The school is closed for the Autumn Holiday ... commonly called the
Tattie Holiday here. Macdonald has gone off to Glasgow. The bigger boys
and girls are gathering potatoes in the fields here, and I am driving
the tattie digger. At dinnertime they come to the bothy and eat their
bread; Mrs. Thomson gives them soup and coffee in the kitchen, but they
bring their bowls over to my bothy. Much of the fun has gone out of
them; the constant bending makes them very tired, and they drop off to
sleep very easily. Janet and Ellen lay in my bed all dinnertime
yesterday and slept. Occasionally a boy will sing a song that always
crops up at tattie time:--
O! I'm blyde I'm at the tatties,
I'm blyde I'm at the tatties,
I'm blyde I'm at the tatties,
Wi' auchteenpence a day!
Blyde means glad, but there is but little gladness in the band that
trudges up the rigs in the morning twilight.
Jim Jackson is sometimes in good form. He has taken on the swaying gait
of the young ploughman; he hasn't got the pockets that are situated in
the front of the trousers, but he shoves his hands down the inside
instead, and he says: "Ma Goad, you lads, hurry up afore the Boss comes
roond wi' the digger again!" They call me the Boss now; Macdonald is the
Mester. They seldom mention the school at all; if they do it is to
recall some incident that happened in my time. But already the memory of
our happy days is becoming hazy; life is too interesting for children to
recall memories.
To-day Jim sat and gazed absently at my bothy fire.
"Now, bairns," I said, "Jim's got an idea. Cough it up, Jim."
"Aw was thinkin' o' the tattie-digger," he said slowly; "it seems an
awfu' roondaboot wye o' liftin' tatties. Could we no invent a digger
that wud hoal the tatties and gaither them at the same time?"
"Laziness is the mother of invention," I remarked.
"But ... cud a machine no be invented?" he asked.
"You could have a sort o' basket," he went on, "that ceppit a' the
tatties as they were thrown oot."
"Dinna haver!" interjected Janet, "it wud cep a' the stanes at the same
time."
"If spuds were made o' steel," said Jim, "ye cud draw them oot wi' a
magnet."
"And if the sky fell you would catch larks," said I.
"If the sea dried up!" said Ellen, and Jim instantly forgot his patent
tattie-digger.
"Crivens! What a fine essay that wud mak! Why did ye no gie us that for
an essay?"
"Take it on now," I suggested, but he ignored the suggestion.
"The Mester gae me a book to read in the holidays," he said
irrelevantly, "and it's called _Self Help_; it's a' aboot laddies that
got on weel."
I ceased to listen to their talk. I thought of Samuel Smiles and his
Victorian ideals. The book is iniquitous nowadays; it is the Bible of
the individualist. Get on! I'm afraid that Smiles' idea of getting on is
still popular in Scotland; the country might well adapt the popular song
"Get Out and Get Under," changing it to "Get On or Get Under" and making
it the national anthem of Scotland.
I once compared _Self Help_ with Lorimer's _Letters of a Self-made
Merchant to his Son_, and was struck by the similarity of the ideals.
Lorimer's book is an Americanised _Self-help_. Smiles is slightly
better. With him getting on means more than the amassing of wealth; it
means gaining position, which being interpreted means returning to your
native village with prosperous rotundity and a gold chain.
Lorimer has no special interest in gold chains and symbols of wealth; he
doesn't care a button for position. He preaches efficiency and power; to
him the greatest achievement in life appears to be the packing of the
maximum of pig into the minimum of tin in the minimum of time. A
business friend of mine tells me that it is the greatest book America
has produced. Evidently it didn't require the Lusitania incident to
prove that America is a long-suffering nation.
Jim was back to the subject of inventions again.
"Aw read in a paper that there's a fortune waitin' for the man that can
invent something to haud breeks up instead o' gallis's."
"Ye cud hae buttons on the foot o' yer sark," suggested Janet.
"Aye," said Jim scornfully, "and if a button cam off what wud haud up
yer breeks?"
"Public opinion ... in this righteous village," I murmured; "it's almost
strong enough to hold up any pair of breeks, Jim," but no one understood
me.
"Ye cud hae sticks up the side," said Ellen, "and yer breeks wud stand
up like fisherman's boots."
"And if ye wanted to bend?" demanded Jim.
Ellen shoved out her tongue at him.
"Ye never said onything aboot bendin', and ye dinna need to bend
onywye."
"What aboot when ye're gaitherin' tatties?" crowed Jim.
Ellen tossed her head.
"Aw wasna thinkin' o' the sort o' man that gaithers tatties; Aw was
thinkin' o' gentlemen's breeks ... the kind o' breeks ye'll never hae,
Jim Jackson."
Jim sighed and gave me a look which I took to mean: "Women are
impossible when it comes to arguing." He thought for a time; then he
looked up with twinkling eyes.
"Aw've got it!"
"Well?"
"Do away wi' breeks a'-the-gether, and wear kilts."
"And what will ye do wi' yer hands?" put in Fred Findlay; "there's nae
pooches in a kilt."
"Goad, Fred," said Jim, "Aw never thocht o' that; we'll just hae to
wrastle on wi' oor breeks and oor gallis's."
"Ye cud wear a belt," suggested Janet.
"And gie mysel' pewmonia! No likely!"
"It's no pewmonia that ye get wearin' a belt," said Janet, "it's a
pendicitis."
"G'wa, lassie, what do you ken aboot breeks onywye?"
"Aw ken mair than you do, Jim Jackson. For wan thing Aw ken that it's no
a subject ye shud speak aboot afore lassies. Come on, Ellen, we'll go
ootside; the conversation's no proper."
Jim glanced at me doubtfully.
"It was her that said that breeks cud be buttoned to yer sark!" he
exclaimed. He jumped up and hastened to the door.
"Janet Broon," I heard him cry, "dinna you speak aboot sarks to me
again; sarks is no a proper subject o' conversation for young laddies."
I think it was Fletcher of Saltoun who said that he didn't care who made
a nation's laws if he made its ballads. To-night I feel that I don't
care if Macdonald hears the bairns' opinion of Charles I. so long as I
hear their opinion of sarks and breeks.
* * *
A Trade Union official delivered a lecture on Labour Aspirations in the
village hall to-night. I was sadly disappointed. The man tried to make
out that the interests of Capital and Labour are similar.
"We are not out to abolish the capitalist," he said; "all we want is a
say in the workshop management. We have nothing to do with the way the
employer conducts his business; we want to mind our own business. We
want to see men paid a living wage; we want to see...." I ceased to be
interested in what the man wanted to see. I fancy that he requires to
see a devil of a lot before he is capable of guiding the Trade Unions.
Why are these so-called leaders so poor in intellect? Why are they so
fearful of alienating the good opinion of the capitalist? If the Trade
Union has any goal at all it surely is the abolition of the capitalist.
The leaders crawl to the feet of capital and cry: "For the Lord's sake
listen to us! We won't ask much; we won't offend you in the least. We
merely want to ask very deferentially that you will see that there is no
unemployment after the war. We beseech you to let our stewards have a
little say ... a very little say ... in the management of the shops.
Take your Rent and Interest and Profit as usual; as usual we'll be
quite content with what is left over."
If a bull had intelligence he would not allow himself to be led to the
shambles. If the Trade Unions had intelligence they would not allow
their paid leaders to lead them to the altar.
The lecturer had evidently been told that I was the only Socialist in
the village, and he called upon me to say a few words. I have no doubt
that later he regretted calling upon me.
"The speaker is modest in his demands," I said. "He has told you what
Labour is asking for, and now I'll tell you what I think Labour _should_
ask for. Labour's chief aim should be to make the Trade Unions blackleg
proof. When they have roped in all the workers they will be able to
command anything they like. They should then go to the State and say:
'We want to join forces with the State. Capitalism is un-Christlike, and
wasteful, and we must destroy it. We propose to take over the whole
concern ourselves; we propose to abolish Rent, Interest, and Profit ...
and Wagery. At present we are selling our labour to the highest bidder,
and in the process we are selling our souls along with our bodies. Each
industry will conduct its own business, not for profit but for social
service; no shareholders will live on our labour; we shall give our
members pay instead of wages.'
"Gentlemen, I call an organisation of this kind a Guild, but you can
call it what you like. It is the only organisation that will abolish
wagery, that is, will prohibit labour from being a commodity obeying the
Laws of Supply and Demand."
"What about nationalisation of land and mines and railways?" said the
official. "These are on our programme, and they will revolutionise
industry."
"Hand over the mines and the railways to the State," I said, "and you
have State capitalism. You won't abolish wages; you'll buy the mines and
railways, and you'll draw your wages from what is left over after the
interest due to the late shareholders is paid."
"Ah!" he interrupted, "you want to confiscate?"
"If necessary, certainly. We have conscripted life because the State
required men to give their lives; why not conscript wealth in the same
way? The State requires the wealth of the rich, not only for the purpose
of paying for the war; it requires it to pay for the peace to come."
"Control of industry by producers has always failed," he said. "_The New
Statesman_ Supplement on the Control of Industry proved this
conclusively."
"Of course it has always failed," I said. "Flying always failed, but the
aeroplane experimenters did not sit down and wail: 'It's absolutely no
good; men have always failed to fly.' If the Railway Trade Union got
the offer of the whole railway system to-morrow to run as it pleased it
would make a bonny hash of it. Why? Because management is a skilled
business. But if the salaried railway officials had the vision to see
that their interests lay with the men instead of with the masters, then
you would find a difference. The Trade Unions without the salaried
officials are useless.
"I read the Supplement you mention. One of the causes of failure given
was that the producers had an interest in the plant and they were always
unwilling to scrap machinery in order to introduce better machines."
"That's quite true," he nodded.
"Is it? Why does Bruce the linen manufacturer in the neighbouring town
here scrap comparatively new machinery when better inventions come out?
He has an interest in the plant, hasn't he? Why then does he not stick
to the old methods?"
"He knows that he will gain in the end."
"Exactly. And a society of workers running their own business would not
have the gumption to see that the new methods would be a gain in the
end?"
"The fact remains that they have tried and failed," he said.
"That merely proves that the workers without their managers are
hopeless," I said. "What can you expect from a section of the community
that has never been educated? You can't make a man slave ten hours a
day for a living wage and then expect him to have the organising
ability of Martin the cigar merchant, or the vision of Gamage the
universal provider. A rich merchant in London said to me when I asked
him point blank if he always thought of his profits: 'Profits be blowed!
The great thing is the game of business!' I don't see any reason in the
world why the manager of say The Enfield Cycle Company should not be as
energetic and as capable if he were managing a factory for the Cycle
Guild."
"The workers would interfere with him," said the official; "every
workman who had a grudge against him would try to get him put off the
managership."
"Lord!" I cried, "for a representative of Labour you seem to have a poor
opinion of the democracy you speak for! If that is your attitude to your
fellow-workmen I quite understand your modest demands for Labour. If the
rank and file of the Trade Unions can't rise higher than squabbling
about whether a manager should be sacked or not, the Trade Unions had
better content themselves with the programme their leaders have arranged
for them. They had better concentrate their attention on trifles like a
Minimum Wage or an Old Age Pension."
A disturbing thought comes to me to-night. Democracy means rule by the
majority ... and the majority is always wrong. The only comfort I can
find lies in the thought that the majority of to-day represents the
opinions of the minority of yesterday. Democracy will always be twenty
years behind its time.
* * *
To-day has been a very wet Sunday. I did not get up till one o'clock.
Margaret came over about tea-time and invited me to sample some drop
scones she had been making. She was in a skittish mood, and she began to
turn my bothy upside down on the allegation that it was time for autumn
cleaning. I ordered her to the door, and she sat down on my bed and
laughed at me. I said that I would throw a drop scone at her head if it
were not for the danger of shying weights about indiscriminately, and
she threw my pillow at me. I rose from my chair and went to her.
"Out you come, you besom!" I cried and I seized her by the shoulders. We
struggled ... and I suddenly realised that as we paused for breath her
face was very near mine. I threw my arms around her and kissed her
straight on the lips. Then slowly we parted and we stood looking at each
other. Her face had become very serious.
"You--you shouldn't have done that!" she gasped.
"Why not?" I asked lamely.
She gazed at me wildly for a long moment; then she rushed from the room.
It happened ... and I don't believe in crying over spilt milk. If I had
been a strong man it wouldn't have happened; if Margaret had not been
in that skittish mood it wouldn't have happened. Carlyle says somewhere:
"Mighty events turn on a straw; the crossing of a brook decides the
conquest of the world." Mighty events! Is this a mighty event? I have
kissed many a girl. To me, no; but to Margaret I fear that it is. It was
most likely her first kiss since she became a woman. I feel very like
Alec D'Urberville, the seducer of Tess, to-night ... only I don't think
I'll take religion as he did and try to lead Margaret to salvation as he
did Tess. It suddenly strikes me that I am more like Angel Clare. He was
an educated man learning farming; I am an educated man tending cattle.
He fell in love with the dairymaid Tess; I.... But have I fallen in love
with anyone? In general I should say that when a man asks himself
whether he is in love or not he is not in love. Love over-rules the
head; every marriage means a victory of heart over head. Presumably the
men who have no heads make the best lovers. Hamlet could not love
Ophelia because he had a head; Romeo loved Juliet because he hadn't a
head. The whole problem of H. G. Wells' later novels lies in the fact
that his men have heads. They are all analytical ... and the man who
analyses himself always appears before the public as a selfish brute.
The analytical man cannot make a martyr of himself; he is a weakling; he
has his fun ... and he pays for it, but he makes a woman pay for it
also.
I suppose that in ancient times love was a simple thing. You desired a
woman, and you hit her father on the head with a stone axe and carried
her off to your cave. In the majority of cases it is a simple business
yet; you don't knock your prospective father-in-law on the head with a
hatchet; you take a filial interest in your prospective mother-in-law's
rheumatics instead. When Smith the shopwalker falls in love with Nancy
of the hat department his chief concern is to know how he is going to
keep house on his salary. He never sits down of an evening saying to
himself: "Now, is Nancy my soul-mate? Is her sense of humour something
like my own? May we not be absolutely incompatible in temperament?"
Smith hasn't the faintest idea what sort of man he is himself, and if
you aren't disturbed by doubts about yourself you won't be disturbed
with doubts about your future wife. I should guess that Mr. and Mrs.
Smith will live happily together ... if she is a passable cook.
I fear greatly that the introspective man is doomed to connubial misery.
Margaret likes to read penny novelettes, and she will probably take a
fancy to Charles Garvice some day soon. She knows nothing about music or
painting or literature. Unless we are ragging each other we have not a
single topic of common interest; we should certainly bore each other
during the first-class honeymoon journey south.
Then why in the name of thunder did I kiss her? I suppose that I kissed
her because kissing is more elemental than thinking. When she had rushed
out I was joyous in the realisation that her lips were sweet, that her
neck was gloriously graceful, that her eyes were deep and wonderful. But
now her physical charms have gone with her, and doubts crowd in upon me.
I wonder what she is thinking of! I know that she has no doubts about
herself, but I fancy that she has her doubts about me. Poor lassie ...
and well she might!
* * *
She was milking to-night. I went over and stood beside her. She looked
up, and her eyes shone with a new brightness. She could not meet my
gaze, and she flushed and looked the other way.
"Margaret," I said softly, "I love you!"
She held up her lips to me ... and then I walked out of the byre.
And, you know, I intended to say something very different. I intended to
say: "Margaret, I was a fool last night. Try to forget all about it."
I kissed her instead. I'm afraid I was a fool last night, and a fool
to-night, and a fool all the time. However, I am a happy fool to-night.