The women's rights women who claim for their sex the most wonderful
things in the way of creative achievement, will find it difficult to
explain the fact that until the author of "Rutherford and Son" made her
appearance, no country had produced a single woman dramatist of note.
That is the more remarkable because woman has since time immemorial been
a leading figure in histrionic art. Rachel, Sarah Bernhardt, Eleanore
Duse, and scores of others have had few male peers.
It can hardly be that woman is merely a reproducer and not a creator. We
have but to recall such creative artists as Charlotte and Emily Bronté,
George Sand, George Eliot, Mary Wollstonecraft, Marie Bashkirtshev, Rosa
Bonheur, Sophia Kovalevskaya and a host of others, to appreciate that
woman has been a creative factor in literature, art and science. Not so
in the drama, so far the stronghold exclusively of men.
It is therefore an event for a woman to come to the fore who possesses
such dramatic power, realistic grasp and artistic penetration as
evidenced by Githa Sowerby.
The circumstance is the more remarkable because Githa Sowerby is,
according to her publishers, barely out of her teens; and though she be
a genius, her exceptional maturity is a phenomenon rarely observed.
Generally maturity comes only with experience and suffering. No one who
has not felt the crushing weight of the Rutherford atmosphere could have
painted such a vivid and life-like picture.
The basic theme in "Rutherford and Son" is not novel. Turgenev, Ibsen
and such lesser artists as Sudermann and Stanley Houghton have dealt
with it: the chasm between the old and the young,--the tragic struggle
of parents against their children, the one frantically holding on, the
other recklessly letting go. But "Rutherford and Son" is more than that.
It is a picture of the paralyzing effect of tradition and
institutionalism on all human life, growth, and change.
_John Rutherford_, the owner of the firm "Rutherford and Son," is
possessed by the phantom of the past--the thing handed down to him by
his father and which he must pass on to his son with undiminished
luster; the thing that has turned his soul to iron and his heart to
stone; the thing for the sake of which he has never known joy and
because of which no one else must know joy,--"Rutherford and Son."
The crushing weight of this inexorable monster on Rutherford and his
children is significantly summed up by young John:
_John._ Have you ever heard of Moloch? No.... Well, Moloch was a
sort of a God ... some time ago, you know, before Dick and his kind
came along. They built his image with an ugly head ten times the
size of a real head, with great wheels instead of legs, and set him
up in the middle of a great dirty town. And they thought him a very
important person indeed, and made sacrifices to him ... human
sacrifices ... to keep him going, you know. Out of every family they
set aside one child to be an offering to him when it was big enough,
and at last it became a sort of honor to be dedicated in this way,
so much so, that the victims came themselves gladly to be crushed
out of life under the great wheels. That was Moloch.
_Janet._ Dedicated--we are dedicated--all of us--to Rutherfords'.
Not only the Rutherford children, their withered _Aunt Ann_, and old
_Rutherford_ himself, but even _Martin_, the faithful servant in the
employ of the Rutherfords for twenty-five years, is "dedicated," and
when he ceases to be of use to their Moloch, he is turned into a thief
and then cast off, even as _Janet_ and _John_.
Not love for _John_, his oldest son, or sympathy with the latter's wife
and child induces old _Rutherford_ to forgive his son's marriage with a
mere shop-girl, but because he needs _John_ to serve the house of
Rutherford. The one inexorable purpose, always and ever!
His second son _Richard_, who is in the ministry, and "of no use" to old
_Rutherford's_ God of stone, receives the loving assurance: "You were no
good for my purpose, and there's the end; for the matter o' that, you
might just as well never ha' been born."
For that matter, his daughter _Janet_ might also never have been born,
except that she was "good enough" to look after her father's house,
serve him, even helping take off his boots, and submitting without a
murmur to the loveless, dismal life in the Rutherford home. Her father
has sternly kept every suitor away, "because no one in Grantley's good
enough for us." _Janet_ has become faded, sour and miserable with
yearning for love, for sunshine and warmth, and when she at last dares
to partake of it secretly with her father's trusted man _Martin_, old
_Rutherford_ sets his iron heel upon her love, and drags it through the
mud till it lies dead.
Again, when he faces the spirit of rebellion in his son _John_,
_Rutherford_ crushes it without the slightest hesitation in behalf of
his one obsession, his one God--the House of Rutherford.
_John_ has made an invention which holds great possibilities. By means
of it he hopes to shake of the deadly grip of the Rutherfords'. He wants
to become a free man and mold a new life for himself, for his wife and
child. He knows his father will not credit the value of his invention.
He dare not approach him: the Rutherford children have been held in
dread of their parent too long.
_John_ turns to _Martin_, the faithful servant, the only one in the
confidence of _Rutherford_. _John_ feels himself safe with _Martin_. But
he does not know that _Martin_, too, is dedicated to Moloch, broken by
his twenty-five years of service, left without will, without purpose
outside of the Rutherfords'.
_Martin_ tries to enlist _Rutherford's_ interest in behalf of _John_.
But the old man decides that _John_ must turn over his invention to the
House of Rutherford.
_Rutherford._ What's your receipt?
_John._ I want to know where I stand.... I want my price.
_Rutherford._ Your price--your price? Damn your impudence, sir....
So that's your line, is it?... This is what I get for all I've done
for you.... This is the result of the schooling I gave you. I've
toiled and sweated to give you a name you'd be proud to own--worked
early and late, toiled like a dog when other men were taking their
ease--plotted and planned to get my chance, taken it and held it
when it come till I could ha' burst with the struggle. Sell! You
talk o' selling to me, when everything you'll ever make couldn't pay
back the life I've given to you!
_John._ Oh, I know, I know. I've been both for five years. Only I've
had no salary.
_Rutherford._ You've been put to learn your business like any other
young fellow. I began at the bottom--you've got to do the same....
Your father has lived here, and your grandfather before you. It's
your inheritance--can't you realize that?--what you've got to come
to when I'm under ground. We've made it for you, stone by stone,
penny by penny, fighting through thick and thin for close on a
hundred years.... It's what you've got to do--or starve. You're my
son--you've got to come after me.
_Janet_ knows her father better than _John_; she knows that "no one ever
stands out against father for long--or else they get so knocked about,
they don't matter any more." _Janet_ knows, and when the moment arrives
that brings her father's blow upon her head, it does not come as a
surprise to her. When old _Rutherford_ discovers her relation with
_Martin_, his indignation is as characteristic of the man as everything
else in his life. It is not outraged morality or a father's love. It is
always and forever the House of Rutherford. Moreover, the discovery of
the affair between his daughter and his workman comes at a psychologic
moment: _Rutherford_ is determined to get hold of _John's_
invention--for the Rutherfords, of course--and now that _Martin_ has
broken faith with his master, his offense serves an easy pretext for
_Rutherford_ to break faith with _Martin_. He calls the old servant to
his office and demands the receipt of _John's_ invention, entrusted to
_Martin_. On the latter's refusal to betray _John_, the master plays on
the man's loyalty to the Rutherfords.
_Rutherford._ Rutherfords' is going down--down. I got to pull her
up, somehow. There's one way out.... Mr. John's made this metal--a
thing, I take your word for it, that's worth a fortune. And we're
going to sit by and watch him fooling it away--selling it for a song
to Miles or Jarvis, that we could break to-morrow if we had half a
chance.... You've got but to put your hand in your pocket to save
the place and you don't do it. You're with them--you're with the
money-grubbing little souls that can't see beyond the next shilling
they put in their pockets.... When men steal, Martin, they do it to
gain something. If I steal this, what'll I gain by it? If I make
money, what'll I buy with it? Pleasure, maybe? Children to come
after me--glad o' what I done? Tell me anything in the wide world
that'd bring me joy, and I'll swear to you never to touch it.... If
you give it to me what'll you gain by it? Not a farthing shall you
ever have from me--no more than I get myself.
_Martin._ And what will Mr. John get for it?
_Rutherford._ Rutherfords'--when I'm gone. He'll thank you in ten
years--he'll come to laugh at himself--him and his price. He'll see
the Big Thing one day, mebbe, like what I've done. He'll see that it
was no more his than 'twas yours to give nor mine to take.... It's
Rutherfords'.... Will you give it to me?
_Martin._ I take shame to be doing it now.... He worked it out along
o' me. Every time it changed he come running to show me like a bairn
wi' a new toy.
_Rutherford._ It's for Rutherfords'....
Rutherfords' ruthlessly marches on. If the Rutherford purpose does not
shrink from corrupting its most trusted servant, it surely will not bend
before a daughter who has dared, even once in her life, to assert
herself.
_Rutherford._ How far's it gone?
_Janet._ Right at first--I made up my mind that if you ever found
out, I'd go right away, to put things straight. He wanted to tell
you at the first. But I knew that it would be no use.... It was _I_
said not to tell you.
_Rutherford._ Martin ... that I trusted as I trust myself.
_Janet._ You haven't turned him away--you couldn't do that!
_Rutherford._ That's my business.
_Janet._ You couldn't do that ... not Martin....
_Rutherford._ Leave it--leave it ... Martin's my servant, that I pay
wages to. I made a name for my children--a name respected in all the
countryside--and you go with a workingman.... To-morrow you leave
my house. D'ye understand? I'll have no light ways under my roof. No
one shall say I winked at it. You can bide the night. To-morrow when
I come in I'm to find ye gone.... Your name shan't be spoken in my
house ... never again.
_Janet._ Oh, you've no pity.... I was thirty-six. Gone sour.
Nobody'd ever come after me. Not even when I was young. You took
care o' that. Half of my life was gone, well-nigh all of it that
mattered.... Martin loves me honest. Don't you come near! Don't you
touch that!... You think that I'm sorry you've found out--you think
you've done for me when you use shameful words on me and turn me out
o' your house. You've let me out o' jail! Whatever happens to me
now, I shan't go on living as I lived here. Whatever Martin's done,
he's taken me from you. You've ruined my life, you with your getting
on. I've loved in wretchedness, all the joy I ever had made wicked
by the fear o' you.... Who are you? Who are you? A man--a man that
takes power to himself, power to gather people to him and use them
as he wills--- a man that'd take the blood of life itself and put it
into the Works--into Rutherfords'. And what ha' you got by it--what?
You've got Dick, that you've bullied till he's a fool--John, that's
waiting for the time when he can sell what you've done--and you got
me--me to take your boots off at night--to well-nigh wish you dead
when I had to touch you.... Now!... Now you know it!
But for the great love in her heart, _Janet_ could not have found
courage to face her father as she did. But love gives strength; it
instills hope and faith, and kindles anew the fires of life. Why, then,
should it not be strong enough to break the fetters of even
Rutherfords'? Such a love only those famished for affection and warmth
can feel, and _Janet_ was famished for life.
_Janet._ I had a dream--a dream that I was in a place wi' flowers,
in the summer-time, white and thick like they never grow on the
moor--but it was the moor--a place near Martin's cottage. And I
dreamt that he came to me with the look he had when I was a little
lass, with his head up and the lie gone out of his eyes. All the
time I knew I was on my bed in my room here--but it was as if
sweetness poured into me, spreading and covering me like the water
in the tarn when the rains are heavy in the fells.... That's why I
dreamt of him so last night. It was as if all that was best in me
was in that dream--what I was as a bairn and what I'm going to be.
He couldn't help but love me. It was a message--I couldn't have
thought of it by myself. It's something that's come to me--here
(_putting her hands on her breast_). Part of me!
All that lay dormant in _Janet_ now turns into glowing fire at the touch
of Spring. But in _Martin_ life has been marred, strangled by the iron
hand of Rutherfords'.
_Martin._ Turned away I am, sure enough. Twenty-five years. And in a
minute it's broke. Wi' two words.
_Janet._ You say that now because your heart's cold with the
trouble. But it'll warm again--it'll warm again. I'll warm it out of
my own heart, Martin--my heart that can't be made cold.
_Martin._ I'd rather ha' died than he turn me away. I'd ha' lost
everything in the world to know that I was true to 'm, like I was
till you looked at me wi' the love in your face. It was a great love
ye gave me--you in your grand hoose wi' your delicate ways. But it's
broke me.
_Janet._ But--it's just the same with us. Just the same as ever it
was.
_Martin._ Aye. But there's no mending, wi' the likes o' him.
_Janet._ What's there to mend? What's there to mend except what's
bound you like a slave all the years? You're free--free for the
first time since you were a lad mebbe. We'll begin again. We'll be
happy--happy. You and me, free in the world! All the time that's
been 'll be just like a dream that's past, a waiting time afore we
found each other--the long winter afore the flowers come out white
and thick on the moors--
_Martin._ Twenty-five years ago he took me.... It's too long to
change.... I'll never do his work no more; but it's like as if he'd
be my master just the same--till I die--
_Janet._ Listen, Martin. Listen to me. You've worked all your life
for him, ever since you were a little lad. Early and late you've
been at the Works--working--working--for him.
_Martin._ Gladly!
_Janet._ Now and then he give you a kind word--when you were wearied
out mebbe--and your thoughts might ha' turned to what other men's
lives were, wi' time for rest and pleasure. You didn't see through
him, you wi' your big heart, Martin. You were too near to see, like
I was till Mary came. You worked gladly maybe--but all the time your
life was going into Rutherfords'--your manhood into the place he's
built. He's had you, Martin,--like he's had me, and all of us. We
used to say he was hard and ill-tempered. Bad to do with in the
house--we fell silent when he came in--we couldn't see for the
little things,--we couldn't see the years passing because of the
days. And all the time it was our lives he was taking bit by
bit--our lives that we'll never get back.... Now's our chance at
last! He's turned us both away, me as well as you. We two he's sent
out into the world together. Free. He's done it himself of his own
will. It's ours to take, Martin--our happiness. We'll get it in
spite of him. He'd kill it if he could.
The cruelty of it, that the Rutherfords never kill with one blow: never
so merciful are they. In their ruthless march they strangle inch by
inch, shed the blood of life drop by drop, until they have broken the
very spirit of man and made him as helpless and pitiful as _Martin_,--a
trembling leaf tossed about by the winds.
A picture of such stirring social and human importance that no one,
except he who has reached the stage of _Martin_, can escape its effect.
Yet even more significant is the inevitability of the doom of the
Rutherfords as embodied in the wisdom of _Mary_, _John's_ wife.
When her husband steals his father's money--a very small part indeed
compared with what the father had stolen from him--he leaves the hateful
place and _Mary_ remains to face the master. For the sake of her child
she strikes a bargain with _Rutherford_.
_Mary._ A bargain is where one person has something to sell that
another wants to buy. There's no love in it--only money--money that
pays for life. I've got something to sell that you want to buy.
_Rutherford._ What's that?
_Mary._ My son. You've lost everything you've had in the world.
John's gone--and Richard--and Janet. They won't come back. You're
alone now and getting old, with no one to come after you. When you
die Rutherfords' will be sold--somebody'll buy it and give it a new
name perhaps, and no one will even remember that you made it.
That'll be the end of all your work. Just--nothing. You've thought
of that.... It's for my boy. I want--a chance of life for him--his
place in the world. John can't give him that, because he's made so.
If I went to London and worked my hardest I'd get twenty-five
shillings a week. We've failed. From you I can get when I want for
my boy. I want--all the good common things: a good house, good
food, warmth. He's a delicate little thing now, but he'll grow
strong like other children.... Give me what I ask, and in return
I'll give you--him. On one condition. I'm to stay on here. I won't
trouble you--you needn't speak to me or see me unless you want to.
For ten years he's to be absolutely mine, to do what I like with.
You mustn't interfere--you mustn't tell him to do things or frighten
him. He's mine for ten years more.
_Rutherford._ And after that?
_Mary._ He'll be yours.
_Rutherford._ To train up. For Rutherfords'?
_Mary._ Yes.
_Rutherford._ After all? After Dick, that I've bullied till he's a
fool? John, that's wished me dead?
_Mary._ In ten years you'll be an old man; you won't be able to make
people afraid of you any more.
When I saw the masterly presentation of the play on the stage, _Mary's_
bargain looked unreal and incongruous. It seemed impossible to me that a
mother who really loves her child should want it to be in any way
connected with the Rutherfords'. But after repeatedly rereading the
play, I was convinced by _Mary's_ simple statement: "In ten years you'll
be an old man; you won't be able to make people afraid of you any more."
Most deeply true. The Rutherfords are bound by time, by the eternal
forces of change. Their influence on human life is indeed terrible.
Notwithstanding it all, however, they are fighting a losing game. They
are growing old, already too old to make anyone afraid. Change and
innovation are marching on, and the Rutherfords must make place for the
young generation knocking at the gates.