Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕
Another answer is that `The Philanthropists' is not a treatise oressay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story fullof human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, thesubject of Socialism being treated incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded isfor others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses atleast one merit - that of being true. I have invented nothing. Thereare no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not eitherwitnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared Ilet th
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The Working Classes accordingly set to work, and the Capitalist class
sat down and watched them. As soon as they had finished, they passed
the nine little blocks to Owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by
his side and paid the workers their wages.
`These blocks represent the necessaries of life. You can’t live
without some of these things, but as they belong to me, you will have
to buy them from me: my price for these blocks is - one pound each.’
As the working classes were in need of the necessaries of life and as
they could not eat, drink or wear the useless money, they were
compelled to agree to the kind Capitalist’s terms. They each bought
back and at once consumed one-third of the produce of their labour.
The capitalist class also devoured two of the square blocks, and so
the net result of the week’s work was that the kind capitalist had
consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the labour of the
others, and reckoning the squares at their market value of one pound
each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the
three pounds in money and in addition four pounds worth of goods. As
for the working classes, Philpot, Harlow and Easton, having each
consumed the pound’s worth of necessaries they had bought with their
wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as when they
started work - they had nothing.
This process was repeated several times: for each week’s work the
producers were paid their wages. They kept on working and spending
all their earnings. The kind-hearted capitalist consumed twice as
much as any one of them and his pile of wealth continually increased.
In a little while - reckoning the little squares at their market value
of one pound each - he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the
working classes were still in the same condition as when they began,
and were still tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon
it.
After a while the rest of the crowd began to laugh, and their
merriment increased when the kind-hearted capitalist, just after
having sold a pound’s worth of necessaries to each of his workers,
suddenly took their tools - the Machinery of Production - the knives
away from them, and informed them that as owing to Over Production all
his store-houses were glutted with the necessaries of life, he had
decided to close down the works.
`Well, and wot the bloody ‘ell are we to do now?’ demanded Philpot.
`That’s not my business,’ replied the kind-hearted capitalist. `I’ve
paid you your wages, and provided you with Plenty of Work for a long
time past. I have no more work for you to do at present. Come round
again in a few months’ time and I’ll see what I can do for you.’
`But what about the necessaries of life?’ demanded Harlow. `We must
have something to eat.’
`Of course you must,’ replied the capitalist, affably; `and I shall be
very pleased to sell you some.’
`But we ain’t got no bloody money!’
`Well, you can’t expect me to give you my goods for nothing! You
didn’t work for me for nothing, you know. I paid you for your work
and you should have saved something: you should have been thrifty like
me. Look how I have got on by being thrifty!’
The unemployed looked blankly at each other, but the rest of the crowd
only laughed; and then the three unemployed began to abuse the
kind-hearted Capitalist, demanding that he should give them some of
the necessaries of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to
be allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs; and even
threatened to take some of the things by force if he did not comply
with their demands. But the kind-hearted Capitalist told them not to
be insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said if they were
not careful he would have their faces battered in for them by the
police, or if necessary he would call out the military and have them
shot down like dogs, the same as he had done before at Featherstone
and Belfast.
`Of course,’ continued the kind-hearted capitalist, `if it were not
for foreign competition I should be able to sell these things that you
have made, and then I should be able to give you Plenty of Work again:
but until I have sold them to somebody or other, or until I have used
them myself, you will have to remain idle.’
`Well, this takes the bloody biskit, don’t it?’ said Harlow.
`The only thing as I can see for it,’ said Philpot mournfully, `is to
‘ave a unemployed procession.’
`That’s the idear,’ said Harlow, and the three began to march about
the room in Indian file, singing:
`We’ve got no work to do-oo-oo’
We’ve got no work to do-oo-oo!
Just because we’ve been workin’ a dam sight too hard,
Now we’ve got no work to do.’
As they marched round, the crowd jeered at them and made offensive
remarks. Crass said that anyone could see that they were a lot of
lazy, drunken loafers who had never done a fair day’s work in their
lives and never intended to.
`We shan’t never get nothing like this, you know,’ said Philpot.
`Let’s try the religious dodge.’
`All right,’ agreed Harlow. `What shall we give ‘em?’
`I know!’ cried Philpot after a moment’s deliberation. `“Let my lower
lights be burning.” That always makes ‘em part up.’
The three unemployed accordingly resumed their march round the room,
singing mournfully and imitating the usual whine of street-singers:
`Trim your fee-bil lamp me brither-in,
Some poor sail-er tempest torst,
Strugglin’ ‘ard to save the ‘arb-er,
Hin the dark-niss may be lorst,
So let try lower lights be burning,
Send ‘er gleam acrost the wave,
Some poor shipwrecked, struggling seaman,
You may rescue, you may save.’
`Kind frens,’ said Philpot, removing his cap and addressing the crowd,
`we’re hall honest British workin’ men, but we’ve been hout of work
for the last twenty years on account of foreign competition and
over-production. We don’t come hout ‘ere because we’re too lazy to
work; it’s because we can’t get a job. If it wasn’t for foreign
competition, the kind’earted Hinglish capitalists would be able to
sell their goods and give us Plenty of Work, and if they could, I
assure you that we should hall be perfectly willing and contented to
go on workin’ our bloody guts out for the benefit of our masters for
the rest of our lives. We’re quite willin’ to work: that’s hall we
arst for - Plenty of Work - but as we can’t get it we’re forced to
come out ‘ere and arst you to spare a few coppers towards a crust of
bread and a night’s lodgin’.’
As Philpot held out his cap for subscriptions, some of them attempted
to expectorate into it, but the more charitable put in pieces of cinder
or dirt from the floor, and the kind-hearted capitalist was so
affected by the sight of their misery that he gave them one of the
sovereigns he had in us pocket: but as this was of no use to them they
immediately returned it to him in exchange for one of the small
squares of the necessaries of life, which they divided and greedily
devoured. And when they had finished eating they gathered round the
philanthropist and sang, `For he’s a jolly good fellow,’ and
afterwards Harlow suggested that they should ask him if he would allow
them to elect him to Parliament.
The Phrenologist
The following morning - Saturday - the men went about their work in
gloomy silence; there were but few attempts at conversation and no
jests or singing. The tenor of the impending slaughter pervaded the
house. Even those who were confident of being spared and kept on till
the job was finished shared the general depression, not only out of
sympathy for the doomed, but because they knew that a similar fate
awaited themselves a little later on.
They all waited anxiously for Nimrod to come, but hour after hour
dragged slowly by and he did not arrive. At half past eleven some of
those who had made up their minds that they were to be `stood still’
began to hope that the slaughter was to be deferred for a few days:
after all, there was plenty of work still to be done: even if all
hands were kept on, the job could scarcely be finished in another
week. Anyhow, it would not be very long now before they would know
one way or the other. If he did not come before twelve, it was all
right: all the hands were paid by the hour and were therefore entitled
to an hour’s notice.
Easton and Harlow were working together on the staircase, finishing
the doors and other woodwork with white enamel. The men had not been
allowed to spend the time necessary to prepare this work in a proper
manner, it had not been rubbed down smooth or properly filled up, and
it had not had a sufficient number of coats of paint to make it solid
white. Now that the glossy enamel was put on, the work looked rather
rough and shady.
`It ain’t ‘arf all right, ain’t it?’ remarked Harlow, sarcastically,
indicating the door he had just finished.
Easton laughed: ‘I can’t understand how people pass such work,’ he
said.
`Old Sweater did make some remark about it the other day,’ replied
Harlow, `and I heard Misery tell ‘im it was impossible to make a
perfect job of such old doors.’
`I believe that man’s the biggest liar Gord ever made,’ said Easton,
an opinion in which Harlow entirely concurred.
`I wonder what the time is?’ said the latter after a pause.
`I don’t know exactly,’ replied Easton, ‘but it can’t be far off
twelve.’
`‘E don’t seem to be comin’, does ‘e?’ Harlow continued.
`No: and I shouldn’t be surprised if ‘e didn’t turn up at all, now.
P’raps ‘e don’t mean to stop nobody today after all.’
They spoke in hushed tones and glanced cautiously about them fearful
of being heard or observed.
`This is a bloody life, ain’t it?’ Harlow said, bitterly. `Workin’
our guts out like a lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and
then as soon as they’ve done with you, you’re chucked aside like a
dirty rag.’
`Yes: and I begin to think that a great deal of what Owen says is
true. But for my part I can’t see ‘Ow it’s ever goin’ to be altered,
can you?’
Blowed if I know, mate. But whether it can be altered or not, there’s
one thing very certain; it won’t be done in our time.’
Neither of them seemed to think that if the `alteration’ they spoke of
were to be accomplished at all they themselves would have to help to
bring it about.
`I wonder what they’re doin’ about the venetian blinds?’ said Easton.
`Is there anyone doin’ em yet?’
`I don’t know; ain’t ‘eard nothing about ‘em since the boy took ‘em to
the shop.’
There was quite a mystery about these blinds. About a month ago they
were taken to the paintshop down at the yard to be repainted and
re-harnessed, and since then nothing had been heard of them by the men
working at the `Cave’.
`P’hap’s a couple of us will be
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