CLERK: We’re as much put out about it as anybody.
GERALD: Of course.
CLERK: Yes — well — good night, sir. (Clerks draw near — there is a sound of loud young voices and bicycle bells. Bicycles sweep past.)
CLERKS: Good night, sir. — Good night, sir.
GERALD: Good night. — They’re very bucked to see me sitting here with a woman — a young lady as they’ll say. I guess your name will be flying round to-morrow. They stop partly to have a good look at you. Do they know you, do you think?
ANABEL: Sure.
CLERKS: Mr Breffitt’s just coming, sir. — Good night, sir. — Good night, sir. (Another bicycle passes.)
ANABEL: The bicycles don’t see us. — Isn’t it rather hateful to be a master? The attitude of them all is so ugly. I can quite see that it makes you rather a bully.
GERALD: I suppose it does. (Figure of a large man approaches.)
BREFFITT: Oh — ah — it’s Mr Gerald! — I couldn’t make out who it was. — Were you coming up to the office, sir? Do you want me to go back with you?
GERALD: No, thank you — I just wanted a word with you about this agitation. It’ll do just as well here. It’s a pity it started — 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, times 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 interests 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 for.
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 BREFFITT.
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 in the 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 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 alright 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 alright, 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?<
br />
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?
JOB ARTHUR: It’s no laughing matter, you see.
GERALD: And 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 who 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 a 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 you’ve done. You’ll wish you’d never begun this.
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 shan’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 no 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 should think one pantechnicon would do, just for this parish. I’ll drive. Who’ll be the vanmen to lift 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 only room for one at a time on this path. 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 alright. 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: Ged 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 this lamp-post, with a piece of coal in his mouth for a sacrament —
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 754