MRS BARLOW: You and Gerald were together for some time?
GERALD: Three years, off and on, Mother.
MRS BARLOW: And then you suddenly dropped my son, and went away?
GERALD: To Norway, Mother — so I have gathered.
MRS BARLOW: And now you have come back because that last one died?
GERALD: Is he dead, Anabel? How did he die?
ANABEL: He was killed on the ice.
GERALD: Oh, God!
MRS BARLOW: Now, having had your fill of tragedy, you have come back to be demure and to marry Gerald. Does he thank you?
GERALD: You must listen outside the door, Mother, to find that out.
MRS BARLOW: Well, it’s your own affair.
GERALD: What a lame summing up, Mother! — quite unworthy of you.
ANABEL: What did you wish to say to me, Mrs Barlow? Please say it.
MRS BARLOW: What did I wish to say! Ay, what did I wish to say! What is the use of my saying anything? What am I but a buffoon and a slovenly caricature in the family?
GERALD: No, Mother dear, don’t climb down — please don’t. Tell Anabel what you wanted to say.
MRS BARLOW: Yes — yes — yes. I came to say — don’t be good to my son — don’t be good to him.
GERALD: Sounds weak, dear — mere contrariness.
MRS BARLOW: Don’t presume to be good to my son, young woman. I won’t have it, even if he will. You hear me?
ANABEL: Yes. I won’t presume, then.
GERALD: May she presume to be bad to me, Mother?
MRS BARLOW: For that you may look after yourself. — But a woman who was good to him would ruin him in six months, take the manhood out of him. He has a tendency, a secret hankering, to make a gift of himself to somebody. He shan’t do it. I warn you. I am not a woman to be despised.
ANABEL: No — I understand.
MRS BARLOW: Only one other thing I ask. If he must fight — and fight he must — let him alone: don’t you try to shield him or save him. Don’t interfere — do you hear?
ANABEL: Not till I must.
MRS BARLOW: Never. Learn your place, and keep it. Keep away from him, if you are going to be a wife to him. Don’t go too near. And don’t let him come too near. Beat him off if he tries. Keep a solitude in your heart even when you love him best. Keep it. If you lose it, you lose everything.
GERALD: But that isn’t love, Mother.
MRS BARLOW: What?
GERALD: That isn’t love.
MRS BARLOW: What? What do you know of love, you ninny? You only know the feeding-bottle. It’s what you want, all of you — to be brought up by hand, and mew about love. Ah, God! — Ah, God! — that you should none of you know the only thing which would make you worth having.
GERALD: I don’t believe in your only thing, Mother. But what is it?
MRS BARLOW: What you haven’t got — the power to be alone.
GERALD: Sort of megalomania, you mean?
MRS BARLOW: What? Megalomania! What is your love but a megalomania, flowing over everybody, and everything like spilt water? Megalomania! I hate you, you softy! I would beat you (suddenly advancing on him and beating him fiercely) — beat you into some manhood — beat you —
GERALD: Stop, Mother — keep off.
MRS BARLOW: It’s the men who need beating nowadays, not the children. Beat the softness out of him, young woman. It’s the only way, if you love him enough — if you love him enough.
GERALD: You hear, Anabel?
Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes.
MRS BARLOW (catching up a large old fan, and smashing it about his head): You softy — you piffler — you will never have had enough! Ah, you should be thrust in the fire, you should, to have the softness and the brittleness burnt out of you!
The door opens — OLIVER TURTON enters, followed by JOB ARTHUR FREER. MRS BARLOW is still attacking GERALD. She turns, infuriated.
Go out! Go out! What do you mean by coming in unannounced? Take him upstairs — take that fellow into the library, Oliver Turton.
GERALD: Mother, you improve our already pretty reputation. Already they say you are mad.
MRS BARLOW (ringing violently): Let me be mad then. I am mad — driven mad. One day I shall kill you, Gerald.
GERALD: You won’t, Mother, because I shan’t let you.
MRS BARLOW: Let me! — let me! As if I should wait for you to let me!
GERALD: I am a match for you even in violence, come to that.
MRS BARLOW: A match! A damp match. A wet match.
Enter BUTLER.
WILLIAM: You rang, madam?
MRS BARLOW: Clear up those bits. — Where are you going to see that white-faced fellow? Here?
GERALD: I think so.
MRS BARLOW: You will still have them coming to the house, will you? You will still let them trample in our private rooms, will you? Bah! I ought to leave you to your own devices.
Exit MRS BARLOW.
GERALD: When you’ve done that, William, ask Mr Freer to come down here.
WILLIAM: Yes, sir.
A pause. Exit WILLIAM.
GERALD: So — o — o. You’ve had another glimpse of the family life.
ANABEL: Yes. Rather — disturbing.
GERALD: Not at all, when you’re used to it. Mother isn’t as mad as she pretends to be.
ANABEL: I don’t think she’s mad at all. I think she has most desperate courage.
GERALD: “Courage” is good. That’s a new term for it.
ANABEL: Yes, courage. When a man says “courage” he means the courage to die. A woman means the courage to live. That’s what women hate men most for; that they haven’t the courage to live.
GERALD: Mother takes her courage into both hands rather late.
ANABEL: We’re a little late ourselves.
GERALD: We are, rather. By the way, you seem to have had plenty of the courage of death — you’ve played a pretty deathly game, it seems to me — both when I knew you and afterwards, you’ve had your finger pretty deep in the death-pie.
ANABEL: That’s why I want a change of — of —
GERALD: Of heart? — Better take Mother’s tip, and try the poker.
ANABEL: I will.
GERALD: Ha — corraggio!
ANABEL: Yes — corraggio!
GERALD: Corraggiaccio!
ANABEL: Corraggione!
GERALD: Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Enter OLIVER and FREER.
Oh, come in. Don’t be afraid; it’s a charade. (ANABEL rises.) No, don’t go, Anabel. Corraggio! Take a seat, Mr Freer.
JOB ARTHUR: Sounds like a sneezing game, doesn’t it?
GERALD: It is. Do you know the famous rhyme:
Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes?
JOB ARTHUR: No, I can’t say I do.
GERALD: My mother does. Will you have anything to drink? Will you help yourself?
JOB ARTHUR: Well — no — I don’t think I’ll have anything, thanks.
GERALD: A cherry brandy? — Yes? — ANABEL, what’s yours.
ANABEL: Did I see Kümmel?
GERALD: You did. (They all take drinks.) What’s the latest, Mr Freer?
JOB ARTHUR: The latest? Well, I don’t know, I’m sure —
GERALD: Oh, yes. Trot it out. We’re quite private.
JOB ARTHUR: Well — I don’t know. There’s several things.
GERALD: The more the merrier.
JOB ARTHUR: I’m not so sure. The men are in a very funny temper, Mr Barlow — very funny.
GERALD: Coincidence — so am I. Not surprising, is it?
JOB ARTHUR: The men, perhaps not.
GERALD: What else, Job Arthur?
JOB ARTHUR: You know the men have decided to stand by the office men?
GERALD: Yes.
JOB ARTHUR: They’ve agreed to come out next Monday.
GERALD: Have they?
JOB ARTHUR: Yes; there was no stopping t
hem. They decided for it like one man.
GERALD: How was that?
JOB ARTHUR: That’s what surprises me. They’re a jolly sight more certain over this than they’ve ever been over their own interests.
GERALD: All their love for the office clerks coming out in a rush?
JOB ARTHUR: Well, I don’t know about love; but that’s how it is.
GERALD: What is it, if it isn’t love?
JOB ARTHUR: I can’t say. They’re in a funny temper. It’s hard to make out.
GERALD: A funny temper, are they? Then I suppose we ought to laugh.
JOB ARTHUR: No, I don’t think it’s a laughing matter. They’re coming out on Monday for certain.
GERALD: Yes — so are daffodils.
JOB ARTHUR: Beg pardon?
GERALD: Daffodils.
JOB ARTHUR: No, I don’t follow what you mean.
GERALD: Don’t you? But I thought Alfred Breffitt and William Straw were not very popular.
JOB ARTHUR: No, they aren’t — not in themselves. But it’s the principle of the thing — so it seems.
GERALD: What principle?
JOB ARTHUR: Why, all sticking together, for one thing — all Barlow and Walsall’s men holding by one another.
GERALD: United we stand?
JOB ARTHUR: That’s it. And then it’s the strong defending the weak as well. There’s three thousand colliers standing up for thirty-odd office men. I must say I think it’s sporting myself.
GERALD: You do, do you? United we stand, divided we fall. What do they stand for, really? What is it?
JOB ARTHUR: Well — for their right to a living wage. That’s how I see it.
GERALD: For their right to a living wage! Just that?
JOB ARTHUR: Yes, sir — that’s how I see it.
GERALD: Well, that doesn’t seem so preposterously difficult, does it?
JOB ARTHUR: Why, that’s what I think myself, Mr Gerald. It’s such a little thing.
GERALD: Quite. I suppose the men themselves are to judge what is a living wage?
JOB ARTHUR: Oh, I think they’re quite reasonable, you know.
GERALD: Oh, yes, eminently reasonable. Reason’s their strong point. — And if they get their increase, they’ll be quite contented?
JOB ARTHUR: Yes, as far as I know, they will.
GERALD: As far as you know? Why, is there something you don’t know? — something you’re not sure about?
JOB ARTHUR: No — I don’t think so. I think they’ll be quite satisfied this time.
GERALD: Why this time? Is there going to be a next time — every-day-has-its-to-morrow kind of thing?
JOB ARTHUR: I don’t know about that. It’s a funny world, Mr Barlow.
GERALD: Yes, I quite believe it. How do you see it funny?
JOB ARTHUR: Oh, I don’t know. Everything’s in a funny state.
GERALD: What do you mean by everything?
JOB ARTHUR: Well — I mean things in general — Labour, for example.
GERALD: You think Labour’s in a funny state, do you? What do you think it wants? What do you think, personally?
JOB ARTHUR: Well, in my own mind, I think it wants a bit of its own back.
GERALD: And how does it mean to get it?
JOB ARTHUR: Ha! that’s not so easy to say. But it means to have it, in the long run.
GERALD: You mean by increasing demands for higher wages?
JOB ARTHUR: Yes, perhaps that’s one road.
GERALD: Do you see any other?
JOB ARTHUR: Not just for the present.
GERALD: But later on?
JOB ARTHUR: I can’t say about that. The men will be quiet enough for a bit, if it’s alright about the office men, you know.
GERALD: Probably. But have Barlow and Walsall’s men any special grievance apart from the rest of the miners?
JOB ARTHUR: I don’t know. They’ve no liking for you, you know, sir.
GERALD: Why?
JOB ARTHUR: They think you’ve got a down on them.
GERALD: Why should they?
JOB ARTHUR: I don’t know, sir; but they do.
GERALD: So they have a personal feeling against me? You don’t think all the colliers are the same, all over the country?
JOB ARTHUR: I think there’s a good deal of feeling —
GERALD: Of wanting their own back?
JOB ARTHUR: That’s it.
GERALD: But what can they do? I don’t see what they can do. They can go out on strike — but they’ve done that before, and the owners, at a pinch, can stand it better than they can. As for the ruin of the industry, if they do ruin it, it falls heaviest on them. In fact, it leaves them destitute. There’s nothing they can do, you know, that doesn’t hit them worse than it hits us.
JOB ARTHUR: I know there’s something in that. But if they had a strong man to head them, you see —
GERALD: Yes, I’ve heard a lot about that strong man — but I’ve never come across any signs of him, you know. I don’t believe in one strong man appearing out of so many little men. All men are pretty big in an age, or in a movement, which produces a really big man. And Labour is a great swarm of hopelessly little men. That’s how I see it.
JOB ARTHUR: I’m not so sure about that.
GERALD: I am. Labour is a thing that can’t have a head. It’s a sort of unwieldy monster that’s bound to run its skull against the wall sooner or later, and knock out what bit of brain it’s got. You see, you need wit and courage and real understanding if you’re going to do anything positive. And Labour has none of these things — certainly it shows no sign of them.
JOB ARTHUR: Yes, when it has a chance, I think you’ll see plenty of courage and plenty of understanding.
GERALD: It always has a chance. And where one sees a bit of courage, there’s no understanding; and where there’s some understanding, there’s absolutely no courage. It’s hopeless, you know — it would be far best if they’d all give it up, and try a new line.
JOB ARTHUR: I don’t think they will.
GERALD: No, I don’t either. They’ll make a mess, and when they’ve made it, they’ll never get out of it. They can’t — they’re too stupid.
JOB ARTHUR: They’ve never had a try yet.
GERALD: They’re trying every day. They just simply couldn’t control modern industry — they haven’t the intelligence. They’ve no life intelligence. The owners may have little enough, but Labour has none. They’re just mechanical little things that can make one or two motions, and they’re done. They’ve no more idea of life than a lawn-mower has.
JOB ARTHUR: It remains to be seen.
GERALD: No, it doesn’t. It’s perfectly obvious — there’s nothing remains to be seen. All that Labour is capable of, is smashing things up. And even for that I don’t believe it has either energy or the courage or the bit of necessary passion, or slap-dash — call it whatever you will. However, we’ll see.
JOB ARTHUR: Yes, sir. Perhaps you see now why you’re not so very popular, Mr Gerald.
GERALD: We can’t all be popular, Job Arthur. You’re very high up in popularity, I believe.
JOB ARTHUR: Not so very. They listen to me a bit. But you never know when they’ll let you down. I know they’ll let me down one day — so it won’t be a surprise.
GERALD: I should think not.
JOB ARTHUR: But about the office men, Mr Gerald. You think it’ll be alright?
GERALD: Oh, yes, that’ll be alright.
JOB ARTHUR: Easiest for this time, anyhow, sir. We don’t want bloodshed, do we?
GERALD: I shouldn’t mind at all. It might clear the way to something. But I have absolutely no belief in the power of Labour even to bring about anything so positive as bloodshed.
JOB ARTHUR: I don’t know about that — I don’t know. — Well.
GERALD: Have another drink before you go. — Yes, do. Help yourself.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 752