose in my heart, and I feel as if I should cry, and + fly up to heaven. Do you know what I mean? Oh, I'm sure you do, or you + could never have made that thrush. Father is so glad you've come to show + me how to work. He says now I shall have a life-work, and I shall be + happy. It's true, too. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, till the life-work collapses. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Oh, it can't collapse. I can't believe it could collapse. Do + tell me about something else you made, which you loved—something + you sculpted. Oh, it makes my heart burn to hear you!—Do you think + I might call you Anabel? I should love to. You do call me Winifred + already. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, do. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Won't you tell me about something else you made—something + lovely? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Well, I did a small kitten—asleep—with its paws + crossed. You know, Winifred, that wonderful look that kittens have, as + if they were blown along like a bit of fluff—as if they weighed + nothing at all, just wafted about—and yet so ALIVE—do you + know—-? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Darlings—darlings—I love them! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Well my kitten really came off—it had that quality. It + looked as if it had just wafted there. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Oh, yes!—oh, I know! And was it in clay? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I cut it in soft grey stone as well. I love my kitten. An + Armenian bought her. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. And where is she now? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I don't know—in Armenia, I suppose, if there is such a + place. It would have to be kept under glass, because the stone wouldn't + polish—and I didn't want it polished. But I dislike things under + glass—don't you? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes, I do. We had a golden clock, but Gerald wouldn't have the + glass cover, and Daddy wouldn't have it without. So now the clock is in + father's room. Gerald often went to Paris. Oliver used to have a studio + there. I don't care much for painting, do you? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No. I want something I can touch, if it's something outside me. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes, isn't it wonderful, when things are substantial. Gerald + and Oliver came back yesterday from Yorkshire. You know we have a + colliery there. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I believe I've heard. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. I want to introduce you to Gerald, to see if you like him. + He's good at the bottom, but he's very overbearing and definite. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Is he? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Terribly clever in business. He'll get awfully rich. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Isn't he rich enough already? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Oh, yes, because Daddy is rich enough, really. I think if + Gerald was a bit different, he'd be really nice. Now he's so MANAGING. + It's sickening. Do you dislike managing people, Anabel? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I dislike them extremely, Winifred. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. They're such a bore. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. What does Gerald manage? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Everything. You know he's revolutionised the collieries and + the whole Company. He's made a whole new thing of it, so MODERN. Father + says he almost wishes he'd let it die out—let the pits be closed. + But I suppose things MUST be modernised, don't you think? Though it's + very unpeaceful, you know, really. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Decidedly unpeaceful, I should say. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. The colliers work awfully hard. The pits are quite wonderful + now. Father says it's against nature—all this electricity and so + on. Gerald adores electricity. Isn't it curious? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Very. How are you getting on? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. I don't know. It's so hard to make things BALANCE as if they + were alive. Where IS the balance in a thing that's alive? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. The poise? Yes, Winifred—to me, all the secret of life is + in that—just the—the inexpressible poise of a living thing, + that makes it so different from a dead thing. To me it's the soul, you + know—all living things have it—flowers, trees as well. It + makes life always marvellous. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Ah, yes!—ah, yes! If only I could put it in my model. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I think you will. You are a sculptor, Winifred.—Isn't + there someone there? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED (running to the door). Oh, Oliver! + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Hello, Winnie! Can I come in? This is your sanctum: you can keep + us out if you like. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Oh, no. Do you know Miss Wrath, Oliver? She's a famous + sculptress. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Is she? We have met.—Is Winifred going to make a + sculptress, do you think? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I do. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Good! I like your studio, Winnie. Awfully nice up here over the + out-buildings. Are you happy in it? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes, I'm perfectly happy—only I shall NEVER be able to + make real models, Oliver—it's so difficult. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Fine room for a party—Give us a studio party one day, Win, + and we'll dance. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED (flying to him). Yes, Oliver, do let us dance. What shall we + dance to? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Dance?—Dance <i>Vigni-vignons</i>—we all know that. + Ready? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + (They begin to sing, dancing meanwhile, in a free little ballet-manner, + a wine-dance, dancing separate and then together.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + De terre en vigne, + La voila la jolie vigne, + Vigni-vignons—vignons le vin, + La voila la jolie vigne au vin, + La voila la jolie vigne. +</pre> + <p> + OLIVER. Join in—join in, all. + </p> + <p> + (ANABEL joins in; the three dance and move in rhythm.) + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. I love it—I love it! Do <i>Ma capote a trois boutons</i>—you + know it, don't you, Anabel? Ready—now—- + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +(They begin to dance to a quick little march-rhythm, all singing and + dancing till they are out of breath.) +</pre> + <p> + OLIVER. Oh!—tired!—let us sit down. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Oliver!—oh, Oliver!—I LOVE you and Anabel. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Oh, Winifred, I brought you a present—you'll love me more + now. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes, I shall. Do give it me. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I left it in the morning-room. I put it on the mantel-piece for + you. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Shall I go for it? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. There it is, if you want it. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes—do you mind? I won't be long. (Exit.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. She's a nice child. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. A VERY nice child. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Why did you come back, Anabel? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why does the moon rise, Oliver? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. For some mischief or other, so they say. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You think I came back for mischief's sake? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Did you? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Ah! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Tell me, Oliver, how is everything now?—how is it with + you?—how is it between us all? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. How is it between us all?—How ISN'T it, is more the mark. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You made a fool of us. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Of whom? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Well—of Gerald particularly—and of me. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. How did I make a fool of you, Oliver? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. That you know best, Anabel. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, I don't know. Was it ever right between Gerald and me, all + the three years we knew each other—we were together? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Was it all wrong? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, not all. But it was terrible. It was terrible, Oliver. You + don't realise. You don't realise how awful passion can be, when it never + resolves, when it never becomes anything else. It is hate, really. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. What did you want the passion to resolve into? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I was blinded—maddened. Gerald stung me and stung me till + I was mad. I left him for reason's sake, for sanity's sake. We should + have killed one another. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You, stung him, too, you know—and pretty badly, at the + last: you dehumanised him. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. When? When I left him, you mean? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, when you went away with that Norwegian—playing your + game a little too far. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I knew you'd blame me. I knew you'd be against me. But + don't you see, Oliver, you helped to make it impossible for us. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Did I? I didn't intend to. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Ha, ha, Oliver! Your good intentions! They are too good to bear + investigation, my friend. Ah, but for your good and friendly intentions—- + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You mean my friendship with Gerald went against you? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes. And your friendship with me went against Gerald. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. So I am the devil in the piece. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You see, Oliver, Gerald loved you far too well ever to love me + altogether. He loved us both. But the Gerald that loved you so dearly, + old, old friends as you were, and TRUSTED you, he turned a terrible face + of contempt on me. You don't know, Oliver, the cold edge of Gerald's + contempt for me—because he was so secure and strong in his old + friendship with you. You don't know his sneering attitude to me in the + deepest things with you. He had a passion for me. But he loved you. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Well, he doesn't any more. We went apart after you had gone. The + friendship has become almost casual. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You see how bitterly you speak. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yet you didn't hate me, Anabel. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, Oliver—I was AWFULLY fond of you. I trusted you—and + I trust you still. You see I knew how fond Gerald was of you. And I had + to respect this feeling. So I HAD to be aware of you: and I HAD to be + conscious of you: in a way, I had to love you. You understand how I + mean? Not with the same fearful love with which I loved Gerald. You + seemed to me warm and protecting—like a brother, you know—but + a brother one LOVES. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. And then you hated me? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I had to hate you. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. And you hated Gerald? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Almost to madness—almost to madness. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Then you went away with that Norwegian. What of him? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. What of him? Well, he's dead. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Ah! That's why you came back? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, no. I came back because my only hope in life was in coming + back. Baard was beautiful—and awful. You know how glisteningly + blond he was. Oliver, have you ever watched the polar bears? He was cold + as iron when it is so cold that it burns you. Coldness wasn't negative + with him. It was positive—and awful beyond expression—like + the aurora borealis. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I wonder you ever got back. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, so do I. I feel as if I'd fallen down a fissure in the ice. + Yet I have come back, haven't I? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. God knows! At least, Anabel, we've gone through too much ever to + start the old game again. There'll be no more sticky love between us. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, I think there won't, either. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. And what of Gerald? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I don't know. What do you think of him? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I can't think any more. I can only blindly go from day to day, + now. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. So can I. Do you think I was wrong to come back? Do you think I + wrong Gerald? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. No. I'm glad you came. But I feel I can't KNOW anything. We must + just go on. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Sometimes I feel I ought never to have come to Gerald again—never—never—never. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Just left the gap?—Perhaps, if everything has to come + asunder. But I think, if ever there is to be life—hope,—then + you had to come back. I always knew it. There is something eternal + between you and him; and if there is to be any happiness, it depends on + that. But perhaps there is to BE no happiness—for our part of the + world. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL (after a pause). Yet I feel hope—don't you? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, sometimes. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. It seemed to me, especially that winter in Norway,—I can + hardly express it,—as if any moment life might give way under one, + like thin ice, and one would be more than dead. And then I knew my only + hope was here—the only hope. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, I believe it. And I believe—- + </p> + <p> + (Enter MRS. BARLOW.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Oh, I wanted to speak to you, Oliver. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Shall I come across? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. No, not now. I believe father is coming here with Gerald. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Is he going to walk so far? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. He will do it.—I suppose you know Oliver? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, we have met before. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW (to OLIVER). You didn't mention it. Where have you met Miss + Wrath? She's been about the world, I believe. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. About the world?—no, Mrs. Barlow. If one happens to know + Paris and London—- + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Paris and London! Well, I don't say you are all together an + adventuress. My husband seems very pleased with you—for Winifred's + sake, I suppose—and he's wrapped up in Winifred. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Winifred is an artist. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. All my children have the artist in them. They get it from + my family. My father went mad in Rome. My family is born with a black + fate—they all inherit it. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I believe one is master of one's fate sometimes, Mrs. Barlow. + There are moments of pure choice. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Between two ways to the same end, no doubt. There's no + changing the end. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I think there is. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Yes, you have a <i>parvenu's</i> presumptuousness somewhere + about you. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Well, better than a blue-blooded fatalism. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. The fate is in the blood: you can't change the blood. + </p> + <p> + (Enter WINIFRED.) + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Oh, thank you, Oliver, for the wolf and the goat, thank you so + much!—The wolf has sprung on the goat, Miss Wrath, and has her by + the throat. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. The wolf? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. It's a little marble group—Italian—in hard marble. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. The wolf—I love the wolf—he pounces so + beautifully. His backbone is so terribly fierce. I don't feel a bit + sorry for the goat, somehow. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I didn't. She is too much like the wrong sort of clergyman. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Yes—such a stiff, long face. I wish he'd kill her. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. There's a wish! + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Father and Gerald are coming. That's them, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + (Enter MR. BARLOW and GERALD.) + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Ah, good morning—good morning—quite a little + gathering! Ah—- + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. The steps tire you, Mr. Barlow. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. A little—a little—thank you.—Well, Miss + Wrath, are you quite comfortable here? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Very comfortable, thanks. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It was clever of you, father, to turn this place into a studio. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes, Gerald. You make the worldly schemes, and I the homely. + Yes, it's a delightful place. I shall come here often if the two young + ladies will allow me.—By the way, Miss Wrath, I don't know if you + have been introduced to my son Gerald. I beg your pardon. Miss Wrath, + Gerald—my son, Miss Wrath. (They bow.) Well, we are quite a + gathering, quite a pleasant little gathering. We never expected anything + so delightful a month ago, did we, Winifred, darling? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. No, daddy, it's much nicer than expectations. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. So it is, dear—to have such exceptional companionship + and such a pleasant retreat. We are very happy to have Miss Wrath with + us—very happy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. A studio's awfully nice, you know; it is such a retreat. A + newspaper has no effect in it—falls quite flat, no matter what the + headlines are. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Quite true, Gerald, dear. It is a sanctum the world cannot + invade—unlike all other sanctuaries, I am afraid. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. By the way, Oliver—to go back to profanities—the + colliers really are coming out in support of the poor, ill-used clerks. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. No, no, Gerald—no, no! Don't be such an alarmist. Let + us leave these subjects before the ladies. No, no: the clerks will have + their increase quite peacefully. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, dear father—but they can't have it peacefully now. + We've been threatened already by the colliers—we've already + received an ultimatum. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Nonsense, my boy—nonsense! Don't let us split words. + You won't go against the clerks in such a small matter. Always avoid + trouble over small matters. Don't make bad feeling—don't make bad + blood. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. The blood is already rotten in the neighbourhood. What it + needs is letting out. We need a few veins opening, or we shall have + mortification setting in. The blood is black. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. We won't accept your figure of speech literally, dear. No, + Gerald, don't go to war over trifles. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's just over trifles that one must make war, father. One can + yield gracefully over big matters. But to be bullied over trifles is a + sign of criminal weakness. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Ah, not so, not so, my boy. When you are as old as I am, you + will know the comparative insignificance of these trifles. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The older <i>I</i> get, father, the more such trifles stick in + my throat. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Ah, it is an increasingly irritable disposition in you, my + child. Nothing costs so bitterly, in the end, as a stubborn pride. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Except a stubborn humility—and that will cost you + more. Avoid humility, beware of stubborn humility: it degrades. Hark, + Gerald—fight! When the occasion comes, fight! If it's one against + five thousand, fight! Don't give them your heart on a dish! Never! If + they want to eat your heart out, make them fight for it, and then give + it them poisoned at last, poisoned with your own blood.—What do + you say, young woman? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Is it for me to speak, Mrs. Barlow? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Weren't you asked? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Certainly I would NEVER give the world my heart on a dish. But + can't there ever be peace—real peace? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. No—not while there is devilish enmity. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. You are wrong, dear, you are wrong. The peace can come, the + peace that passeth all understanding. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. That there is already between me and Almighty God. I am at + peace with the God that made me, and made me proud. With men who + humiliate me I am at war. Between me and the shameful humble there is + war to the end, though they are millions and I am one. I hate the + people. Between my race and them and my children—for ever war, for + ever and ever. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Ah, Henrietta—you have said all this before. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. And say it again. Fight, Gerald. You have my blood in you, + thank God. Fight for it, Gerald. Spend it as if it were costly, Gerald, + drop by drop. Let no dogs lap it.—Look at your father. He set his + heart on a plate at the door, for the poorest mongrel to eat up. See him + now, wasted and crossed out like a mistake—and swear, Gerald, + swear to be true to my blood in you. Never lie down before the mob, + Gerald. Fight it and stab it, and die fighting. It's a lost hope—but + fight! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Don't say these things here, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Yes, I will—I will. I'll say them before you, and the + child Winifred—she knows. And before Oliver and the young woman—they + know, too. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. You see, dear, you can never understand that, although I am + weak and wasted, although I may be crossed out from the world like a + mistake, I still have peace in my soul, dear, the peach that passeth all + understanding. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. And what right have you to it? All very well for you to + take peace with you into the other world. What do you leave for your + sons to inherit? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. The peace of God, Henrietta, if there is no peace among men. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Then why did you have children? Why weren't you celibate? + They have to live among men. If they have no place among men, why have + you put them there? If the peace of God is no more than the peace of + death, why are your sons born of you? How can you have peace with God, + if you leave no peace for your sons—no peace, no pride, no place + on earth? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Nay, mother, nay. You shall never blame father on my behalf. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Don't trouble—he is blameless—I, a hulking, + half-demented woman, I am GLAD when you blame me. But don't blame me + when I tell you to fight. Don't do that, or you will regret it when you + must die. Ah, your father was stiff and proud enough before men of + better rank than himself. He was overbearing enough with his equals and + his betters. But he humbled himself before the poor, he made me ashamed. + He must hear it—he must hear it! Better he should hear it than die + coddling himself with peace. His humility, and my pride, they have made + a nice ruin of each other. Yet he is the man I wanted to marry—he + is the man I would marry again. But never, never again would I give way + before his goodness. Gerald, if you must be true to your father, be true + to me as well. Don't set me down at nothing because I haven't a humble + case. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, mother—no, dear mother. You see, dear mother, I have + rather a job between the two halves of myself. When you come to have the + wild horses in your own soul, mother, it makes it difficult. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Never mind, you'll have help. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Thank you for the assurance, darling.—Father, you don't + mind what mother says, I hope. I believe there's some truth in it—don't + you? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. I have nothing to say. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. <i>I</i> think there's some truth in it, daddy. You were + always worrying about those horrid colliers, and they didn't care a bit + about you. And they OUGHT to gave cared a million pounds. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. You don't understand, my child. + </p> + <p> + (Curtain.) + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE: Evening of the same day. Drawing-room at Lilly Close. MR. + BARLOW, GERALD, WINIFRED, ANABEL OLIVER present. Butler pours + coffee. +</pre> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. And you are quite a stranger in these parts, Miss Wrath? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Practically. But I was born at Derby. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. I was born in this house—but it was a different affair + then: my father was a farmer, you know. The coal has brought us what + moderate wealth we have. Of course, we were never poor or needy—farmers, + substantial farmers. And I think we were happier so—yes.—Winnie, + dear, hand Miss Wrath the sweets. I hope they're good. I ordered them + from London for you.—Oliver, my boy, have you everything you like? + That's right.—It gives me such pleasure to see a little festive + gathering in this room again. I wish Bertie and Elinor might be here. + What time is it, Gerald? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. A quarter to nine, father. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Not late yet. I can sit with you another half-hour. I am + feeling better to-day. Winifred, sing something for us. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Something jolly, father? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Very jolly, darling. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. I'll sing "The Lincolnshire Poacher," shall I? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Do, darling, and we'll all join in the chorus.—Will + you join in the chorus, Miss Wrath? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I will. It is a good song. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes, isn't it! + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. All dance for the chorus, as well as singing. + </p> + <p> + (They sing; some pirouette a little for the chorus.) + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Ah, splendid! Splendid! There is nothing like gaiety. + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. I do love to dance about. I know: let us do a little ballet—four + of us—oh, do! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What ballet, Winifred? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Any. Eva can play for us. She plays well. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. You won't disturb your mother? Don't disturb Eva if she is + busy with your mother. (Exit WINIFRED.) If only I can see Winifred + happy, my heart is at rest: if only I can hope for her to be happy in + her life. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, Winnie's all right, father—especially now she has Miss + Wrath to initiate her into the mysteries of life and labour. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why are you ironical? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Oh, Miss Wrath, believe me, we all feel that—it is the + greatest possible pleasure to me that you have come. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I wasn't ironical, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. No, indeed—no, indeed! We have every belief in you. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But why should you have? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Ah, my dear child, allow us the credit of our own + discernment. And don't take offence at my familiarity. I am afraid I am + spoilt since I am an invalid. + </p> + <p> + (Re-enter WINIFRED, with EVA.) + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Come, Eva, you will excuse us for upsetting your evening. + Will you be so good as to play something for us to dance to? + </p> + <p> + EVA. Yes, sir. What shall I play? + </p> + <p> + WINIFRED. Mozart—I'll find you the piece. Mozart's the saddest + musician in the world—but he's the best to dance to. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Why, how is it you are such a connoisseur in sadness, + darling? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. She isn't. She's a flagrant amateur. + </p> + <p> + (EVA plays; they dance a little ballet.) + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Charming—charming, Miss Wrath:—will you allow me + to say <i>Anabel</i>, we shall all feel so much more at home? Yes—thank + you—er—you enter into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, + dear. The others are accustomed to play together. But it is not so easy + to come in on occasion as you do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, Anabel's a genius!—I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath—familiarity + is catching. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Gerald, my boy, don't forget that you are virtually host + here. + </p> + <p> + EVA. Did you want any more music, sir? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, don't stay, Eva. We mustn't tire father. (Exit EVA.) + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to excuse in + us, in the way of manners. We have never been a formal household. But + you have lived in the world of artists: you will understand, I hope. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Oh, surely—- + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know. We have been a turbulent family, and we have + had our share of sorrow, even more, perhaps, than of joys. And sorrow + makes one indifferent to the conventionalities of life. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Excuse me, father: do you mind if I go and write a letter I have + on my conscience? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. No, my boy. (Exit GERALD.) We have had our share of sorrow + and of conflict, Miss Wrath, as you may have gathered. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes—a little. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. The mines were opened when my father was a boy—the + first—and I was born late, when he was nearly fifty. So that all + my life has been involved with coal and colliers. As a young man, I was + gay and thoughtless. But I married young, and we lost our first child + through a terrible accident. Two children we have lost through sudden + and violent death. (WINIFRED goes out unnoticed.) It made me reflect. + And when I came to reflect, Anabel, I could not justify my position in + life. If I believed in the teachings of the New Testament—which I + did, and do—how could I keep two or three thousand men employed + and underground in the mines, at a wage, let us say, of two pounds a + week, whilst I lived in this comfortable house, and took something like + two thousand pounds a year—let us name any figure—- + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, of course. But is it money that really matters, Mr. Barlow? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. My dear, if you are a working man, it matters. When I went + into the homes of my poor fellows, when they were ill or had had + accidents—then I knew it mattered. I knew that the great disparity + was wrong—even as we are taught that it is wrong. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I believe that the great disparity is a mistake. But take + their lives, Mr. Barlow. Do you thing they would LIVE more, if they had + more money? Do you think the poor live less than the rich?—is + their life emptier? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Surely their lives would be better, Anabel. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. All our lives would be better, if we hadn't to hang on in the + perpetual tug-of-war, like two donkeys pulling at one carrot. The + ghastly tension of possessions, and struggling for possession, spoils + life for everybody. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know now, as I knew then, that it was wrong. But how + to avoid the wrong? If I gave away the whole of my income, it would + merely be an arbitrary dispensation of charity. The money would still be + mine to give, and those that received it would probably only be weakened + instead of strengthened. And then my wife was accustomed to a certain + way of living, a certain establishment. Had I any right to sacrifice + her, without her consent? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why, no! + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Again, if I withdrew from the Company, if I retired on a + small income, I knew that another man would automatically take my place, + and make it probably harder for the men. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Of course—while the system stands, if one makes + self-sacrifice one only panders to the system, makes it fatter. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. One panders to the system—one panders to the system. + And so, you see, the problem is too much. One man cannot alter or affect + the system; he can only sacrifice himself to it. Which is the worst + thing probably that he can do. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Quite. But why feel guilty for the system?—everybody + supports it, the poor as much as the rich. If every rich man withdrew + from the system, the working class and socialists would keep it going, + every man in the hope of getting rich himself at last. It's the people + that are wrong. They want the system much more than the rich do—because + they are much more anxious to be rich—never having been rich, poor + devils. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Just the system. So I decided at last that the best way was + to give every private help that lay in my power. I would help my men + individually and personally, wherever I could. Not one of them came to + me and went away unheard; and there was no distress which could be + alleviated that I did not try to alleviate. Yet I am afraid that the + greatest distress I never heard of, the most distressed never came to + me. They hid their trouble. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, the decent ones. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. But I wished to help—it was my duty. Still, I think + that, on the whole, we were a comfortable and happy community. Barlow + & Walsall's men were not unhappy in those days, I believe. We were + liberal; the men lived. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, that is true. Even twenty years ago the place was still + jolly. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. And then, when Gerald was a lad of thirteen, came the great + lock-out. We belonged to the Masters' Federation—I was but one man + on the Board. We had to abide by the decision. The mines were closed + till the men would accept the reduction.—Well, that cut my life + across. We were shutting the men out from work, starving their families, + in order to force them to accept a reduction. It may be the condition of + trade made it imperative. But, for myself, I would rather have lost + everything.—Of course, we did what we could. Food was very cheap—practically + given away. We had open kitchen here. And it was mercifully warm + summer-time. Nevertheless, there was privation and suffering, and + trouble and bitterness. We had the redcoats down—even to guard + this house. And from this window I saw Whatmore head-stocks ablaze, and + before I could get to the spot the soldiers had shot two poor fellows. + They were not killed, thank God—- + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Ah, but they enjoyed it—they enjoyed it immensely. I + remember what grand old sporting weeks they were. It was like a + fox-hunt, so lively and gay—bands and tea-parties and excitement + everywhere, pit-ponies loose, men all over the country-side—- + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. There was a great deal of suffering, which you were too + young to appreciate. However, since that year I have had to acknowledge + a new situation—a radical if unspoken opposition between masters + and men. Since that year we have been split into opposite camps. + Whatever I might privately feel, I was one of the owners, one of the + masters, and therefore in the opposite camp. To my men I was an + oppressor, a representative of injustice and greed. Privately, I like to + think that even to this day they bear me no malice, that they have some + lingering regard for me. But the master stands before the human being, + and the condition of war overrides individuals—they hate the + master, even whilst, as a human being, he would be their friend. I + recognise the inevitable justice. It is the price one has to pay. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, it is difficult—very. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Perhaps I weary you? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Oh, no—no. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Well—then the mines began to pay badly. The seams ran + thin and unprofitable, work was short. Either we must close down or + introduce a new system, American methods, which I dislike so extremely. + Now it really became a case of men working against machines, flesh and + blood working against iron, for a livelihood. Still, it had to be done—the + whole system revolutionised. Gerald took it in hand—and now I + hardly know my own pits, with the great electric plants and strange + machinery, and the new coal-cutters—iron men, as the colliers call + them—everything running at top speed, utterly dehumanised, + inhuman. Well, it had to be done; it was the only alternative to closing + down and throwing three thousand men out of work. And Gerald has done + it. But I can't bear to see it. The men of this generation are not like + my men. They are worn and gloomy; they have a hollow look that I can't + bear to see. They are a great grief to me. I remember men even twenty + years ago—a noisy, lively, careless set, who kept the place + ringing. I feel it is unnatural; I feel afraid of it. And I cannot help + feeling guilty. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes—I understand. It terrifies me. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Does it?—does it?—Yes.—And as my wife + says, I leave it all to Gerald—this terrible situation. But I + appeal to God, if anything in my power could have averted it, I would + have averted it. I would have made any sacrifice. For it is a great and + bitter trouble to me. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Ah, well, in death there is no industrial situation. Something + must be different there. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes—yes. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. And you see sacrifice isn't the slightest use. If only people + would be sane and decent. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes, indeed.—Would you be so good as to ring, Oliver? + I think I must go to bed. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Ah, you have over-tired yourself. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. No, my dear—not over-tired. Excuse me if I have + burdened you with all this. I relieves me to speak of it. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I realise HOW terrible it is, Mr. Barlow—and how helpless + one is. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Thank you, my dear, for your sympathy. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. If the people for one minute pulled themselves up and conquered + their mania for money and machine excitement, the whole thing would be + solved.—Would you like me to find Winnie and tell her to say good + night to you? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. If you would be so kind. (Exit OLIVER.) Can't you find a + sweet that you would like, my dear? Won't you take a little cherry + brandy? + </p> + <p> + (Enter BUTLER.) + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Thank you. + </p> + <p> + WILLIAM. You will go up, sir? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. Yes, William. + </p> + <p> + WILLIAM. You are tired to-night, sir. + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. It has come over me just now. + </p> + <p> + WILLIAM. I wish you went up before you became so over-tired, sir. Would + you like nurse? + </p> + <p> + MR. BARLOW. No, I'll go with you, William. Good night, my dear. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Good night, Mr. Barlow. I am so sorry if you are over-tired. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Exit BUTLER and MR. BARLOW. ANABEL takes a drink and goes to + the fire.) +</pre> + <p> + (Enter GERALD.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Father gone up? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I thought I heard him. Has he been talking too much?—Poor + father, he will take things to heart. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Tragic, really. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I suppose it is. But one can get beyond tragedy—beyond + the state of feeling tragical, I mean. Father himself is tragical. One + feels he is mistaken—and yet he wouldn't be any different, and be + himself, I suppose. He's sort of crucified on an idea of the working + people. It's rather horrible when he's one's father.—However, + apart from tragedy, how do you like being here, in this house? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I like the house. It's rather too comfortable. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. But how do you like being here? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. How do you like my being in your home? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, I think you're very decorative. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. More decorative than comfortable? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Perhaps. But perhaps you give the necessary finish to the + establishment. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Like the correct window-curtains? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, something like that. I say, why did you come, Anabel? Why + did you come slap-bang into the middle of us?—It's not + expostulation—I want to know. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You mean you want to be told? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I want to be told. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. That's rather mean of you. You should savvy, and let it go + without saying. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, but I don't savvy. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then wait till you do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, I want to be told. There's a difference in you, Anabel, that + puts me out, rather. You're sort of softer and sweeter—I'm not + sure whether it isn't a touch of father in you. There's a little + sanctified smudge on your face. Are you really a bit sanctified? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, not sanctified. It's true I feel different. I feel I want a + new way of life—something more dignified, more religious, if you + like—anyhow, something POSITIVE. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Is it the change of heart, Anabel? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Perhaps it is, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm not sure that I like it. Isn't it like a berry that decides + to get very sweet, and goes soft? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I don't think so. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you better before. I + don't think I like you with this touch of aureole. People seem to me so + horribly self-satisfied when they get a change of heart—they take + such a fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I don't think I do.—Do you feel no different, Gerald? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Radically, I can't say I do. I feel very much more INdifferent. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. What to? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Everything. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You're still angry—that's what it is. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, yes, I'm angry. But that is part of my normal state. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why are you angry? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be angry? I'm angry because + you treated me—well, so impudently, really—clearing out and + leaving one to whistle to the empty walls. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Don't you think it was time I cleared out, when you became so + violent, and really dangerous, really like a madman? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Time or not time, you went—you disappeared and left us + high and dry—and I am still angry.—But I'm not only angry + about that. I'm angry with the colliers, with Labour for its low-down + impudence—and I'm angry with father for being so ill—and I'm + angry with mother for looking such a hopeless thing—and I'm angry + with Oliver because he thinks so much—- + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And what are you angry with yourself for? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm angry with myself for being myself—I always was that. + I was always a curse to myself. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And that's why you curse others so much? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You talk as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You see, Gerald, there has to be a change. You'll have to + change. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Change of heart?—Well, it won't be to get softer, Anabel. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. You needn't be softer. But you can be quieter, more sane even. + There ought to be some part of you that can be quiet and apart from the + world, some part that can be happy and gentle. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, there isn't. I don't pretend to be able to extricate a + soft sort of John Halifax, Gentleman, out of the machine I'm mixed up + in, and keep him to gladden the connubial hearth. I'm angry, and I'm + angry right through, and I'm not going to play bo-peep with myself, + pretending not to be. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Nobody asks you to. But is there no part of you that can be a + bit gentle and peaceful and happy with a woman? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, there isn't.—I'm not going to smug with you—no, + not I. You're smug in your coming back. You feel virtuous, and expect me + to rise to it. I won't. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then I'd better have stayed away. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If you want me to virtuise and smug with you, you had. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. What DO you want, then? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't know. I know I don't want THAT. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Oh, very well. (Goes to the piano; begins to play.) + </p> + <p> + (Enter MRS. BARLOW.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Hello, mother! Father HAS gone to bed. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Oh, I thought he was down here talking. You two alone? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. With the piano for chaperone, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. That's more than I gave you credit for. I haven't come to + chaperone you either, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Chaperone ME, mother! Do you think I need it? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. If you do, you won't get it. I've come too late to be of + any use in that way, as far as I hear. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What have you heard, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. I heard Oliver and this young woman talking. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, did you? When? What did they say? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Something about married in the sight of heaven, but + couldn't keep it up on earth. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't understand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. That you and this young woman were married in the sight of + heaven, or through eternity, or something similar, but that you couldn't + make up your minds to it on earth. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Really! That's very curious, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Very common occurrence, I believe. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, so it is. But I don't think you heard quite right, dear. + There seems to be some lingering uneasiness in heaven, as a matter of + fact. We'd quite made up our minds to live apart on earth. But where did + you hear this, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. I heard it outside the studio door this morning. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You mean you happened to be on one side of the door while Oliver + and Anabel were talking on the other? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. You'd make a detective, Gerald—you're so good at + putting two and two together. I listened till I'd heard as much as I + wanted. I'm not sure I didn't come down here hoping to hear another + conversation going on. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Listen outside the door, darling? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. There'd be nothing to listen to if I were inside. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It isn't usually done, you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. I listen outside doors when I have occasion to be + interested—which isn't often, unfortunately for me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But I've a queer feeling that you have a permanent occasion to + be interested in me. I only half like it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. It's surprising how uninteresting you are, Gerald, for a + man of your years. I have not had occasion to listen outside a door, for + you, no, not for a great while, believe me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I believe you implicitly, darling. But do you happen to know me + through and through, and in and out, all my past and present doings, + mother? Have you a secret access to my room, and a spy-hole, and all + those things? This is uncomfortably thrilling. You take on a new lustre. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Your memoirs wouldn't make you famous, my son. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Infamous, dear? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Good heavens, no! What a lot you expect from your very mild + sins! You and this young woman have lived together, then? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Don't say "this young woman," mother dear—it's slightly + vulgar. It isn't for me to compromise Anabel by admitting such a thing, + you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Do you ask me to call her Anabel? I won't. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Then say "this person," mother. It's more becoming. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. I didn't come to speak to you, Gerald. I know you. I came + to speak to this young woman. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. "Person," mother.—Will you curtsey, Anabel? And I'll twist + my handkerchief. We shall make a Cruikshank drawing, if mother makes her + hair a little more slovenly. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. You and Gerald were together for some time? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Three years, off and on, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. And then you suddenly dropped my son, and went away? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. To Norway, mother—so I have gathered. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. And now you have come back because that last one died? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Is he dead, Anabel? How did he die? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. He was killed on the ice. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, God! + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Now, having had your fill of tragedy, you have come back to + be demure and to marry Gerald. Does he thank you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You must listen outside the door, mother, to find that out. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Well, it's your own affair. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What a lame summing up, mother!—quite unworthy of you. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. What did you wish to say to me, Mrs. Barlow? Please say it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. What did I wish to say! Ay, what did I wish to say! What is + the use of my saying anything? What am I but a buffoon and a slovenly + caricature in the family? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, mother dear, don't climb down—please don't. Tell + Anabel what you wanted to say. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Yes—yes—yes. I came to say—don't be good + to my son—don't be too good to him. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Sounds weak, dear—mere contrariness. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Don't presume to be good to my son, young woman. I won't + have it, even if he will. You hear me? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes. I won't presume, then. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. May she presume to be bad to me, mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. For that you may look after yourself.—But a woman who + was good to him would ruin him in six months, take the manhood out of + him. He has a tendency, a secret hankering, to make a gift of himself to + somebody. He sha'n't do it. I warn you. I am not a woman to be despised. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No—I understand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Only one other thing I ask. If he must fight—and + fight he must—let him alone: don't you try to shield him or save + him. DON'T INTERFERE—do you hear? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Not till I must. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. NEVER. Learn your place, and keep it. Keep away from him, + if you are going to be a wife to him. Don't go too near. And don't let + him come too near. Beat him off if he tries. Keep a solitude in your + heart even when you love him best. Keep it. If you lose it, you lose + everything. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But that isn't love, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. What? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That isn't love. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. WHAT? What do you know of love, you ninny? You only know + the feeding-bottle. It's what you want, all of you—to be brought + up by hand, and mew about love. Ah, God!—Ah, God!—that you + should none of you know the only thing which would make you worth + having. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't believe in your only thing, mother. But what is it? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. What you haven't got—the power to be alone. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Sort of megalomania, you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. What? Megalomania! What is your LOVE but a megalomania, + flowing over everybody and everything like spilt water? Megalomania! I + hate you, you softy! I would BEAT you (suddenly advancing on him and + beating him fiercely)—beat you into some manhood—beat you—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Stop, mother—keep off. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. It's the men who need beating nowadays, not the children. + Beat the softness out of him, young woman. It's the only way, if you + love him enough—if you love him enough. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You hear, Anabel? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Speak roughly to your little boy, + And beat him when he sneezes. +</pre> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW (catching up a large old fan, and smashing it about his + head). You softy—you piffler—you will never have had enough! + Ah, you should be thrust in the fire, you should, to have the softness + and the brittleness burnt out of you! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The door opens—OLIVER TURTON enters, followed by JOB ARTHUR FREER. + MRS. BARLOW is still attacking GERALD. She turns, infuriated.) +</pre> + <p> + Go out! Go out! What do you mean by coming in unannounced? Take him + upstairs—take that fellow into the library, Oliver Turton. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Mother, you improve our already pretty reputation. Already they + say you are mad. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW (ringing violently). Let me be mad then. I am mad—driven + mad. One day I shall kill you, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You won't, mother because I sha'n't let you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Let me!—let me! As if I should wait for you to let + me! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I am a match for you even in violence, come to that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. A match! A damp match. A wet match. + </p> + <p> + (Enter BUTLER.) + </p> + <p> + WILLIAM. You rang, madam? + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. Clear up those bits.—Where are you going to see that + white-faced fellow? Here? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I think so. + </p> + <p> + MRS. BARLOW. You will STILL have them coming to the house, will you? You + will still let them trample in our private rooms, will you? Bah! I ought + to leave you to your own devices. (Exit.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. When you've done that, William, ask Mr. Freer to come down here. + </p> + <p> + WILLIAM. Yes, sir. (A pause. Exit WILLIAM.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. So-o-o. You've had another glimpse of the family life. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes. Rather—disturbing. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Not at all, when you're used to it. Mother isn't as mad as she + pretends to be. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I don't think she's mad at all. I think she has most desperate + courage. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. "Courage" is good. That's a new term for it. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, courage. When a man says "courage" he means the courage to + die. A woman means the courage to live. That's what women hate men most + for, that they haven't the courage to live. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Mother takes her courage in both hands rather late. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. We're a little late ourselves. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We are, rather. By the way, you seem to have had plenty of the + courage of death—you've played a pretty deathly game, it seems to + me—both when I knew you and afterwards, you've had your finger + pretty deep in the death-pie. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. That's why I want a change of—of—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of heart?—Better take mother's tip, and try the poker. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I will. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Ha—corraggio! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes—corraggio! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Corraggiaccio! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Corraggione! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Cock-a-doodle-doo! + </p> + <p> + (Enter OLIVER and FREER.) + </p> + <p> + Oh, come in. Don't be afraid; it's a charade. (ANABEL rises.) No, don't + go, Anabel. Corraggio! Take a seat, Mr. Freer. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Sounds like a sneezing game, doesn't it? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It is. Do you know the famous rhyme: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Speak roughly to your little boy, + And beat him when he sneezes? +</pre> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. No, I can't say I do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. My mother does. Will you have anything to drink? Will you help + yourself? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well—no—I don't think I'll have anything, + thanks. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. A cherry brandy?—Yes?—Anabel, what's yours? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Did I see Kummel? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You did. (They all take drinks.) What's the latest, Mr. Freer? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. The latest? Well, I don't know, I'm sure—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, yes. Trot it out. We're quite private. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well—I don't know. There's several things. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The more the merrier. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I'm not so sure. The men are in a very funny temper, Mr. + Barlow—very funny. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Coincidence—so am I. Not surprising, is it? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. The men, perhaps not. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What else, Job Arthur? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You know the men have decided to stand by the office men? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. They've agreed to come out next Monday. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Have they? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes; there was no stopping them. They decided for it like + one man. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. How was that? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. That's what surprises me. They're a jolly sight more certain + over this than they've ever been over their own interests. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All their love for the office clerks coming out in a rush? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well, I don't know about love; but that's how it is. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What is it, if it isn't love? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I can't say. They're in a funny temper. It's hard to make + out. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. A funny temper, are they? Then I suppose we ought to laugh. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. No, I don't think it's a laughing matter. They're coming out + on Monday for certain. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes—so are the daffodils. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Beg pardon? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Daffodils. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. No, I don't follow what you mean. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Don't you? But I thought Alfred Breffitt and William Straw were + not very popular. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. No, they aren't—not in themselves. But it's the + principle of the thing—so it seems. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What principle? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Why, all sticking together, for one thing—all Barlow + & Walsall's men holding by one another. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. United we stand? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. That's it. And then it's the strong defending the weak as + well. There's three thousand colliers standing up for thirty-odd office + men. I must say I think it's sporting myself. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You do, do you? United we stand, divided we fall. What do they + stand for really? What is it? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well—for their right to a living wage. That's how I + see it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. For their right to a living wage! Just that? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, sir—that's how I see it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, that doesn't seem so preposterously difficult does it? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Why, that's what I think myself, Mr. Gerald. It's such a + little thing. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Quite. I suppose the men themselves are to judge what is a + living wage? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Oh, I think they're quite reasonable, you know. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, yes, eminently reasonable. Reason's their strong point.—And + if they get their increase they'll be quite contented? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, as far as I know, they will. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. As far as you know? Why, is there something you don't know?—something + you're not sure about? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. No—I don't think so. I think they'll be quite + satisfied this time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why this time? Is there going to be a next time—every-day-has-its-to-morrow + kind of thing? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't know about that. It's a funny world, Mr. Barlow. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I quite believe it. How do you see it so funny? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Oh, I don't know. Everything's in a funny state. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What do you mean by everything? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well—I mean things in general—Labour, for + example. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You think Labour's in a funny state, do you? What do you think + it wants? What do you think, personally? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well, in my own mind, I think it wants a bit of its own + back. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And how does it mean to get it? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Ha! that's not so easy to say. But it means to have it, in + the long run. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You mean by increasing demands for higher wages? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, perhaps that's one road. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Do you see any other? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Not just for the present. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But later on? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I can't say about that. The men will be quiet enough for a + bit, if it's all right about the office men, you know. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Probably. But have Barlow & Walsall's men any special + grievance apart from the rest of the miners? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't know. They've no liking for you, you know, sir. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. They think you've got a down on them. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why should they? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't know, sir; but they do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. So they have a personal feeling against me? You don't think all + the colliers are the same, all over the country? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I think there's a good deal of feeling—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of wanting their own back? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. That's it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. But what can they do? I don't see what they can do. They can go + out on strike—but they've done that before, and the owners, at a + pinch, can stand it better than they can. As for the ruin of the + industry, if they do ruin it, it falls heaviest on them. In fact, it + leaves them destitute. There's nothing they can do, you know, that + doesn't hit them worse than it hits us. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I know there's something in that. But if they had a strong + man to lead them, you see—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I've heard a lot about that strong man—but I've never + come across any signs of him, you know. I don't believe in one strong + man appearing out of so many little men. All men are pretty big in an + age, or in a movement, which produces a really big man. And Labour is a + great swarm of hopelessly little men. That's how I see it. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I'm not so sure about that. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I am. Labour is a thing that can't have a head. It's a sort of + unwieldy monster that's bound to run its skull against the wall sooner + or later, and knock out what bit of brain it's got. You see, you need + wit and courage and real understanding if you're going to do anything + positive. And Labour has none of these things—certainly it shows + no signs of them. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, when it has a chance, I think you'll see plenty of + courage and plenty of understanding. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It always had a chance. And where one sees a bit of courage, + there's no understanding; and where there's some understanding, there's + absolutely no courage. It's hopeless, you know—it would be far + best if they'd all give it up, and try a new line. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't think they will. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, I don't, either. They'll make a mess and when they've made + it, they'll never get out of it. They can't—they're too stupid. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. They've never had a try yet. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. They're trying every day. They just simply couldn't control + modern industry—they haven't the intelligence. They've no LIFE + intelligence. The owners may have little enough, but Labour has none. + They're just mechanical little things that can make one or two motions, + and they're done. They've no more idea of life than a lawn-mower has. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. It remains to be seen. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, it doesn't. It's perfectly obvious—there's nothing + remains to be seen. All that Labour is capable of, is smashing things + up. And even for that I don't believe it has either the energy or the + courage or the bit of necessary passion, or slap-dash—call it + whatever you will. However, we'll see. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, sir. Perhaps you see now why you're not so very + popular, Mr. Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We can't all be popular, Job Arthur. You're very high up in + popularity, I believe. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Not so very. They listen to me a bit. But you never know + when they'll let you down. I know they'll let me down one day—so + it won't be a surprise. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I should think not. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. But about the office men, Mr. Gerald. You think it'll be all + right? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, yes, that'll be all right. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Easiest for this time, anyhow, sir. We don't want bloodshed, + do we? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I shouldn't mind at all. It might clear the way to something. + But I have absolutely no belief in the power of Labour even to bring + about anything so positive as bloodshed. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't know about that—I don't know. Well. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Have another drink before you go.—Yes, do. Help yourself. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well—if you're so pressing. (Helps himself.) Here's + luck, all! + </p> + <p> + ALL. Thanks. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Take a cigar—there's the box. Go on—take a handful—fill + your case. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. They're a great luxury nowadays, aren't they? Almost beyond + a man like me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, that's the worst of not being a bloated capitalist. Never + mind, you'll be a Cabinet Minister some day.—Oh, all right—I'll + open the door for you. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Oh, don't trouble. Good night—good night. (Exeunt.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Oh, God, what a world to live in! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I rather liked him. What is he? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Checkweighman—local secretary for the Miner's Federation—plays + the violin well, although he was a collier, and it spoilt his hands. + They're a musical family. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But isn't he rather nice? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I don't like him. But I confess he's a study. He's the modern + Judas. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Don't you think he likes Gerald? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I'm sure he does. The way he suns himself here—like a cat + purring in his luxuriation. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes—I don't mind it. It shows a certain sensitiveness and + a certain taste. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, he has both—touch of the artist, as Mrs. Barlow says. + He loves refinement, culture, breeding, all those things—loves + them—and a presence, a fine free manner. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But that is nice in him. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Quite. But what he loves, and what he admires, and what he + aspires to, he MUST betray. It's his fatality. He lives for the moment + when he can kiss Gerald in the Garden of Olives, or wherever it was. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But Gerald shouldn't be kissed. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. That's what I say. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And that's what his mother means as well, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + (Enter GERALD.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well—you've heard the voice of the people. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. He isn't the people. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I think he is, myself—the epitome. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. No, he's a special type. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Ineffectual, don't you think? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. How pleased you are, Gerald! How pleased you are with yourself! + You love the turn with him. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's rather stimulating, you know. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. It oughtn't to be, then. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. He's you Judas, and you love him. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Nothing so deep. He's just a sort of AEolian harp that sings to + the temper of the wind. I find him amusing. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I think it's boring. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. And I think it's nasty. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I believe you're both jealous of him. What do you think of the + working man, Oliver? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. It seems to me he's in nearly as bad a way as the British + employer: he's nearly as much beside the point. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What point? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Oh, just life. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That's too vague, my boy. Do you think they'll ever make a + bust-up? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I can't tell. I don't see any good in it, if they do. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It might clear the way—and it might block the way for + ever: depends what comes through. But, sincerely, I don't think they've + got it in them. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. They may have something better. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. That suggestion doesn't interest me, Anabel. Ah, well, we shall + see what we shall see. Have a whisky and soda with me, Oliver, and let + the troubled course of this evening run to a smooth close. It's quite + like old times. Aren't you smoking, Anabel? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, thanks. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I believe you're a reformed character. So it won't be like old + times, after all. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I don't want old times. I want new ones. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Wait till Job Arthur has risen like Anti-christ, and proclaimed + the resurrection of the gods.—Do you see Job Arthur proclaiming + Dionysos and Aphrodite? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. It bores me. I don't like your mood. Good night. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, don't go. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, good night. (Exit.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. She's NOT reformed, Gerald. She's the same old moral character—moral + to the last bit of her, really—as she always was. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Is that what it is?—But one must be moral. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Oh, yes. Oliver Cromwell wasn't as moral as Anabel is—nor + such an iconoclast. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Poor old Anabel! + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. How she hates the dark gods! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. And yet they cast a spell over her. Poor old Anabel! Well, + Oliver, is Bacchus the father of whisky? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I don't know.—I don't like you either. You seem to smile + all over yourself. It's objectionable. Good night. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, look here, this is censorious. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You smile to yourself. (Exit.) + </p> + <p> + (Curtain.) + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + SCENE I +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An old park. Early evening. In the background a low Georgian + hall, which has been turned into offices for the Company, shows + windows already lighted. GERALD and ANABEL walk along the path. +</pre> + <p> + ANABEL. How beautiful this old park is! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, it is beautiful—seems so far away from everywhere, if + one doesn't remember that the hall is turned into offices.—No one + has lived here since I was a little boy. I remember going to a Christmas + party at the Walsalls'. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Has it been shut up so long? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The Walsalls didn't like it—too near the ugliness. They + were county, you know—we never were: father never gave mother a + chance, there. And besides, the place is damp, cellars full of water. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Even now? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, not now—they've been drained. But the place would be + too damp for a dwelling-house. It's all right as offices. They burn + enormous fires. The rooms are quite charming. This is what happens to + the stately homes of England—they buzz with inky clerks, or their + equivalent. Stateliness is on its last legs. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, it grieves me—though I should be bored if I had to be + stately, I think.—Isn't it beautiful in this light, like an + eighteenth-century aquatint? I'm sure no age was as ugly as this, since + the world began. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. For pure ugliness, certainly not. And I believe none has been so + filthy to live in.—Let us sit down a minute, shall we? and watch + the rooks fly home. It always stirs sad, sentimental feelings in me. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. So it does in me.—Listen! one can hear the coal-carts on + the road—and the brook—and the dull noise of the town—and + the beating of New London pit—and voices—and the rooks—and + yet it is so still. We seem so still here, don't we? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Don't you think we've been wrong? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. How? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. In the way we've lived—and the way we've loved. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It hasn't been heaven, has it? Yet I don't know that we've been + wrong, Anabel. We had it to go through. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Perhaps.—And, yes, we've been wrong, too. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Probably. Only, I don't feel it like that. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then I think you ought. You ought to feel you've been wrong. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, probably. Only, I don't. I can't help it. I think we've + gone the way we had to go, following our own natures. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And where has it landed us? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Here. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And where is that? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Just on this bench in the park, looking at the evening. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But what next? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. God knows! Why trouble? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. One must trouble. I want to feel sure. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What of? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Of you—and of myself. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Then BE sure. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But I can't. Think of the past—what it's been. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. This isn't the past. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But what is it? Is there anything sure in it? Is there any real + happiness? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why not? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But how can you ask? Think of what our life has been. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't want to. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, you don't. But what DO you want? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm all right, you know, sitting here like this. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But one can't sit here forever, can one? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't want to. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And what will you do when we leave here? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. God knows! Don't worry me. Be still a bit. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But I'M worried. You don't love me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I won't argue it. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And I'm not happy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why not, Anabel? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Because you don't love me—and I can't forget. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I do love you—and to-night I've forgotten. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then make me forget, too. Make me happy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I CAN'T make you—and you know it. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, you can. It's your business to make me happy. I've made you + happy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You want to make me unhappy. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I DO think you're the last word in selfishness. If I say I can't + forget, you merely say, "I'VE forgotten"; and if I say I'm unhappy, all + YOU can answer is that I want to make YOU unhappy. I don't in the least. + I want to be happy myself. But you don't help me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. There is no help for it, you see. If you WERE happy with me here + you'd be happy. As you aren't, nothing will make you—not + genuinely. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And that's all you care. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No—I wish we could both be happy at the same moment. But + apparently we can't. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And why not?—Because you're selfish, and think of nothing + but yourself and your own feelings. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If it is so, it is so. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then we shall never be happy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Then we sha'n't. (A pause.) + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then what are we going to do? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Do? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Do you want me to be with you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Are you sure? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then why don't you want me to be happy? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If you'd only BE happy, here and now—- + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. How can I? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. How can't you?—You've got a devil inside you. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Then make me not have a devil. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I've know you long enough—and known myself long enough—to + know I can make you nothing at all, Anabel: neither can you make me. If + the happiness isn't there—well, we shall have to wait for it, like + a dispensation. It probably means we shall have to hate each other a + little more.—I suppose hate is a real process. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I know you believe more in hate than in love. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Nobody is more weary of hate than I am—and yet we can't + fix our own hour, when we shall leave off hating and fighting. It has to + work itself out in us. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But I don't WANT to hate and fight with you any more. I don't + BELIEVE in it—not any more. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's a cleansing process—like Aristotle's Katharsis. We + shall hate ourselves clean at last, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why aren't you clean now? Why can't you love? (He laughs.) DO + you love me? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Do you want to be with me for ever? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Sure? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Quite sure. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why are you so cool about it? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm not. I'm only sure—which you are not. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Yes, I am—I WANT to be married to you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I know you want me to want you to be married to me. But whether + off your own bat you have a positive desire that way, I'm not sure. You + keep something back—some sort of female reservation—like a + dagger up your sleeve. You want to see me in transports of love for you. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. How can you say so? There—you see—there—this + is the man that pretends to love me, and then says I keep a dagger up my + sleeve. You liar! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I do love you—and you do keep a dagger up your sleeve—some + devilish little female reservation which spies at me from a distance, in + your soul, all the time, as if I were an enemy. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. How CAN you say so?—Doesn't it show what you must be + yourself? Doesn't it show?—What is there in your soul? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't know. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Love, pure love?—Do you pretend it's love? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm so tired of this. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. So am I, dead tired: you self-deceiving, self complacent thing. + Ha!—aren't you just the same? You haven't altered one scrap not a + scrap. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All right—you are always free to change yourself. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I HAVE changed I AM better, I DO love you—I love you + wholly and unselfishly—I do—and I want a good new life with + you. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You're terribly wrapped up in your new goodness. I wish you'd + make up your mind to be downright bad. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Ha!—Do you?—You'd soon see. You'd soon see where + you'd be if—— There's somebody coming. (Rises.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Never mind; it's the clerks leaving work, I suppose. Sit still. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Won't you go? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No. (A man draws near, followed by another.) + </p> + <p> + CLERK. Good evening, sir. (Passes on.) Good evening, Mr. Barlow. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. They are afraid. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I suppose their consciences are uneasy about this strike. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Did you come to sit here just to catch them, like a spider + waiting for them? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No. I wanted to speak to Breffitt. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I believe you're capable of any horridness. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. All right, you believe it. (Two more figures approach.) Good + evening. + </p> + <p> + CLERKS. Good night, sir. (One passes, one stops.) Good evening, Mr. + Barlow. Er—did you want to see Mr. Breffitt, sir? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Not particularly. + </p> + <p> + CLERK. Oh! He'll be out directly, sir—if you'd like me to go back + and tell him you wanted him? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, thank you. + </p> + <p> + CLERK. Good night, sir. Excuse me asking. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Good night. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Who is Mr. Breffitt? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. He is the chief clerk—and cashier—one of father's + old pillars of society. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Don't you like him? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Not much. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Why?—You seem to dislike very easily. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, they all used to try to snub me, these old buffers. They + detest me like poison, because I am different from father. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I believe you enjoy being detested. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I do. (Another clerk approaches—hesitates—stops.) + </p> + <p> + CLERK. Good evening, sir. Good evening, Mr. Barlow. Er—did you + want anybody at the office, sir? We're just closing. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, I didn't want anybody. + </p> + <p> + CLERK. Oh, no, sir. I see. Er—by the way, sir—er—I + hope you don't think this—er—bother about an increase—this + strike threat—started in the office? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Where did it start? + </p> + <p> + CLERK. I should think it started—where it usually starts, Mr. + Barlow—among a few loud-mouthed people who think they can do as + they like with the men. They're only using the office men as a cry—They've + no interest in us. They want to show their power.—That's how it + is, sir. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Oh, yes. + </p> + <p> + CLERK. We're powerless, if they like to make a cry out of us. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Quite. + </p> + <p> + CLERK. We're as much put out about it as anybody. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course. + </p> + <p> + CLERK. Yes—well—good night, sir. (Clerks draw near—there + is a sound of loud young voices and bicycle bells. Bicycles sweep past.) + </p> + <p> + CLERKS. Good night, sir.—Good night, sir. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Good night.—They're very bucked to see me sitting here + with a woman—a young lady as they'll say. I guess your name will + be flying round to-morrow. They stop partly to have a good look at you. + Do they know you, do you think? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Sure. + </p> + <p> + CLERKS. Mr. Breffitt's just coming, sir.—Good night, sir.—Good + night, sir. (Another bicycle passes.) + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. The bicycles don't see us.—Isn't it rather hateful to be a + master? The attitude of them all is so ugly. I can quite see that it + makes you rather a bully. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I suppose it does. (Figure of a large man approaches.) + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. Oh—ah—it's Mr. Gerald!—I couldn't make out + who it was.—Were you coming up to the office, sir? Do you want me + to go back with you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No, thank you—I just wanted a word with you about this + agitation. It'll do just as well here. It's a pity it started—that + the office should have set it going, Breffitt. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. It's none of the office's doing, I think you'll find, Mr. + Gerald. The office men did nothing but ask for a just advance—at + any rate, time and prices being what they are, I consider it a fair + advance. If the men took it up, it's because they've got a set of + loud-mouthed blatherers and agitators among them like Job Arthur Freer, + who deserve to be hung—and hanging they'd get, if I could have the + judging of them. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well—it's very unfortunate—because we can't give the + clerks their increase now, you know. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. Can't you?—can't you? I can't see that it would be + anything out of the way, if I say what I think. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. No. They won't get any increase now. It shouldn't have been + allowed to become a public cry with the colliers. We can't give in now. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. Have the Board decided that? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. They have—on my advice. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. Hm!—then the men will come out. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We will see. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. It's trouble for nothing—it's trouble that could be + avoided. The clerks could have their advance, and it would hurt nobody. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Too late now.—I suppose if the men come out, the clerks + will come out with them? + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. They'll have to—they'll have to. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. If they do, we may then make certain alterations in the office + staff which have needed making for some time. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. Very good—very good. I know what you mean.—I don't + know how your father bears all this, Mr. Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We keep it from him as much as possible.—You'll let the + clerks know the decision. And if they stay out with the men, I'll go + over the list of the staff with you. It has needed revising for a long + time. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. I know what you mean—I know what you mean—I + believe I understand the firm's interest in my department. I ought, + after forty years studying it. I've studied the firm's interest for + forty years, Mr. Gerald. I'm not likely to forget them now. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. But I think it's a mistake—I think it's a mistake, and + I'm bound to say it, to let a great deal of trouble rise for a very + small cause. The clerks might have had what they reasonably asked her. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, it's too late now. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. I suppose it is—I suppose it is. I hope you'll remember, + sir, that I've put the interest of the firm before everything—before + every consideration. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Of course, Breffitt. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. But you've not had any liking for the office staff, I'm + afraid, sir—not since your father put you amongst us for a few + months.—Well, sir, we shall weather this gale, I hope, as we've + weathered those in the past. Times don't become better, do they? Men are + an ungrateful lot, and these agitators should be lynched. They would, if + I had my way. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, of course. Don't wait. + </p> + <p> + BREFFITT. Good night to you. (Exit.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Good night. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. He's the last, apparently. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. We'll hope so. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. He puts you in a fury. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's his manner. My father spoilt them—abominable old + limpets. And they're so self-righteous. They think I'm a sort of + criminal who has instigated this new devilish system which runs + everything so close and cuts it so fine—as if they hadn't made + this inevitable by their shameless carelessness and wastefulness in the + past. He may well boast of his forty years—forty years' crass, + stupid wastefulness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Two or three more clerks pass, talking till they approach the seat, + then becoming silent after bidding good night.) +</pre> + <p> + ANABEL. But aren't you a bit sorry for them? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Why? If they're poor, what does it matter in a world of chaos? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. And aren't you an obstinate ass not to give them the bit they + want. It's mere stupid obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It may be. I call it policy. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Men always do call their obstinacy policy. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Well, I don't care what happens. I wish things would come to a + head. I only fear they won't. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Aren't you rather wicked?—ASKING for strife? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I hope I am. It's quite a relief to me to feel that I may be + wicked. I fear I'm not. I can see them all anticipating victory, in + their low-down fashion wanting to crow their low-down crowings. I'm + afraid I feel it's a righteous cause, to cut a lot of little combs + before I die. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. But if they're right in what they want? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. In the right—in the right!—They're just greedy, + incompetent, stupid, gloating in a sense of the worst sort of power. + They're like vicious children, who would like to kill their parents so + that they could have the run of the larder. The rest is just cant. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. If you're the parent in the case, I must say you flow over with + loving-kindness for them. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't—I detest them. I only hope they will fight. If + they would, I'd have some respect for them. But you'll see what it will + be. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I wish I needn't, for it's very sickening. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Sickening beyond expression. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I wish we could go right away. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. So do I—If one could get oneself out of this. But one + can't. It's the same wherever you have industrialism—and you have + industrialism everywhere, whether it's in Timbuctoo or Paraguay or + Antananarivo. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, it isn't: you exaggerate. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR (suddenly approaching from the other side). Good evening, Mr. + Barlow. I heard you were in here. Could I have a word with you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Get on with it, then. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Is it right that you won't meet the clerks? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Not in any way? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Not in any way whatsoever. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. But—I thought I understood from you the other night—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. It's all the same what you understood. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Then you take it back, sir? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I take nothing back, because I gave nothing. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Oh, excuse me, excuse me, sir. You said it would be all + right about the clerks. This lady heard you say it. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Don't you call witnesses against me.—Besides, what does it + matter to you? What in the name of—- + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well, sir, you said it would be all right, and I went on + that—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You went on that! Where did you go to? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. The men'll be out on Monday. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. So shall I. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Oh, yes, but—where's it going to end? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Do you want me to prophesy? When did I set up for a public + prophet? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't know, sir. But perhaps you're doing more than you + know. There's a funny feeling just now among the men. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. So I've heard before. Why should I concern myself with their + feelings? Am I to cry when every collier bumps his funny-bone—or + to laugh? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. It's no laughing matter, you see. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. An I'm sure it's no crying matter—unless you want to cry, + do you see? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Ah, but, very likely, it wouldn't be me would cry.—You + don't know what might happen, now. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I'm waiting for something to happen. I should like something to + happen—very much—very much indeed. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, but perhaps you'd be sorry if it did happen. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Is that warning or a threat? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't know—it might be a bit of both. What I mean to + say—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD (suddenly seizing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him). + What do you mean to say?—I mean you to say less, do you see?—a + great deal less—do you see? You've run on with your saying long + enough: that clock had better run down. So stop your sayings—stop + your sayings, I tell you—or you'll have them shaken out of you—shaken + out of you—shaken out of you, do you see? (Suddenly flings him + aside.) + </p> + <p> + (JOB ARTHUR, staggering, falls.) + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Oh, no!—oh, no! + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Now get up, Job Arthur; and get up wiser than you went down. + You've played your little game and your little tricks and made your + little sayings long enough. You're going to stop now. We've had quite + enough of strong men of your stamp, Job Arthur—quite enough—such + labour leaders as you. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You'll be sorry, Mr. Barlow—you'll be sorry. You'll + wish you'd not attacked me. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Don't you trouble about me and my sorrow. Mind your own. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You will—you'll be sorry. You'll be sorry for what + you've done. You'll wish you'd never begun this. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Begun—begun?—I'd like to finish, too, that I would. + I'd like to finish with you, too—I warn YOU. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I warn you—I warn you. You won't go on much longer. + Every parish has its own vermin. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Vermin? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Every parish has its own vermin; it lies with every parish + to destroy its own. We sha'n't have a clean parish till we've destroyed + the vermin we've got. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Vermin? The fool's raving. Vermin!—Another phrase-maker, + by God! Another phrase-maker to lead the people.—Vermin? What + vermin? I know quite well what <i>I</i> mean by vermin, Job Arthur. But + what do you mean? Vermin? Explain yourself. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, vermin. Vermin is what lives on other people's lives, + living on their lives and profiting by it. We've got 'em in every parish—vermin, + I say—that live on the sweat and blood of the people—live on + it, and get rich on it—get rich through living on other people's + lives, the lives of the working men—living on the bodies of the + working men—that's vermin—if it isn't, what is it? And every + parish must destroy its own—every parish must destroy its own + vermin. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. The phrase, my God! the phrase. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Phrase or not phrase, there it is, and face it out if you + can. There it is—there's not one in every parish—there's + more than one—there's a number—- + </p> + <p> + GERALD (suddenly kicking him). Go! (Kicks him.) Go! (Kicks him.) go! + (JOB ARTHUR falls.) Get out! (Kicks him.) Get out, I say! Get out, I + tell you! Get out! Get out!—Vermin!—Vermin!—I'll + vermin you! I'll put my foot through your phrases. Get up, I say, get up + and go—GO! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. It'll be you as'll go, this time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. What? What?—By God! I'll kick you out of this park like a + rotten bundle if you don't get up and go. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. No, Gerald, no. Don't forget yourself. It's enough now. It's + enough now.—Come away. Do come away. Come away—leave him—- + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR (still on the ground). It's your turn to go. It's you as'll + go, this time. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (looking at him). One can't even tread on you. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Don't, Gerald, don't—don't look at him.—Don't say + any more, you, Job Arthur.—Come away, Gerald. Come away—come—do + come. + </p> + <p> + GERALD (turning). THAT a human being! My God!—But he's right—it's + I who go. It's we who go, Anabel. He's still there.—My God! a + human being! + </p> + <p> + (Curtain.) + </p> + SCENE II +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Market-place as in Act I. WILLIE HOUGHTON, addressing a large + crowd of men from the foot of the obelisk. +</pre> + <p> + WILLIE. And now you're out on strike—now you've been out for a + week pretty nearly, what further are you? I heard a great deal of talk + about what you were going to do. Well, what ARE you going to do? You + don't know. You've not the smallest idea. You haven't any idea + whatsoever. You've got your leaders. Now then, Job Arthur, throw a + little light on the way in front, will you: for it seems to me we're + lost in a bog. Which way are we to steer? Come—give the word, and + let's gee-up. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You ask me which way we are to go. I say we can't go our own + way, because of the obstacles that lie in front. You've got to remove + the obstacles from the way. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. So said Balaam's ass. But you're not an ass—beg pardon; + and you're not Balaam—you're Job. And we've all got to be little + Jobs, learning how to spell patience backwards. We've lost our jobs and + we've found a Job. It's picking up a scorpion when you're looking for an + egg.—Tell us what you propose doing.... Remove an obstacle from + the way! What obstacle? And whose way? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I think it's pretty plain what the obstacle is. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Oh, ay. Tell us then. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. The obstacle to Labour is Capital. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. And how are we going to put salt on Capital's tail? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. By Labour we mean us working men; and by Capital we mean + those that derive benefit from us, take the cream off us and leave us + the skim. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Oh, yes. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. So that, if you're going to remove the obstacle, you've got + to remove the masters, and all that belongs to them. Does everybody + agree with me? + </p> + <p> + VOICES (loud). Ah, we do—yes—we do that—we do an' a'—yi—yi—that's + it! + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Agreed unanimously. But how are we going to do it? Do you + propose to send for Williamson's furniture van, to pack them in? I + should think one pantechnicon would do, just for this parish. I'll + drive. Who'll be the vanmen to list and carry? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. It's no use fooling. You've fooled for thirty years, and + we're no further. What's got to be done will have to be begun. It's for + every man to sweep in front of his own doorstep. You can't call your + neighbours dirty till you've washed your own face. Every parish has got + its own vermin, and it's the business of every parish to get rid of its + own. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. That's it—that's it—that's the ticket—that's + the style! + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. And are you going to comb 'em out, or do you propose to use + Keating's? + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Shut it! Shut it up! Stop thy face! Hold thy gab!—Go on, + Job Arthur. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. How it's got to be done is for us all to decide. I'm not one + for violence, except it's a force-put. But it's like this. We've been + travelling for years to where we stand now—and here the road + stops. There's a precipice below and a rock-face above. And in front of + us stand the masters. Now there's three things we can do. We can either + throw ourselves over the precipice; or we can lie down and let the + masters walk over us; or we can GET ON. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Yes. That's all right. But how are you going to get on? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well—we've either got to throw the obstacle down the + cliff—or walk over it. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Ay—ay—ay—yes—that's a fact. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. I quite follow you, Job Arthur. You've either got to do for the + masters—or else just remove them, and put them somewhere else. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Get rid on 'em—drop 'em down the shaft—sink 'em—ha' + done wi' 'em—drop 'em down the shaft—bust the beggars—what + do you do wi' vermin? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Supposing you begin. Supposing you take Gerald Barlow, and hang + him up from his lamp-post, with a piece of coal in his mouth for a + sacrament—- + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Ay—serve him right—serve the beggar right! Shove it + down's throttle—ay! + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Supposing you do it—supposing you've done it—and + supposing you aren't caught and punished—even supposing that—what + are you going to do next?—THAT'S the point. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. We know what we're going to do. Once we can get our hands + free, we know what we're going to do. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Yes, so do I. You're either going to make SUCH a mess that we + shall never get out of it—which I don't think you will do, for the + English working man is the soul of obedience and order, and he'd behave + himself to-morrow as if he was at Sunday school, no matter what he does + to-day.—No, what you'll do, Job Arthur, you'll set up another lot + of masters, such a jolly sight worse than what we've got now. I'd rather + be mastered by Gerald Barlow, if it comes to mastering, than by Job + Arthur Freer—oh, SUCH a lot! You'll be far less free with Job + Arthur for your boss than ever you were with Gerald Barlow. You'll be + far more degraded.—In fact, though I've preached socialism in the + market-place for thirty years—if you're going to start killing the + masters to set yourselves up as bosses—why, kill me along with the + masters. For I'd rather die with somebody who has one tiny little spark + of decency left—though it IS a little tiny spark—than live + to triumph with those that have none. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Shut thy face, Houghton—shut it up—shut him up—hustle + the beggar! Hoi!—hoi-ee!—whoo!—whoam-it, whoam-it!—whoo!— + bow-wow!—wet-whiskers!—— + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. And it's no use you making fool of yourselves—— (His + words are heard through an ugly, jeering, cold commotion.) + </p> + <p> + VOICE (loudly). He's comin'. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Who? + </p> + <p> + VOICE. Barlow.—See 's motor?—comin' up—sithee? + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. If you've any sense left—— (Suddenly and violently + disappears.) + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Sorry!—he's comin'—'s comin'—sorry, ah! Who's + in?—That's Turton drivin'—yi, he's behind wi' a woman—ah, + he's comin'—he'll none go back—hold on. Sorry!—wheer's + 'e comin'?—up from Loddo—ay—— (The cries die + down—the motor car slowly comes into sight, OLIVER driving, GERALD + and ANABEL behind. The men stand in a mass in the way.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Mind yourself, there. (Laughter.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Go ahead, Oliver. + </p> + <p> + VOICE. What's yer 'urry? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Crowd sways and surges on the car. OLIVER is suddenly dragged out. + GERALD stands up—he, too, is seized from behind—he wrestles—is + torn out of his greatcoat—then falls—disappears. Loud cries— + "Hi!—hoi!—hoiee!"—all the while. The car shakes and presses + uneasily.) +</pre> + <p> + VOICE. Stop the blazin' motor, somebody. + </p> + <p> + VOICE. Here y' are!—hold a minute. (A man jumps in and stops the + engine—he drops in the driver's seat.) + </p> + <p> + COLLIER (outside the car). Step down, miss. + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. I am Mrs. Barlow. + </p> + <p> + COLLIER. Missis, then. (Laugh.) Step done—lead 'er forrard. Take + 'em forrard. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Ay, make a road. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You're makin' a proper fool of yourself now, Freer. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You've brought it on yourself. YOU'VE made fools of plenty + of men. + </p> + <p> + COLLIERS. Come on, now—come on! Whoa!—whoa!—he's a + jibber—go pretty now, go pretty! + </p> + <p> + VOICES (suddenly). Lay hold o' Houghton—nab 'im—seize 'im—rats!—rats!—bring + 'im forrard! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL (in a loud, clear voice). I never knew anything so RIDICULOUS. + </p> + <p> + VOICES (falsetto). Ridiculous! Oh, ridiculous! Mind the step, dear!—I'm + Mrs. Barlow!—Oh, are you?—Tweet—tweet! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Make a space, boys, make a space, boys, make a space. (He + stands with prisoners in a cleared space before the obelisk.) Now—now—quiet + a minute—we want to ask a few questions of these gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Quiet!—quiet!—Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h!—Answer pretty—answer + pretty now!—Quiet!—Shh-h-h! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. We want to ask you, Mr. Gerald Barlow, why you have given + occasion for this present trouble. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You are a fool. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Oh!—oh!—naughty Barlow!—naughty baa-lamb—answer + pretty—be good baa-lamb—baa—baa!—answer pretty + when gentleman asks you. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit Sh-h-h!—We put this plain question to you, + Mr. Barlow. Why did you refuse to give the clerks this just and fair + advance, when you knew that by refusing you would throw three thousand + men out of employment? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You are a fool, I say. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Oh!—oh!—won't do—won't do, Barlow—wrong + answer—wrong answer—be good baa-lamb—naughty boy—naughty + boy! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit now!—If three thousand men ask you a just, + straightforward question, do you consider they've no right to an answer? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I would answer you with my foot. + </p> + <p> + VOICES (amid a threatening scuffle). Da-di-da! Hark ye—hark ye! Oh—whoa—whoa + a bit!—won't do!—won't do!—naughty—naughty—say + you're sorry—say you're sorry—kneel and say you're sorry—kneel + and beg pardon! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Hold on a bit—keep clear! + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Make him kneel—make him kneel—on his knees with him! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I think you'd better kneel down. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The crowd press on GERALD—he struggles—they hit him behind the + knees, force him down.) +</pre> + <p> + OLIVER. This is shameful and unnecessary. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. All of 'em—on your knees—all of' em—on their + knees! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The seize OLIVER and WILLIE and ANABEL, hustling. ANABEL kneels + quietly—the others struggle.) +</pre> + <p> + WILLIE. Well, of all the damned, dirty, cowardly—- + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Shut up, Houghton—shut him up—squeeze him! + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Get off me—let me alone—I'll kneel. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Good little doggies—nice doggies—kneel and beg + pardon—yap-yap—answer—make him answer! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR (holding up his hand for silence). It would be better if you + answered straight off, Barlow. We want to know why you prevented that + advance. + </p> + <p> + VOICES (after a pause). Nip his neck! Make him yelp! + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Let me answer, then.—Because it's worse, perhaps, to be + bullied by three thousand men than by one man. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Oh!—oh!—dog keeps barking—stuff his mouth—stop + him up—here's a bit of paper—answer, Barlow—nip his + neck—stuff his mug—make him yelp—cork the bottle! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (They press a lump of newspaper into OLIVER'S mouth, and bear down on + GERALD.) +</pre> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Quiet—quiet—quiet a minute, everybody. We give + him a minute—we give him a minute to answer. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Give him a minute—a holy minute—say your prayers, + Barlow—you've got a minute—tick-tick, says the clock—time + him! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Keep quiet. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. Of all the damned, cowardly—- + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Sh-h-h!—Squeeze him—throttle him! Silence is golden, + Houghton.—Close the shutters, Willie's dead.—Dry up, wet + whiskers! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You've fifteen seconds. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. There's a long, long trail a-winding—- + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. The minute's up.—We ask you again, Gerald Barlow, why + you refused a just and fair demand, when you know it was against the + wishes of three thousand men all as good as yourself. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. And a sight better—I don't think—we're not all + vermin—we're not all crawlers, living off the sweat of other folks—we're + not all parish vermin—parish vermin. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. And on what grounds do you think you have no occasion to + answer the straightforward question we put you here? + </p> + <p> + ANABEL (after a pause). Answer them, Gerald. What's the use of + prolonging this? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I've nothing to answer. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Nothing to answer—Gerald, darling—Gerald, duckie—oh, + lovey-dovey—I've nothing to answer—no, by God—no, by + God, he hasna—nowt to answer—ma'e him find summat, then—answer + for him—gi'e him's answer—let him ha'e it—go on—mum—mum—lovey-dovey—rub + his nose in it—kiss the dirt, ducky—bend him down—rub + his nose in—he's saying something—oh, no, he isn't—sorry + I spoke—bend him down! + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit—quiet everybody—he's got to answer—keep + quiet.—Now—— (A silence.) Now then, Barlow, will you + answer, or won't you? (Silence.) + </p> + <p> + ANABEL. Answer them, Gerald—never mind. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h! (Silence.) + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You won't answer, Barlow? + </p> + <p> + VOICE. Down the beggar! + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Down him—put his nose down—flatten him! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The crowd surges and begins to howl—they sway dangerously—GERALD + is spread-eagled on the floor, face down.) +</pre> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Back—back—back a minute—back—back! + (They recoil.) + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. I HOPE there's a God in heaven. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Put him down—flatten him! + </p> + <p> + (WILLIE is flattened on the ground.) + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Now, then—now then—if you won't answer, Barlow, + I can't stand here for you any more.—Take your feet off him, boys, + and turn him over—let us look at him. Let us see if he CAN speak. + (They turn him over, with another scuffle.) Now then, Barlow—you + can see the sky above you. Now do you think you're going to play with + three thousand men, with their lives and with their souls?—now do + you think you're going to answer them with your foot?—do you—do + you? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The crowd has begun to sway and heave dangerously, with a low, + muffled roar, above which is heard JOB ARTHUR'S voice. As he + ceases, the roar breaks into a yell—the crowd heaves.) +</pre> + <p> + VOICES. Down him—crack the vermin—on top of him—put + your foot on the vermin! + </p> + <p> + ANABEL (with a loud, piercing cry, suddenly starting up). Ah, no! Ah, + no! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o! No-o-o-o! + No-o-o-o! No-o! No-o-o!—Ah-h-h-h!—it's enough, it's enough, + it's enough—he's a man as you are. He's a man as you are. He's a + man as you are. (Weeps—a breath of silence.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Let us stop now—let us stop now. Let me stand up. + (Silence.) I want to stand up. (A muffled noise.) + </p> + <p> + VOICE. Let him get up. (OLIVER rises.) + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Be quiet. Be quiet.—Now—choose! Choose! Choose! + Choose what you will do! Only choose! Choose!—it will be + irrevocable. (A moment's pause.) Thank God we haven't gone too far.—Gerald, + get up. (Men still hold him down.) + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Isn't he to answer us? Isn't he going to answer us? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Yes, he shall answer you. He shall answer you. But let him stand + up. No more of this. Let him stand up. He must stand up. (Men still hold + GERALD down.) OLIVER takes hold of their hands and removes them.) Let go—let + go now. Yes, let go—yes—I ask you to let go. (Slowly, + sullenly, the men let go. GERALD is free, but he does not move.) There—get + up, Gerald! Get up! You aren't hurt, are you? You must get up—it's + no use. We're doing our best—you must do yours. When things are + like this, we have to put up with what we get. (GERALD rises slowly and + faces the mob. They roar dully.) You ask why the clerks didn't get this + increase? Wait! Wait! Do you still wish for any answer, Mr. Freer? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Yes, that's what we've been waiting for. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Then answer, Gerald. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. They've trodden on my face. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. No matter. Job Arthur will easily answer that you've trodden on + their souls. Don't start an altercation. (The crowd is beginning to + roar.) + </p> + <p> + GERALD. You want to know why the clerks didn't get their rise?—Because + you interfered and attempted to bully about it, do you see. That's why. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. You want bullying.—You'll get bullying, you will. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Can't you see it's no good, either side? It's no mortal use. We + might as well all die to-morrow, or to-day, or this minute, as go on + bullying one another, one side bullying the other side, and the other + side bullying back. We'd BETTER all die. + </p> + <p> + WILLIE. And a great deal better. I'm damned if I'll take sides with + anybody against anything, after this. If I'm to die, I'll die by myself. + As for living, it seems impossible. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Have the men nothing to be said for their side? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. They have a great deal—but not EVERYTHING, you see. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Haven't they been wronged? And AREN'T they wronged? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. They have—and they are. But haven't they been wrong + themselves, too?—and aren't they wrong now? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. How? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. What about this affair? Do you call it right? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Haven't we been driven to it? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Partly. And haven't you driven the masters to it, as well? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. I don't see that. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Can't you see that it takes two to make a quarrel? And as long + as each party hangs on to its own end of the stick and struggles to get + full hold of the stick, the quarrel will continue. It will continue till + you've killed one another. And even then, what better shall you be? What + better would you be, really, if you'd killed Gerald Barlow just now? You + wouldn't, you know. We're all human beings, after all. And why can't we + try really to leave off struggling against one another, and set up a new + state of things? + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. That's all very well, you see, while you've got the goods. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I've got very little, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. Well, if you haven't, those you mix with have. They've got + the money, and the power, and they intend to keep it. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. As for power, somebody must have it, you know. It only rests + with you to put it into the hands of the best men, the men you REALLY + believe in.—And as for money, it's life, it's living that matters, + not simply having money. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You can't live without money. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I know that. And therefore why can't we have the decency to + agree simply about money—just agree to dispose of it so that all + men could live their own lives. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. That's what we want to do. But the others, such as Gerald + Barlow, they keep the money—AND the power. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You see, if you wanted to arrange things so that money flowed + more naturally, so that it flowed naturally to every man, according to + his needs, I think we could all soon agree. But you don't. What you want + is to take it away from one set and give it to another—or keep it + yourselves. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. We want every man to have his proper share. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. I'm sure <i>I</i> do. I want every man to be able to live and be + free. But we shall never manage it by fighting over the money. If you + want what is natural and good, I'm sure the owners would soon agree with + you. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. What? Gerald Barlow agree with us? + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Why not? I believe so. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. You ask him. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. Do you think, Gerald, that if the men really wanted a whole, + better way, you would agree with them? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I want a better way myself—but not their way. + </p> + <p> + JOB ARTHUR. There, you see! + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Ah-h! look you!—That's him—that's him all over. + </p> + <p> + OLIVER. You want a better way,—but not his way: he wants a better + way—but not your way. Why can't you both drop your buts, and + simply say you want a better way, and believe yourselves and one another + when you say it? Why can't you? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Look here! I'm quite as tired of my way of life as you are of + yours. If you make me believe you want something better, then I assure + you I do: I want what you want. But Job Arthur Freer's not the man to + lead you to anything better. You can tell what people want by the + leaders they choose, do you see? You choose leaders whom I respect, and + I'll respect you, do you see? As it is, I don't. And now I'm going. + </p> + <p> + VOICES. Who says?—Oh ay!—Who says goin'? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Yes, I'm going. About this affair here we'll cry quits; no more + said about it. About a new way of life, a better way all round—I + tell you I want it and need it as much as ever you do. I don't care + about money really. But I'm never going to be bullied. + </p> + <p> + VOICE. Who doesn't care about money? + </p> + <p> + GERALD. I don't. I think we ought to be able to alter the whole system—but + not by bullying, not because one lot wants what the other has got. + </p> + <p> + VOICE. No, because you've got everything. + </p> + <p> + GERALD. Where's my coat? Now then, step out of the way. (They move + towards the car.) + </p> + <p> + (Curtain.) + </p> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Touch and Go, by D. H. 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