MR. BARLOW. Ah, splendid! Splendid! There is nothing like gaiety.
WINIFRED. I do love to dance about. I know: let us do a little
ballet--four of us--oh, do!
GERALD. What ballet, Winifred?
WINIFRED. Any. Eva can play for us. She plays well.
MR. BARLOW. You won't disturb your mother? Don't disturb Eva if
she is busy with your mother. (Exit WINIFRED.) If only I can see
Winifred happy, my heart is at rest: if only I can hope for her to
be happy in her life.
GERALD. Oh, Winnie's all right, father--especially now she has Miss
Wrath to initiate her into the mysteries of life and labour.
ANABEL. Why are you ironical?
MR. BARLOW. Oh, Miss Wrath, believe me, we all feel that--it is the
greatest possible pleasure to me that you have come.
GERALD. I wasn't ironical, I assure you.
MR. BARLOW. No, indeed--no, indeed! We have every belief in you.
ANABEL. But why should you have?
MR. BARLOW. Ah, my dear child, allow us the credit of our own
discernment. And don't take offence at my familiarity. I am
afraid I am spoilt since I am an invalid.
(Re-enter WINIFRED, with EVA.)
MR. BARLOW. Come, Eva, you will excuse us for upsetting your evening.
Will you be so good as to play something for us to dance to?
EVA. Yes, sir. What shall I play?
WINIFRED. Mozart--I'll find you the piece. Mozart's the saddest
musician in the world--but he's the best to dance to.
MR. BARLOW. Why, how is it you are such a connoisseur in sadness,
darling?
GERALD. She isn't. She's a flagrant amateur.
(EVA plays; they dance a little ballet.)
MR. BARLOW. Charming--charming, Miss Wrath:--will you allow me to
say _Anabel_, we shall all feel so much more at home? Yes--thank you
--er--you enter into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, dear. The
others are accustomed to play together. But it is not so easy to
come in on occasion as you do.
GERALD. Oh, Anabel's a genius!--I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath--
familiarity is catching.
MR. BARLOW. Gerald, my boy, don't forget that you are virtually host
here.
EVA. Did you want any more music, sir?
GERALD. No, don't stay, Eva. We mustn't tire father. (Exit EVA.)
MR. BARLOW. I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to
excuse in us, in the way of manners. We have never been a formal
household. But you have lived in the world of artists: you will
understand, I hope.
ANABEL. Oh, surely---
MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know. We have been a turbulent family, and we
have had our share of sorrow, even more, perhaps, than of joys. And
sorrow makes one indifferent to the conventionalities of life.
GERALD. Excuse me, father: do you mind if I go and write a letter I
have on my conscience?
MR. BARLOW. No, my boy. (Exit GERALD.) We have had our share of
sorrow and of conflict, Miss Wrath, as you may have gathered.
ANABEL. Yes--a little.
MR. BARLOW. The mines were opened when my father was a boy--the
first--and I was born late, when he was nearly fifty. So that all
my life has been involved with coal and colliers. As a young man, I
was gay and thoughtless. But I married young, and we lost our first
child through a terrible accident. Two children we have lost through
sudden and violent death. (WINIFRED goes out unnoticed.) It made me
reflect. And when I came to reflect, Anabel, I could not justify my
position in life. If I believed in the teachings of the New
Testament--which I did, and do--how could I keep two or three
thousand men employed and underground in the mines, at a wage, let us
say, of two pounds a week, whilst I lived in this comfortable house,
and took something like two thousand pounds a year--let us name any
figure---
ANABEL. Yes, of course. But is it money that really matters, Mr.
Barlow?
MR. BARLOW. My dear, if you are a working man, it matters. When I
went into the homes of my poor fellows, when they were ill or had had
accidents--then I knew it mattered. I knew that the great disparity
was wrong--even as we are taught that it is wrong.
ANABEL. Yes, I believe that the great disparity is a mistake. But
take their lives, Mr. Barlow. Do you thing they would LIVE more, if
they had more money? Do you think the poor live less than the rich?
--is their life emptier?
OLIVER. All our lives would be better, if we hadn't to hang on in the
perpetual tug-of-war, like two donkeys pulling at one carrot. The
ghastly tension of possessions, and struggling for possession, spoils
life for everybody.
MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know now, as I knew then, that it was wrong. But
how to avoid the wrong? If I gave away the whole of my income, it
would merely be an arbitrary dispensation of charity. The money would
still be mine to give, and those that received it would probably only
be weakened instead of strengthened. And then my wife was accustomed
to a certain way of living, a certain establishment. Had I any right
to sacrifice her, without her consent?
ANABEL. Why, no!
MR. BARLOW. Again, if I withdrew from the Company, if I retired on
a small income, I knew that another man would automatically take my
place, and make it probably harder for the men.
ANABEL. Of course--while the system stands, if one makes self-
sacrifice one only panders to the system, makes it fatter.
MR. BARLOW. One panders to the system--one panders to the system.
And so, you see, the problem is too much. One man cannot alter or
affect the system; he can only sacrifice himself to it. Which is
the worst thing probably that he can do.
OLIVER. Quite. But why feel guilty for the system?--everybody
supports it, the poor as much as the rich. If every rich man
withdrew from the system, the working class and socialists would
keep it going, every man in the hope of getting rich himself at
last. It's the people that are wrong. They want the system much
more than the rich do--because they are much more anxious to be
rich--never having been rich, poor devils.
MR. BARLOW. Just the system. So I decided at last that the best way
was to give every private help that lay in my power. I would help my
men individually and personally, wherever I could. Not one of them
came to me and went away unheard; and there was no distress which
could be alleviated that I did not try to alleviate. Yet I am afraid
that the greatest distress I never heard of , the most distressed
never came to me. They hid their trouble.
ANABEL. Yes, the decent ones.
MR. BARLOW. But I wished to help--it was my duty. Still, I think
that, on the whole, we were a comfortable and happy community.
Barlow & Walsall's men were not unhappy in those days, I believe.
We were liberal; the men lived.
OLIVER. Yes, that is true. Even twenty years ago the place was
still jolly.
MR. BARLOW. And then, when Gerald was a lad of thirteen, came the
great lock-out. We belonged to the Masters' Federation--I was but
one man on the Board. We had to abide by the decision. The mines
were closed till the men would accept the reduction.--Well, that cut
my life across. We were shutting the men out from work, starving
their families, in order to force them to accept a reduction. It may
be the condition of trade made it imperative. But, for myself, I
would rather have lost everything.--Of course, we did what we could.
Food was very cheap--practically given away. We had open kitchen
here. And it was mercifully warm summer-time. Nevertheless, there
was privation and suffering, and trouble and bitterness. We had the
redcoats down--even to guard this house. And from this window I saw
Whatmore head-stocks ablaze, and before I could get to the spot the
soldiers had shot two poor fellows. They were not killed, thank
God---
OLIVER. Ah, but they enjoyed it--they enjoyed it immensely. I
remember what grand old sporting weeks they were. It was like a
fox-hunt, so lively and gay--bands and tea-parties and excitement
everywhere, pit-ponies loose, men all over the country-side---
MR. BARLOW. There was a great deal of suffering, which you were
too young to appreciate. However, since that year I have had to
acknowledge a new situation--a radical if unspoken opposition
between masters and men. Since that year we have been split into
opposite camps. Whatever I might privately feel, I was one of the
owners, one of the masters, and therefore in the opposite camp. To
my men I was an oppressor, a representative of injustice and greed.
Privately, I like to think that even to this day they bear me no
malice, that they have some lingering regard for me. But the master
stands before the human being, and the condition of war overrides
individuals--they hate the master, even whilst, as a human being, he
would be their friend. I recognise the inevitable justice. It is
the price one has to pay.
ANABEL. Yes, it is difficult--very.
MR. BARLOW. Perhaps I weary you?
ANABEL. Oh, no--no.
MR. BARLOW. Well--then the mines began to pay badly. The seams ran
thin and unprofitable, work was short. Either we must close down
or introduce a new system, American methods, which I dislike so
extremely. Now it really became a case of men working against
machines, flesh and blood working against iron, for a livelihood.
Still, it had to be done--the whole system revolutionised. Gerald
took it in hand--and now I hardly know my own pits, with the great
electric plants and strange machinery, and the new coal-cutters--
iron men, as the colliers call them--everything running at top speed,
utterly dehumanised, inhuman. Well, it had to be done; it was the
only alternative to closing down and throwing three thousand men out
of work. And Gerald has done it. But I can't bear to see it. The
men of this generation are not like my men. They are worn and gloomy;
they have a hollow look that I can't bear to see. They are a great
grief to me. I remember men even twenty years ago--a noisy, lively,
careless set, who kept the place ringing. I feel it is unnatural; I
feel afraid of it. And I cannot help feeling guilty.
ANABEL. Yes--I understand. It terrifies me.
MR. BARLOW. Does it?--does it?--Yes.--And as my wife says, I leave
it all to Gerald--this terrible situation. But I appeal to God, if
anything in my power could have averted it, I would have averted it.
I would have made any sacrifice. For it is a great and bitter
trouble to me.
ANABEL. Ah, well, in death there is no industrial situation.
Something must be different there.
MR. BARLOW. Yes--yes.
OLIVER. And you see sacrifice isn't the slightest use. If only
people would be sane and decent.
MR. BARLOW. Yes, indeed.--Would you be so good as to ring, Oliver?
I think I must go to bed.
ANABEL. Ah, you have over-tired yourself.
MR. BARLOW. No, my dear--not over-tired. Excuse me if I have
burdened you with all this. I relieves me to speak of it.
ANABEL. I realise HOW terrible it is, Mr. Barlow--and how helpless
one is.
MR. BARLOW. Thank you, my dear, for your sympathy.
OLIVER. If the people for one minute pulled themselves up and
conquered their mania for money and machine excitement, the whole
thing would be solved.--Would you like me to find Winnie and tell
her to say good night to you?
MR. BARLOW. If you would be so kind. (Exit OLIVER.) Can't you find
a sweet that you would like, my dear? Won't you take a little cherry
brandy?
(Enter BUTLER.)
ANABEL. Thank you.
WILLIAM. You will go up, sir?
MR. BARLOW. Yes, William.
WILLIAM. You are tired to-night, sir.
MR. BARLOW. It has come over me just now.
WILLIAM. I wish you went up before you became so over-tired, sir.
Would you like nurse?
MR. BARLOW. No, I'll go with you, William. Good night, my dear.
ANABEL. Good night, Mr. Barlow. I am so sorry if you are over-tired.
(Exit BUTLER and MR. BARLOW. ANABEL takes a drink and goes to
the fire.)
(Enter GERALD.)
GERALD. Father gone up?
ANABEL. Yes.
GERALD. I thought I heard him. Has he been talking too much?--Poor
father, he will take things to heart.
ANABEL. Tragic, really.
GERALD. Yes, I suppose it is. But one can get beyond tragedy--
beyond the state of feeling tragical, I mean. Father himself is
tragical. One feels he is mistaken--and yet he wouldn't be any
different, and be himself, I suppose. He's sort of crucified on
an idea of the working people. It's rather horrible when he's
one's father.--However, apart from tragedy, how do you like being
here, in this house?
ANABEL. I like the house. It's rather too comfortable.
GERALD. Yes. But how do you like being here?
ANABEL. How do you like my being in your home?
GERALD. Oh, I think you're very decorative.
ANABEL. More decorative than comfortable?
GERALD. Perhaps. But perhaps you give the necessary finish to the
establishment.
ANABEL. Like the correct window-curtains?
GERALD. Yes, something like that. I say, why did you come, Anabel?
Why did you come slap-bang into the middle of us?--It's not
expostulation--I want to know.
ANABEL. You mean you want to be told?
GERALD. Yes, I want to be told.
ANABEL. That's rather mean of you. You should savvy, and let it go
without saying.
GERALD. Yes, but I don't savvy.
ANABEL. Then wait till you do.
GERALD. No, I want to be told. There's a difference in you, Anabel,
that puts me out, rather. You're sort of softer and sweeter--I'm not
sure whether it isn't a touch of father in you. There's a little
sanctified smudge on your face. Are you really a bit sanctified?
ANABEL. No, not sanctified. It's true I feel different. I feel I
want a new way of life--something more dignified, more religious, if
you like--anyhow, something POSITIVE.
GERALD. Is it the change of heart, Anabel?
ANABEL. Perhaps it is, Gerald.
GERALD. I'm not sure that I like it. Isn't it like a berry that
decides to get very sweet, and goes soft?
ANABEL. I don't think so.
GERALD. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you better before.
I don't think I like you with this touch of aureole. People seem to
me so horribly self-satisfied when they get a change of heart--they
take such a fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it.
ANABEL. I don't think I do.--Do you feel no different, Gerald?
GERALD. Radically, I can't say I do. I feel very much more
INdifferent.
ANABEL. What to?
GERALD. Everything.
ANABEL. You're still angry--that's what it is.
GERALD. Oh, yes, I'm angry. But that is part of my normal state.
ANABEL. Why are you angry?
GERALD. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be angry? I'm angry
because you treated me--well, so impudently, really--clearing out
and leaving one to whistle to the empty walls.
ANABEL. Don't you think it was time I cleared out, when you became
so violent, and really dangerous, really like a madman?
GERALD. Time or not time, you went--you disappeared and left us
high and dry--and I am still angry.--But I'm not only angry about
that. I'm angry with the colliers, with Labour for its low-down
impudence--and I'm angry with father for being so ill--and I'm angry
with mother for looking such a hopeless thing--and I'm angry with
Oliver because he thinks so much---
ANABEL. And what are you angry with yourself for?
GERALD. I'm angry with myself for being myself--I always was that.
I was always a curse to myself.
ANABEL. And that's why you curse others so much?
GERALD. You talk as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.
ANABEL. You see, Gerald, there has to be a change. You'll have to
change.
GERALD. Change of heart?--Well, it won't be to get softer, Anabel.
ANABEL. You needn't be softer. But you can be quieter, more sane
even. There ought to be some part of you that can be quiet and apart
from the world, some part that can be happy and gentle.
GERALD. Well, there isn't. I don't pretend to be able to extricate
a soft sort of John Halifax, Gentleman, out of the machine I'm mixed
up in, and keep him to gladden the connubial hearth. I'm angry, and
I'm angry right through, and I'm not going to play bo-peep with
myself, pretending not to be.
ANABEL. Nobody asks you to. But is there no part of you that can be
a bit gentle and peaceful and happy with a woman?
GERALD. No, there isn't.--I'm not going to smug with you--no, not I.
You're smug in your coming back. You feel virtuous, and expect me to
rise to it. I won't.
ANABEL. Then I'd better have stayed away.
GERALD. If you want me to virtuise and smug with you, you had.
ANABEL. What DO you want, then?
GERALD. I don't know. I know I don't want THAT.
ANABEL. Oh, very well. (Goes to the piano; begins to play.)
(Enter MRS. BARLOW.)
GERALD. Hello, mother! Father HAS gone to bed.
MRS. BARLOW. Oh, I thought he was down here talking. You two alone?
GERALD. With the piano for chaperone, mother.