ANABEL: Yes, I believe that the great disparity is a mistake. But take their lives, Mr Barlow. Do you think they would live more, if they had more money? Do you think the poor live less than the rich? — is their life emptier?
MR BARLOW: Surely their lives would be better, Anabel.
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 classes 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 and 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 countryside —
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 recognize 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 revolutionized. 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 dehumanized, 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 my men even twenty years ago — a noisy, lively, careless set, who kept the place ringing. Now it is too quiet — too quiet. There is something wrong in the quietness, something unnatural. 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. It relieves me to speak of it.
ANABEL: I realize 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 overtired.
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 o
ne 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 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 I’m not.
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 virtue-ize 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.
MRS BARLOW: That’s more than I gave you credit for. I haven’t come to chaperone you either, Gerald.
GERALD: Chaperone me, Mother! Do you think I need it?
MRS BARLOW: If you do, you won’t get it. I’ve come too late to be of any use in that way, as far as I hear.
GERALD: What have you heard, Mother?
MRS BARLOW: I heard Oliver and this young woman talking.
GERALD: Oh, did you? When? What did they say?
MRS BARLOW: Something about married in the sight of heaven, but couldn’t keep it up on earth.
GERALD: I don’t understand.
MRS BARLOW: That you and this young woman were married in the sight of heaven, or through eternity, or something similar, but that you couldn’t make up your minds to it on earth.
GERALD: Really! That’s very curious, Mother.
MRS BARLOW: Very common occurrence, I believe.
GERALD: Yes, so it is. But I don’t think you heard quite right, dear. There seems to be some lingering uneasiness in heaven as a matter of fact. We’d quite made up our minds to live apart on earth. But where did you hear this, Mother?
MRS BARLOW: I heard it outside the studio door this morning.
GERALD: You mean you happened to be on one side of the door while Oliver and Anabel were talking on the other?
MRS BARLOW: You’d make a detective, Gerald — you’re so good at putting two and two together. I listened till I’d heard as much as I wanted. I’m not sure I didn’t come down here hoping to hear another conversation going on.
GERALD: Listen outside the door, darling?
MRS BARLOW: There’d be nothing to listen to if I were inside.
GERALD: It isn’t usually done, you know.
MRS BARLOW: I listen outside doors when I have occasion to be interested — which isn’t often, unfortunately for me.
GERALD: But I’ve a queer feeling that you have a permanent occasion to be interested in me. I only half like it.
MRS BARLOW: It’s surprising how uninteresting you are, Gerald, for a man of your years. I have not had occasion to listen outside a door, for you, no, not for a great while, believe me.
GERALD: I believe you implicitly, darling. But do you happen to know me through and through, and in and out, all my past and present doings, Mother? Have you a secret access to my room, and a spy-hole, and all those things? This is uncomfortably thrilling. You take on a new lustre.
MRS BARLOW: Your memoirs wouldn’t make you famous, my son.
GERALD: Infamous, dear?
MRS BARLOW: Good heavens, no! What a lot you expect from your very mild sins! You and this young woman have lived together, then?
GERALD: Don’t say “this young woman”, Mother dear — it’s slightly vulgar. It isn’t for me to compromise Anabel by admitting such a thing, you know.
MRS BARLOW: Do you ask me to call her Anabel? I won’t.
GERALD: Then say “this person”, Moth
er. It’s more becoming.
MRS BARLOW: I didn’t come to speak to you, Gerald. I know you. I came to speak to this young woman.
GERALD: “Person”, Mother. — Will you curtsey, Anabel? And I’ll twist my handkerchief. We shall make a Cruikshank drawing, if Mother makes her hair a little more slovenly.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 751