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," mother. 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.
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 too 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 sha'n'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 sha'n'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.)
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 in 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 Kummel?
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 them. 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 the 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 &
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 so 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?
J
OB 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 all right about the office men, you know.
GERALD. Probably. But have Barlow & 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 lead 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 signs 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 had 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