Touch and Go

  MR. BARLOW. Ah, splendid! Splendid! There is nothing like gaiety.

  WINIFRED. I do love to dance about. I know: let us do a little

  ballet--four of us--oh, do!

  GERALD. What ballet, Winifred?

  WINIFRED. Any. Eva can play for us. She plays well.

  MR. BARLOW. You won't disturb your mother? Don't disturb Eva if

  she is busy with your mother. (Exit WINIFRED.) If only I can see

  Winifred happy, my heart is at rest: if only I can hope for her to

  be happy in her life.

  GERALD. Oh, Winnie's all right, father--especially now she has Miss

  Wrath to initiate her into the mysteries of life and labour.

  ANABEL. Why are you ironical?

  MR. BARLOW. Oh, Miss Wrath, believe me, we all feel that--it is the

  greatest possible pleasure to me that you have come.

  GERALD. I wasn't ironical, I assure you.

  MR. BARLOW. No, indeed--no, indeed! We have every belief in you.

  ANABEL. But why should you have?

  MR. BARLOW. Ah, my dear child, allow us the credit of our own

  discernment. And don't take offence at my familiarity. I am

  afraid I am spoilt since I am an invalid.

  (Re-enter WINIFRED, with EVA.)

  MR. BARLOW. Come, Eva, you will excuse us for upsetting your evening.

  Will you be so good as to play something for us to dance to?

  EVA. Yes, sir. What shall I play?

  WINIFRED. Mozart--I'll find you the piece. Mozart's the saddest

  musician in the world--but he's the best to dance to.

  MR. BARLOW. Why, how is it you are such a connoisseur in sadness,

  darling?

  GERALD. She isn't. She's a flagrant amateur.

  (EVA plays; they dance a little ballet.)

  MR. BARLOW. Charming--charming, Miss Wrath:--will you allow me to

  say _Anabel_, we shall all feel so much more at home? Yes--thank you

  --er--you enter into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, dear. The

  others are accustomed to play together. But it is not so easy to

  come in on occasion as you do.

  GERALD. Oh, Anabel's a genius!--I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath--

  familiarity is catching.

  MR. BARLOW. Gerald, my boy, don't forget that you are virtually host

  here.

  EVA. Did you want any more music, sir?

  GERALD. No, don't stay, Eva. We mustn't tire father. (Exit EVA.)

  MR. BARLOW. I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to

  excuse in us, in the way of manners. We have never been a formal

  household. But you have lived in the world of artists: you will

  understand, I hope.

  ANABEL. Oh, surely---

  MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know. We have been a turbulent family, and we

  have had our share of sorrow, even more, perhaps, than of joys. And

  sorrow makes one indifferent to the conventionalities of life.

  GERALD. Excuse me, father: do you mind if I go and write a letter I

  have on my conscience?

  MR. BARLOW. No, my boy. (Exit GERALD.) We have had our share of

  sorrow and of conflict, Miss Wrath, as you may have gathered.

  ANABEL. Yes--a little.

  MR. BARLOW. The mines were opened when my father was a boy--the

  first--and I was born late, when he was nearly fifty. So that all

  my life has been involved with coal and colliers. As a young man, I

  was gay and thoughtless. But I married young, and we lost our first

  child through a terrible accident. Two children we have lost through

  sudden and violent death. (WINIFRED goes out unnoticed.) It made me

  reflect. And when I came to reflect, Anabel, I could not justify my

  position in life. If I believed in the teachings of the New

  Testament--which I did, and do--how could I keep two or three

  thousand men employed and underground in the mines, at a wage, let us

  say, of two pounds a week, whilst I lived in this comfortable house,

  and took something like two thousand pounds a year--let us name any

  figure---

  ANABEL. Yes, of course. But is it money that really matters, Mr.

  Barlow?

  MR. BARLOW. My dear, if you are a working man, it matters. When I

  went into the homes of my poor fellows, when they were ill or had had

  accidents--then I knew it mattered. I knew that the great disparity

  was wrong--even as we are taught that it is wrong.

  ANABEL. Yes, I believe that the great disparity is a mistake. But

  take their lives, Mr. Barlow. Do you thing 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 class 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 & 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 country-side---

  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 recognise 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 revolutionised. 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 dehumanised, 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 men even twenty years ago--a noisy, lively,

  careless set, who kept the place ringing. 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. I relieves me to speak of it.

  ANABEL. I realise 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 over-tired.

  (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 one 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's 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 not to be.

  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 virtuise 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.