The Wise men of the East
At the end of the following week there was a terrible slaughter at
Rushton’s. Barrington and all the casual hands were sacked, including
Newman, Easton and Harlow, and there was so little work that it looked
as if everyone else would have to stand off also. The summer was
practically over, so those who were stood off had but a poor chance of
getting a start anywhere else, because most other firms were
discharging hands as well.
There was only one other shop in the town that was doing anything at
all to speak of, and that was the firm of Dauber and Botchit. This firm
had come very much to the front during the summer, and had captured
several big jobs that Rushton & Co. had expected to get, besides taking
away several of the latter’s old customers.
This firm took work at almost half the price that Rushton’s could do it
for, and they had a foreman whose little finger was thicker than
Nimrod’s thigh. Some of the men who had worked for both firms during
the summer, said that after working for Dauber and Botchit, working for
Rushton seemed like having a holiday.
“There’s one bloke there,” said Newman, in conversation with Harlow and
Easton. “There’s one bloke there wot puts up twenty-five rolls o’ paper
in a day an’ trims and pastes for ’imself; and as for the painters,
nearly everyone of ’em gets over as much work as us three put together,
and if you’re working there you’ve got to do the same or get the sack.”
However much truth or falsehood or exaggeration there may have been in
the stories of the sweating and driving that prevailed at Dauber and
Botchit’s, it was an indisputable fact that the other builders found it
very difficult to compete with them, and between the lot of them what
work there was to do was all finished or messed up in about a quarter
of the time that it would have taken to do it properly.
By the end of September there were great numbers of men out of
employment, and the practical persons who controlled the town were
already preparing to enact the usual farce of “Dealing” with the
distress that was certain to ensue. The Rev. Mr Bosher talked of
reopening the Labour Yard; the secretary of the OBS appealed for more
money and cast-off clothing and boots—the funds of the Society had been
depleted by the payment of his quarter’s salary. There were rumours
that the Soup Kitchen would be reopened at an early date for the sale
of “nourishment”, and charitable persons began to talk of Rummage Sales
and soup tickets.
Now and then, whenever a “job” “came in”, a few of Rushton’s men were
able to put in a few hours’ work, but Barrington never went back. His
manner of life was the subject of much speculation on the part of his
former workmates, who were not a little puzzled by the fact that he was
much better dressed than they had ever known him to be before, and that
he was never without money. He generally had a tanner or a bob to lend,
and was always ready to stand a drink, to say nothing of what it must
have cost him for the quantities of Socialist pamphlets and leaflets
that he gave away broadcast. He lodged over at Windley, but he used to
take his meals at a little coffee tavern down town, where he used often
to invite one or two of his old mates to take dinner with him. It
sometimes happened that one of them would invite him home of an
evening, to drink a cup of tea, or to see some curiosity that the other
thought would interest him, and on these occasions—if there were any
children in the house to which they were going—Barrington usually made
a point of going into a shop on their way, and buying a bag of cakes or
fruit for them.
All sorts of theories were put forward to account for his apparent
affluence. Some said he was a toff in disguise; others that he had rich
relations who were ashamed of him because he was a Socialist, and who
allowed him so much a week so long as he kept away from them and did
not use his real name. Some of the Liberals said that he was in the pay
of the Tories, who were seeking by underhand methods to split up the
Progressive Liberal Party. Just about that time several burglaries took
place in the town, the thieves getting clear away with the plunder, and
this circumstance led to a dark rumour that Barrington was the culprit,
and that it was these ill-gotten gains that he was spending so freely.
About the middle of October an event happened that drew the town into a
state of wild excitement, and such comparatively unimportant subjects
as unemployment and starvation were almost forgotten.
Sir Graball D’Encloseland had been promoted to yet a higher post in the
service of the country that he owned such a large part of; he was not
only to have a higher and more honourable position, but also—as was
nothing but right—a higher salary. His pay was to be increased to seven
thousand five hundred a year or one hundred and fifty pounds per week,
and in consequence of this promotion it was necessary for him to resign
his seat and seek re-election.
The ragged-trousered Tory workmen as they loitered about the streets,
their stomachs empty, said to each other that it was a great honour for
Mugsborough that their Member should be promoted in this way. They
boasted about it and assumed as much swagger in their gait as their
broken boots permitted.
They stuck election cards bearing Sir Graball’s photograph in their
windows and tied bits of blue and yellow ribbon—Sir Graball’s
colours—on their underfed children.
The Liberals were furious. They said that an election had been sprung
on them—they had been taken a mean advantage of—they had no candidate
ready.
They had no complaint to make about the salary, all they complained of
was the short notice. It wasn’t fair because while they—the leading
Liberals—had been treating the electors with the contemptuous
indifference that is customary, Sir Graball D’Encloseland had been most
active amongst his constituents for months past, cunningly preparing
for the contest. He had really been electioneering for the past six
months! Last winter he had kicked off at quite a number of football
matches besides doing all sorts of things for the local teams. He had
joined the Buffalos and the Druids, been elected President of the Skull
and Crossbones Boys’ Society, and, although he was not himself an
abstainer, he was so friendly to Temperance that he had on several
occasions, taken the chair at teetotal meetings, to say nothing of the
teas to the poor school children and things of that sort. In short, he
had been quite an active politician, in the Tory sense of the word, for
months past and the poor Liberals had not smelt a rat until the
election was sprung upon them.
A hurried meeting of the Liberal Three Hundred was held, and a
deputation sent to London to find a candidate but as there was only a
week before polling day they were unsuccessful in their mission.
Another meeting was held, presided over by Mr Adam Sweater—Rushton and
Didlum also being present.
Profound dejection was depicted on the countenances of those assembled
slave-drivers as they listened to the delegates’ report. The sombre
silence that followed was broken at length by Mr Rushton, who suddenly
started up and said that he began to think they had made a mistake in
going outside the constituency at all to look for a man. It was strange
but true that a prophet never received honour in his own land. They had
been wasting the precious time running about all over the country,
begging and praying for a candidate, and overlooking the fact that they
had in their midst a gentleman—a fellow townsman, who, he believed,
would have a better chance of success than any stranger. Surely they
would all agree—if they could only prevail upon him to stand—that Adam
Sweater would be an ideal Liberal Candidate!
While Mr Rushton was speaking the drooping spirits of the Three Hundred
were reviving, and at the name of Sweater they all began to clap their
hands and stamp their feet. Loud shouts of enthusiastic approval burst
forth, and cries of “Good old Sweater” resounded through the room.
When Sweater rose to reply, the tumult died away as suddenly as it had
commenced. He thanked them for the honour they were conferring upon
him. There was no time to waste in words or idle compliments; rather
than allow the Enemy to have a walk-over, he would accede to their
request and contest the seat.
A roar of applause burst from the throats of the delighted Three
Hundred.
Outside the hall in which the meeting was being held a large crowd of
poverty-stricken Liberal working men, many of them wearing broken boots
and other men’s cast-off clothing, was waiting to hear the report of
the slave-drivers’ deputation, and as soon as Sweater had consented to
be nominated, Didlum rushed and opened the window overlooking the
street and shouted the good news down to the crowd, which joined in the
cheering. In response to their demands for a speech, Sweater brought
his obese carcass to the window and addressed a few words to them,
reminding them of the shortness of the time at their disposal, and
entreating them to work hard in order that the Grand old Flag might be
carried to victory.
At such times these people forgot all about unemployment and
starvation, and became enthusiastic about “Grand old Flags”. Their
devotion to this flag was so great that so long as they were able to
carry it to victory, they did not mind being poverty stricken and
hungry and ragged; all that mattered was to score off their hated
“enemies” their fellow countrymen the Tories, and carry the grand old
flag to victory. The fact that they had carried the flag to victory so
often in the past without obtaining any of the spoils, did not seem to
damp their ardour in the least. Being philanthropists, they were
content—after winning the victory—that their masters should always do
the looting.
At the conclusion of Sweater’s remarks the philanthropists gave three
frantic cheers and then someone in the crowd shouted “What’s the
colour?” After a hasty consultation with Rushton, who being a “master”
decorator, was thought to be an authority on colours—green—grass
green—was decided upon, and the information was shouted down to the
crowd, who cheered again. Then a rush was made to Sweater’s Emporium
and several yards of cheap green ribbon were bought, and divided up
into little pieces, which they tied into their buttonholes, and thus
appropriately decorated, formed themselves into military order, four
deep, and marched through all the principal streets, up and down the
Grand Parade, round and round the Fountain, and finally over the hill
to Windley, singing to the tune of “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the Boys are
marching”:
“Vote, Vote, Vote for Adam Sweater!
Hang old Closeland on a tree!
Adam Sweater is our man,
And we’ll have him if we can,
Then we’ll always have the biggest loaf for tea.”
The spectacle presented by these men—some of them with grey heads and
beards—as they marked time or tramped along singing this childish
twaddle, would have been amusing if it had not been disgusting.
By way of variety they sang several other things, including:
“We’ll hang ole Closeland
On a sour apple tree,”
and
“Rally, Rally, men of Windley
For Sweater’s sure to win.”
As they passed the big church in Quality Street, the clock began to
strike. It was one of those that strike four chimes at each quarter of
the hour. It was now ten o’clock so there were sixteen musical chimes:
Ding, dong! Ding Dong!
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Ding dong! Ding dong!
They all chanted A-dam Sweat-er” in time with the striking clock. In
the same way the Tories would chant:
“Grab—all Close—land!
Grab—all Close—land!
Grab—all Close—land!
Grab—all Close—land!”
The town was soon deluged with mendacious literature and smothered with
huge posters:
“Vote for Adam Sweater!
The Working-man’s Friend!”
“Vote for Sweater and Temperance Reform.”
“Vote for Sweater—Free Trade and Cheap Food.”
or
“Vote for D’Encloseland: Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work!”
This beautiful idea—“Plenty of Work”—appealed strongly to the Tory
workmen. They seemed to regard themselves and their children as a sort
of machines or beasts of burden, created for the purpose of working for
the benefit of other people. They did not think it right that they
should Live, and enjoy the benefits of civilization. All they desired
for themselves and their children was “Plenty of Work”.
They marched about the streets singing their Marseillaise, “Work, Boys,
Work and be contented”, to the tune of “Tramp, tramp, tramp the Boys
are marching”, and at intervals as they tramped along, they gave three
cheers for Sir Graball, Tariff Reform, and—Plenty of Work.
Both sides imported gangs of hired orators who held forth every night
at the corners of the principal streets, and on the open spaces from
portable platforms, and from motor cars and lorries. The Tories said
that the Liberal Party in the House of Commons was composed principally
of scoundrels and fools, the Liberals said that the Tory Party were
fools and scoundrels. A host of richly dressed canvassers descended
upon Windley in carriages and motor cars, and begged for votes from the
poverty-stricken working men who lived there.
One evening a Liberal demonstration was held at the Cross Roads on
Windley Hill. Notwithstanding the cold weather, there was a great crowd
of shabbily dressed people, many of whom had not had a really good meal
for months. It was a clear night. The moon was at the full, and the
scene was further illuminated by the fitful glare of several torches,
stuck on the end of twelve-foot poles. The platform was a large lorry,
and there were several speakers, including Adam Sweater himself and a
real live Liberal Peer—Lord Ammenegg. This individual had made a
considerable fortune in the grocery and provision line, and had been
elevated to the Peerage by the last Liberal Government on account of
his services to the Party, and in consideration of other
considerations.
Both Sweater and Ammenegg were to speak at two other meetings that
night and were not expected at Windley until about eight-thirty, so to
keep the ball rolling till they arrived, several other gentlemen,
including Rushton—who presided—and Didlum, and one of the five pounds a
week orators, addressed the meeting. Mingled with the crowd were about
twenty rough-looking men—strangers to the town—who wore huge green
rosettes and loudly applauded the speakers. They also distributed
Sweater literature and cards with lists of the different meetings that
were to be held during the election. These men were bullies hired by
Sweater’s agent. They came from the neighbourhood of Seven Dials in
London and were paid ten shillings a day. One of their duties was to
incite the crowd to bash anyone who disturbed the meetings or tried to
put awkward questions to the speakers.
The hired orator was a tall, slight man with dark hair, beard and
moustache, he might have been called well-looking if it had not been
for an ugly scar upon his forehead, which gave him a rather sinister
appearance. He was an effective speaker; the audience punctuated his
speech with cheers, and when he wound up with an earnest appeal to
them—as working men—to vote for Adam Sweater, their enthusiasm knew no
bounds.
“I’ve seen him somewhere before,” remarked Barrington, who was standing
in the crowd with Harlow, Owen and Easton.
“So have I,” said Owen, with a puzzled expression. “But for the life of
me, I can’t remember where.”
Harlow and Easton also thought they had seen the man before, but their
speculations were put an end to by the roar of cheering that heralded
the arrival of the motor car, containing Adam Sweater and his friend,
Lord Ammenegg. Unfortunately, those who had arranged the meeting had
forgotten to provide a pair of steps, so Sweater found it a matter of
considerable difficulty to mount the platform. However, while his
friends were hoisting and pushing him up, the meeting beguiled the time
by singing:
“Vote, vote, vote for Adam Sweater.”
After a terrible struggle they succeeded in getting him on to the cart,
and while he was recovering his wind, Rushton made a few remarks to the
crowd. Sweater then advanced to the front, but in consequence of the
cheering and singing, he was unable to make himself heard for several
minutes.
When at length he was able to proceed, he made a very clever speech—it
had been specially written for him and had cost ten guineas. A large
part of it consisted of warnings against the dangers of Socialism.
Sweater had carefully rehearsed this speech and he delivered it very
effectively. Some of those Socialists, he said, were well-meaning but
mistaken people, who did not realize the harm that would result if
their extraordinary ideas were ever put into practice. He lowered his
voice to a blood-curdling stage whisper as he asked:
“What is this Socialism that we hear so much about, but which so few
understand? What is it, and what does it mean?”
Then, raising his voice till it rang through the air and fell upon the
ears of the assembled multitude like the clanging of a funeral bell, he
continued:
“It is madness! Chaos! Anarchy! It means Ruin! Black Ruin for the rich,
and consequently, of course, Blacker Ruin still for the poor!”
As Sweater paused, a thrill of horror ran through the meeting. Men
wearing broken boots and with patches upon the seats and knees, and
ragged fringes round the bottoms of the legs of their trousers, grew
pale, and glanced apprehensively at each other. If ever Socialism did
come to pass, they evidently thought it very probable that they would
have to walk about in a sort of prehistoric highland costume, without
any trousers or boots at all.
Toil-worn women, most of them dressed in other women’s shabby cast-off
clothing—weary, tired-looking mothers who fed their children for the
most part on adulterated tea, tinned skimmed milk and bread and
margarine, grew furious as they thought of the wicked Socialists who
were trying to bring Ruin upon them.
It never occurred to any of these poor people that they were in a
condition of Ruin, Black Ruin, already. But if Sweater had suddenly
found himself reduced to the same social condition as the majority of
those he addressed, there is not much doubt that he would have thought
that he was in a condition of Black Ruin.
The awful silence that had fallen on the panic-stricken crowd, was
presently broken by a ragged-trousered Philanthropist, who shouted out:
“We knows wot they are, sir. Most of ’em is chaps wot’s got tired of
workin’ for their livin’, so they wants us to keep ’em.”
Encouraged by numerous expressions of approval from the other
Philanthropists, the man continued:
“But we ain’t such fools as they thinks, and so they’ll find out next
Monday. Most of ’em wants ’angin’, and I wouldn’t mind lendin’ a ’and
with the rope myself.”
Applause and laughter greeted these noble sentiments, and Sweater
resumed his address, when another man—evidently a Socialist—for he was
accompanied by three or four others who like himself wore red
ties—interrupted and said that he would like to ask him a question. No
notice was taken of this request either by Mr Sweater or the chairman,
but a few angry cries of “Order!” came from the crowd. Sweater
continued, but the man again interrupted and the cries of the crowd
became more threatening. Rushton started up and said that he could not
allow the speaker to be interrupted, but if the gentleman would wait
till the end of the meeting, he would have an opportunity of asking his
question then.
The man said he would wait as desired; Sweater resumed his oration, and
presently the interrupter and his friends found themselves surrounded
by the gang of hired bullies who wore the big rosettes and who glared
menacingly at them.
Sweater concluded his speech with an appeal to the crowd to deal a
“Slashing Bow at the Enemy” next Monday, and then amid a storm of
applause, Lord Ammenegg stepped to the front. He said that he did not
intend to inflict a long speech upon them that evening, and as it was
nomination day tomorrow he would not be able to have the honour of
addressing them again during the election; but even if he had wished to
make a long speech, it would be very difficult after the brilliant and
eloquent address they had just listened to from Mr Sweater, for it
seemed to him (Ammenegg) that Adam Sweater had left nothing for anyone
else to say. But he would like to tell them of a Thought that had
occurred to him that evening. They read in the Bible that the Wise Men
came from the East. Windley, as they all knew, was the East end of the
town. They were the men of the East, and he was sure that next Monday
they would prove that they were the Wise Men of the East, by voting for
Adam Sweater and putting him at the top of the poll with a “Thumping
Majority”.
The Wise Men of the East greeted Ammenegg’s remarks with prolonged,
imbecile cheers, and amid the tumult his Lordship and Sweater got into
the motor car and cleared off without giving the man with the red tie
or anyone else who desired to ask questions any opportunity of doing
so. Rushton and the other leaders got into another motor car, and
followed the first to take part in another meeting down-town, which was
to be addressed by the great Sir Featherstone Blood.
The crowd now resolved itself into military order, headed by the men
with torches and a large white banner on which was written in huge
black letters, “Our man is Adam Sweater”.
They marched down the hill singing, and when they reached the Fountain
on the Grand Parade they saw another crowd holding a meeting there.
These were Tories and they became so infuriated at the sound of the
Liberal songs and by the sight of the banner, that they abandoned their
meeting and charged the processionists. A free fight ensued. Both sides
fought like savages, but as the Liberals were outnumbered by about
three to one, they were driven off the field with great slaughter; most
of the torch poles were taken from them, and the banner was torn to
ribbons. Then the Tories went back to the Fountain carrying the
captured torches, and singing to the tune of “Has anyone seen a German
Band?”
“Has anyone seen a Lib’ral Flag,
Lib’ral Flag, Lib’ral Flag?”
While the Tories resumed their meeting at the Fountain, the Liberals
rallied in one of the back streets. Messengers were sent in various
directions for reinforcements, and about half an hour afterwards they
emerged from their retreat and swooped down upon the Tory meeting. They
overturned the platform, recaptured their torches, tore the enemy’s
banner to tatters and drove them from their position. Then the Liberals
in their turn paraded the streets singing “Has anyone seen a Tory
Flag?” and proceeded to the hall where Sir Featherstone was speaking,
arriving as the audience left.
The crowd that came pouring out of the hall was worked up to a frenzy
of enthusiasm, for the speech they had just listened to had been a sort
of manifesto to the country.
In response to the cheering of the processionists—who, of course, had
not heard the speech, but were cheering from force of habit—Sir
Featherstone Blood stood up in the carriage and addressed the crowd,
briefly outlining the great measures of Social Reform that his party
proposed to enact to improve the condition of the working classes; and
as they listened, the Wise Men grew delirious with enthusiasm. He
referred to Land Taxes and Death Duties which would provide money to
build battleships to protect the property of the rich, and provide Work
for the poor. Another tax was to provide a nice, smooth road for the
rich to ride upon in motor cars—and to provide Work for the poor.
Another tax would be used for Development, which would also make Work
for the poor. And so on. A great point was made of the fact that the
rich were actually to be made to pay something towards the cost of
their road themselves! But nothing was said about how they would get
the money to do it. No reference was made to how the workers would be
sweated and driven and starved to earn Dividends and Rent and Interest
and Profits to put into the pockets of the rich before the latter would
be able to pay for anything at all.
These are the things, Gentlemen, that we propose to do for you, and, at
the rate of progress which we propose to adopt, I say without fear or
contradiction, that within the next Five Hundred years we shall so
reform social conditions in this country, that the working classes will
be able to enjoy some of the benefits of civilization.
“The only question before you is: Are you willing to wait for Five
Hundred Years?”
“Yes, sir,” shouted the Wise Men with enthusiasm at the glorious
prospect.
“Yes, Sir: we’ll wait a thousand years if you like, Sir!”
“I’ve been waiting all my life,” said one poor old veteran, who had
assisted to “carry the ‘Old Flag’ to victory” times out of number in
the past and who for his share of the spoils of those victories was now
in a condition of abject, miserable poverty, with the portals of the
workhouse yawning open to receive him; “I’ve waited all my life, hoping
and trusting for better conditions so a few more years won’t make much
difference to me.”
“Don’t you trouble to ’urry yourself, Sir,” shouted another Solomon in
the crowd. “We don’t mind waiting. Take your own time, Sir. You know
better than the likes of us ’ow long it ought to take.”
In conclusion, the great man warned them against being led away by the
Socialists, those foolish, unreasonable, impractical people who wanted
to see an immediate improvement in their condition; and he reminded
them that Rome was not built in a day.
The Wise Men applauded lustily. It did not appear to occur to any of
them that the rate at which the ancient Roman conducted their building
operations had nothing whatever to do with the case.
Sir Featherstone Blood sat down amid a wild storm of cheering, and then
the procession reformed, and, reinforced by the audience from the hall,
they proceeded to march about the dreary streets, singing, to the tune
of the “Men of Harlech”:
“Vote for Sweater, Vote for Sweater!
Vote for Sweater, VOTE FOR SWEATER!
“He’s the Man, who has a plan,
To liberate and reinstate the workers!
“Men of Mugs’bro”, show your mettle,
Let them see that you’re in fettle!
Once for all this question settle
Sweater shall Prevail!”
The carriage containing Sir Featherstone, Adam Sweater, and Rushton and
Didlum was in the middle of the procession. The banner and the torches
were at the head, and the grandeur of the scene was heightened by four
men who walked—two on each side of the carriage, burning green fire in
frying pans. As they passed by the Slave Market, a poor, shabbily
dressed wretch whose boots were so worn and rotten that they were
almost falling off his feet, climbed up a lamp-post, and taking off his
cap waved it in the air and shrieked out: “Three Cheers for Sir
Featherstone Blood, our future Prime Minister!”
The Philanthropists cheered themselves hoarse and finally took the
horses out of the traces and harnessed themselves to the carriage
instead.
“’Ow much wages will Sir Featherstone get if ’e is made Prime
Minister?” asked Harlow of another Philanthropist who was also pushing
up behind the carriage.
“Five thousand a year,” replied the other, who by some strange chance
happened to know. “That comes to a ’underd pounds a week.”
“Little enough, too, for a man like ’im,” said Harlow.
“You’re right, mate,” said the other, with deep sympathy in his voice.
“Last time ’e ’eld office ’e was only in for five years, so ’e only
made twenty-five thousand pounds out of it. Of course ’e got a pension
as well—two thousand a year for life, I think it is; but after all,
what’s that—for a man like ’im?”
“Nothing,” replied Harlow, in a tone of commiseration, and Newman, who
was also there, helping to drag the carriage, said that it ought to be
at least double that amount.
However, they found some consolation in knowing that Sir Featherstone
would not have to wait till he was seventy before he obtained his
pension; he would get it directly he came out of office.
The following evening Barrington, Owen and a few others of the same way
of thinking, who had subscribed enough money between them to purchase a
lot of Socialist leaflets, employed themselves distributing them to the
crowds at the Liberal and Tory meetings, and whilst they were doing
this they frequently became involved in arguments with the supporters
of the capitalist system. In their attempts to persuade others to
refrain from voting for either of the candidates, they were opposed
even by some who professed to believe in Socialism, who said that as
there was no better Socialist candidate the thing to do was to vote for
the better of the two. This was the view of Harlow and Easton, whom
they met. Harlow had a green ribbon in his buttonhole, but Easton wore
D’Encloseland’s colours.
One man said that if he had his way, all those who had votes should be
compelled to record them—whether they liked it or not—or be
disenfranchised! Barrington asked him if he believed in Tarrif Reform.
The man said no.
“Why not?” demanded Barrington.
The other replied that he opposed Tariff Reform because he believed it
would ruin the country. Barrington inquired if he were a supporter of
Socialism. The man said he was not, and when further questioned he said
that he believed if it were ever adopted it would bring black ruin upon
the country—he believed this because Mr Sweater had said so. When
Barrington asked him—supposing there were only two candidates, one a
Socialist and the other a Tariff Reformer—how would he like to be
compelled to vote for one of them, he was at a loss for an answer.
During the next few days the contest continued. The hired orators
continued to pour forth their streams of eloquence; and tons of
literature flooded the town. The walls were covered with huge posters:
“Another Liberal Lie.” “Another Tory Fraud.”
Unconsciously each of these two parties put in some splendid work for
Socialism, in so much that each of them thoroughly exposed the
hypocrisy of the other. If the people had only had the sense, they
might have seen that the quarrel between the Liberal and Tory leaders
was merely a quarrel between thieves over the spoil; but unfortunately
most of the people had not the sense to perceive this. They were
blinded by bigoted devotion to their parties, and—inflamed with
maniacal enthusiasm—thought of nothing but “carrying their flags to
victory”.
At considerable danger to themselves, Barrington, Owen and the other
Socialists continued to distribute their leaflets and to heckle the
Liberal and Tory speakers. They asked the Tories to explain the
prevalence of unemployment and poverty in protected countries, like
Germany and America, and at Sweater’s meetings they requested to be
informed what was the Liberal remedy for unemployment. From both
parties the Socialists obtained the same kinds of answer—threats of
violence and requests “not to disturb the meeting”.
These Socialists held quite a lot of informal meetings on their own.
Every now and then when they were giving their leaflets away, some
unwary supporter of the capitalist system would start an argument, and
soon a crowd would gather round and listen.
Sometimes the Socialists succeeded in arguing their opponents to an
absolute standstill, for the Liberals and Tories found it impossible to
deny that machinery is the cause of the overcrowded state of the labour
market; that the overcrowded labour market is the cause of
unemployment; that the fact of there being always an army of unemployed
waiting to take other men’s jobs away from them destroys the
independence of those who are in employment and keeps them in
subjection to their masters. They found it impossible to deny that this
machinery is being used, not for the benefit of all, but to make
fortunes for a few. In short, they were unable to disprove that the
monopoly of the land and machinery by a comparatively few persons, is
the cause of the poverty of the majority. But when these arguments that
they were unable to answer were put before them and when it was pointed
out that the only possible remedy was the Public Ownership and
Management of the Means of production, they remained angrily silent,
having no alternative plan to suggest.
At other times the meeting resolved itself into a number of quarrelsome
disputes between the Liberals and Tories that formed the crowd, which
split itself up into a lot of little groups and whatever the original
subject might have been they soon drifted to a hundred other things,
for most of the supporters of the present system seemed incapable of
pursuing any one subject to its logical conclusion. A discussion would
be started about something or other; presently an unimportant side
issue would crop up, then the original subject would be left
unfinished, and they would argue and shout about the side issue. In a
little while another side issue would arise, and then the first side
issue would be abandoned also unfinished, and an angry wrangle about
the second issue would ensue, the original subject being altogether
forgotten.
They did not seem to really desire to discover the truth or to find out
the best way to bring about an improvement in their condition, their
only object seemed to be to score off their opponents.
Usually after one of these arguments, Owen would wander off by himself,
with his head throbbing and a feeling of unutterable depression and
misery at his heart; weighed down by a growing conviction of the
hopelessness of everything, of the folly of expecting that his fellow
workmen would ever be willing to try to understand for themselves the
causes that produced their sufferings. It was not that those causes
were so obscure that it required exceptional intelligence to perceive
them; the causes of all the misery were so apparent that a little child
could easily be made to understand both the disease and the remedy; but
it seemed to him that the majority of his fellow workmen had become so
convinced of their own intellectual inferiority that they did not dare
to rely on their own intelligence to guide them, preferring to resign
the management of their affairs unreservedly into the hands of those
who battened upon and robbed them. They did not know the causes of the
poverty that perpetually held them and their children in its cruel
grip, and—they did not want to know! And if one explained those causes
to them in such language and in such a manner that they were almost
compelled to understand, and afterwards pointed out to them the obvious
remedy, they were neither glad nor responsive, but remained silent and
were angry because they found themselves unable to answer and disprove.
They remained silent; afraid to trust their own intelligence, and the
reason of this attitude was that they had to choose between the
evidence and their own intelligence, and the stories told them by their
masters and exploiters. And when it came to making this choice they
deemed it safer to follow their old guides, than to rely on their own
judgement, because from their very infancy they had had drilled into
them the doctrine of their own mental and social inferiority, and their
conviction of the truth of this doctrine was voiced in the degraded
expression that fell so frequently from their lips, when speaking of
themselves and each other—“The Likes of Us!”
They did not know the causes of their poverty, they did not want to
know, they did not want to hear.
All they desired was to be left alone so that they might continue to
worship and follow those who took advantage of their simplicity, and
robbed them of the fruits of their toil; their old leaders, the fools
or scoundrels who fed them with words, who had led them into the
desolation where they now seemed to be content to grind out treasure
for their masters, and to starve when those masters did not find it
profitable to employ them. It was as if a flock of foolish sheep placed
themselves under the protection of a pack of ravening wolves.
Several times the small band of Socialists narrowly escaped being
mobbed, but they succeeded in disposing of most of their leaflets
without any serious trouble. Towards the latter part of one evening
Barrington and Owen became separated from the others, and shortly
afterwards these two lost each other in the crush.
About nine o’clock, Barrington was in a large Liberal crowd, listening
to the same hired orator who had spoken a few evenings before on the
hill—the man with the scar on his forehead. The crowd was applauding
him loudly and Barrington again fell to wondering where he had seen
this man before. As on the previous occasion, this speaker made no
reference to Socialism, confining himself to other matters. Barrington
examined him closely, trying to recall under what circumstances they
had met previously, and presently he remembered that this was one of
the Socialists who had come with the band of cyclists into the town
that Sunday morning, away back at the beginning of the summer, the man
who had come afterwards with the van, and who had been struck down by a
stone while attempting to speak from the platform of the van, the man
who had been nearly killed by the upholders of the capitalist system.
It was the same man! The Socialist had been clean-shaven—this man wore
beard and moustache—but Barrington was certain he was the same.
When the man had concluded his speech he got down and stood in the
shade behind the platform, while someone else addressed the meeting,
and Barrington went round to where he was standing, intending to speak
to him.
All around them, pandemonium reigned supreme. They were in the vicinity
of the Slave Market, near the Fountain, on the Grand Parade, where
several roads met; there was a meeting going on at every corner, and a
number of others in different parts of the roadway and on the pavement
of the Parade. Some of these meetings were being carried on by two or
three men, who spoke in turn from small, portable platforms they
carried with them, and placed wherever they thought there was a chance
of getting an audience.
Every now and then some of these poor wretches—they were all paid
speakers—were surrounded and savagely mauled and beaten by a hostile
crowd. If they were Tariff Reformers the Liberals mobbed them, and vice
versa. Lines of rowdies swaggered to and fro, arm in arm, singing,
“Vote, Vote, Vote, for good ole Closeland” or “good ole Sweater”,
according as they were green or blue and yellow. Gangs of hooligans
paraded up and down, armed with sticks, singing, howling, cursing and
looking for someone to hit. Others stood in groups on the pavement with
their hands thrust in their pockets, or leaned against walls or the
shutters of the shops with expressions of ecstatic imbecility on their
faces, chanting the mournful dirge to the tune of the church chimes,
“Good—ole—Sweat—er
Good—ole—Sweat—er
Good—ole—Sweat—er
Good—ole—Sweat—er.”
Other groups—to the same tune—sang “Good—ole—Close—land”; and every now
and again they used to leave off singing and begin to beat each other.
Fights used to take place, often between workmen, about the respective
merits of Adam Sweater and Sir Graball D’Encloseland.
The walls were covered with huge Liberal and Tory posters, which showed
in every line the contempt of those who published them for the
intelligence of the working men to whom they were addressed. There was
one Tory poster that represented the interior of a public house; in
front of the bar, with a quart pot in his hand, a clay pipe in his
mouth, and a load of tools on his back, stood a degraded-looking brute
who represented the Tory ideal of what an Englishman should be; the
letterpress on the poster said it was a man! This is the ideal of
manhood that they hold up to the majority of their fellow countrymen,
but privately—amongst themselves—the Tory aristocrats regard such “men”
with far less respect than they do the lower animals. Horses or dogs,
for instance.
The Liberal posters were not quite so offensive. They were more
cunning, more specious, more hypocritical and consequently more
calculated to mislead and deceive the more intelligent of the voters.
When Barrington got round to the back of the platform, he found the man
with the scarred face standing alone and gloomily silent in the shadow.
Barrington gave him one of the Socialist leaflets, which he took, and
after glancing at it, put it in his coat pocket without making any
remark.
“I hope you’ll excuse me for asking, but were you not formerly a
Socialist?” said Barrington.
Even in the semi-darkness Barrington saw the other man flush deeply and
then become very pale, and the unsightly scar upon his forehead showed
with ghastly distinctiveness.
“I am still a Socialist: no man who has once been a Socialist can ever
cease to be one.”
“You seem to have accomplished that impossibility, to judge by the work
you are at present engaged in. You must have changed your opinions
since you were here last.”
“No one who has been a Socialist can ever cease to be one. It is
impossible for a man who has once acquired knowledge ever to relinquish
it. A Socialist is one who understands the causes of the misery and
degradation we see all around us; who knows the only remedy, and knows
that that remedy—the state of society that will be called
Socialism—must eventually be adopted; is the only alternative to the
extermination of the majority of the working people; but it does not
follow that everyone who has sense enough to acquire that amount of
knowledge, must, in addition, be willing to sacrifice himself in order
to help to bring that state of society into being. When I first
acquired that knowledge,” he continued, bitterly, “I was eager to tell
the good news to others. I sacrificed my time, my money, and my health
in order that I might teach others what I had learned myself. I did it
willingly and happily, because I thought they would be glad to hear,
and that they were worth the sacrifices I made for their sakes. But I
know better now.”
“Even if you no longer believe in working for Socialism, there’s no
need to work AGAINST it. If you are not disposed to sacrifice yourself
in order to do good to others, you might at least refrain from doing
evil. If you don’t want to help to bring about a better state of
affairs, there’s no reason why you should help to perpetuate the
present system.”
The other man laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, there is, and a very good
reason too.”
“I don’t think you could show me a reason,” said Barrington.
The man with the scar laughed again, the same unpleasant, mirthless
laugh, and thrusting his hand into his trouser pocket drew it out again
full of silver coins, amongst which one or two gold pieces glittered.
“That is my reason. When I devoted my life and what abilities I possess
to the service of my fellow workmen; when I sought to teach them how to
break their chains; when I tried to show them how they might save their
children from poverty and shameful servitude, I did not want them to
give me money. I did it for love. And they paid me with hatred and
injury. But since I have been helping their masters to rob them, they
have treated me with respect.”
Barrington made no reply and the other man, having returned the money
to his pocket, indicated the crowd with a sweep of his hand.
“Look at them!” he continued with a contemptuous laugh. “Look at them!
the people you are trying to make idealists of! Look at them! Some of
them howling and roaring like wild beasts, or laughing like idiots,
others standing with dull and stupid faces devoid of any trace of
intelligence or expression, listening to the speakers whose words
convey no meaning to their stultified minds, and others with their eyes
gleaming with savage hatred of their fellow men, watching eagerly for
an opportunity to provoke a quarrel that they may gratify their brutal
natures by striking someone—their eyes are hungry for the sight of
blood! Can’t you see that these people, whom you are trying to make
understand your plan for the regeneration of the world, your doctrine
of universal brotherhood and love are for the most
part—intellectually—on a level with Hottentots? The only things they
feel any real interest in are beer, football, betting and—of course—one
other subject. Their highest ambition is to be allowed to Work. And
they desire nothing better for their children!
“They have never had an independent thought in their lives. These are
the people whom you hope to inspire with lofty ideals! You might just
as well try to make a gold brooch out of a lump of dung! Try to reason
with them, to uplift them, to teach them the way to higher things.
Devote your whole life and intelligence to the work of trying to get
better conditions for them, and you will find that they themselves are
the enemy you will have to fight against. They’ll hate you, and, if
they get the chance, they’ll tear you to pieces. But if you’re a
sensible man you’ll use whatever talents and intelligence you possess
for your own benefit. Don’t think about Socialism or any other ‘ism’.
Concentrate your mind on getting money—it doesn’t matter how you get
it, but—get it. If you can’t get it honestly, get it dishonestly, but
get it! it is the only thing that counts. Do as I do—rob them! exploit
them! and then they’ll have some respect for you.”
“There’s something in what you say,” replied Barrington, after a long
pause, “but it’s not all. Circumstances make us what we are; and
anyhow, the children are worth fighting for.”
“You may think so now,” said the other, “but you’ll come to see it my
way some day. As for the children—if their parents are satisfied to let
them grow up to be half-starved drudges for other people, I don’t see
why you or I need trouble about it. If you like to listen to reason,”
he continued after a pause, “I can put you on to something that will be
worth more to you than all your Socialism.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look here: you’re a Socialist; well, I’m a Socialist too: that is, I
have sense enough to believe that Socialism is practical and inevitable
and right; it will come when the majority of the people are
sufficiently enlightened to demand it, but that enlightenment will
never be brought about by reasoning or arguing with them, for these
people are simply not intellectually capable of abstract reasoning—they
can’t grasp theories. You know what the late Lord Salisbury said about
them when somebody proposed to give them some free libraries: He said:
‘They don’t want libraries: give them a circus.’ You see these Liberals
and Tories understand the sort of people they have to deal with; they
know that although their bodies are the bodies of grown men, their
minds are the minds of little children. That is why it has been
possible to deceive and bluff and rob them for so long. But your party
persists in regarding them as rational beings, and that’s where you
make a mistake—you’re simply wasting your time.
“The only way in which it is possible to teach these people is by means
of object lessons, and those are being placed before them in increasing
numbers every day. The trustification of industry—the object lesson
which demonstrates the possibility of collective ownership—will in time
compel even these to understand, and by the time they have learnt that,
they will also have learned by bitter experience and not from
theoretical teaching, that they must either own the trusts or perish,
and then, and not till then, they will achieve Socialism. But meanwhile
we have this election. Do you think it will make any real
difference—for good or evil—which of these two men is elected?”
“No.”
“Well, you can’t keep them both out—you have no candidate of your
own—why should you object to earning a few pounds by helping one of
them to get in? There are plenty of voters who are doubtful what to do;
as you and I know there is every excuse for them being unable to make
up their minds which of these two candidates is the worse, a word from
your party would decide them. Since you have no candidate of your own
you will be doing no harm to Socialism and you will be doing yourself a
bit of good. If you like to come along with me now, I’ll introduce you
to Sweater’s agent—no one need know anything about it.”
He slipped his arm through Barrington’s, but the latter released
himself.
“Please yourself,” said the other with an affectation of indifference.
“You know your own business best. You may choose to be a Jesus Christ
if you like, but for my part I’m finished. For the future I intend to
look after myself. As for these people—they vote for what they want;
they get—what they vote for; and by God, they deserve nothing better!
They are being beaten with whips of their own choosing and if I had my
way they should be chastised with scorpions! For them, the present
system means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature
death. They vote for it all and uphold it. Well, let them have what
they vote for—let them drudge—let them starve!”
The man with the scarred face ceased speaking, and for some moments
Barrington did not reply.
“I suppose there is some excuse for your feeling as you do,” he said
slowly at last, “but it seems to me that you do not make enough
allowance for the circumstances. From their infancy most of them have
been taught by priests and parents to regard themselves and their own
class with contempt—a sort of lower animals—and to regard those who
possess wealth with veneration, as superior beings. The idea that they
are really human creatures, naturally absolutely the same as their
so-called betters, naturally equal in every way, naturally different
from them only in those ways in which their so-called superiors differ
from each other, and inferior to them only because they have been
deprived of education, culture and opportunity—you know as well as I do
that they have all been taught to regard that idea as preposterous.
“The self-styled ‘Christian’ priests who say—with their tongues in
their cheeks—that God is our Father and that all men are brethren, have
succeeded in convincing the majority of the ‘brethren’ that it is their
duty to be content in their degradation, and to order themselves lowly
and reverently towards their masters. Your resentment should be
directed against the deceivers, not against the dupes.”
The other man laughed bitterly.
“Well, go and try to undeceive them,” he said, as he returned to the
platform in response to a call from his associates. “Go and try to
teach them that the Supreme Being made the earth and all its fullness
for the use and benefit of all His children. Go and try to explain to
them that they are poor in body and mind and social condition, not
because of any natural inferiority, but because they have been robbed
of their inheritance. Go and try to show them how to secure that
inheritance for themselves and their children—and see how grateful
they’ll be to you.”
For the next hour Barrington walked about the crowded streets in a
dispirited fashion. His conversation with the renegade seemed to have
taken all the heart out of him. He still had a number of the leaflets,
but the task of distributing them had suddenly grown distasteful and
after a while he discontinued it. All his enthusiasm was gone. Like one
awakened from a dream he saw the people who surrounded him in a
different light. For the first time he properly appreciated the
offensiveness of most of those to whom he offered the handbills; some,
without even troubling to ascertain what they were about, rudely
refused to accept them; some took them and after glancing at the
printing, crushed them in their hands and ostentatiously threw them
away. Others, who recognized him as a Socialist, angrily or
contemptuously declined them, often with curses or injurious words.
His attention was presently attracted to a crowd of about thirty or
forty people, congregated near a gas lamp at the roadside. The sound of
many angry voices rose from the centre of this group, and as he stood
on the outskirts of the crowd, Barrington, being tall, was able to look
into the centre, where he saw Owen. The light of the street lamp fell
full upon the latter’s pale face, as he stood silent in the midst of a
ring of infuriated men, who were all howling at him at once, and whose
malignant faces bore expressions of savage hatred, as they shouted out
the foolish accusations and slanders they had read in the Liberal and
Tory papers.
Socialists wished to do away with religion and morality! to establish
free love and atheism! All the money that the working classes had saved
up in the Post Office and the Friendly Societies, was to be Robbed from
them and divided up amongst a lot of drunken loafers who were too lazy
to work. The King and all the Royal Family were to be Done Away with!
and so on.
Owen made no attempt to reply, and the manner of the crowd became every
moment more threatening. It was evident that several of them found it
difficult to refrain from attacking him. It was a splendid opportunity
of doing a little fighting without running any risks. This fellow was
all by himself, and did not appear to be much of a man even at that.
Those in the middle were encouraged by shouts from others in the crowd,
who urged them to “Go for him” and at last—almost at the instant of
Barrington’s arrival—one of the heroes, unable to contain himself any
longer, lifted a heavy stick and struck Owen savagely across the face.
The sight of the blood maddened the others, and in an instant everyone
who could get within striking distance joined furiously in the
onslaught, reaching eagerly over each other’s shoulders, showering
blows upon him with sticks and fists, and before Barrington could reach
his side, they had Owen down on the ground, and had begun to use their
boots upon him.
Barrington felt like a wild beast himself, as he fiercely fought his
way through the crowd, spurning them to right and left with fists and
elbows. He reached the centre in time to seize the uplifted arm of the
man who had led the attack and wrenching the stick from his hand, he
felled him to the ground with a single blow. The remainder shrank back,
and meantime the crowd was augmented by others who came running up.
Some of these newcomers were Liberals and some Tories, and as these did
not know what the row was about they attacked each other. The Liberals
went for those who wore Tory colours and vice versa, and in a few
seconds there was a general free fight, though most of the original
crowd ran away, and in the confusion that ended, Barrington and Owen
got out of the crowd without further molestation.
Monday was the last day of the election—polling day—and in consequence
of the number of motor cars that were flying about, the streets were
hardly safe for ordinary traffic. The wealthy persons who owned these
carriages...
The result of the poll was to be shown on an illuminated sign at the
Town Hall, at eleven o’clock that night, and long before that hour a
vast crowd gathered in the adjacent streets. About ten o’clock it began
to rain, but the crowd stood its ground and increased in numbers as the
time went by. At a quarter to eleven the rain increased to a terrible
downpour, but the people remained waiting to know which hero had
conquered. Eleven o’clock came and an intense silence fell upon the
crowd, whose eyes were fixed eagerly upon the window where the sign was
to be exhibited. To judge by the extraordinary interest displayed by
these people, one might have thought that they expected to reap some
great benefit or to sustain some great loss from the result, but of
course that was not the case, for most of them knew perfectly well that
the result of this election would make no more real difference to them
than all the other elections that had gone before.
They wondered what the figures would be. There were ten thousand voters
on the register. At a quarter past eleven the sign was illuminated, but
the figures were not yet shown. Next, the names of the two candidates
were slid into sight, the figures were still missing, but
D’Encloseland’s name was on top, and a hoarse roar of triumph came from
the throats of his admirers. Then the two slides with the names were
withdrawn, and the sign was again left blank. After a time the people
began to murmur at all this delay and messing about, and presently some
of them began to groan and hoot.
After a few minutes the names were again slid into view, this time with
Sweater’s name on top, and the figures appeared immediately afterwards:
Sweater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,221
D’Encloseland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,200
It was several seconds before the Liberals could believe their eyes; it
was too good to be true. It is impossible to say what was the reason of
the wild outburst of delighted enthusiasm that followed, but whatever
the reason, whatever the benefit was that they expected to reap—there
was the fact. They were all cheering and dancing and shaking hands with
each other, and some of them were so overcome with inexplicable joy
that they were scarcely able to speak. It was altogether extraordinary
and unaccountable.
A few minutes after the declaration, Sweater appeared at the window and
made a sort of a speech, but only fragments of it were audible to the
cheering crowd who at intervals caught such phrases as “Slashing Blow”,
“Sweep the Country”, “Grand Old Liberal Flag”, and so on. Next
D’Encloseland appeared and he was seen to shake hands with Mr Sweater,
whom he referred to as “My friend”.
When the two “friends” disappeared from the window, the part of the
Liberal crowd that was not engaged in hand-to-hand fights with their
enemies—the Tories—made a rush to the front entrance of the Town Hall,
where Sweater’s carriage was waiting, and as soon as he had placed his
plump rotundity inside, they took the horses out and amid frantic
cheers harnessed themselves to it instead and dragged it through the
mud and the pouring rain all the way to “The Cave”—most of them were
accustomed to acting as beasts of burden—where he again addressed a few
words to them from the porch.
Afterwards as they walked home saturated with rain and covered from
head to foot with mud, they said it was a great victory for the cause
of progress!
Truly the wolves have an easy prey.