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_ 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. Church-
goers 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.) _
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