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_ Market-place as in Act I. WILLIE HOUGHTON, addressing a large
crowd of men from the foot of the obelisk.
WILLIE. And now you're out on strike--now you've been out for a week
pretty nearly, what further are you? I heard a great deal of talk
about what you were going to do. Well, what ARE you going to do?
You don't know. You've not the smallest idea. You haven't any idea
whatsoever. You've got your leaders. Now then, Job Arthur, throw a
little light on the way in front, will you: for it seems to me we're
lost in a bog. Which way are we to steer? Come--give the word, and
let's gee-up.
JOB ARTHUR. You ask me which way we are to go. I say we can't go
our own way, because of the obstacles that lie in front. You've got
to remove the obstacles from the way.
WILLIE. So said Balaam's ass. But you're not an ass--beg pardon;
and you're not Balaam--you're Job. And we've all got to be little
Jobs, learning how to spell patience backwards. We've lost our jobs
and we've found a Job. It's picking up a scorpion when you're
looking for an egg.--Tell us what you propose doing. . . . Remove an
obstacle from the way! What obstacle? And whose way?
JOB ARTHUR. I think it's pretty plain what the obstacle is.
WILLIE. Oh, ay. Tell us then.
JOB ARTHUR. The obstacle to Labour is Capital.
WILLIE. And how are we going to put salt on Capital's tail?
JOB ARTHUR. By Labour we mean us working men; and by Capital we mean
those that derive benefit from us, take the cream off us and leave us
the skim.
WILLIE. Oh, yes.
JOB ARTHUR. So that, if you're going to remove the obstacle, you've
got to remove the masters, and all that belongs to them. Does
everybody agree with me?
VOICES (loud). Ah, we do--yes--we do that--we do an' a'--yi--yi--
that's it!
WILLIE. Agreed unanimously. But how are we going to do it? Do you
propose to send for Williamson's furniture van, to pack them in? I
should think one pantechnicon would do, just for this parish. I'll
drive. Who'll be the vanmen to list and carry?
JOB ARTHUR. It's no use fooling. You've fooled for thirty years, and
we're no further. What's got to be done will have to be begun. It's
for every man to sweep in front of his own doorstep. You can't call
your neighbours dirty till you've washed your own face. Every parish
has got its own vermin, and it's the business of every parish to get
rid of its own.
VOICES. That's it--that's it--that's the ticket--that's the style!
WILLIE. And are you going to comb 'em out, or do you propose to use
Keating's?
VOICES. Shut it! Shut it up! Stop thy face! Hold thy gab!--Go on,
Job Arthur.
JOB ARTHUR. How it's got to be done is for us all to decide. I'm
not one for violence, except it's a force-put. But it's like this.
We've been travelling for years to where we stand now--and here the
road stops. There's a precipice below and a rock-face above. And
in front of us stand the masters. Now there's three things we can
do. We can either throw ourselves over the precipice; or we can lie
down and let the masters walk over us; or we can GET ON.
WILLIE. Yes. That's all right. But how are you going to get on?
JOB ARTHUR. Well--we've either got to throw the obstacle down the
cliff--or walk over it.
VOICES. Ay--ay--ay--yes--that's a fact.
WILLIE. I quite follow you, Job Arthur. You've either got to do for
the masters--or else just remove them, and put them somewhere else.
VOICES. Get rid on 'em--drop 'em down the shaft--sink 'em--ha' done
wi' 'em--drop 'em down the shaft--bust the beggars--what do you do
wi' vermin?
WILLIE. Supposing you begin. Supposing you take Gerald Barlow, and
hang him up from his lamp-post, with a piece of coal in his mouth for
a sacrament---
VOICES. Ay--serve him right--serve the beggar right! Shove it down's
throttle--ay!
WILLIE. Supposing you do it--supposing you've done it--and supposing
you aren't caught and punished--even supposing that--what are you
going to do next?--THAT'S the point.
JOB ARTHUR. We know what we're going to do. Once we can get our
hands free, we know what we're going to do.
WILLIE. Yes, so do I. You're either going to make SUCH a mess that
we shall never get out of it--which I don't think you will do, for
the English working man is the soul of obedience and order, and he'd
behave himself to-morrow as if he was at Sunday school, no matter
what he does to-day.--No, what you'll do, Job Arthur, you'll set
up another lot of masters, such a jolly sight worse than what we've
got now. I'd rather be mastered by Gerald Barlow, if it comes to
mastering, than by Job Arthur Freer--oh, SUCH a lot! You'll be far
less free with Job Arthur for your boss than ever you were with
Gerald Barlow. You'll be far more degraded.--In fact, though I've
preached socialism in the market-place for thirty years--if you're
going to start killing the masters to set yourselves up as bosses--
why, kill me along with the masters. For I'd rather die with
somebody who has one tiny little spark of decency left--though it
IS a little tiny spark--than live to triumph with those that have
none.
VOICES. Shut thy face, Houghton--shut it up--shut him up--hustle the
beggar! Hoi!--hoi-ee!--whoo!--whoam-it, whoam-it!--whoo!--bow-wow!--
wet-whiskers!---
WILLIE. And it's no use you making fool of yourselves--- (His words
are heard through an ugly, jeering, cold commotion.)
VOICE (loudly). He's comin'.
VOICES. Who?
VOICE. Barlow.--See 's motor?--comin' up--sithee?
WILLIE. If you've any sense left--- (Suddenly and violently
disappears.)
VOICES. Sorry!--he's comin'--'s comin'--sorry, ah! Who's in?--
That's Turton drivin'--yi, he's behind wi' a woman--ah, he's comin'--
he'll none go back--hold on. Sorry!--wheer's 'e comin'?--up from
Loddo--ay--- (The cries die down--the motor car slowly comes into
sight, OLIVER driving, GERALD and ANABEL behind. The men stand in
a mass in the way.)
OLIVER. Mind yourself, there. (Laughter.)
GERALD. Go ahead, Oliver.
VOICE. What's yer 'urry?
(Crowd sways and surges on the car. OLIVER is suddenly dragged out.
GERALD stands up--he, too, is seized from behind--he wrestles--is
torn out of his greatcoat--then falls--disappears. Loud cries--
"Hi!--hoi!--hoiee!"--all the while. The car shakes and presses
uneasily.)
VOICE. Stop the blazin' motor, somebody.
VOICE. Here y' are!--hold a minute. (A man jumps in and stops the
engine--he drops in the driver's seat.)
COLLIER (outside the car). Step down, miss.
ANABEL. I am Mrs. Barlow.
COLLIER. Missis, then. (Laugh.) Step done--lead 'er forrard. Take
'em forrard.
JOB ARTHUR. Ay, make a road.
GERALD. You're makin' a proper fool of yourself now, Freer.
JOB ARTHUR. You've brought it on yourself. YOU'VE made fools of
plenty of men.
COLLIERS. Come on, now--come on! Whoa!--whoa!--he's a jibber--go
pretty now, go pretty!
VOICES (suddenly). Lay hold o' Houghton--nab 'im--seize 'im--rats!--
rats!--bring 'im forrard!
ANABEL (in a loud, clear voice). I never knew anything so RIDICULOUS.
VOICES (falsetto). Ridiculous! Oh, ridiculous! Mind the step, dear!
--I'm Mrs. Barlow!--Oh, are you?--Tweet--tweet!
JOB ARTHUR. Make a space, boys, make a space, boys, make a space.
(He stands with prisoners in a cleared space before the obelisk.)
Now--now--quiet a minute--we want to ask a few questions of these
gentlemen.
VOICES. Quiet!--quiet!--Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h!--Answer pretty--answer
pretty now!--Quiet!--Shh-h-h!
JOB ARTHUR. We want to ask you, Mr. Gerald Barlow, why you have
given occasion for this present trouble.
GERALD. You are a fool.
VOICES. Oh!--oh!--naughty Barlow!--naughty baa-lamb--answer pretty--
be good baa-lamb--baa--baa!--answer pretty when gentleman asks you.
JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit Sh-h-h!--We put this plain question to you,
Mr. Barlow. Why did you refuse to give the clerks this just and fair
advance, when you knew that by refusing you would throw three thousand
men out of employment?
GERALD. You are a fool, I say.
VOICES. Oh!--oh!--won't do--won't do, Barlow--wrong answer--wrong
answer--be good baa-lamb--naughty boy--naughty boy!
JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit now!--If three thousand men ask you a just,
straightforward question, do you consider they've no right to an
answer?
GERALD. I would answer you with my foot.
VOICES (amid a threatening scuffle). Da-di-da! Hark ye--hark ye!
Oh--whoa--whoa a bit!--won't do!--won't do!--naughty--naughty--say
you're sorry--say you're sorry--kneel and say you're sorry--kneel
and beg pardon!
JOB ARTHUR. Hold on a bit--keep clear!
VOICES. Make him kneel--make him kneel--on his knees with him!
JOB ARTHUR. I think you'd better kneel down.
(The crowd press on GERALD--he struggles--they hit him behind the
knees, force him down.)
OLIVER. This is shameful and unnecessary.
VOICES. All of 'em--on your knees--all of' em--on their knees!
(The seize OLIVER and WILLIE and ANABEL, hustling. ANABEL kneels
quietly--the others struggle.)
WILLIE. Well, of all the damned, dirty, cowardly---
VOICES. Shut up, Houghton--shut him up--squeeze him!
OLIVER. Get off me--let me alone--I'll kneel.
VOICES. Good little doggies--nice doggies--kneel and beg pardon--
yap-yap--answer--make him answer!
JOB ARTHUR (holding up his hand for silence). It would be better if
you answered straight off, Barlow. We want to know why you prevented
that advance.
VOICES (after a pause). Nip his neck! Make him yelp!
OLIVER. Let me answer, then.--Because it's worse, perhaps, to be
bullied by three thousand men than by one man.
VOICES. Oh!--oh!--dog keeps barking--stuff his mouth--stop him up--
here's a bit of paper--answer, Barlow--nip his neck--stuff his mug--
make him yelp--cork the bottle!
(They press a lump of newspaper into OLIVER'S mouth, and bear down on
GERALD.)
JOB ARTHUR. Quiet--quiet--quiet a minute, everybody. We give him a
minute--we give him a minute to answer.
VOICES. Give him a minute--a holy minute--say your prayers, Barlow--
you've got a minute--tick-tick, says the clock--time him!
JOB ARTHUR. Keep quiet.
WILLIE. Of all the damned, cowardly---
VOICES. Sh-h-h!--Squeeze him--throttle him! Silence is golden,
Houghton.--Close the shutters, Willie's dead.--Dry up, wet whiskers!
JOB ARTHUR. You've fifteen seconds.
VOICES. There's a long, long trail a-winding---
JOB ARTHUR. The minute's up.--We ask you again, Gerald Barlow, why
you refused a just and fair demand, when you know it was against the
wishes of three thousand men all as good as yourself.
VOICES. And a sight better--I don't think--we're not all vermin--
we're not all crawlers, living off the sweat of other folks--we're
not all parish vermin--parish vermin.
JOB ARTHUR. And on what grounds do you think you have no occasion to
answer the straightforward question we put you here?
ANABEL (after a pause). Answer them, Gerald. What's the use of
prolonging this?
GERALD. I've nothing to answer.
VOICES. Nothing to answer--Gerald, darling--Gerald, duckie--oh,
lovey-dovey--I've nothing to answer--no, by God--no, by God, he
hasna--nowt to answer--ma'e him find summat, then--answer for him--
gi'e him's answer--let him ha'e it--go on--mum--mum--lovey-dovey--
rub his nose in it--kiss the dirt, ducky--bend him down--rub his
nose in--he's saying something--oh, no, he isn't--sorry I spoke--
bend him down!
JOB ARTHUR. Quiet a bit--quiet everybody--he's got to answer--keep
quiet.--Now--- (A silence.) Now then, Barlow, will you answer, or
won't you? (Silence.)
ANABEL. Answer them, Gerald--never mind.
VOICES. Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h! (Silence.)
JOB ARTHUR. You won't answer, Barlow?
VOICE. Down the beggar!
VOICES. Down him--put his nose down--flatten him!
(The crowd surges and begins to howl--they sway dangerously--GERALD
is spread-eagled on the floor, face down.)
JOB ARTHUR. Back--back--back a minute--back--back! (They recoil.)
WILLIE. I HOPE there's a God in heaven.
VOICES. Put him down--flatten him!
(WILLIE is flattened on the ground.)
JOB ARTHUR. Now, then--now then--if you won't answer, Barlow, I
can't stand here for you any more.--Take your feet off him, boys,
and turn him over--let us look at him. Let us see if he CAN speak.
(They turn him over, with another scuffle.) Now then, Barlow--you
can see the sky above you. Now do you think you're going to play
with three thousand men, with their lives and with their souls?--
now do you think you're going to answer them with your foot?--do
you--do you?
(The crowd has begun to sway and heave dangerously, with a low,
muffled roar, above which is heard JOB ARTHUR'S voice. As he
ceases, the roar breaks into a yell--the crowd heaves.)
VOICES. Down him--crack the vermin--on top of him--put your foot on
the vermin!
ANABEL (with a loud, piercing cry, suddenly starting up). Ah, no!
Ah, no! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o!
No-o-o-o! No-o-o-o! No-o! No-o-o!--Ah-h-h-h!--it's enough, it's
enough, it's enough--he's a man as you are. He's a man as you are.
He's a man as you are. (Weeps--a breath of silence.)
OLIVER. Let us stop now--let us stop now. Let me stand up.
(Silence.) I want to stand up. (A muffled noise.)
VOICE. Let him get up. (OLIVER rises.)
OLIVER. Be quiet. Be quiet.--Now--choose! Choose! Choose! Choose
what you will do! Only choose! Choose!--it will be irrevocable. (A
moment's pause.) Thank God we haven't gone too far.--Gerald, get up.
(Men still hold him down.)
JOB ARTHUR. Isn't he to answer us? Isn't he going to answer us?
OLIVER. Yes, he shall answer you. He shall answer you. But let
him stand up. No more of this. Let him stand up. He must stand
up. (Men still hold GERALD down.) OLIVER takes hold of their
hands and removes them.) Let go--let go now. Yes, let go--yes--I
ask you to let go. (Slowly, sullenly, the men let go. GERALD is
free, but he does not move.) There--get up, Gerald! Get up! You
aren't hurt, are you? You must get up--it's no use. We're doing
our best--you must do yours. When things are like this, we have
to put up with what we get. (GERALD rises slowly and faces the
mob. They roar dully.) You ask why the clerks didn't get this
increase? Wait! Wait! Do you still wish for any answer, Mr.
Freer?
JOB ARTHUR. Yes, that's what we've been waiting for.
OLIVER. Then answer, Gerald.
GERALD. They've trodden on my face.
OLIVER. No matter. Job Arthur will easily answer that you've
trodden on their souls. Don't start an altercation. (The crowd is
beginning to roar.)
GERALD. You want to know why the clerks didn't get their rise?--
Because you interfered and attempted to bully about it, do you see.
That's why.
VOICES. You want bullying.--You'll get bullying, you will.
OLIVER. Can't you see it's no good, either side? It's no mortal
use. We might as well all die to-morrow, or to-day, or this minute,
as go on bullying one another, one side bullying the other side, and
the other side bullying back. We'd BETTER all die.
WILLIE. And a great deal better. I'm damned if I'll take sides
with anybody against anything, after this. If I'm to die, I'll
die by myself. As for living, it seems impossible.
JOB ARTHUR. Have the men nothing to be said for their side?
OLIVER. They have a great deal--but not EVERYTHING, you see.
JOB ARTHUR. Haven't they been wronged? And AREN'T they wronged?
OLIVER. They have--and they are. But haven't they been wrong
themselves, too?--and aren't they wrong now?
JOB ARTHUR. How?
OLIVER. What about this affair? Do you call it right?
JOB ARTHUR. Haven't we been driven to it?
OLIVER. Partly. And haven't you driven the masters to it, as well?
JOB ARTHUR. I don't see that.
OLIVER. Can't you see that it takes two to make a quarrel? And as
long as each party hangs on to its own end of the stick and struggles
to get full hold of the stick, the quarrel will continue. It will
continue till you've killed one another. And even then, what better
shall you be? What better would you be, really, if you'd killed
Gerald Barlow just now? You wouldn't, you know. We're all human
beings, after all. And why can't we try really to leave off
struggling against one another, and set up a new state of things?
JOB ARTHUR. That's all very well, you see, while you've got the
goods.
OLIVER. I've got very little, I assure you.
JOB ARTHUR. Well, if you haven't, those you mix with have. They've
got the money, and the power, and they intend to keep it.
OLIVER. As for power, somebody must have it, you know. It only rests
with you to put it into the hands of the best men, the men you REALLY
believe in.--And as for money, it's life, it's living that matters,
not simply having money.
JOB ARTHUR. You can't live without money.
OLIVER. I know that. And therefore why can't we have the decency to
agree simply about money--just agree to dispose of it so that all men
could live their own lives.
JOB ARTHUR. That's what we want to do. But the others, such as
Gerald Barlow, they keep the money--AND the power.
OLIVER. You see, if you wanted to arrage things so that money flowed
more naturally, so that it flowed naturally to every man, according
to his needs, I think we could all soon agree. But you don't. What
you want is to take it away from one set and give it to another--or
keep it yourselves.
JOB ARTHUR. We want every man to have his proper share.
OLIVER. I'm sure _I_ do. I want every man to be able to live and
be free. But we shall never manage it by fighting over the money.
If you want what is natural and good, I'm sure the owners would soon
agree with you.
JOB ARTHUR. What? Gerald Barlow agree with us?
OLIVER. Why not? I believe so.
JOB ARTHUR. You ask him.
OLIVER. Do you think, Gerald, that if the men really wanted a whole,
better way, you would agree with them?
GERALD. I want a better way myself--but not their way.
JOB ARTHUR. There, you see!
VOICES. Ah-h! look you!--That's him--that's him all over.
OLIVER. You want a better way,--but not his way: he wants a better
way--but not your way. Why can't you both drop your buts, and simply
say you want a better way, and believe yourselves and one another
when you say it? Why can't you?
GERALD. Look here! I'm quite as tired of my way of life as you are
of yours. If you make me believe you want something better, then I
assure you I do: I want what you want. But Job Arthur Freer's not
the man to lead you to anything better. You can tell what people
want by the leaders they choose, do you see? You choose leaders
whom I respect, and I'll respect you, do you see? As it is, I don't.
And now I'm going.
VOICES. Who says?--Oh ay!--Who says goin'?
GERALD. Yes, I'm going. About this affair here we'll cry quits; no
more said about it. About a new way of life, a better way all round--
I tell you I want it and need it as much as ever you do. I don't care
about money really. But I'm never going to be bullied.
VOICE. Who doesn't care about money?
GERALD. I don't. I think we ought to be able to alter the whole
system--but not by bullying, not because one lot wants what the other
has got.
VOICE. No, because you've got everything.
GERALD. Where's my coat? Now then, step out of the way. (They move
towards the car.)
(Curtain.)
THE END.
Touch and Go, by D. H. Lawrence. _
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