Part 4

For many years the highest of these had been called “the Private Bar,” and was distinguished from its next fellow by this, that the cushions upon its little bench were covered with sodden velvet, not with oilcloth. Here, also, the drink provided by the politician who owned this and many other public-houses was served in glasses of uncertain size and not by imperial measure. This, I say, had been the chief or summit of the place for many years; from the year of the great Exhibition, in fact until that great change in London life which took place towards the end of the eighties and brought us, among other things, a new art and a new conception of world-wide power. In those years, as the mind of London changed so did this little public-house (which was called “the Lord Benthorpe”), and it added yet another step to its hierarchy of pens. This new place was called “the Saloon Bar.” It was larger and better padded, and there was a tiny table in it. Then the years went on and wars were fought and the modern grip of man over natural forces marvellously extended, and the wealth of a world’s Metropolis greatly swelled, and “The Lord Benthorpe” found room for yet another and final reserve wherein it might receive the very highest of its clients. This was built upon what had been the backyard, it had several tables, and it was called “the Lounge.”

So far so good. Here late one evening when the music-halls had just discharged their thousands, and when the Elephants, the Zebras, and the Ponies near by were retiring to rest, sat two men, both authors; the one was an author who had written for now many years upon social subjects, and notably upon the statistics of our industrial conditions. He had come nearer than any other to the determination of the Incidence of Economic Rent upon Retail Exchange and had been the first to show (in an essay, now famous) that the Ricardian Theory of Surplus did not apply in the anarchic competition of Retail Dealing, at least in our main thoroughfares.

His companion wielded the pen in another manner. It was his to analyse into its last threads of substance the human mind. Rare books proceeded from him at irregular and lengthy intervals packed with a close observation of the ultimate motives of men and an exact portrayal of their labyrinth of deed; nor could he achieve his ideal in this province of letters save by the use of words so unusual and, above all, arranged in an order so peculiar to himself, as to bring upon his few readers often perplexity and always awe.

Neither of these two men was wealthy. Such incomes as they gained had not even that quality of regular flow which, more than mere volume, impresses the years with security. Each was driven to continual expedients, and each had lost such careful habits as only a regular supply can perpetuate. The consequence of this impediment was apparent in the clothing of both men and in the grooming of each; for the Economist, who was the elder, wore a frock-coat unsuited to the occasion, marked in many places with lighter patches against its original black, and he had upon his head a top hat of no great age and yet too familiar and rough, and dusty at the brim. The Psychologist, upon the other hand, sprawled in a suit of wool, grey and in places green, which was most slipshod and looked as though at times he slept in it, which indeed at times he did. Unlike his elder companion he wore no stiff collar round his throat, a negligence which saved him from the reproach of frayed linen worn through too many days; his shirt was a grey woollen shirt with a grey woollen collar of such a sort as scientific men assure us invigorates the natural functions and prolongs the life of man.

These two fell at once to a discussion upon that matter which absorbs the best of modern minds. I mean the organisation of Production in the modern world. It was their favourite theme. Their drink was Port, which, carelessly enough, they continued to order in small glasses instead of beginning boldly with the bottle. The Port was bad, or rather it was not Port, yet had they bought one bottle of it they would have saved the earnings of many days.

It was their favourite theme.... Each was possessed of an intellectual scorn for the mere ritual of an older time; neither descended to an affirmation nor even condescended to a denial of private property. Both clearly saw that no organised scheme of production could exist under modern conditions unless its organisation were to be controlled by the community. Yet the two friends differed in one most material point, which was the possibility, men being what they were, of settling thus the control of _machinery_. Upon land they were agreed. The land must necessarily be made a national thing, and the conception of ownership in it, however limited, was, as a man whom they both revered had put it, “unthinkable.” Indeed, they recognised that the first steps towards so obvious a reform were now actually taken, and they confidently expected the final processes in it to be the work of quite the next few years; but whereas the Economist, with his profound knowledge of external detail, could see no obstacle to the collective control of capital as well, the Psychologist, ever dwelling upon the inner springs of action, saw no hope, no, not even for so evident and necessary a scheme, save in some ideal despotism of which he despaired. In vain did the Economist point out that our great railways, our mines, the main part of our shipping, and even half our textile industry had now no personal element in their direction save that of the salaried management; the Psychologist met him at every move with the effect produced upon man by the mere illusion of a personal element in all these things. The Economist, not a little inspired as the evening deepened, remembered and even invented names, figures, cases that showed the growing unity of the industrial world; the Psychologist equally inspired, and with an equal increase of fervour, drew picture after picture, each more vivid and convincing than the last, of man caught in the tangle of imaginary motive and unobedient to any industrial control, unless that control could by some miracle be given the quality of universal tyranny.

Music was added to their debate, and subtly changed, as it must always change, the colour of thought. In the street without a man with a fine baritone voice, which evidently he had failed through vice or carelessness to exploit with success, sang songs of love and war, and at his side there accompanied him a little organ upon wheels which a weary woman played. The rich notes of his voice filled “The Lord Benthorpe” through the opened windows of that hot night, and drowned or modified the differences of cabmen and others in the Public Bar; as he sang the two disputants rose almost to the lyric in their enthusiasm, the one for the new world that was so soon to be, the other for that gloomy art of his by which he read the hearts of men and saw their doom.

* * * * *

It has been remarked by many that we mortals are surrounded by coincidence, and least observe Fate at its nearest approach, so that friends meet or leave us unexpectedly, and that the accidents of our lives make part of a continual play. So it was with these two. For as they warmly debated, and one of them had upset and broken his glass while the other lay back repeating again and again some favourite phrase, a third was on his way to meet them. A man much older than either, a man who did nothing at all and lived when his sister remembered him, was in that neighbourhood, vaguely wandering and feeling in every pocket for a coin. His hand trembled with age, and also a little with anxiety, but to his great joy he felt at last through the lining of his coat a large round hardness, and very carefully searching through a tear, and aided by the light that shone from the windows of “The Lord Benthorpe,” he discovered and possessed half a crown. With that he entered in, for he knew that his friends were there. In what respect he held them, their accomplishments, and their public fame, I need not say, for that respect is always paid by the simple to the learned. He sat by them at the little table, drinking also, and for some minutes listened to their stream of affirmation and of vision, but soon he shook his head in a quavering senile way, as he very vaguely caught the drift of their contention. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick,” he said.... “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick!... Can’t take away what a man’s got ... ’tis _wrawng_!... ’Vide it up, all the same next week.... Same hands! Same hands!” he went on foolishly wagging his head, and still smiling almost like an imbecile. “All in the same hands again in a week!... ’Vide it up ever so much.” They neglected him and continued their ardent debate, and as they flung repeated bolts of theory he, their new companion, still murmured to himself the security of established things and the ancient doctrine of ownership and of law.

But now the night and the stars had come to their appointed hour, and the ending which is decreed of all things had come also to their carousal. A young man of energy stood before them in his shirt sleeves, crying, “Time, Time!” as a voice might cry “Doom!” and, by force of crying and of orders, “The Lord Benthorpe” was emptied, and there was silence at last behind its shutters and its bolted doors.

These three, not yet in a mood for sleep, sauntered together westward through the vast landed estates of London, westward, to their distant homes.

The Economist

A gentleman possessing some three thousand acres of land, the most of it contiguous, one field with another, or, as he himself, his agent, his bailiff, his wife, his moneylender, and others called it, “in a ring fence,” was in the habit of asking down to the country at Christmas time some friend or friends, though more usually a friend than friends, because the income he received from the three thousand acres of land had become extremely small.

He was especially proud of those of his friends who lived neither by rent from land nor from the proceeds of their business, but by mental activity in some profession, and of none was he prouder than of an Economist whom he had known for more than forty years; for they had been at school together and later at college. Now this Economist was a very hearty, large sort of a man, and he made an amply sufficient income by writing about economics and by giving economic advice in the abstract to politicians, and economic lectures and expert economic evidence; in fact, there was no limit to his earnings except that imposed by time and the necessity for sleep. He was not married and could spend all his earnings upon himself--which he did. He was tall, lean, and active, with bright vivacious eyes and an upstanding manner. He had two sharp and healthy grey whiskers upon either side of his face; his hair was also grey but curly; and altogether he was a vigorous fellow. There was nothing in economic science hidden from him.

This Economist, therefore, and his friend the Squire (who was a short, fat, and rather doleful man) were walking over the wet clay land which one of them owned and on which the other talked. There was a clinging mist of a very light sort, so that you could not see more than about a mile. The trees upon that clay were small and round, and from their bare branches and twigs the mist clung in drops; where the bushes were thick and wherever evergreens afforded leaves, these drops fell with a patter that sounded almost like rain. There were no hills in the landscape and the only thing that broke the roll of the clay of the park land was the house, which was called a castle; and even this they could not see without turning round, for they were walking away from it. But even to look at this house did not raise the heart, for it was very hideous and had been much neglected on account of the lessening revenue from the three thousand acres of land. Great pieces of plaster had fallen off, nor had anything been continually repaired except the windows.

The Economist strode and the Squire plodded on over the wet grass, and it gave the Squire pleasure to listen to the things which the Economist said, though these were quite incomprehensible to him. They came to a place where, after one had pushed through a tall bramble hedge and stuck in a very muddy hidden ditch, one saw before one on the farther side, screened in everywhere and surrounded by a belt or frame of low, scraggy trees and stunted bushes, a large deserted field. In colour it was very pale green and brown; myriads of dead thistles stood in it; there were nettles, and, in the damper hollows, rushes growing. The Economist took this field and turned his voluble talk upon it. He appreciated that much he said during their walk, being sometimes of an abstract and always of a technical nature, had missed the mind of his friend; he therefore determined upon a concrete instance and waved his vigorous long arm towards the field and said:

“Now, take this field, for instance.”

“Yes,” said the Squire humbly.

“Now, this field,” said the Economist, “_of itself_ has no value at all.”

“No,” said the Squire.

“_That_,” said the Economist with increasing earnestness, tapping one hand with two fingers of the other, “that’s what the layman must seize first ... every error in economics comes from not appreciating that things in themselves have no value. For instance,” he went on, “you would say that a diamond had value, wouldn’t you ... a large diamond?”

The Squire, hoping to say the right thing, said: “I suppose not.”

This annoyed the Economist, who answered a little testily: “I don’t know what you mean. What _I_ mean is that the diamond has no value in itself....”

“I see,” broke in the Squire, with an intelligent look, but the Economist went on rapidly as though he had not spoken:

“It only has a value because it has been transposed in some way from the position where man could not use it to a position where he can. Now, you would say that land could not be transposed, but it can be made from _less_ useful to man, _more_ useful to man.”

The Squire admitted this, and breathed a deep breath.

“Now,” said the Economist, waving his arm again at the field, “take this field, for instance.”

There it lay, silent and sullen under the mist. There was no noise of animals in the brakes, the dirty boundary stream lay sluggish and dead, and the rank weeds had lost all colour. One could note the parallel belts of rounded earth where once--long, long ago--this field had been ploughed. No other evidence was there of any activity at all, and it looked as though man had not seen it for a hundred years.

“Now,” said the Economist, “what is the value of this field?”

The Squire had begun his answer, when his friend interrupted him testily. “No, no, no; I don’t want to ask about your private affairs; what I mean is, what is it builds up the economic value of this field? It is not the earth itself; it is the use to which man puts it. It is the crops and the produce which he makes it bear and the advantage which it has over other neighbouring fields. It is the _surplus value_ which makes it give you a rent. What gives _this_ field its value is the competition among the farmers to get it.”

“But----” began the Squire.

The Economist with increasing irritation waved him down. “Now, listen,” he said; “the worst land has only what is called prairie value.”

The Squire would eagerly have asked the meaning of this, for it suggested coin, but he thought he was bound to listen to the remainder of the story.

“That is only true,” said the Economist, “of the worst land. There _is_ land on which no profit could be made; it neither _makes_ nor loses. It is on what we call the _margin of production_.”

“What about rates?” said the Squire, looking at that mournful stretch, all closed in and framed with desolation, and suggesting a thousand such others stretching on to the boundaries of a deserted world.

How various are the minds of men! That little word “rates”--it has but five letters; take away the “e” and it would have but four--and what different things does it not mean to different men! To one man the pushing on of his shop just past the edge of bankruptcy; to another the bother of writing a silly little cheque; to another the brand of the Accursed Race of our time--the pariahs, the very poor. To this Squire it meant the dreadful business of paying a great large sum out of an income that never sufficed for the bare needs of his life ... to tell the truth, he always borrowed money for the rates and paid it back out of the next half year ... he had such a lot of land in hand. Years ago, when farms were falling in, in the eighties, a friend of his, a practical man, who went in for silos and had been in the Guards and knew a lot about French agriculture, had told him it would pay him to have his land in hand, so when the farms fell in he consoled himself by what the friend had said; but all these years had passed and it had not paid him.

Now to the Economist this little word “rates” suggested the hardest problem--the perhaps insoluble problem--of applied economics in our present society. He turned his vivacious eyes sharply on to the Squire and stepped out back for home, for the Castle. For a little time he said nothing, and the Squire, honestly desiring to continue the conversation, said again as he plodded by his friend’s side, “What about rates?”

“Oh, they’ve nothing to do with it!” said the Economist, a little snappishly. “The proportionate amount of surplus produce demanded by the community does not affect the basic process of production. Of course,” he added, in a rather more conciliatory tone, “it _would_ if the community demanded the total unearned increment and _then_ proposed taxes beyond that limit. _That_, I have always said, would affect the whole nature of production.”

“Oh!” said the Squire.

By this time they were nearing the Castle, and it was already dusk; they were silent during the last hundred yards as the great house showed more definitely through the mist, and the Economist could note upon the face of it the coat-of-arms with which he was familiar. They had been those of his host’s great-grandfather, a solicitor who had foreclosed. These arms were of stucco. Age and the tempest had made them green, and the head of that animal which represented the family had fallen off.

They went into the house, they drank tea with the rather worried but well-bred hostess of it, and all evening the Squire’s thoughts were of his two daughters, who dressed exactly alike in the local town, and whose dresses were not yet paid for, and of his son, whose schooling was paid for, but whose next term was ahead: the Squire was wondering about the extras. Then he remembered suddenly, and as suddenly put out of his mind by an effort of surprising energy in such a man, the date February 3rd, on which he must get a renewal or pay a certain claim.

They sat at table; they drank white fizzy wine by way of ritual, but it was bad. The Economist could not distinguish between good wine and bad, and all the while his mind was full of a very bothersome journey to the North, where he was to read a paper to an institute upon “The Reaction of Agricultural Prosperity upon Industrial Demand.” He was wondering whether he could get them to change the hour so that he could get back by a train that would put him into London before midnight. And all this cogitation which lay behind the general talk during dinner and after it led him at last to say: “Have you a ‘Bradshaw’?”

But the Squire’s wife had no “Bradshaw.” She did not think they could afford it. However, the eldest daughter remembered an old “Bradshaw” of last August, and brought it, but it was no use to the Economist.

* * * * *

How various is man! How multiplied his experience, his outlook, his conclusions!

A Little Conversation in Carthage

HANNO: Waiter! Get me a copy of _The Times_. [_Mutters to himself. The waiter brings the copy of_ The Times. _As he gives it to Hanno he collides with another member of the Club, and that member, already advanced in years, treads upon Hanno’s foot._]

HANNO: Ah! Ah! Ah!... Oh! [_with a grunt_]. Bethaal, it’s you, is it?

BETHAAL: Gouty?

HANNO [_after saying nothing for some time_]: ’Xtraordinary thing.... Nothing in the papers.

BETHAAL: Nothing odd about that! [_He laughs rather loudly, and Hanno, who wishes he had said the witty thing, smirks gently without enthusiasm. Then he proceeds on another track._] I find plenty in the papers! [_He puffs like a grampus._]

HANNO: Plenty about yourself!... That’s the only good of politics, and precious little good either.... What I can’t conceive--as you _do_ happen to be the in’s and not the out’s--is why you don’t send more men from somewhere; he has asked for them often enough.

BETHAAL [_wisely_]: They’re all against it; couldn’t get anyone to agree but little Schem [_laughs loudly_]; he’d agree to anything.

HANNO [_wagging his head sagely_]: He’ll be Suffete, my boy! He’ll be a Sephad all right! He’s my sister’s own boy.

BETHAAL [_surlily_]: Shouldn’t wonder! All you Hannos get the pickings.

HANNO: You talk like a book.... Anyhow, what about the reinforcements?--that _does_ interest me.

BETHAAL [_wearily_]: Oh, really. I’ve heard about it until I’m tired. It isn’t the reinforcements that are wanted really; it’s money, and plenty of it. That’s what it is. [_He looks about the room in search for a word._] That’s what it is. [_He continues to look about the room._] That’s what it is ... er ... really. [_Having found the word Bethaal is content, and Hanno remains silent for a few minutes, then_:]

HANNO: He doesn’t seem to be doing much.

BETHAAL [_jumping up suddenly with surprising vigour for a man of close on seventy, and sticking his hands into his pockets, if Carthaginians had pockets_]: That’s it! That’s exactly it! That’s what I say, What Hannibal really wants is money. He’s got the _men_ right enough. The _men_ are splendid, but all those putrid little Italian towns are asking to be bribed, and I _can’t_ get the money out of Mohesh.

HANNO [_really interested_]: Yes, now? Mohesh has got the old tradition, and I do believe it’s the sound one. Our money is as important to us as our Fleet, I mean our _credit’s_ as important to us as our Fleet, and he’s perfectly right is Mohesh.... [_Firmly_] I wouldn’t let you have a penny if I were at the Treasury.

BETHAAL [_surlily_]: Well, he’s bound to take Rome at last anyway, so I don’t suppose it matters whether he has the money or not; but it makes _me_ look like a fool. When everything was going well I didn’t care, but I do care now. [_He holds up in succession three fat fingers_]. First there was Drephia----

HANNO [_interrupting_]: Trebbia.

BETHAAL: Oh, well, I don’t care.... Then there was Trasimene; then there was that other place which wasn’t marked on the map, and little Schem found for me in the very week in which I got him on to the Front Bench. You remember his speech?

[HANNO _shakes his head_.]

BETHAAL [_impatiently_]: Oh well, anyhow you remember Cannae, don’t you?

HANNO: Oh yes, I remember Cannae.

BETHAAL: Well, he’s bound to win. He’s bound to take the place, and then [_wearily_], then, as poor old Hashuah said at the Guildhall, “Annexation will be inevitable.”

HANNO: Now, look here, may I put it to you shortly?

BETHAAL [_in great dread_]: All right.