Sunday morning. Market-place of a large mining village in the
Midlands. A man addressing a small gang of colliers from the
foot of a stumpy memorial obelisk. Church bells heard.
Churchgoers passing along the outer pavements.
WILLIE HOUGHTON. What's the matter with you folks, as I've told you
before, and as I shall keep on telling you every now and again, though
it doesn't make a bit of difference, is that you've got no idea of
freedom whatsoever. I've lived in this blessed place for fifty years,
and I've never seen the spark of an idea, nor of any response to an
idea, come out of a single one of you, all the time. I don't know what
it is with colliers--whether it's spending so much time in the bowels
of the earth--but they never seem to be able to get their thoughts above
their bellies. If you've got plenty to eat and drink, and a bit over to
keep the missis quiet, you're satisfied. I never saw such a satisfied
bloomin' lot in my life as you Barlow & Wasall's men are, really. Of
course you can growse as well as anybody, and you do growse. But you
don't do anything else. You're stuck in a sort of mud of contentment,
and you feel yourselves sinking, but you make no efforts to get out. You
bleat a bit, like sheep in a bog--but you like it, you know. You like
sinking in--you don't have to stand on your own feet then.
I'll tell you what'll happen to you chaps. I'll give you a little
picture of what you'll be like in the future. Barlow & Walsall's 'll
make a number of compounds, such as they keep niggers in in South
Africa, and there you'll be kept. And every one of you'll have a little
brass collar round his neck, with a number on it. You won't have names
any more. And you'll go from the compound to the pit, and from the
pit back again to the compound. You won't be allowed to go outside the
gates, except at week-ends. They'll let you go home to your wives on
Saturday nights, to stop over Sunday. But you'll have to be in again
by half-past nine on Sunday night; and if you're late, you'll have your
next week-end knocked off. And there you'll be--and you'll be quite
happy. They'll give you plenty to eat, and a can of beer a day, and a
bit of bacca--and they'll provide dominoes and skittles for you to play
with. And you'll be the most contented set of men alive.--But you won't
be men. You won't even be animals. You'll go from number one to number
three thousand, a lot of numbered slaves--a new sort of slaves---
VOICE. An' wheer shall thee be, Willie?
WILLIE. Oh, I shall be outside the palings, laughing at you. I shall
have to laugh, because it'll be your own faults. You'll have nobody but
yourself to thank for it. You don't WANT to be men. You'd rather NOT be
free--much rather. You're like those people spoken of in Shakespeare:
"Oh, how eager these men are to be slaves!" I believe it's
Shakespeare--or the Bible--one or the other--it mostly is---
ANABEL WRATH (she was passing to church). It was Tiberius.
WILLIE. Eh?
ANABEL. Tiberius said it.
WILLIE. Tiberius!--Oh, did he? (Laughs.) Thanks! Well, if Tiberius said
it, there must be something in it, and he only just missed being in the
Bible anyway. He was a day late, or they'd have had him in. "Oh, how
eager these men are to be slaves!"--It's evident the Romans deserved all
they got from Tiberius--and you'll deserve all you get, every bit of
it. But don't you bother, you'll get it. You won't be at the mercy
of Tiberius, you'll be at the mercy of something a jolly sight worse.
Tiberius took the skin off a few Romans, apparently. But you'll have
the soul taken out of you--every one of you. And I'd rather lose my skin
than my soul, any day. But perhaps you wouldn't.
VOICE. What art makin' for, Willie? Tha seems to say a lot, but tha goes
round it. Tha'rt like a donkey on a gin. Tha gets ravelled.
WILLIE. Yes, that's just it. I am precisely like a donkey on a gin--a
donkey that's trying to wind a lot of colliers up to the surface.
There's many a donkey that's brought more colliers than you up to see
daylight, by trotting round.--But do you want to know what I'm making
for? I can soon tell you that. You Barlow & Wasall's men, you haven't a
soul to call your own. Barlow & Wasall's have only to say to one of you,
Come, and he cometh, Go, and he goeth, Lie VOICE. Ay--an' what about it?
Tha's got a behind o' thy own, hasn't yer?
WILLIE. Do you stand there and ask me what about it, and haven't the
sense to alter it? Couldn't you set up a proper Government to-morrow, if
you liked? Couldn't you contrive that the pits belonged to you, instead
of you belonging to the pits, like so many old pit-ponies that stop down
till they are blind, and take to eating coal-slack for meadow-grass, not
knowing the difference? If only you'd learn to think, I'd respect you.
As you are, I can't, not if I try my hardest. All you can think of is
to ask for another shilling a day. That's as far as your imagination
carries you. And perhaps you get sevenpence ha'penny, but pay for it
with half-a-crown's worth of sweat. The masters aren't fools--as you
are. They'll give you two-thirds of what you ask for, but they'll get
five-thirds of it back again--and they'll get it out of your flesh and
blood, too, in jolly hard work. Shylock wasn't in it with them. He only
wanted a pound of flesh. But you cheerfully give up a pound a week, each
one of you, and keep on giving it up.--But you don't seem to see these
things. You can't think beyond your dinners and your 'lowance. You think
if you can get another shilling a day you're set up. You make me tired,
I tell you.
JOB ARTHUR FREER. We think of others besides ourselves.
WILLIE. Hello, Job Arthur--are you there? I didn't recognise you without
your frock-coat and silk hat--on the Sabbath.--What was that you said?
You think of something else, besides yourselves?--Oh ay--I'm glad to
hear it. Did you mean your own importance?
(A motor car, GERALD BARLOW driving, OLIVER TURTON with him has
pulled up.)
JOB ARTHUR (glancing at the car). No, I didn't.
WILLIE. Didn't you, though?--Come, speak up, let us have it. The more
the merrier. You were going to say something.
JOB ARTHUR. Nay, you were doing the talking.
WILLIE. Yes, so I was, till you interrupted, with a great idea on the
tip of your tongue. Come, spit it out. No matter if Mr. Barlow hears
you. You know how sorry for you we feel, that you've always got to make
your speeches twice--once to those above, and once to us here below I
didn't meant the angels and the devils, but never mind. Speak up, Job
Arthur.
JOB ARTHUR. It's not everybody as has as much to say as you, Mr.
Houghton.
WILLIE. No, not in the open--that's a fact. Some folks says a great deal
more, in semi-private. You were just going to explain to me, on
behalf of the men, whom you so ably represent and so wisely lead, Job
Arthur--we won't say by the nose--you were just going to tell me--on
behalf of the men, of course, not of the masters--that you think of
others, besides yourself. Do you mind explaining WHAT others?
JOB ARTHUR. Everybody's used to your talk, Mr. Houghton, and for that
reason it doesn't make much impression. What I meant to say, in plain
words, was that we have to think of what's best for everybody, not only
of ourselves.
WILLIE. Oh, I see. What's best for everybody! I see! Well, for myself,
I'm much obliged--there's nothing for us to do, gentlemen, but for all
of us to bow acknowledgments to Mr. Job Arthur Freer, who so kindly has
ALL our interests at heart.
JOB ARTHUR. I don't profess to be a red-rag Socialist. I don't pretend
to think that if the Government had the pits it would be any better for
us. No. What I mean is, that the pits are there and every man on this
place depends on them, one way or another. They're the cow that gives
the milk. And what I mean is, how every man shall have a proper share
of the milk, which is food and living. It's like killing the goose that
laid the golden egg. I want to keep the cow healthy and strong. And the
cow is the pits, and we're the men that depend on the pits.
WILLIE. Who's the cat that's going to lick the cream?
JOB ARTHUR. My position is this--and I state it before masters and
men--that it's our business to strike such a balance between the
interests of the men and the interests of the masters that the pits
remain healthy, and everybody profits.
WILLIE. You're out for the millennium, I can see--with Mr. Job Arthur
Freer striking the balance. We all see you, Job Arthur, one foot on
either side of the fence, balancing the see-saw, with masters at one
end and men at the other. You'll have to give one side a lot of
pudding.--But go back a bit, to where we were before the motor car took
your breath away. When you said, Job Arthur, that you think of others
besides yourself, didn't you mean, as a matter of fact, the office men?
Didn't you mean that the colliers, led--we won't mention noses--by you,
were going to come out in sympathy with the office clerks, supposing
they didn't get the rise in wages which they've asked for--the office
clerks? Wasn't that it?
JOB ARTHUR. There's been some talk among the men of standing by the
office. I don't know what they'll do. But they'll do it of their own
decision, whatever it is.
WILLIE. There's not a shadow of doubt about it, Job Arthur. But it's a
funny thing the decisions all have the same foxy smell about them, Job
Arthur.
OLIVER TURTON (calling from the car). What was the speech about, in the
first place?
WILLIE. I beg pardon?
OLIVER. What was the address about, to begin with?
WILLIE. Oh, the same old hat--Freedom. But partly it's given to
annoy the Unco Guid, as they pass to their Sabbath banquet of
self-complacency.
OLIVER. What ABOUT Freedom?
WILLIE. Very much as usual, I believe. But you should have been here ten
minutes sooner, before we began to read the lessons. (Laughs.)
ANABEL W. (moving forward, and holding out her hand). You'd merely have
been told what Freedom ISN'T; and you know that already. How are you,
Oliver?
OLIVER. Good God, Anabel!--are you part of the meeting? How long have
you been back in England?
ANABEL. Some months, now. My family have moved here, you know.
OLIVER. Your family! Where have they moved from?--from the moon?
ANABEL. No, only from Derby.--How are you, Gerald?
(GERALD twists in his seat to give her his hand.)
GERALD. I saw you before.
ANABEL. Yes, I know you did.
(JOB ARTHUR has disappeared. The men disperse sheepishly into groups,
to stand and sit on their heels by the walls and the causeway
edge. WILLIE HOUGHTON begins to talk to individuals.)
OLIVER. Won't you get in and drive on with us a little way?
ANABEL. No, I was going to church.
OLIVER. Going to church! Is that a new habit?
ANABEL. Not a habit. But I've been twice since I saw you last.
OLIVER. I see. And that's nearly two years ago. It's an annual thing,
like a birthday?
ANABEL. No. I'll go on, then.
OLIVER. You'll be late now.
ANABEL. Shall I? It doesn't matter.
OLIVER. We are going to see you again, aren't we?
ANABEL (after a pause). Yes, I hope so, Oliver.
OLIVER. How have you been these two years--well?--happy?
ANABEL. No, neither. How have you?
OLIVER. Yes, fairly happy. Have you been ill?
ANABEL. Yes, in France I was very ill.
OLIVER. Your old neuritis?
ANABEL. No. My chest. Pneumonia--oh, a complication.
OLIVER. How sickening! Who looked after you? Is it better?
ANABEL. Yes, it's a great deal better.
OLIVER. But, Anabel--we must fix a meeting. I say, wait just a moment.
Could I call on your people? Go into town with me one day. I don't know
whether Gerald intends to see you--whether he intends to ask you to
Lilley Close.
GERALD. Oh, it's all right.
ANABEL. He's no need. I'm fixed up there already.
GERALD. What do you mean?
ANABEL. I am at Lilley Close every day--or most days--to work with your
sister Winifred in the studio.
GERALD. What?--why, how's that?
ANABEL. Your father asked me. My father was already giving her some
lessons.
GERALD. And you're at our house every day?
ANABEL. Most days.
GERALD. Well, I'm--well, I'll be--you managed it very sharp, didn't you?
I've only been away a fort-night.
ANABEL. Your father asked me--he offered me twelve pounds a month--I
wanted to do something.
GERALD. Oh yes, but you didn't hire yourself out at Lilley Close as a
sort of upper servant just for twelve pounds a month.
ANABEL. You're wrong--you're wrong. I'm not a sort of upper servant at
all--not at all.
GERALD. Oh, yes, you are, if you're paid twelve pounds a month--three
pounds a week. That's about what father's sick-nurse gets, I believe.
You don't do it for twelve pounds a month. You can make twelve pounds
in a day, if you like to work at your little models: I know you can sell
your statuette things as soon as you make them.
ANABEL. But I CAN'T make them. I CAN'T make them. I've lost the
spirit--the--_joi de vivre_--I don't know what, since I've been ill. I
tell you I've GOT to earn something.
GERALD. Nevertheless, you won't make me believe, Anabel, that you've
come and buried yourself in the provinces--SUCH provinces--just to earn
father's three pounds a week. Why don't you admit it, that you came back
to try and take up the old threads.
OLIVER. Why not, Gerald? Don't you think we ought to take up the old
threads?
GERALD. I don't think we ought to be left without choice. I don't think
Anabel ought to come back and thrust herself on me--for that's what it
amounts to, after all--when one remembers what's gone before.
ANABEL. I DON'T thrust myself on you at all. I know I'm a fool, a fool,
to come back. But I wanted to. I wanted to see you again. Now I know
I've presumed. I've made myself CHEAP to you. I wanted to--I wanted to.
And now I've done it, I won't come to Lilley Close again, nor anywhere
where you are. Tell your father I have gone to France again--it will be
true.
GERALD. You play tricks on me--and on yourself. You know you do. You
do it for the pure enjoyment of it. You're making a scene here in this
filthy market-place, just for the fun of it. You like to see these
accursed colliers standing eyeing you, and squatting on their heels. You
like to catch me out, here where I'm known, where I've been the object
of their eyes since I was born. This is a great _coup de main_ for you.
I knew it the moment I saw you here.
OLIVER. After all, we ARE making a scene in the market-place. Get in,
Anabel, and we'll settle the dispute more privately. I'm glad you came
back, anyhow. I'm glad you came right down on us. Get in, and let us run
down to Whatmore.
ANABEL. No, Oliver. I don't want to run down to Whatmore. I wanted to
see you--I wanted to see Gerald--and I've seen him--and I've heard
him. That will suffice me. We'll make an end of the scene in the
market-place. (She turns away.)
OLIVER. I knew it wasn't ended. I knew she would come back and tell us
she'd come. But she's done her bit--now she'll go again. My God, what a
fool of a world!--You go on, Gerald--I'll just go after her and see it
out. (Calls.) One moment, Anabel.
ANABEL (calling). Don't come, Oliver. (Turns.)
GERALD. Anabel! (Blows the horn of the motor car violently and
agitatively--she looks round--turns again as if frightened.) God damn
the woman! (Gets down from the car.) Drive home for me, Oliver.
(Curtain.)