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The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists and Modernism
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists was finished in 1910 – the year, according to Virginia Woolf, that Modernism began.12 Hence it is not surprising that the novel has certain modernist characteristics, specifically an interest in the unifying power of symbol and a self-consciousness about the problems of artistic representation. The first is apparent in Tressell’s symbol of the house which gives a formal unity to a text riddled by contradictions, for example the conflicting notion that people are compelled to behave in certain ways while simultaneously being free to change that behaviour. In this respect Tressell’s symbolism operates like that of T. S. Eliot’s or James Joyce’s; it draws the fragments of modern experience into an ordered whole.
The novel’s self-consciousness about art, another modernist feature, is more problematic. One of the basic ideas of modernist art was that ‘the principle of reality [had become] peculiarly difficult to grasp.’13 This is registered in Tressell’s novel by Owen’s constant struggle to express reality in such a way that the philanthropists will recognise it (p. 267). At the same time, however, Owen is in no doubt about the nature of that reality; it is completely knowable.
The Modernists were concerned with the process of fiction making, and the political aspect of this is explored in the critique of newspapers, The Obscurer and the Daily Chloroform. Their fictions, or false pictures of reality, distract the reader’s attention from what is actually going on around them. Hence they are like those stories in which readers become so absorbed that they bump into things on the street (p.400). The irony is that the criticism of these fictions takes place within a text that is itself a fiction. Tressell may claim that he has ‘invented nothing’ (p.14) but this elides his huge debt to the tradition which posits the theory that the novel is a set of techniques for representing reality. Fictions, it seems, can only be exposed by other fictions and this complicates Owen’s claim to ‘know’ reality. At this point, the novel ceases to be a corrective of false consciousness and instead approximates to the modernist preoccupation with the nature of consciousness itself. Indeed it could be argued that The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists supplies the answer to its own question of why the philanthropists cannot see the truth – because there is none to see.
The implication that there is no single truth reflects the break up of a common culture. This opens the way to there being a variety of realities, something which is implicit in the frequent references to the philanthropists each ‘telling a different story’ (p. 140). These stories are never heard; they are occluded by Owen’s lectures on socialism which thereby devalue the philanthropists’ experience in much the same way that the system itself does. This is consistent with the operation of ‘high’ culture in the novel; it is identified with ‘humanity’ whereas the workers with their ‘beer, football, betting and, of course, one other subject [are] ‘wild beasts’ (p. 545). Owen’s lectures and the artefacts of ‘high’ culture are used to place the workers at the bottom of the social hierarchy. This is exactly how the bible is used by the ruling class in the novel; its authority is used to maintain the workers in a subservient role. Owen, too, does not really want the philanthropists to have their own ideas but to agree with him. Once again, the novel seems to participate in the economy of repression that it sets out to criticise.
Although The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists seems, at times, to be a demonstration of how the system uses fiction and its power to situate persons in order to perpetuate itself, it is also the case that the novel encourages a sceptical approach to these aspects of textuality. The hallucinatory power of fiction is criticised in Chapter 29, ‘The Pandorama’, which contains the same ideas found in the rest of the novel but which presents them in a way which anticipates some of the techniques of Brecht’s epic theatre. The very fact that they are presented as scenes is itself a disruption of the written word, as are those diagrams, charts and worksheets found throughout the novel.
The scenes are commented upon by Bert, whose commentary prevents the audience from becoming too absorbed in what they see. This is further prevented by the scenes being complete in themselves. Hence a storm at sea is followed by police breaking up a crowd in Berlin. Such sharp juxtapositions encourage a detached scrutiny rather than an imaginative identification with what is depicted. The discrete procession of scenes breaks with the novel’s linked sequence of episodes which stimulate the reader to want to know what happens next rather than concentrate on what is happening now. The use of song either as a direct comment or else an ironic contrast is also used to break the spell of immediacy and inhibit the emotional involvement that characterises the rest of the novel. And, in Chapter 21, it is further suggested that the philanthropists can break the spell of fiction if they act it out, so distancing themselves from it.
The power of fiction to define and place people is also criticised even as it is practised in the novel. This is apparent when a speaker, who claims to believe every word in the bible, is challenged to drink poison which will not, says the bible, harm one of Christ’s followers. In declining the invitation the speaker undermines the authority of the bible to legitimise social divisions. Owen’s adherence to ‘high’ culture is also interrogated in the novel, primarily through his having to consistently argue his case with the philanthropists. Moreover, Owen’s negative attitude towards the body expressed in his unease at the philanthropists’ interest in sex (p.141) and in his revulsion at their humorous indulgence in ‘downward explosions of flatulence’ (p.220) gives his position a strictly abstract appeal. The culture of the philanthropists, with its emphasis on physical activities, has a certain vital energy that is missing from the ‘rational pleasure[s]’ (p. 494) of socialists. Indeed, it is this energy that is the source of the philanthropists’ occasional acts of resistance mentioned earlier.
Conclusion
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists brims with ideas. Although written in the first decade of the twentieth century much of it still applies today. The economic revolution of the 1980s has led to an increase in poverty and greater job insecurity. There is fierce debate about whether ‘popular’ culture is a distraction from the ‘real’ problems or whether it can be a source of opposition to the dominant meanings in our society. Similarly, discussion rages over whether ‘high’ culture is elitist, or whether it answers the need for a felt depth in experience which is not catered for by the institutions of post-industrial capitalism. Tressell’s novel has much to say about all these issues. It portrays, in unremitting detail, the crushing despair of poverty, the brutality of labour relations and the blighting of hope. Its solution is socialism. But, like many of the ideas in the novel, socialism receives contradictory treatment and its relation to ‘high’ culture is certainly problematic.
The problems of the book should not be allowed to detract from its achievement of marrying art and politics in the English novel. Traditionally, these have been kept apart; art invites contemplation, politics action. This obscures the relation between them. Both evaluate life and, in finding it wanting, endeavour to endow it with significance. Socialism, wrote Arnold Wesker, ‘isn’t about talking all the time, it’s living, it’s singing, it’s dancing, it’s being interested in what [is] go[ing] on around you, it’s being concerned about people and the world.’14
Properly understood, politics makes good the promise of art. To this end The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists issues an emphatic challenge: ‘Every man who is not helping to bring about a better state of affairs for the future is helping to perpetuate the present misery and is therefore the enemy of his own children’ (pp.131-132). Such forthrightness cannot be ignored. It demands we learn more about the world, examine our consciences and evaluate our habits. It also demands we recognise the extent of our obligations and responsibilities, and then act accordingly. The novel, in short, invites us to live, in the largest sense of that word.
GARY DAY
November 1996
Preface
In writing this book my intention was to present, in the form of an interesting story, a faithful picture of working-class life – more especially of those engaged in the Building trades – in a small town in the south of England.
I wished to describe the relations existing between the workmen and their employers, the attitude and feelings of these two classes towards each other; the condition of the workers during the different seasons of the year, their circumstances when at work and when out of employment: their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their religious and political opinions and ideals.
The action of the story covers a period of only a little over twelve months, but in order that the picture might be complete it was necessary to describe how the workers are circumstanced at all periods of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. Therefore the characters include women and children, a young boy – the apprentice – some improvers, journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men.
I designed to show the conditions resulting from poverty and unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal with them and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy, namely – Socialism. I intended to explain what Socialists understand by the word ‘Poverty’: to define the Socialist theory of the causes of poverty, and to explain how Socialists propose to abolish poverty.
It may be objected that, considering the number of books dealing with these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for. The answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to Socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist is sufficient to show that he does not know what Socialism means. The same is true of all the anti-socialist writers and the ‘great statesmen’ who make anti-socialist speeches: unless we believe that they are all deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do not understand Socialism. There is no other possible explanation of the extraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry out against is not Socialism but a phantom of their own imagining.
Another answer is that ‘The Philanthropists’ is not a treatise or essay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story full of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the subject of Socialism being treated incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is for others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at least one merit – that of being true. I have invented nothing. There are no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not either witnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared I let the characters express themselves in their own sort of language and consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At the same time I believe that – because it is true – the book is not without its humorous side.
The scenes and characters are typical of every town in the South of England and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. If the book is published I think it will appeal to a very large number of readers. Because it is true it will probably be denounced as a libel on the working classes and their employers, and upon the religious-professing section of the community. But I believe it will be acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that no attack is made upon sincere religion.
1 An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves
The house was named ‘The Cave’. It was a large old-fashioned three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means of a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators.
There were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder. Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were being cut through walls and doors were being put where no doors had ever been before. Old broken chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and fixed in their places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper. Besides being full of these sounds the air was heavily laden with dust and disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff Reform Paradise – they had Plenty of Work.
At twelve o’clock Bob Crass – the painters’ foreman – blew a prolonged blast upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each man on the ‘job’ paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar – they did not have milk – and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune.
Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser, formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster. A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls, and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner.
As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their laps or placed on the floor beside them.
At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and the frizzling of the bloater which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire.
‘I don’t think much of this bloody tea,’ suddenly remarked Sawkins, one of the labourers.
‘Well it oughter be all right,’ retorted Bert; ‘it’s been bilin’ ever since ‘arf past eleven.’
Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
‘Well then, you can’t have put enough tea in, or else you’ve bin usin’ up wot was left yesterday,’ continued Sawkins.
‘Why the bloody ‘ell don’t you leave the boy alone?’ said Harlow, another painter. ‘If you don’t like the tea you needn’t drink it. For my part, I’m sick of listening to you about it every damn day.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say I needn’t drink it,’ answered Sawkins, ‘but I’ve paid my share an’ I’ve got a right to express an opinion. It’s my belief that ’arf the money we gives ‘im is spent on penny ’orribles: ’e’s always got one in ’is hand, an’ to make wot tea ’e does buy last, ’e collects all the slops wot’s left and biles it up day after day.’
‘No, I don’t!’ said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. ‘It’s not me wot buys the things at all. I gives all the money I gets to Crass, and ’e buys them ’imself, so there!’
At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.
‘You’d better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after this week,’ he said, addressing Sawkins, ‘and then p’raps we’ll ’ave a little peace at meal-times.’
‘An’ you needn’t ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,’ added Bert, tearfully, ‘cos I won’t do it.’
Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a simple labourer, but since then he had ‘picked up’ a slight knowledge of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition, but his wages – fivepence an hour – were twopence an hour less than the standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was ‘stood off’ when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the ‘Bloke’. Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his new mates ‘not to let the b—r Sawkins see anything.’
The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.
‘How did you get on yesterday?’ asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the Daily Obscurer.
‘No luck,’ replied Bundy, gloomily. ‘I had a bob each way on Stock well, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.’
This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow’s races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence, for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned Captain Kiddem of the Obscurer. One of those who did not join the syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper. He was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had but little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an unnatural colour flushed the thin cheeks.
There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions on the subjects mentioned.
The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox opinions. If anyone [did not think in accordance with these he soon discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small class of people were] possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very great number – in fact, the majority of the people – lived on the verge of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a period to their misery. And strangest of all – in his opinion – he saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done.
It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably something wrong with his mind.
When all the members [of the syndicate] had handed over their contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the Obscurer that Bundy had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection. Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was devouring the contents of a paper called The Chronicles of Crime. Ned Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who, having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back into his dinner basket and having closed and placed it on the mantelshelf above, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence.
Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough. This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was commonly reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman’s, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter’s labourer at the usual wages – fivepence per hour.
He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and unconscious of his surroundings.
Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation ensued.
‘Is the gent what’s bought this ’ouse any relation to Sweater the draper?’ asked Payne, the carpenter’s foreman.
‘It’s the same bloke,’ replied Crass.
‘Didn’t he used to be on the Town Council or something?’
‘’E’s bin on the Council for years,’ returned Crass. ‘’E’s on it now. ’E’s mayor this year. ’E’s bin mayor several times before.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Payne, reflectively, ‘’e married old Grinder’s sister, didn’t ’e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.’
‘Yes, I believe he did,’ said Crass.
‘It wasn’t Grinder’s sister,’ chimed in old Jack Linden. ‘It was ’is niece. I know, because I remember working in their ’ouse just after they was married, about ten year ago.’
‘Oh yes, I remember now,’ said Payne. ‘She used to manage one of Grinder’s branch shops, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ replied Linden. ‘I remember it very well because there was a lot of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used to be a regler ’ot un: no one never thought as he’d ever git married at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work for him.’
This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.
‘Funny name to call a ’ouse, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘“The Cave.” I wonder what made ’em give it a name like that.’
‘They calls ’em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,’ said old Jack Linden.
‘There’s generally some sort of meaning to it, though,’ observed Payne. ‘For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, ’e might call ’is ’ouse, “Epsom Lodge” or “Newmarket Villa”.’
‘Or sometimes there’s a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,’ said another man; ‘then they calls it “Hoak Lodge” or “Cherry Cottage”.’
‘Well, there’s a cave up at the end of this garden,’ said Harlow with a grin, ‘you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the ’ouse runs into; praps they called it after that.’
‘Talking about the drains,’ said old Jack Linden when the laughter produced by this elegant joke had ceased. ‘Talking about the drains, I wonder what they’re going to do about them; the ’ouse aint fit to live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done away with.’
‘So it is going to be,’ replied Crass. ‘There’s going to be a new set of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with the main.’
Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.
‘That’s goin’ to cost a good bit,’ said Linden.
‘Yes, I suppose it will,’ replied Crass, ‘but money ain’t no object to old Sweater. ’E’s got tons of it; you know ’e’s got a large wholesale business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one ’e’s got ’ere.’
Easton was still reading the Obscurer: he was not about to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at – probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand – but he was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question: to tell the truth, he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length he said aloud, addressing himself to Crass:
‘Wot do you think of this ’ere fissical policy, Bob?’
‘Ain’t thought much about it,’ replied Crass. ‘I don’t never worry my ’ed about politics.’
‘Much better left alone,’ chimed in old Jack Linden sagely, ‘argyfying about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an’ does no good to nobody.’
At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. Most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If two or three men of similar opinions happened to be together they might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed company it was better left alone. The ‘Fissical Policy’ emanated from the Tory party. That was the reason why some of them were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. Some of them were under the delusion that they were Conservatives: similarly, others imagined themselves to be Liberals. As a matter of fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in the planet of Jupiter.
Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject, when, looking up from his paper, Owen said:
‘Does the fact that you never “trouble your heads about politics” prevent you from voting at election times?’
No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Easton however, in spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking.
