that the office should have set it going, Breffitt.
BREFFITT. It's none of the office's doing, I think you'll find, Mr.
Gerald. The office men did nothing but ask for a just advance--at
any rate, time and prices being what they are, I consider it a fair
advance. If the men took it up, it's because they've got a set of
loud-mouthed blatherers and agitators among them like Job Arthur
Freer, who deserve to be hung--and hanging they'd get, if I could
have the judging of them.
GERALD. Well--it's very unfortunate--because we can't give the clerks
their increase now, you know.
BREFFITT. Can't you?--can't you? I can't see that it would be
anything out of the way, if I say what I think.
GERALD. No. They won't get any increase now. It shouldn't have been
allowed to become a public cry with the colliers. We can't give in
now.
BREFFITT. Have the Board decided that?
GERALD. They have--on my advice.
BREFFITT. Hm!--then the men will come out.
GERALD. We will see.
BREFFITT. It's trouble for nothing--it's trouble that could be
avoided. The clerks could have their advance, and it would hurt
nobody.
GERALD. Too late now.--I suppose if the men come out, the clerks
will come out with them?
BREFFITT. They'll have to--they'll have to.
GERALD. If they do, we may then make certain alterations in the
office staff which have needed making for some time.
BREFFITT. Very good--very good. I know what you mean.--I don't know
how your father bears all this, Mr. Gerald.
GERALD. We keep it from him as much as possible.--You'll let the
clerks know the decision. And if they stay out with the men, I'll
go over the list of the staff with you. It has needed revising for
a long time.
BREFFITT. I know what you mean--I know what you mean--I believe I
understand the firm's interest in my department. I ought, after
forty years studying it. I've studied the firm's interest for forty
years, Mr. Gerald. I'm not likely to forget them now.
GERALD. Of course.
BREFFITT. But I think it's a mistake--I think it's a mistake, and
I'm bound to say it, to let a great deal of trouble rise for a very
small cause. The clerks might have had what they reasonably asked
her.
GERALD. Well, it's too late now.
BREFFITT. I suppose it is--I suppose it is. I hope you'll remember,
sir, that I've put the interest of the firm before everything--before
every consideration.
GERALD. Of course, Breffitt.
BREFFITT. But you've not had any liking for the office staff, I'm
afraid, sir--not since your father put you amongst us for a few
months.--Well, sir, we shall weather this gale, I hope, as we've
weathered those in the past. Times don't become better, do they?
Men are an ungrateful lot, and these agitators should be lynched.
They would, if I had my way.
GERALD. Yes, of course. Don't wait.
BREFFITT. Good night to you. (Exit.)
GERALD. Good night.
ANABEL. He's the last, apparently.
GERALD. We'll hope so.
ANABEL. He puts you in a fury.
GERALD. It's his manner. My father spoilt them--abominable old
limpets. And they're so self-righteous. They think I'm a sort of
criminal who has instigated this new devilish system which runs
everything so close and cuts it so fine--as if they hadn't made this
inevitable by their shameless carelessness and wastefulness in the
past. He may well boast of his forty years--forty years' crass,
stupid wastefulness.
(Two or three more clerks pass, talking till they approach the seat,
then becoming silent after bidding good night.)
ANABEL. But aren't you a bit sorry for them?
GERALD. Why? If they're poor, what does it matter in a world of
chaos?
ANABEL. And aren't you an obstinate ass not to give them the bit
they want. It's mere stupid obstinacy.
GERALD. It may be. I call it policy.
ANABEL. Men always do call their obstinacy policy.
GERALD. Well, I don't care what happens. I wish things would come
to a head. I only fear they won't.
ANABEL. Aren't you rather wicked?--ASKING for strife?
GERALD. I hope I am. It's quite a relief to me to feel that I may
be wicked. I fear I'm not. I can see them all anticipating victory,
in their low-down fashion wanting to crow their low-down crowings.
I'm afraid I feel it's a righteous cause, to cut a lot of little
combs before I die.
ANABEL. But if they're right in what they want?
GERALD. In the right--in the right!--They're just greedy, incompetent,
stupid, gloating in a sense of the worst sort of power. They're like
vicious children, who would like to kill their parents so that they
could have the run of the larder. The rest is just cant.
ANABEL. If you're the parent in the case, I must say you flow over
with loving-kindness for them.
GERALD. I don't--I detest them. I only hope they will fight. If
they would, I'd have some respect for them. But you'll see what it
will be.
ANABEL. I wish I needn't, for it's very sickening.
GERALD. Sickening beyond expression.
ANABEL. I wish we could go right away.
GERALD. So do I--If one could get oneself out of this. But one
can't. It's the same wherever you have industrialism--and you have
industrialism everywhere, whether it's in Timbuctoo or Paraguay or
Antananarivo.
ANABEL. No, it isn't: you exaggerate.
JOB ARTHUR (suddenly approaching from the other side). Good evening,
Mr. Barlow. I heard you were in here. Could I have a word with you?
GERALD. Get on with it, then.
JOB ARTHUR. Is it right that you won't meet the clerks?
GERALD. Yes.
JOB ARTHUR. Not in any way?
GERALD. Not in any way whatsoever.
JOB ARTHUR. But--I thought I understood from you the other night---
GERALD. It's all the same what you understood.
JOB ARTHUR. Then you take it back, sir?
GERALD. I take nothing back, because I gave nothing.
JOB ARTHUR. Oh, excuse me, excuse me, sir. You said it would be all
right about the clerks. This lady heard you say it.
GERALD. Don't you call witnesses against me.--Besides, what does it
matter to you? What in the name of---
JOB ARTHUR. Well, sir, you said it would be all right, and I went on
that---
GERALD. You went on that! Where did you go to?
JOB ARTHUR. The men'll be out on Monday.
GERALD. So shall I.
JOB ARTHUR. Oh, yes, but--where's it going to end?
GERALD. Do you want me to prophesy? When did I set up for a public
prophet?
JOB ARTHUR. I don't know, sir. But perhaps you're doing more than
you know. There's a funny feeling just now among the men.
GERALD. So I've heard before. Why should I concern myself with
their feelings? Am I to cry when every collier bumps his funny-bone
--or to laugh?
JO
B ARTHUR. It's no laughing matter, you see.
GERALD. An I'm sure it's no crying matter--unless you want to cry,
do you see?
JOB ARTHUR. Ah, but, very likely, it wouldn't be me would cry.--You
don't know what might happen, now.
GERALD. I'm waiting for something to happen. I should like something
to happen--very much--very much indeed.
JOB ARTHUR. Yes, but perhaps you'd be sorry if it did happen.
GERALD. Is that warning or a threat?
JOB ARTHUR. I don't know--it might be a bit of both. What I mean to
say---
GERALD (suddenly seizing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking
him). What do you mean to say?--I mean you to say less, do you see?
--a great deal less--do you see? You've run on with your saying long
enough: that clock had better run down. So stop your sayings--stop
your sayings, I tell you--or you'll have them shaken out of you--
shaken out of you--shaken out of you, do you see? (Suddenly flings
him aside.)
(JOB ARTHUR, staggering, falls.)
ANABEL. Oh, no!--oh, no!
GERALD. Now get up, Job Arthur; and get up wiser than you went down.
You've played your little game and your little tricks and made your
little sayings long enough. You're going to stop now. We've had
quite enough of strong men of your stamp, Job Arthur--quite enough--
such labour leaders as you.
JOB ARTHUR. You'll be sorry, Mr. Barlow--you'll be sorry. You'll
wish you'd not attacked me.
GERALD. Don't you trouble about me and my sorrow. Mind your own.
JOB ARTHUR. You will--you'll be sorry. You'll be sorry for what
GERALD. Begun--begun?--I'd like to finish, too, that I would. I'd
like to finish with you, too--I warn YOU.
JOB ARTHUR. I warn you--I warn you. You won't go on much longer.
Every parish has its own vermin.
GERALD. Vermin?
JOB ARTHUR. Every parish has its own vermin; it lies with every
parish to destroy its own. We sha'n't have a clean parish till
we've destroyed the vermin we've got.
GERALD. Vermin? The fool's raving. Vermin!--Another phrase-maker,
by God! Another phrase-maker to lead the people.--Vermin? What
vermin? I know quite well what _I_ mean by vermin, Job Arthur. But
what do you mean? Vermin? Explain yourself.
JOB ARTHUR. Yes, vermin. Vermin is what lives on other people's
lives, living on their lives and profiting by it. We've got 'em in
every parish--vermin, I say--that live on the sweat and blood of the
people--live on it, and get rich on it--get rich through living on
other people's lives, the lives of the working men--living on the
bodies of the working men--that's vermin--if it isn't, what is it?
And every parish must destroy its own--every parish must destroy its
own vermin.
GERALD. The phrase, my God! the phrase.
JOB ARTHUR. Phrase or not phrase, there it is, and face it out if
you can. There it is--there's not one in every parish--there's more
than one--there's a number---
GERALD (suddenly kicking him). Go! (Kicks him.) Go! (Kicks him.)
go! (JOB ARTHUR falls.) Get out! (Kicks him.) Get out, I say!
Get out, I tell you! Get out! Get out!--Vermin!--Vermin!--I'll
vermin you! I'll put my foot through your phrases. Get up, I say,
get up and go--GO!
JOB ARTHUR. It'll be you as'll go, this time.
GERALD. What? What?--By God! I'll kick you out of this park like a
rotten bundle if you don't get up and go.
ANABEL. No, Gerald, no. Don't forget yourself. It's enough now.
It's enough now.--Come away. Do come away. Come away--leave him---
JOB ARTHUR (still on the ground). It's your turn to go. It's you
as'll go, this time.
GERALD (looking at him). One can't even tread on you.
ANABEL. Don't, Gerald, don't--don't look at him.--Don't say any more,
you, Job Arthur.--Come away, Gerald. Come away--come--do come.
GERALD (turning). THAT a human being! My God!--But he's right--
it's I who go. It's we who go, Anabel. He's still there.--My God!
a human being!
(Curtain.)
SCENE II
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
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