"Yes," said I. "I was expecting Dick and Clara to make their appearance
any moment: but is there time to ask just one or two questions before
they come?"
"Try it, dear neighbour--try it," said old Hammond. "For the more you
ask me the better I am pleased; and at any rate if they do come and find
me in the middle of an answer, they must sit quiet and pretend to listen
till I come to an end. It won't hurt them; they will find it quite
amusing enough to sit side by side, conscious of their proximity to each
other."
I smiled, as I was bound to, and said: "Good; I will go on talking
without noticing them when they come in. Now, this is what I want to ask
you about--to wit, how you get people to work when there is no reward of
labour, and especially how you get them to work strenuously?"
"No reward of labour?" said Hammond, gravely. "The reward of labour is
_life_. Is that not enough?"
"But no reward for especially good work," quoth I.
"Plenty of reward," said he--"the reward of creation. The wages which
God gets, as people might have said time agone. If you are going to ask
to be paid for the pleasure of creation, which is what excellence in work
means, the next thing we shall hear of will be a bill sent in for the
begetting of children."
"Well, but," said I, "the man of the nineteenth century would say there
is a natural desire towards the procreation of children, and a natural
desire not to work."
"Yes, yes," said he, "I know the ancient platitude,--wholly untrue;
indeed, to us quite meaningless. Fourier, whom all men laughed at,
understood the matter better."
"Why is it meaningless to you?" said I.
He said: "Because it implies that all work is suffering, and we are so
far from thinking that, that, as you may have noticed, whereas we are not
short of wealth, there is a kind of fear growing up amongst us that we
shall one day be short of work. It is a pleasure which we are afraid of
losing, not a pain."
"Yes," said I, "I have noticed that, and I was going to ask you about
that also. But in the meantime, what do you positively mean to assert
about the pleasurableness of work amongst you?"
"This, that _all_ work is now pleasurable; either because of the hope of
gain in honour and wealth with which the work is done, which causes
pleasurable excitement, even when the actual work is not pleasant; or
else because it has grown into a pleasurable _habit_, as in the case with
what you may call mechanical work; and lastly (and most of our work is of
this kind) because there is conscious sensuous pleasure in the work
itself; it is done, that is, by artists."
"I see," said I. "Can you now tell me how you have come to this happy
condition? For, to speak plainly, this change from the conditions of the
older world seems to me far greater and more important than all the other
changes you have told me about as to crime, politics, property,
marriage."
"You are right there," said he. "Indeed, you may say rather that it is
this change which makes all the others possible. What is the object of
Revolution? Surely to make people happy. Revolution having brought its
foredoomed change about, how can you prevent the counter-revolution from
setting in except by making people happy? What! shall we expect peace
and stability from unhappiness? The gathering of grapes from thorns and
figs from thistles is a reasonable expectation compared with that! And
happiness without happy daily work is impossible."
"Most obviously true," said I: for I thought the old boy was preaching a
little. "But answer my question, as to how you gained this happiness."
"Briefly," said he, "by the absence of artificial coercion, and the
freedom for every man to do what he can do best, joined to the knowledge
of what productions of labour we really wanted. I must admit that this
knowledge we reached slowly and painfully."
"Go on," said I, "give me more detail; explain more fully. For this
subject interests me intensely."
"Yes, I will," said he; "but in order to do so I must weary you by
talking a little about the past. Contrast is necessary for this
explanation. Do you mind?"
"No, no," said I.
Said he, settling himself in his chair again for a long talk: "It is
clear from all that we hear and read, that in the last age of
civilisation men had got into a vicious circle in the matter of
production of wares. They had reached a wonderful facility of
production, and in order to make the most of that facility they had
gradually created (or allowed to grow, rather) a most elaborate system of
buying and selling, which has been called the World-Market; and that
World-Market, once set a-going, forced them to go on making more and more
of these wares, whether they needed them or not. So that while (of
course) they could not free themselves from the toil of making real
necessaries, they created in a never-ending series sham or artificial
necessaries, which became, under the iron rule of the aforesaid World-
Market, of equal importance to them with the real necessaries which
supported life. By all this they burdened themselves with a prodigious
mass of work merely for the sake of keeping their wretched system going."
"Yes--and then?" said I.
"Why, then, since they had forced themselves to stagger along under this
horrible burden of unnecessary production, it became impossible for them
to look upon labour and its results from any other point of view than
one--to wit, the ceaseless endeavour to expend the least possible amount
of labour on any article made, and yet at the same time to make as many
articles as possible. To this 'cheapening of production', as it was
called, everything was sacrificed: the happiness of the workman at his
work, nay, his most elementary comfort and bare health, his food, his
clothes, his dwelling, his leisure, his amusement, his education--his
life, in short--did not weigh a grain of sand in the balance against this
dire necessity of 'cheap production' of things, a great part of which
were not worth producing at all. Nay, we are told, and we must believe
it, so overwhelming is the evidence, though many of our people scarcely
_can_ believe it, that even rich and powerful men, the masters of the
poor devils aforesaid, submitted to live amidst sights and sounds and
smells which it is in the very nature of man to abhor and flee from, in
order that their riches might bolster up this supreme folly. The whole
community, in fact, was cast into the jaws of this ravening monster, 'the
cheap production' forced upon it by the World-Market."
"Dear me!" said I. "But what happened? Did not their cleverness and
facility in production master this chaos of misery at last? Couldn't
they catch up with the World-Market, and then set to work to devise means
for relieving themselves from this fearful task of extra labour?"
He smiled bitterly. "Did they even try to?" said he. "I am not sure.
You know that according to the old saw the beetle gets used to living in
dung; and these people, whether they found the dung sweet or not,
certainly lived in it."
His estimate of the life of the nineteenth century made me catch my
breath a little; and I said feebly, "But the labour-saving machines?"
"Heyday!" quoth he. "What's that you are saying? the labour-saving
machines? Yes, they were made to 'save labour' (or, to speak more
plainly, the lives of men) on one piece of work in order that it might be
expended--I will say wasted--on another, probably useless, piece of work.
Friend, all their devices for cheapening labour simply resulted in
increasing the burden of labour. The appetite of the World-Market grew
with what it fed on: the countries within the ring of 'civilisation'
(that is, organised misery) were glutted with the abortions of the
market, and force and fraud were used unsparingly to 'open up' countries
_outside_ that pale. This process of 'opening up' is a strange one to
those who have read the professions of the men of that period and do not
understand their practice; and perhaps shows us at its worst the great
vice of the nineteenth century, the use of hypocrisy and cant to evade
the responsibility of vicarious ferocity. When the civilised
World-Market coveted a country not yet in its clutches, some transparent
pretext was found--the suppression of a slavery different from and not so
cruel as that of commerce; the pushing of a religion no longer believed
in by its promoters; the 'rescue' of some desperado or homicidal madman
whose misdeeds had got him into trouble amongst the natives of the
'barbarous' country--any stick, in short, which would beat the dog at
all. Then some bold, unprincipled, ignorant adventurer was found (no
difficult task in the days of competition), and he was bribed to 'create
a market' by breaking up whatever traditional society there might be in
the doomed country, and by destroying whatever leisure or pleasure he
found there. He forced wares on the natives which they did not want, and
took their natural products in 'exchange,' as this form of robbery was
called, and thereby he 'created new wants,' to supply which (that is, to
be allowed to live by their new masters) the hapless, helpless people had
to sell themselves into the slavery of hopeless toil so that they might
have something wherewith to purchase the nullities of 'civilisation.'
"Ah," said the old man, pointing to the Museum, "I have read books and
papers in there, telling strange stories indeed of the dealings of
civilisation (or organised misery) with 'non-civilisation'; from the time
when the British Government deliberately sent blankets infected with
small-pox as choice gifts to inconvenient tribes of Red-skins, to the
time when Africa was infested by a man named Stanley, who--"
"Excuse me," said I, "but as you know, time presses; and I want to keep
our question on the straightest line possible; and I want at once to ask
this about these wares made for the World-Market--how about their
quality; these people who were so clever about making goods, I suppose
they made them well?"
"Quality!" said the old man crustily, for he was rather peevish at being
cut short in his story; "how could they possibly attend to such trifles
as the quality of the wares they sold? The best of them were of a lowish
average, the worst were transparent make-shifts for the things asked for,
which nobody would have put up with if they could have got anything else.
It was a current jest of the time that the wares were made to sell and
not to use; a jest which you, as coming from another planet, may
understand, but which our folk could not."
Said I: "What! did they make nothing well?"
"Why, yes," said he, "there was one class of goods which they did make
thoroughly well, and that was the class of machines which were used for
making things. These were usually quite perfect pieces of workmanship,
admirably adapted to the end in view. So that it may be fairly said that
the great achievement of the nineteenth century was the making of
machines which were wonders of invention, skill, and patience, and which
were used for the production of measureless quantities of worthless make-
shifts. In truth, the owners of the machines did not consider anything
which they made as wares, but simply as means for the enrichment of
themselves. Of course the only admitted test of utility in wares was the
finding of buyers for them--wise men or fools, as it might chance."
"And people put up with this?" said I.
"For a time," said he.
"And then?"
"And then the overturn," said the old man, smiling, "and the nineteenth
century saw itself as a man who has lost his clothes whilst bathing, and
has to walk naked through the town."
"You are very bitter about that unlucky nineteenth century," said I.
"Naturally," said he, "since I know so much about it."
He was silent a little, and then said: "There are traditions--nay, real
histories--in our family about it: my grandfather was one of its victims.
If you know something about it, you will understand what he suffered when
I tell you that he was in those days a genuine artist, a man of genius,
and a revolutionist."
"I think I do understand," said I: "but now, as it seems, you have
reversed all this?"
"Pretty much so," said he. "The wares which we make are made because
they are needed: men make for their neighbours' use as if they were
making for themselves, not for a vague market of which they know nothing,
and over which they have no control: as there is no buying and selling,
it would be mere insanity to make goods on the chance of their being
wanted; for there is no longer anyone who can be compelled to buy them.
So that whatever is made is good, and thoroughly fit for its purpose.
Nothing can be made except for genuine use; therefore no inferior goods
are made. Moreover, as aforesaid, we have now found out what we want, so
we make no more than we want; and as we are not driven to make a vast
quantity of useless things we have time and resources enough to consider
our pleasure in making them. All work which would be irksome to do by
hand is done by immensely improved machinery; and in all work which it is
a pleasure to do by hand machinery is done without. There is no
difficulty in finding work which suits the special turn of mind of
everybody; so that no man is sacrificed to the wants of another. From
time to time, when we have found out that some piece of work was too
disagreeable or troublesome, we have given it up and done altogether
without the thing produced by it. Now, surely you can see that under
these circumstances all the work that we do is an exercise of the mind
and body more or less pleasant to be done: so that instead of avoiding
work everybody seeks it: and, since people have got defter in doing the
work generation after generation, it has become so easy to do, that it
seems as if there were less done, though probably more is produced. I
suppose this explains that fear, which I hinted at just now, of a
possible scarcity in work, which perhaps you have already noticed, and
which is a feeling on the increase, and has been for a score of years."
"But do you think," said I, "that there is any fear of a work-famine
amongst you?"
"No, I do not," said he, "and I will tell why; it is each man's business
to make his own work pleasanter and pleasanter, which of course tends
towards raising the standard of excellence, as no man enjoys turning out
work which is not a credit to him, and also to greater deliberation in
turning it out; and there is such a vast number of things which can be
treated as works of art, that this alone gives employment to a host of
deft people. Again, if art be inexhaustible, so is science also; and
though it is no longer the only innocent occupation which is thought
worth an intelligent man spending his time upon, as it once was, yet
there are, and I suppose will be, many people who are excited by its
conquest of difficulties, and care for it more than for anything else.
Again, as more and more of pleasure is imported into work, I think we
shall take up kinds of work which produce desirable wares, but which we
gave up because we could not carry them on pleasantly. Moreover, I think
that it is only in parts of Europe which are more advanced than the rest
of the world that you will hear this talk of the fear of a work-famine.
Those lands which were once the colonies of Great Britain, for instance,
and especially America--that part of it, above all, which was once the
United states--are now and will be for a long while a great resource to
us. For these lands, and, I say, especially the northern parts of
America, suffered so terribly from the full force of the last days of
civilisation, and became such horrible places to live in, that they are
now very backward in all that makes life pleasant. Indeed, one may say
that for nearly a hundred years the people of the northern parts of
America have been engaged in gradually making a dwelling-place out of a
stinking dust-heap; and there is still a great deal to do, especially as
the country is so big."
"Well," said I, "I am exceedingly glad to think that you have such a
prospect of happiness before you. But I should like to ask a few more
questions, and then I have done for to-day."