The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Robert Tressell
demanded old Joe Philpot, suddenly.
‘’Ear, ’ear,’ cried Harlow. ‘That’s the bleedin’ talk. I wouldn’t mind ’avin ’arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for it.’
Joe Philpot – or as he was usually called, ‘Old Joe’ – was in the habit of indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very old, being only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. He had lost his wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for his three children had died in their infancy. Slyme’s reference to drink had roused Philpot’s indignation; he felt that it was directed against himself. The muddled condition of his brain did not permit him to take up the cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that although Owen was a tee-totaller himself, he disliked Slyme.
‘There’s no need for us to talk about drink or laziness,’ returned Owen, impatiently, ‘because they have nothing to do with the matter. The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the majority of those who are not drunkards and who do work? Why, if all the drunkards and won’t-works and unskilled or inefficient workers could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious and skilled workers tomorrow, it would, under the present conditions, be so much the worse for us, because there isn’t enough work for ail now and those people by increasing the competition for what work there is, would inevitably cause a reduction of wages and a greater scarcity of employment. The theories that drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present states of affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from discovering the real causes of our present condition.’
‘Well, if we’re all wrong,’ said Crass, with a sneer, ‘praps you can tell us what the real cause is?’
‘An’ praps you think you know how it’s to be altered,’ remarked Harlow, winking at the others.
‘Yes; I do think I know the cause,’ declared Owen, ‘and I do think I know how it could be altered –’
‘It can’t never be haltered,’ interrupted old Linden. ‘I don’t see no sense in all this ’ere talk. There’s always been rich and poor in the world, and there always will be.’
‘Wot I always say is this ’ere,’ remarked Philpot, whose principal characteristic – apart from thirst – was a desire to see everyone comfortable, and who hated rows of any kind. ‘There ain’t no use in the likes of us trubblin our ’eds or quarrelin about politics. It don’t make a dam bit of difference who you votes for or who gets in. They’re hall the same; workin the horicle for their own benefit. You can talk till you’re black in the face, but you won’t never be able to alter it. It’s no use worrying. The sensible thing is to try and make the best of things as we find ‘em: enjoy ourselves, and do the best we can for each other. Life’s too short to quarrel and we’ll hall soon be dead!’
At the end of this lengthy speech, the philosophic Philpot abstractedly grasped a jam-jar and raised it to his lips; but suddenly remembering that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again without drinking.
‘Let us begin at the beginning,’ continued Owen, taking no notice of these interruptions. ‘First of all, what do you mean by Poverty?’
‘Why, if you’ve got no money, of course,’ said Crass impatiently.
The others laughed disdainfully. It seemed to them such a foolish question.
‘Well, that’s true enough as far as it goes,’ returned Owen, ‘that is, as things are arranged in the world at present. But money itself is not wealth: it’s of no use whatever.’
At this there was another outburst of jeering laughter.
‘Supposing for example that you and Harlow were shipwrecked on a desolate island, and you had saved nothing from the wreck but a bag containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a bottle of water.’
‘Make it beer!’ cried Harlow appealingly.
‘Who would be the richer man, you or Harlow?’
‘But then you see we ain’t shipwrecked on no dissolute island at all,’ sneered Crass. ‘That’s the worst of your arguments. You can’t never get very far without supposing some bloody ridiclus thing or other. Never mind about supposing things wot ain’t true; let’s ’ave facts and common sense.’
‘’Ear, ’ear,’ said old Linden. ‘That’s wot we want – a little common sense.’
‘What do you mean by poverty, then?’ asked Easton.
‘What I call poverty is when people are not able to secure for themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries, comforts, pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres, pictures, musk, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good and pleasant food.’
Everybody laughed. It was so ridiculous. The idea of the likes of them wanting or having such things! Any doubts that any of them had entertained as to Owen’s sanity disappeared. The man was as mad as a March hare.
‘If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare necessaries of existence, that man’s family is living in poverty. Since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just as well be a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is deprived. What we call civilization – the accumulation of knowledge which has come down to us from our forefathers – is the fruit of thousands of years of human thought and toil. It is not the result of the labour of the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. Every little child that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or dull, whether he is physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much he may excel or fall short of his fellows in other respects, in one thing at least he is their equal – he is one of the heirs of all the ages that have gone before.’
Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was not sane after all. He certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this. It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could not understand one half of it.
‘Why is it,’ continued Owen, ‘that we are not only deprived of our inheritance – we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to obtain even the bare necessaries of existence?’
No one answered.
‘All these things,’ Owen proceeded, ‘are produced by those who work. We do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of the things that are made by work.’
The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the over-population theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such a fool as Owen?
Sawkins pretended to be asleep.
Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious.
‘As things are now,’ went on Owen, ‘instead of enjoying the advantages of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always had food and –’
‘Oh, I don’t see that,’ roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been listening with evident anger and impatience. ‘You can speak for yourself, but I can tell yer I don’t put myself down as a slave.’
‘Nor me neither,’ said Crass sturdily. ‘Let them call their selves slaves as wants to.’
At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the kitchen. Old Misery! or perhaps the Bloke himself! Crass hurriedly pulled out his watch.
‘Jesus Christ!’