"This thing is a fight," said the big employer, carrying on before the bishop could reply."Religion had better get out of the streets until this thing is over.The men won't listen to reason.They don't mean to.They're bit by Syndicalism.They're setting out, I tell you, to be unreasonable and impossible.It isn't an argument; it's a fight.They don't want to make friends with the employer.They want to make an end to the employer.
Whatever we give them they'll take and press us for more.
Directly we make terms with the leaders the men go behind it....
It's a raid on the whole system.They don't mean to work the system--anyhow.I'm the capitalist, and the capitalist has to go.I'm to be bundled out of my works, and some--some "--he seemed to be rejecting unsuitable words--" confounded politician put in.Much good it would do them.But before that happens I'm going to fight.You would."The bishop walked to the window and stood staring at the brilliant spring bulbs in the big employer's garden, and at a long vista of newly-mown lawn under great shapely trees just budding into green.
"I can't admit," he said, "that these troubles lie outside the sphere of the church."The employer came and stood beside him.He felt he was being a little hard on the bishop, but he could not see any way of making things easier.
"One doesn't want Sacred Things," he tried, "in a scrap like this.
"We've got to mend things or end things," continued the big employer."Nothing goes on for ever.Things can't last as they are going on now...."Then he went on abruptly to something that for a time he had been keeping back.
"Of course just at present the church may do a confounded lot of harm.Some of you clerical gentlemen are rather too fond of talking socialism and even preaching socialism.Don't think Iwant to be overcritical.I admit there's no end of things to be said for a proper sort of socialism, Ruskin, and all that.We're all Socialists nowadays.Ideals--excellent.But--it gets misunderstood.It gives the men a sense of moral support.It makes them fancy that they are It.Encourages them to forget duties and set up preposterous claims.Class war and all that sort of thing.You gentlemen of the clergy don't quite realize that socialism may begin with Ruskin and end with Karl Marx.And that from the Class War to the Commune is just one step."(5)
From this conversation the bishop had made his way to the vicarage of Mogham Banks.The vicar of Mogham Banks was a sacerdotal socialist of the most advanced type, with the reputation of being closely in touch with the labour extremists.
He was a man addicted to banners, prohibited ornaments, special services at unusual hours, and processions in the streets.His taste in chasubles was loud, he gardened in a cassock and, it was said, he slept in his biretta; he certainly slept in a hair shirt, and he littered his church with flowers, candles, side altars, confessional boxes, requests for prayers for the departed, and the like.There had already been two Kensitite demonstrations at his services, and altogether he was a source of considerable anxiety to the bishop.The bishop did his best not to know too exactly what was going on at Mogham Banks.Sooner or later he felt he would be forced to do something--and the longer he could put that off the better.But the Rev.Morrice Deans had promised to get together three or four prominent labour leaders for tea and a frank talk, and the opportunity was one not to be missed.So the bishop, after a hasty and not too digestible lunch in the refreshment room at Pringle, was now in a fly that smelt of straw and suggested infectious hospital patients, on his way through the industry-scarred countryside to this second conversation.
The countryside had never seemed so scarred to him as it did that day.
It was probably the bright hard spring sunshine that emphasized the contrast between that dear England of hedges and homes and the south-west wind in which his imagination lived, and the crude presences of a mechanical age.Never before had the cuttings and heapings, the smashing down of trees, the obtrusion of corrugated iron and tar, the belchings of smoke and the haste, seemed so harsh and disregardful of all the bishop's world.Across the fields a line of gaunt iron standards, abominably designed, carried an electric cable to some unknown end.The curve of the hill made them seem a little out of the straight, as if they hurried and bent forward furtively.
"Where are they going?" asked the bishop, leaning forward to look out of the window of the fly, and then: "Where is it all going?"And presently the road was under repair, and was being done at a great pace with a huge steam-roller, mechanically smashed granite, and kettles of stinking stuff, asphalt or something of that sort, that looked and smelt like Milton's hell.Beyond, a gaunt hoarding advertised extensively the Princhester Music Hall, a mean beastly place that corrupted boys and girls; and also it clamoured of tyres and potted meats....
The afternoon's conference gave him no reassuring answer to his question, "Where is it all going?"The afternoon's conference did no more than intensify the new and strange sense of alienation from the world that the morning's talk had evoked.
The three labour extremists that Morrice Deans had assembled obviously liked the bishop and found him picturesque, and were not above a certain snobbish gratification at the purple-trimmed company they were in, but it was clear that they regarded his intervention in the great dispute as if it were a feeble waving from the bank across the waters of a great river.
"There's an incurable misunderstanding between the modern employer and the modern employed," the chief labour spokesman said, speaking in a broad accent that completely hid from him and the bishop and every one the fact that he was by far the best-read man of the party."Disraeli called them the Two Nations, but that was long ago.Now it's a case of two species.
