On cheerless days I sometimes fell into a low mood and wondered what on earth I was doing there, and began to feel that by doing it I was not pulling my full weight for myself. Such moods gave me insight into the Judes the Obscure of the world. Of all the fundamentally necessary professions, the pursuit of agriculture is the most manly and the most worthwhile – about this there can hardly be two opinions. But it is not the job for Young Ambition, nor for a person potentially gifted at something else, nor for the very intellectually inclined. Luckily most people are not ambitious in a big way, nor specially gifted. Yet there are the Judes. One day when I was covering-over by harrow a freshly sown field, I recalled how in the old days the job of keeping the birds off was done by boys rattling a clacker for sixpence a day, and I remembered how Hardy’s Jude, in the hour of his greatest obscurity, standing in the ploughed field, clacker in hand, looked round and murmured – ‘How ugly it is here!’ It is a fine piece of realism. That field must indeed have seemed hateful in the eye of the small beholder, a torment of desolation, the veritable image of the awful monster that devours children – boredom. He must, he would escape it! He did. Thus in fiction. Not in life. I fell into conversation with a neighbouring labourer, a man exceptionally skilled with a team of horses that he could make follow him while he walked in front. I expected this man to say that he enjoyed his work and to sing the praises of horses versus machines. But no, he hated the life. He had been started on it very young, he told me. ‘I didn’t like it then,’ he said, ‘and I don’t like it now.’ He could have been a musician or singer. He played and sang in the village church and sometimes in the pub. But his talents had not been pronounced enough to allow him to make good his escape. The Judes of real life, the truly obscure Judes, are found at the end as at the beginning, in the field, by the side of the hill, not having achieved the exalted calamity of tragic failure.
16 A View of Literary Production
The most exhilarating sight I saw this May, or for that matter during any May anywhere, was a big beanfield in bloom. It was a lovely sight for it was a superb crop, but perhaps I should write smell. I was ignorant that the bean-flower had such a magnificent scent. We sing the rose, we sing the honeysuckle; but a whiff from such a beanfield carries us further.
This field belonged to a neighbouring farm, and there was a right of way through it to the station. The farmer was an extremely friendly man and I often had a meal with him and his kind and generous wife. I do not know what he was like as an employer, but he was very human, and he resembled in person and ways my preconceived idea of the old-time farmer. He groused of course, and he ‘made no money’; but he was not in a state of nervous tension; he was not in a hurry; he liked to stop and chat; a land girl who walked through his premises in a two-piece bathing-dress set him up for a week; and he enjoyed going to the Hippodrome on a Saturday.
One evening there was some talk of books and I happened to mention the existence of certain novelists who produced two books a year, regularly. I spoke as one shocked at this. He also was shocked, but for the opposite reason. ‘Is that all?’ he kept repeating. ‘Surely with all that imagination they could turn out more than that!’ This broadened my mind a bit. Life is incredibly departmentalized, and we deceive ourselves if we think that others outside our department see us in the smallest degree as we see ourselves. The above remark of the farmer gave me the angle from which literary production is seen by many agriculturalists, no doubt. A farmer accustomed to produce vast quantities of corn, eggs, milk, roots, and bacon, which at given periods is all sold, eaten, and never seen again, assumes that literature is produced in similar perishable quantities, and that the author will turn out, say, ten books a month.
I said that I appreciated his point of view. The more so, I added, since there are far too many writers who accept the food that appears on the table without a conception of the skill, the ardours, and the devotion that make its appearance possible. This was well received. But I could not help wondering what he would have thought if I had told him how Oscar Wilde, on being asked what he had done on a certain day, had replied – ‘I spent the morning putting in a comma, and the afternoon in taking it out again.’ We must hold that Wilde, in displaying such devotion over punctuation (it takes a great man to handle the comma: see Cobbett at one extreme, Shaw at the other, and Macaulay in the middle) thereby advanced the cause of Culture. But if I had spent the morning in putting down one seed-potato and the afternoon in taking it up again, it could scarcely be claimed that I had thereby advanced the cause of Agriculture. I went away that evening reflecting sadly upon the magnitude of the gulf that in this matter separated me from the farmer. I could understand his art, he could not understand mine, nor have a glimmering of what T E Lawrence meant by saying that he would rather write a great sentence than win a battle, nor appreciate why Churchill declared after an illness that though he was now strong enough to fight the Germans he was still too weak to paint a picture.
17 The Farm in Late May
When I came to the farm there was little to see in the way of colour save various shades of wood and grass. How it had changed near the end of May! The old story – that which was brown turning green, that which was black seen as white: an old story, differing from all other tales, from all art, from all tricks, in that though repeated every year, it still surprises us, still calls for applause and praise.
The Grenadiers were just coming out, the Beauty of Bath in blossom, the Coxes in blossom – then over the hedge another field with James Grieves and Worcesters in blossom, while the trees which had submitted to the grafting were budding on those branches. The dark hedges had become green. The corn was steadily rising. In a four-acre field into which were crowded blackcurrants, plums, gooseberries, blackberries, strawberries, and tomatoes, the bushes that began to change their appearance first were the blackcurrants. For some weeks in the midst of a general greyness their parallel green rows shone out with arresting distinctness. But at length the plum trees were in full bloom, and when I took the leverage cultivator up and down between the rows, the white petals fell upon the back of the perspiring horse and stuck there – a most decorative sight. Later, I spent some hours rescuing the miserable strawberry plants from under thistles and docks. Never did a poorer-looking plant produce so ostentatious a fruit as the strawberry. It looks well on a plate, but on the ground it looks absurd – the cultivated one, not the wild strawberry. The huge fruit, far too heavy for its frail stem, lies helpless on the soil, and it is necessary to put straw under the berry to keep it from rotting – hence strawberry, I suppose.
Thus this field, which when the owner took it over eight years previously was barren, now was bursting with life. As I passed alongside of it on the cart, getting a good view of it as a whole, I often thought of the latent power that lay there till released and channelled by man. Nothing to see on that former dry and barren field, save tangled yellowish grass: yet holding within it the force to throw upward what I now beheld. A farmer is a liberator of the energy in the earth, ceaselessly creating what is good, and adding on a vast scale to the beauty of the world.
The boss here had built up all these orchards from scratch, and had battled successfully in the end through the lean years. It was a truly creative achievement. The struggle had left its mark upon him. Melancholy by nature, he was now, I think, inclined to detest the world. I did not hear him say anything good of it or anyone in it. But he was obviously a man who held, or thought he held, ideas. He could be affable, if not courteous. Having had a bit of education, he rather enjoyed sometimes making me feel small in front of others over practical matters; but I could hardly blame him for that, and I marvelled at his patience with me during these green days of mine.
18 Scene on the Meadow
June is generally the great haymaking month. But as this was not a mixed farm, and it was only under the pressure of war that arable was being extended, our haymaking did not amount to much. In fact there was only one field to cut. As Prince was ofte
n extremely difficult to manage with any unaccustomed instrument behind him, Morgan and Arthur Miles took over the horses with the idea of getting things going before I carried on. This turned out just as well. For Prince refused to move. He just would not pull the machine. ‘I’ll make the b move all right!’ shouted Arthur, and laid on to his hindquarters with a stick. This did not make the slightest impression on the horse. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you, you sod!’ bellowed Arthur again, this time attacking from the side. But the horse only stepped back on to the machine. Then Arthur, thundering at Morgan to get on to the seat and use the reins, made a frontal attack on Prince, striking his head and nose, until some blood began to trickle from the nostrils. Yet it had no effect, and I looked on at this quiet rural scene in the nice June morning with some interest, wondering who would win the battle of will-power. Of course the man did, and eventually the horse moved forward, and after a certain amount of preliminary unsteady going, he went quietly and I was ready to take over without mishap.
It was a rather miserable meadow, so I cannot pretend that I got much of a kick out of this new experience. Indeed the whole thing was hardly hay-making proper. Nor did we rick it. We carried it into the barn – one portion of the old oast-house.
During the loading-up I heard Arthur expand on the subject of modern wages and prices. ‘The higher wages don’t make no difference,’ he said. ‘We’re worse off today, I reckon. Take baccy: twopence an ounce in the old days – now eightpence. Take boots: a fine pair for six shillings before – look at the price now. Take a suit: nice suit for twenty-five shillings in the old days. Now you can’t get nothing for that.’
And so on through a list. To which Morgan replied – ‘Yes, but consider the laws and regulations these days. The wages are constant. A boss can’t stand his men off. In the old days there was a well-paid foreman to keep the others down. On a wet day he would say to a man, “You can go home, and play with the cat.” Or take piece-work. Think of the rates there. It depended upon the boss. I knew a man who used to say to a hedger, “Let me see now, perhaps I can manage a halfpenny per five yards”, and then would add, “I dunno. It’s too much for a halfpenny, and too little for three-farthings.” ’
I have since often heard variations on Arthur’s reckoning on wages as good or better in the old days. It is quite a favourite theme amongst the older men. But I have never been able to swallow it. It is often downright contrariness – one might almost say it is nonsense. And if taken up on it, many are inclined to agree that it is nonsense – for though the agricultural labourer tends to be a very pig-headed person with regard to views and practices, he is incredibly inconsistent in his thought and argument, often unsaying what he has just said in the most surprising way. The point is that though prices are so different today they are not commensurate with the rise in wages. And though in the old days labourers received a great deal of pay in kind, there was no definiteness about it, no absolute constancy, it depended upon the place (with regard to wood, for instance), and upon the boss, who always had you to that extent in his pocket. Finally if you discount both the above considerations, the present wage puts the labourer into a far more dignified position than when he received a question of shillings as opposed to the pounds received by town workers. It is a psychological point of some importance. Not that I have any axe to grind on this or any other agricultural matter, and I should add that Mr Fred Kitchin, the author of that great book Brother To The Ox, opens his memoirs by saying that in his youth ‘seventeen shillings went as far as two pounds in these days’. Also I have seen some formidable statistics on this subject produced by Mr H J Massingham which tell against my view.
But I am quite certain that if any of the present-day labourers were given the sudden option of going back to the old days, they would change their tune in a flash. I would be interested to meet the piece-working hedger who would like to go back to the boss who thought that while five yards’ worth of work was too much for a halfpenny, it was ‘too little for three-farthings’, or to meet any labourer who would consider the old days as rose-coloured under foremen who could at any moment stand you off and say ‘go home and play with the cat’.
19 While Thinning, Picking, Pruning
The farmer who deals in corn can leave the situation in the hands of Nature for some months before harvest. The farmer who deals in fruit has to thin out his crop before it gets ripe and full. This was an eye-opener to me. When, for instance, the plum trees had become heavily weighted with rows of already large plums, it became necessary to do away with a large number of them. That is to say, you picked and threw down what seemed to be about two-thirds of the trees’ fruit. It felt like appalling wastefulness, and went much against the grain to do it. Here was a branch hanging with dozens of excellent plums, all about the same size: and it was your business to snip away all that were closer together than two inches. Those remaining would grow, it appeared, into such fine plums that they would equalize the quantity of fruit that had been thrown away. Perhaps this was true; but it was impossible to believe it at this stage, and while engaged on the job, one felt – everyone new at it felt – a scandalous waster of Nature’s abundance. Yet custom stales. And I remember how a voluntary helper – a girl from the university – once became so doped and dazed by the work that I saw her thin every plum off one branch. An agonizing sight.
This thinning was a lengthy proceeding and went on for some weeks. To get it done at all many helpers were needed – another difficulty confronting the fruit-grower. For temporary labour is neither the easiest to get hold of, nor the most satisfactory. However, the boss was fairly strong on land girls. He was able to get some university students who came just for the thinning and the picking. Also he had one Land Army girl for milking (but there was only one cow) and other jobs; while he also employed another girl who was the daughter of a farmer, and who in liveliness, guts and knowledge of literature was worth all the university students put together. She was strong but not hefty. In fact her figure left so little to be desired that she turned out in a two-piece bathing-dress, thus creating more sensation than the place could carry.
The university girls sometimes created a problem for Morgan. Not being afraid of getting the sack, they did not always keep the work going with that earnestness which is proper to agricultural proceedings. There were a number of pools on this farm surrounded by trees – very tempting places for a swim. One afternoon during working hours the girls decided to jump into one of these pools. Leaving their clothes on the bank, they began to enjoy a swim. Soon Morgan became aware of their disappearance, and at length, approaching the pond, spotted their clothes and then the swimmers. They were delighted. But he did not seem to appreciate the sylvan poetry and classic simplicity of the scene. Should he remove their clothes? he asked himself indignantly. It was clear that if he removed their clothes to a distance, or out of sight altogether, it would advance the cause of discipline. But would it advance the cause of morals? And was a diversion of this sort agriculturally advisable at this busy time? Being a very discreet man, he thought better of it – greatly to the disappointment of the multitude, amongst whom I must number Mrs Miles as well as myself.
If extra workers were needed for thinning the fruit, a great many more were necessary for the final operation of harvesting it in August. Seeing them all – perennial, professional fruit-pickers – I wondered how the owner could possibly make a profit after he had paid them all. This department of agriculture calls for a farmer of stout heart. He who deals with arable land can count upon a certain degree of harvest in the worst of seasons. He sows his seed and according to his skill in husbandry he will reap his reward. Luck, sheer luck may elevate or destroy the fruit-grower. The beauty of spring, the whole parade of bloom and blossom, can change overnight into the whiteness of the flowers of frost. The spectacle of promise and bounty turns into a picture of blasted hope. This sometimes happens three years in succession. He can do nothing about it – no tarpaulin being large enough to spread
over his farm at night.
First came the blackcurrant harvest. Enter crowds of women from round about, some of them pushing prams. They went at it hard all day, being paid so much a pound. They belonged to a very low-class stratum – a depressing crew, pale-faced, unhealthy-looking, truculent, their minds bent simply and solely upon l.s.d.; seeing nothing else in the fruit, absolutely nothing but so much l.s.d. There seemed no progress here from the similar kind of scene that Jack London used to write about in years gone by. However picturesque this sort of thing can be made to appear by a painter, the thing itself is pitiful, so charged with the harshness, not of life which all round is smiling and warm and beautiful with abundant increase, but of man’s life, of man’s narrowing down of life till there is nothing before his eyes but a few pieces of silver – which he can only get into his hands by doing work from which he robs all the enjoyment.
It was not a good blackcurrant crop this year, and the more truculent women demanded more money per pound since they couldn’t pick the poor crop fast enough to make the turnover they expected. Since the boss was going to make less, he must pay them more – a good example, I thought, of the fraternal link between employer and employee in our democracy.
These outside fruit-pickers were all the more conspicuous since they were accompanied in their work by other strata of society. There were Arthur and Mrs Miles lording it after their fashion. There was the boss at the receipt of custom, and Morgan filling up the van. There were the various girls in bathing attire contrasting forcibly with the heavily clothed pickers who, of course, regarded such dress as scandalous, since Nature herself is not seen by them, the human body when seen is a sore. And there were several other people who came in from round about to give a hand, including two who looked in for an hour, symbol of carefree leisure. All spoke, all behaved according to upbringing and chance in life. Marx was not wholly right. Everything is not caused by environment. But it is more than a half-truth. It is a three-quarter truth. And the more I see of people the more I see that they are for the most part what circumstances have made them, and the less I feel inclined to scoff or condemn, however little I seem to gild. Certainly this spectacle here was a neatly framed object lesson in the inequality of life. Also, I may add, a lesson in the equality of man – under the law of battle. At not infrequent intervals we all assembled in the ditch. For while we assisted at these old tasks upon the earth, a singular job was being performed in the sky by others. History was going on up there. England had again been challenged by the Hun, and her answer was being made above our heads. We witnessed an air battle twice daily. We enormously enjoyed the show. When the fall of metal became dangerous it was our duty to seek the ditch. These diversions considerably lightened our humble toil.
The Worm Forgives the Plough Page 6
