In Stanley Houghton, who died last year, the drama lost a talented and
brave artist. Brave, because he had the courage to touch one of the most
sensitive spots of Puritanism--woman's virtue. Whatever else one may
criticise or attack, the sacredness of virtue must remain untouched. It
is the last fetich which even so-called liberal-minded people refuse to
destroy.
To be sure, the attitude towards this holy of holies has of late years
undergone a considerable change. It is beginning to be felt in
ever-growing circles that love is its own justification, requiring no
sanction of either religion or law. The revolutionary idea, however,
that woman may, even as man, follow the urge of her nature, has never
before been so sincerely and radically expressed.
The message of "Hindle Wakes" is therefore of inestimable value,
inasmuch as it dispels the fog of the silly sentimentalism and
disgusting bombast that declares woman a thing apart from nature--one
who neither does nor must crave the joys of life permissible to man.
Hindle is a small weaving town, symbolically representing the
wakefulness of every small community to the shortcomings of its
neighbors.
_Christopher Hawthorne_ and _Nathaniel Jeffcote_ had begun life together
as lads in the cotton mill. But while _Christopher_ was always a timid
and shrinking boy, _Nathaniel_ was aggressive and ambitious. When the
play opens, _Christopher_, though an old man, is still a poor weaver;
_Nathaniel_, on the contrary, has reached the top of financial and
social success. He is the owner of the biggest mill; is wealthy,
influential, and withal a man of power. For _Nathaniel Jeffcote_ always
loved power and social approval. Speaking of the motor he bought for his
only son _Alan_, he tells his wife:
_Jeffcote._ Why did I buy a motor-car? Not because I wanted to go
motoring. I hate it. I bought it so that people could see Alan
driving about in it, and say, "There's Jeffcote's lad in his new
car. It cost five hundred quid."
However, _Nathaniel_ is a "square man," and when facing an emergency,
not chary with justice and always quick to decide in its favor.
The _Jeffcotes_ center all their hopes on _Alan_, their only child, who
is to inherit their fortune and business. _Alan_ is engaged to
_Beatrice_, the lovely, sweet daughter of _Sir Timothy Farrar_, and all
is joyous at the Jeffcotes'.
Down in the valley of Hindle live the _Hawthornes_, humble and content,
as behooves God-fearing workers. They too have ambitions in behalf of
their daughter _Fanny_, strong, willful and self-reliant,--qualities
molded in the hard grind of _Jeffcote's_ mill, where she had begun work
as a tot.
During the "bank holiday" _Fanny_ with her chum _Mary_ goes to a
neighboring town for an outing. There they meet two young men, _Alan
Jeffcote_ and his friend. _Fanny_ departs with _Alan_, and they spend a
glorious time together. On the way home _Mary_ is drowned. As a result
of the accident the _Hawthornes_ learn that their daughter had not spent
her vacation with _Mary_. When _Fanny_ returns, they question her, and
though she at first refuses to give an account of herself, they soon
discover that the girl had passed the time with a man,--young _Alan
Jeffcote_. Her parents are naturally horrified, and decide to force the
_Jeffcotes_ to have _Alan_ marry _Fanny_.
In the old mother of _Fanny_ the author has succeeded in giving a most
splendid characterization of the born drudge, hardened by her long
struggle with poverty, and grown shrewd in the ways of the world. She
knows her daughter so little, however, that she believes _Fanny_ had
schemed the affair with _Alan_ in the hope that she might force him to
marry her. In her imagination the old woman already sees _Fanny_ as the
mistress of the Jeffcote estate. She persuades her husband to go
immediately to the _Jeffcotes_, and though it is very late at night, the
old man is forced to start out on his disagreeable errand.
_Jeffcote_, a man of integrity, is much shocked at the news brought to
him by old _Hawthorne_. Nevertheless he will not countenance the wrong.
_Jeffcote._ I'll see you're treated right. Do you hear?
_Christopher._ I can't ask for more than that.
_Jeffcote._ I'll see you're treated right.
Young _Alan_ had never known responsibility. Why should he, with so much
wealth awaiting him? When confronted by his father and told that he must
marry _Fanny_, he fights hard against it. It may be said, in justice to
_Alan_, that he really loves his betrothed, _Beatrice_, though such a
circumstance has never deterred the Alans from having a lark with
another girl.
The young man resents his father's command to marry the mill girl. But
when even _Beatrice_ insists that he belongs to _Fanny_, _Alan_
unwillingly consents. _Beatrice_, a devout Christian, believes in
renunciation.
_Beatrice._ I do need you, Alan. So much that nothing on earth could
make me break off our engagement, if I felt that it was at all
possible to let it go on. But it isn't. It's impossible.
_Alan._ And you want me to marry Fanny?
_Beatrice._ Yes. Oh, Alan! can't you see what a splendid sacrifice
you have it in your power to make? Not only to do the right thing,
but to give up so much in order to do it.
The _Jeffcotes_ and the _Hawthornes_ gather to arrange the marriage of
their children. It does not occur to them to consult _Fanny_ in the
matter. Much to their consternation, _Fanny_ refuses to abide by the
decision of the family council.
_Fanny._ It's very good of you. You'll hire the parson and get the
license and make all the arrangements on your own without consulting
me, and I shall have nothing to do save turn up meek as a lamb at
the church or registry office or whatever it is.... That's just
where you make the mistake. I don't want to marry Alan.... I mean
what I say, and I'll trouble you to talk to me without swearing at
me. I'm not one of the family yet.
The dismayed parents, and even _Alan_, plead with her and threaten. But
_Fanny_ is obdurate. At last _Alan_ asks to be left alone with her,
confident that he can persuade the girl.
_Alan._ Look here, Fanny, what's all this nonsense about?... Why
won't you marry me?
_Fanny._ You can't understand a girl not jumping at you when she
gets the chance, can you?... How is it that you aren't going to
marry Beatrice Farrar? Weren't you fond of her?
_Alan._ Very.... I gave her up because my father made me.
_Fanny._ Made you? Good Lord, a chap of your age!
_Alan._ My father's a man who will have his own way.... He can keep
me short of brass.
_Fanny._ Earn some brass.
_Alan._ I can earn some brass, but it will mean hard work and it'll
take time. And, after all, I shan't earn anything like what I get
now.
_Fanny._ Then all you want to wed me for is what you'll get with me?
I'm to be given away with a pound of tea, as it were?
_Alan._ I know why you won't marry me.... You're doing it for my
sake.
_Fanny._ Don't you kid yourself, my lad! It isn't because I'm afraid
of spoiling your life that I'm refusing you, but because I'm afraid
of spoiling mine! That didn't occur to you?
_Alan._ Look here, Fanny, I promise you I'll treat you fair all the
time. You don't need to fear that folk'll look down on you. We shall
have too much money for that.
_Fanny._ I can manage all right on twenty-five bob a week.
_Alan._ I'm going to fall between two stools. It's all up with
Beatrice, of course. And if you won't have me I shall have parted
from her to no purpose; besides getting kicked out of the house by
my father, more than likely! You said you were fond of me once, but
it hasn't taken you long to alter.
_Fanny._ All women aren't built alike. Beatrice is religious.
She'll be sorry for you. I was fond of you in a way.
_Alan._ But you didn't ever really love me?
_Fanny._ Love you? Good heavens, of course not! Why on earth should
I love you? You were just someone to have a bit of fun with. You
were an amusement--a lark. How much more did you care for me?
_Alan._ But it's not the same. I'm a man.
_Fanny._ You're a man, and I was your little fancy. Well, I'm a
woman, and you were my little fancy. You wouldn't prevent a woman
enjoying herself as well as a man, if she takes it into her head?
_Alan._ But do you mean to say that you didn't care any more for me
than a fellow cares for any girl he happens to pick up?
_Fanny._ Yes. Are you shocked?
_Alan._ It's a bit thick; it is really!
_Fanny._ You're a beauty to talk!
_Alan._ It sounds so jolly immoral. I never thought of a girl
looking on a chap just like that! I made sure you wanted to marry me
if you got the chance.
_Fanny._ No fear! You're not good enough for me. The chap Fanny
Hawthorn weds has got to be made of different stuff from you, my
lad. _My_ husband, if ever I have one, will be a man, not a fellow
who'll throw over his girl at his father's bidding! Strikes me the
sons of these rich manufacturers are all much alike. They seem a bit
weak in the upper story. It's their father's brass that's too much
for them, happen!... You've no call to be afraid. I'm not going to
disgrace you. But so long as I've to live my own life I don't see
why I shouldn't choose what it's to be.
Unheard of, is it not, that a Fanny should refuse to be made a "good
woman," and that she should dare demand the right to live in her own
way? It has always been considered the most wonderful event in the life
of a girl if a young man of wealth, of position, of station came into
her life and said, "I will take you as my wife until death do us part."
But a new type of girlhood is in the making. We are developing the
Fannies who learn in the school of life, the hardest, the crudest and at
the same time the most vital and instructive school. Why should _Fanny_
marry a young man in order to become "good," any more than that he
should marry her in order to become good? Is it not because we have gone
on for centuries believing that woman's value, her integrity and
position in society center about her sex and consist only in her virtue,
and that all other usefulness weighs naught in the balance against her
"purity"? If she dare express her sex as the Fannies do, we deny her
individual and social worth, and stamp her fallen.
The past of a man is never questioned: no one inquires how many Fannies
have been in his life. Yet man has the impudence to expect the Fannies
to abstain till he is ready to bestow on them his name.
"Hindle Wakes" is a much needed and important social lesson,--not
because it necessarily involves the idea that every girl must have sex
experience before she meets the man she loves, but rather that she has
the right to satisfy, if she so chooses, her emotional and sex demands
like any other need of her mind and body. When the Fannies become
conscious of that right, the relation of the sexes will lose the shallow
romanticism and artificial exaggeration that mystery has surrounded it
with, and assume a wholesome, natural, and therefore healthy and normal
expression.