scorn for the mere ritual of an older time; neither descended to an
affirmation nor even condescended to a denial of private property. Both
clearly saw that no organised scheme of production could exist under
modern conditions unless its organisation were to be controlled by the
community. Yet the two friends differed in one most material point,
which was the possibility, men being what they were, of settling thus
the control of _machinery_. Upon land they were agreed. The land must
necessarily be made a national thing, and the conception of ownership
in it, however limited, was, as a man whom they both revered had put
it, “unthinkable.” Indeed, they recognised that the first steps towards
so obvious a reform were now actually taken, and they confidently
expected the final processes in it to be the work of quite the next
few years; but whereas the Economist, with his profound knowledge of
external detail, could see no obstacle to the collective control of
capital as well, the Psychologist, ever dwelling upon the inner springs
of action, saw no hope, no, not even for so evident and necessary a
scheme, save in some ideal despotism of which he despaired. In vain
did the Economist point out that our great railways, our mines, the
main part of our shipping, and even half our textile industry had
now no personal element in their direction save that of the salaried
management; the Psychologist met him at every move with the effect
produced upon man by the mere illusion of a personal element in all
these things. The Economist, not a little inspired as the evening
deepened, remembered and even invented names, figures, cases that
showed the growing unity of the industrial world; the Psychologist
equally inspired, and with an equal increase of fervour, drew picture
after picture, each more vivid and convincing than the last, of
man caught in the tangle of imaginary motive and unobedient to any
industrial control, unless that control could by some miracle be given
the quality of universal tyranny.
Music was added to their debate, and subtly changed, as it must always
change, the colour of thought. In the street without a man with a
fine baritone voice, which evidently he had failed through vice or
carelessness to exploit with success, sang songs of love and war,
and at his side there accompanied him a little organ upon wheels
which a weary woman played. The rich notes of his voice filled “The
Lord Benthorpe” through the opened windows of that hot night, and
drowned or modified the differences of cabmen and others in the Public
Bar; as he sang the two disputants rose almost to the lyric in their
enthusiasm, the one for the new world that was so soon to be, the other
for that gloomy art of his by which he read the hearts of men and saw
their doom.
* * * * *
It has been remarked by many that we mortals are surrounded by
coincidence, and least observe Fate at its nearest approach, so that
friends meet or leave us unexpectedly, and that the accidents of
our lives make part of a continual play. So it was with these two.
For as they warmly debated, and one of them had upset and broken
his glass while the other lay back repeating again and again some
favourite phrase, a third was on his way to meet them. A man much
older than either, a man who did nothing at all and lived when his
sister remembered him, was in that neighbourhood, vaguely wandering
and feeling in every pocket for a coin. His hand trembled with age,
and also a little with anxiety, but to his great joy he felt at last
through the lining of his coat a large round hardness, and very
carefully searching through a tear, and aided by the light that shone
from the windows of “The Lord Benthorpe,” he discovered and possessed
half a crown. With that he entered in, for he knew that his friends
were there. In what respect he held them, their accomplishments, and
their public fame, I need not say, for that respect is always paid by
the simple to the learned. He sat by them at the little table, drinking
also, and for some minutes listened to their stream of affirmation and
of vision, but soon he shook his head in a quavering senile way, as
he very vaguely caught the drift of their contention. “You’ve got the
wrong end of the stick,” he said.... “You’ve got the wrong end of the
stick!... Can’t take away what a man’s got ... ’tis _wrawng_!... ’Vide
it up, all the same next week.... Same hands! Same hands!” he went on
foolishly wagging his head, and still smiling almost like an imbecile.
“All in the same hands again in a week!... ’Vide it up ever so much.”
They neglected him and continued their ardent debate, and as they flung
repeated bolts of theory he, their new companion, still murmured to
himself the security of established things and the ancient doctrine of
ownership and of law.
But now the night and the stars had come to their appointed hour,
and the ending which is decreed of all things had come also to their
carousal. A young man of energy stood before them in his shirt sleeves,
crying, “Time, Time!” as a voice might cry “Doom!” and, by force of
crying and of orders, “The Lord Benthorpe” was emptied, and there was
silence at last behind its shutters and its bolted doors.
These three, not yet in a mood for sleep, sauntered together westward
through the vast landed estates of London, westward, to their distant
homes.
The Economist
A gentleman possessing some three thousand acres of land, the most
of it contiguous, one field with another, or, as he himself, his
agent, his bailiff, his wife, his moneylender, and others called it,
“in a ring fence,” was in the habit of asking down to the country at
Christmas time some friend or friends, though more usually a friend
than friends, because the income he received from the three thousand
acres of land had become extremely small.
He was especially proud of those of his friends who lived neither by
rent from land nor from the proceeds of their business, but by mental
activity in some profession, and of none was he prouder than of an
Economist whom he had known for more than forty years; for they had
been at school together and later at college. Now this Economist was
a very hearty, large sort of a man, and he made an amply sufficient
income by writing about economics and by giving economic advice in the
abstract to politicians, and economic lectures and expert economic
evidence; in fact, there was no limit to his earnings except that
imposed by time and the necessity for sleep. He was not married and
could spend all his earnings upon himself--which he did. He was
tall, lean, and active, with bright vivacious eyes and an upstanding
manner. He had two sharp and healthy grey whiskers upon either side of
his face; his hair was also grey but curly; and altogether he was a
vigorous fellow. There was nothing in economic science hidden from him.
This Economist, therefore, and his friend the Squire (who was a short,
fat, and rather doleful man) were walking over the wet clay land which
one of them owned and on which the other talked. There was a clinging
mist of a very light sort, so that you could not see more than about
a mile. The trees upon that clay were small and round, and from their
bare branches and twigs the mist clung in drops; where the bushes were
thick and wherever evergreens afforded leaves, these drops fell with
a patter that sounded almost like rain. There were no hills in the
landscape and the only thing that broke the roll of the clay of the
park land was the house, which was called a castle; and even this they
could not see without turning round, for they were walking away from
it. But even to look at this house did not raise the heart, for it was
very hideous and had been much neglected on account of the lessening
revenue from the three thousand acres of land. Great pieces of plaster
had fallen off, nor had anything been continually repaired except the
windows.
The Economist strode and the Squire plodded on over the wet grass, and
it gave the Squire pleasure to listen to the things which the Economist
said, though these were quite incomprehensible to him. They came to
a place where, after one had pushed through a tall bramble hedge and
stuck in a very muddy hidden ditch, one saw before one on the farther
side, screened in everywhere and surrounded by a belt or frame of low,
scraggy trees and stunted bushes, a large deserted field. In colour
it was very pale green and brown; myriads of dead thistles stood in
it; there were nettles, and, in the damper hollows, rushes growing.
The Economist took this field and turned his voluble talk upon it. He
appreciated that much he said during their walk, being sometimes of an
abstract and always of a technical nature, had missed the mind of his
friend; he therefore determined upon a concrete instance and waved his
vigorous long arm towards the field and said:
“Now, take this field, for instance.”
“Yes,” said the Squire humbly.
“Now, this field,” said the Economist, “_of itself_ has no value at
all.”
“No,” said the Squire.
“_That_,” said the Economist with increasing earnestness, tapping one
hand with two fingers of the other, “that’s what the layman must seize
first ... every error in economics comes from not appreciating that
things in themselves have no value. For instance,” he went on, “you
would say that a diamond had value, wouldn’t you ... a large diamond?”
The Squire, hoping to say the right thing, said: “I suppose not.”
This annoyed the Economist, who answered a little testily: “I don’t
know what you mean. What _I_ mean is that the diamond has no value in
itself....”
“I see,” broke in the Squire, with an intelligent look, but the
Economist went on rapidly as though he had not spoken:
“It only has a value because it has been transposed in some way from
the position where man could not use it to a position where he can.
Now, you would say that land could not be transposed, but it can be
made from _less_ useful to man, _more_ useful to man.”
The Squire admitted this, and breathed a deep breath.
“Now,” said the Economist, waving his arm again at the field, “take
this field, for instance.”
There it lay, silent and sullen under the mist. There was no noise of
animals in the brakes, the dirty boundary stream lay sluggish and dead,
and the rank weeds had lost all colour. One could note the parallel
belts of rounded earth where once--long, long ago--this field had been
ploughed. No other evidence was there of any activity at all, and it
looked as though man had not seen it for a hundred years.
“Now,” said the Economist, “what is the value of this field?”
The Squire had begun his answer, when his friend interrupted him
testily. “No, no, no; I don’t want to ask about your private affairs;
what I mean is, what is it builds up the economic value of this field?
It is not the earth itself; it is the use to which man puts it. It is
the crops and the produce which he makes it bear and the advantage
which it has over other neighbouring fields. It is the _surplus value_
which makes it give you a rent. What gives _this_ field its value is
the competition among the farmers to get it.”
“But----” began the Squire.
The Economist with increasing irritation waved him down. “Now, listen,”
he said; “the worst land has only what is called prairie value.”
The Squire would eagerly have asked the meaning of this, for it
suggested coin, but he thought he was bound to listen to the remainder
of the story.
“That is only true,” said the Economist, “of the worst land. There _is_
land on which no profit could be made; it neither _makes_ nor loses. It
is on what we call the _margin of production_.”
“What about rates?” said the Squire, looking at that mournful stretch,
all closed in and framed with desolation, and suggesting a thousand
such others stretching on to the boundaries of a deserted world.
How various are the minds of men! That little word “rates”--it has but
five letters; take away the “e” and it would have but four--and what
different things does it not mean to different men! To one man the
pushing on of his shop just past the edge of bankruptcy; to another the
bother of writing a silly little cheque; to another the brand of the
Accursed Race of our time--the pariahs, the very poor. To this Squire
it meant the dreadful business of paying a great large sum out of an
income that never sufficed for the bare needs of his life ... to tell
the truth, he always borrowed money for the rates and paid it back out
of the next half year ... he had such a lot of land in hand. Years
ago, when farms were falling in, in the eighties, a friend of his, a
practical man, who went in for silos and had been in the Guards and
knew a lot about French agriculture, had told him it would pay him to
have his land in hand, so when the farms fell in he consoled himself by
what the friend had said; but all these years had passed and it had not
paid him.
Now to the Economist this little word “rates” suggested the hardest
problem--the perhaps insoluble problem--of applied economics in our
present society. He turned his vivacious eyes sharply on to the Squire
and stepped out back for home, for the Castle. For a little time
he said nothing, and the Squire, honestly desiring to continue the
conversation, said again as he plodded by his friend’s side, “What
about rates?”
“Oh, they’ve nothing to do with it!” said the Economist, a little
snappishly. “The proportionate amount of surplus produce demanded
by the community does not affect the basic process of production. Of
course,” he added, in a rather more conciliatory tone, “it _would_ if
the community demanded the total unearned increment and _then_ proposed
taxes beyond that limit. _That_, I have always said, would affect the
whole nature of production.”
“Oh!” said the Squire.
By this time they were nearing the Castle, and it was already dusk;
they were silent during the last hundred yards as the great house
showed more definitely through the mist, and the Economist could note
upon the face of it the coat-of-arms with which he was familiar. They
had been those of his host’s great-grandfather, a solicitor who had
foreclosed. These arms were of stucco. Age and the tempest had made
them green, and the head of that animal which represented the family
had fallen off.
They went into the house, they drank tea with the rather worried but
well-bred hostess of it, and all evening the Squire’s thoughts were of
his two daughters, who dressed exactly alike in the local town, and
whose dresses were not yet paid for, and of his son, whose schooling
was paid for, but whose next term was ahead: the Squire was wondering
about the extras. Then he remembered suddenly, and as suddenly put out
of his mind by an effort of surprising energy in such a man, the date
February 3rd, on which he must get a renewal or pay a certain claim.
They sat at table; they drank white fizzy wine by way of ritual, but it
was bad. The Economist could not distinguish between good wine and bad,
and all the while his mind was full of a very bothersome journey to the
North, where he was to read a paper to an institute upon “The Reaction
of Agricultural Prosperity upon Industrial Demand.” He was wondering
whether he could get them to change the hour so that he could get back
by a train that would put him into London before midnight. And all this
cogitation which lay behind the general talk during dinner and after it
led him at last to say: “Have you a ‘Bradshaw’?”
But the Squire’s wife had no “Bradshaw.” She did not think they could
afford it. However, the eldest daughter remembered an old “Bradshaw” of
last August, and brought it, but it was no use to the Economist.
* * * * *
How various is man! How multiplied his experience, his outlook, his
conclusions!
A Little Conversation in Carthage
HANNO: Waiter! Get me a copy of _The Times_. [_Mutters to himself.
The waiter brings the copy of_ The Times. _As he gives it to Hanno he
collides with another member of the Club, and that member, already
advanced in years, treads upon Hanno’s foot._]
HANNO: Ah! Ah! Ah!... Oh! [_with a grunt_]. Bethaal, it’s you, is it?
BETHAAL: Gouty?
HANNO [_after saying nothing for some time_]: ’Xtraordinary thing....
Nothing in the papers.
BETHAAL: Nothing odd about that! [_He laughs rather loudly, and
Hanno, who wishes he had said the witty thing, smirks gently without
enthusiasm. Then he proceeds on another track._] I find plenty in the
papers! [_He puffs like a grampus._]
HANNO: Plenty about yourself!... That’s the only good of politics, and
precious little good either.... What I can’t conceive--as you _do_
happen to be the in’s and not the out’s--is why you don’t send more men
from somewhere; he has asked for them often enough.
BETHAAL [_wisely_]: They’re all against it; couldn’t get anyone to
agree but little Schem [_laughs loudly_]; he’d agree to anything.
HANNO [_wagging his head sagely_]: He’ll be Suffete, my boy! He’ll be a
Sephad all right! He’s my sister’s own boy.
BETHAAL [_surlily_]: Shouldn’t wonder! All you Hannos get the pickings.
HANNO: You talk like a book.... Anyhow, what about the
reinforcements?--that _does_ interest me.
BETHAAL [_wearily_]: Oh, really. I’ve heard about it until I’m tired.
It isn’t the reinforcements that are wanted really; it’s money, and
plenty of it. That’s what it is. [_He looks about the room in search
for a word._] That’s what it is. [_He continues to look about the
room._] That’s what it is ... er ... really. [_Having found the word
Bethaal is content, and Hanno remains silent for a few minutes, then_:]
HANNO: He doesn’t seem to be doing much.
BETHAAL [_jumping up suddenly with surprising vigour for a man of close
on seventy, and sticking his hands into his pockets, if Carthaginians
had pockets_]: That’s it! That’s exactly it! That’s what I say, What
Hannibal really wants is money. He’s got the _men_ right enough. The
_men_ are splendid, but all those putrid little Italian towns are
asking to be bribed, and I _can’t_ get the money out of Mohesh.
HANNO [_really interested_]: Yes, now? Mohesh has got the old
tradition, and I do believe it’s the sound one. Our money is as
important to us as our Fleet, I mean our _credit’s_ as important to
us as our Fleet, and he’s perfectly right is Mohesh.... [_Firmly_] I
wouldn’t let you have a penny if I were at the Treasury.
BETHAAL [_surlily_]: Well, he’s bound to take Rome at last anyway, so I
don’t suppose it matters whether he has the money or not; but it makes
_me_ look like a fool. When everything was going well I didn’t care,
but I do care now. [_He holds up in succession three fat fingers_].
First there was Drephia----
HANNO [_interrupting_]: Trebbia.
BETHAAL: Oh, well, I don’t care.... Then there was Trasimene; then
there was that other place which wasn’t marked on the map, and little
Schem found for me in the very week in which I got him on to the Front
Bench. You remember his speech?
[HANNO _shakes his head_.]
BETHAAL [_impatiently_]: Oh well, anyhow you remember Cannae, don’t you?
HANNO: Oh yes, I remember Cannae.
BETHAAL: Well, he’s bound to win. He’s bound to take the place, and
then [_wearily_], then, as poor old Hashuah said at the Guildhall,
“Annexation will be inevitable.”
HANNO: Now, look here, may I put it to you shortly?
BETHAAL [_in great dread_]: All right.
HANNO [_leaning forward in an earnest way, and emphasising what he
says_]: All you men who get at the head of a Department only think
of the work of that Department. That’s why you talk about Hannibal’s
being bound to win. Of course he’s bound to win; but Carthage all
hangs together, and if he wins at too great a price in money _you’re_
weakened, and your _son_ is weakened, and _all_ of us are weakened. We
shall be paying five per cent where we used to pay four. Things don’t
go in big jumps; they go in gradations, and I do assure you that if you
don’t send more men----
BETHAAL [_interrupting impatiently_]: Oh, curse all that! One can
easily see where _you_ were brought up; you smell of Athens like a
Don, and you make it worse by living out in the country, reading books
and publishing pamphlets and putting people’s backs up for nothing. If
you’d ever been in politics--I mean, if you hadn’t got pilled by three
thousand at....
[_At this moment an obese and exceedingly stupid Carthaginian of the
name of Matho strolls into the smoking-room of the club, sees the two
great men, becomes radiant with a mixture of reverence, admiration, and
pride of acquaintance, and makes straight for them._]
HANNO: Who on earth’s that? Know him?
BETHAAL [_in a whisper astonishingly vivacious and angry for so old a
man_]: Shut your mouth, can’t you? He’s the head of my association!
He’s the Mayor of the town!
MATHO: Room for little un? [_He laughs genially and sits down,
obviously wanting an introduction to Hanno._]
BETHAAL [_nervously_]: I haven’t seen you for ages, my dear fellow! I
hope Lady Matho’s better? [_Turning to Hanno_] Do you know Lady Matho?
HANNO [_gruffly_]: Lady _Who_?
BETHAAL [_really angry, and savage on that half of his face which is
turned towards Hanno_]: This gentleman’s wife!
MATHO [_showing great tact and speaking very rapidly in order to bridge
over an unpleasant situation_]: Wonderful chap this Hannibal! Dogged
does it! No turning back! Once that man puts his hand to the plough he
won’t take it off till he’s [_tries hard, and fails to remember what a
plough does--then suddenly remembering_] till he’s finished his furrow.
That’s where blood tells! Same thing in Tyre, same thing in Sidon, same
thing in Tarshish; I don’t care who it is, whether it’s poor Barca, or
that splendid old chap Mohesh, whom they call “Sterling Dick.” They’ve
all got the blood in them, and they don’t know when they’re beaten.
Now [_as though he had something important to say which had cost him
years of thought_], shall I tell you what I think produces men like
Hannibal? I don’t think it’s the climate, though there’s a lot to be
said for _that_. And I don’t think it’s the sea, though there’s a lot
to be said for _that_. I think it’s our old Carthaginian home-life
[_triumphantly_]. That’s what it is! It isn’t even hunting, though
there’s a lot to be said for that. It’s the old---- [_Hanno suddenly
gets up and begins walking away._]
BETHAAL [_leaning forwards to Matho_]: Please don’t mind my cousin.
You know he’s a little odd when he meets anyone for the first time;
but he’s a really good fellow at heart, and he’ll help anyone. But,
of course [_smiling gently_], he doesn’t understand politics any more
than---- [_Matho waves his hand to show that he understands._] But such
a good fellow! Do you know Lady Hanno? [_They continue talking, chiefly
upon the merits of Hannibal, but also upon their own._]
The Strange Companion
It was in Lichfield, now some months ago, that I stood by a wall that
flanks the main road there and overlooks a fine wide pond, in which you
may see the three spires of the Cathedral mirrored.
As I so gazed into the water and noted the clear reflection of the
stonework a man came up beside me and talked in a very cheery way.
He accosted me with such freedom that he was very evidently not from
Europe, and as there was no insolence in his freedom he was not a
forward Asiatic either; besides which, his face was that of our own
race, for his nose was short and simple and his lips reasonably thin.
His eyes were full of astonishment and vitality. He was seeing the
world. He was perhaps thirty-five years old.
I would not say that he was a Colonial, because that word means so
little; but he talked English in that accent commonly called American,
yet he said he was a Brittishur, so what he was remains concealed;
but surely he was not of this land, for, as you shall presently see,
England was more of a marvel to him than it commonly is to the English.
He asked me, to begin with, the name of the building upon our left, and
I told him it was the Cathedral, to which his immediate answer was,
was I sure? How could there be a cathedral in such a little town?
I said that it just was so, and I remembered the difficulty of the
explanation and said no more. Then he looked up at the three spires and
said: “Wondurful; isn’t it?” And I said: “Yes.”
Then I said to him that we would go in, and he seemed very willing; so
we went towards the Close, and as we went he talked to me about the
religion of those who served the Cathedral, and asked if they were
Episcopalian, or what. So this also I told him. And when he learnt that
what I told him was true of all the other cathedrals, he said heartily:
“Is thet so?” And he was silent for half a minute or more.
We came and stood by the west front, and looked up at the height of it,
and he was impressed.
He wagged his head at it and said: “Wondurful, isn’t it?” And then he
added: “Marvlurs how they did things in those old days!” but I told him
that much of what he was looking at was new.