CHAPTER V
THE PHILOMATHS
Ernest was often at the house. Nor was it my father, merely, nor
the controversial dinners, that drew him there. Even at that time
I flattered myself that I played some part in causing his visits,
and it was not long before I learned the correctness of my surmise.
For never was there such a lover as Ernest Everhard. His gaze and
his hand-clasp grew firmer and steadier, if that were possible; and
the question that had grown from the first in his eyes, grew only
the more imperative.
My impression of him, the first time I saw him, had been
unfavorable. Then I had found myself attracted toward him. Next
came my repulsion, when he so savagely attacked my class and me.
After that, as I saw that he had not maligned my class, and that
the harsh and bitter things he said about it were justified, I had
drawn closer to him again. He became my oracle. For me he tore
the sham from the face of society and gave me glimpses of reality
that were as unpleasant as they were undeniably true.
As I have said, there was never such a lover as he. No girl could
live in a university town till she was twenty-four and not have
love experiences. I had been made love to by beardless sophomores
and gray professors, and by the athletes and the football giants.
But not one of them made love to me as Ernest did. His arms were
around me before I knew. His lips were on mine before I could
protest or resist. Before his earnestness conventional maiden
dignity was ridiculous. He swept me off my feet by the splendid
invincible rush of him. He did not propose. He put his arms
around me and kissed me and took it for granted that we should be
married. There was no discussion about it. The only discussion--
and that arose afterward--was when we should be married.
It was unprecedented. It was unreal. Yet, in accordance with
Ernest's test of truth, it worked. I trusted my life to it. And
fortunate was the trust. Yet during those first days of our love,
fear of the future came often to me when I thought of the violence
and impetuosity of his love-making. Yet such fears were
groundless. No woman was ever blessed with a gentler, tenderer
husband. This gentleness and violence on his part was a curious
blend similar to the one in his carriage of awkwardness and ease.
That slight awkwardness! He never got over it, and it was
delicious. His behavior in our drawing-room reminded me of a
careful bull in a china shop.*
* In those days it was still the custom to fill the living rooms
with bric-a-brac. They had not discovered simplicity of living.
Such rooms were museums, entailing endless labor to keep clean.
The dust-demon was the lord of the household. There were a myriad
devices for catching dust, and only a few devices for getting rid
of it.
It was at this time that vanished my last doubt of the completeness
of my love for him (a subconscious doubt, at most). It was at the
Philomath Club--a wonderful night of battle, wherein Ernest bearded
the masters in their lair. Now the Philomath Club was the most
select on the Pacific Coast. It was the creation of Miss
Brentwood, an enormously wealthy old maid; and it was her husband,
and family, and toy. Its members were the wealthiest in the
community, and the strongest-minded of the wealthy, with, of
course, a sprinkling of scholars to give it intellectual tone.
The Philomath had no club house. It was not that kind of a club.
Once a month its members gathered at some one of their private
houses to listen to a lecture. The lecturers were usually, though
not always, hired. If a chemist in New York made a new discovery
in say radium, all his expenses across the continent were paid, and
as well he received a princely fee for his time. The same with a
returning explorer from the polar regions, or the latest literary
or artistic success. No visitors were allowed, while it was the
Philomath's policy to permit none of its discussions to get into
the papers. Thus great statesmen--and there had been such
occasions--were able fully to speak their minds.
I spread before me a wrinkled letter, written to me by Ernest
twenty years ago, and from it I copy the following:
"Your father is a member of the Philomath, so you are able to come.
Therefore come next Tuesday night. I promise you that you will
have the time of your life. In your recent encounters, you failed
to shake the masters. If you come, I'll shake them for you. I'll
make them snarl like wolves. You merely questioned their morality.
When their morality is questioned, they grow only the more
complacent and superior. But I shall menace their money-bags.
That will shake them to the roots of their primitive natures. If
you can come, you will see the cave-man, in evening dress, snarling
and snapping over a bone. I promise you a great caterwauling and
an illuminating insight into the nature of the beast.
"They've invited me in order to tear me to pieces. This is the
idea of Miss Brentwood. She clumsily hinted as much when she
invited me. She's given them that kind of fun before. They
delight in getting trustful-souled gentle reformers before them.
Miss Brentwood thinks I am as mild as a kitten and as good-natured
and stolid as the family cow. I'll not deny that I helped to give
her that impression. She was very tentative at first, until she
divined my harmlessness. I am to receive a handsome fee--two
hundred and fifty dollars--as befits the man who, though a radical,
once ran for governor. Also, I am to wear evening dress. This is
compulsory. I never was so apparelled in my life. I suppose I'll
have to hire one somewhere. But I'd do more than that to get a
chance at the Philomaths."
Of all places, the Club gathered that night at the Pertonwaithe
house. Extra chairs had been brought into the great drawing-room,
and in all there must have been two hundred Philomaths that sat
down to hear Ernest. They were truly lords of society. I amused
myself with running over in my mind the sum of the fortunes
represented, and it ran well into the hundreds of millions. And
the possessors were not of the idle rich. They were men of affairs
who took most active parts in industrial and political life.
We were all seated when Miss Brentwood brought Ernest in. They
moved at once to the head of the room, from where he was to speak.
He was in evening dress, and, what of his broad shoulders and
kingly head, he looked magnificent. And then there was that faint
and unmistakable touch of awkwardness in his movements. I almost
think I could have loved him for that alone. And as I looked at
him I was aware of a great joy. I felt again the pulse of his palm
on mine, the touch of his lips; and such pride was mine that I felt
I must rise up and cry out to the assembled company: "He is mine!
He has held me in his arms, and I, mere I, have filled that mind of
his to the exclusion of all his multitudinous and kingly thoughts!"
At the head of the room, Miss Brentwood introduced him to Colonel
Van Gilbert, and I knew that the latter was to preside. Colonel
Van Gilbert was a great corporation lawyer. In addition, he was
immensely wealthy. The smallest fee he would deign to notice was a
hundred thousand dollars. He was a master of law. The law was a
puppet with which he played. He moulded it like clay, twisted and
distorted it like a Chinese puzzle into any design he chose. In
appearance and rhetoric he was old-fashioned, but in imagination
and knowledge and resource he was as young as the latest statute.
His first prominence had come when he broke the Shardwell will.*
His fee for this one act was five hundred thousand dollars. From
then on he had risen like a rocket. He was often called the
greatest lawyer in the country--corporation lawyer, of course; and
no classification of the three greatest lawyers in the United
States could have excluded him.
* This breaking of wills was a peculiar feature of the period.
With the accumulation of vast fortunes, the problem of disposing of
these fortunes after death was a vexing one to the accumulators.
Will-making and will-breaking became complementary trades, like
armor-making and gun-making. The shrewdest will-making lawyers
were called in to make wills that could not be broken. But these
wills were always broken, and very often by the very lawyers that
had drawn them up. Nevertheless the delusion persisted in the
wealthy class that an absolutely unbreakable will could be cast;
and so, through the generations, clients and lawyers pursued the
illusion. It was a pursuit like unto that of the Universal Solvent
of the mediaeval alchemists.
He arose and began, in a few well-chosen phrases that carried an
undertone of faint irony, to introduce Ernest. Colonel Van Gilbert
was subtly facetious in his introduction of the social reformer and
member of the working class, and the audience smiled. It made me
angry, and I glanced at Ernest. The sight of him made me doubly
angry. He did not seem to resent the delicate slurs. Worse than
that, he did not seem to be aware of them. There he sat, gentle,
and stolid, and somnolent. He really looked stupid. And for a
moment the thought rose in my mind, What if he were overawed by
this imposing array of power and brains? Then I smiled. He
couldn't fool me. But he fooled the others, just as he had fooled
Miss Brentwood. She occupied a chair right up to the front, and
several times she turned her head toward one or another of her
CONFRERES and smiled her appreciation of the remarks.
Colonel Van Gilbert done, Ernest arose and began to speak. He
began in a low voice, haltingly and modestly, and with an air of
evident embarrassment. He spoke of his birth in the working class,
and of the sordidness and wretchedness of his environment, where
flesh and spirit were alike starved and tormented. He described
his ambitions and ideals, and his conception of the paradise
wherein lived the people of the upper classes. As he said:
"Up above me, I knew, were unselfishnesses of the spirit, clean and
noble thinking, keen intellectual living. I knew all this because
I read 'Seaside Library'* novels, in which, with the exception of
the villains and adventuresses, all men and women thought beautiful
thoughts, spoke a beautiful tongue, and performed glorious deeds.
In short, as I accepted the rising of the sun, I accepted that up
above me was all that was fine and noble and gracious, all that
gave decency and dignity to life, all that made life worth living
and that remunerated one for his travail and misery."
* A curious and amazing literature that served to make the working
class utterly misapprehend the nature of the leisure class.
He went on and traced his life in the mills, the learning of the
horseshoeing trade, and his meeting with the socialists. Among
them, he said, he had found keen intellects and brilliant wits,
ministers of the Gospel who had been broken because their
Christianity was too wide for any congregation of mammon-
worshippers, and professors who had been broken on the wheel of
university subservience to the ruling class. The socialists were
revolutionists, he said, struggling to overthrow the irrational
society of the present and out of the material to build the
rational society of the future. Much more he said that would take
too long to write, but I shall never forget how he described the
life among the revolutionists. All halting utterance vanished.
His voice grew strong and confident, and it glowed as he glowed,
and as the thoughts glowed that poured out from him. He said:
"Amongst the revolutionists I found, also, warm faith in the human,
ardent idealism, sweetnesses of unselfishness, renunciation, and
martyrdom--all the splendid, stinging things of the spirit. Here
life was clean, noble, and alive. I was in touch with great souls
who exalted flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom
the thin wail of the starved slum child meant more than all the
pomp and circumstance of commercial expansion and world empire.
All about me were nobleness of purpose and heroism of effort, and
my days and nights were sunshine and starshine, all fire and dew,
with before my eyes, ever burning and blazing, the Holy Grail,
Christ's own Grail, the warm human, long-suffering and maltreated
but to be rescued and saved at the last."
As before I had seen him transfigured, so now he stood transfigured
before me. His brows were bright with the divine that was in him,
and brighter yet shone his eyes from the midst of the radiance that
seemed to envelop him as a mantle. But the others did not see this
radiance, and I assumed that it was due to the tears of joy and
love that dimmed my vision. At any rate, Mr. Wickson, who sat
behind me, was unaffected, for I heard him sneer aloud, "Utopian."*
* The people of that age were phrase slaves. The abjectness of
their servitude is incomprehensible to us. There was a magic in
words greater than the conjurer's art. So befuddled and chaotic
were their minds that the utterance of a single word could negative
the generalizations of a lifetime of serious research and thought.
Such a word was the adjective UTOPIAN. The mere utterance of it
could damn any scheme, no matter how sanely conceived, of economic
amelioration or regeneration. Vast populations grew frenzied over
such phrases as "an honest dollar" and "a full dinner pail." The
coinage of such phrases was considered strokes of genius.
Ernest went on to his rise in society, till at last he came in
touch with members of the upper classes, and rubbed shoulders with
the men who sat in the high places. Then came his disillusionment,
and this disillusionment he described in terms that did not flatter
his audience. He was surprised at the commonness of the clay.
Life proved not to be fine and gracious. He was appalled by the
selfishness he encountered, and what had surprised him even more
than that was the absence of intellectual life. Fresh from his
revolutionists, he was shocked by the intellectual stupidity of the
master class. And then, in spite of their magnificent churches and
well-paid preachers, he had found the masters, men and women,
grossly material. It was true that they prattled sweet little
ideals and dear little moralities, but in spite of their prattle
the dominant key of the life they lived was materialistic. And
they were without real morality--for instance, that which Christ
had preached but which was no longer preached.
"I met men," he said, "who invoked the name of the Prince of Peace
in their diatribes against war, and who put rifles in the hands of
Pinkertons* with which to shoot down strikers in their own
factories. I met men incoherent with indignation at the brutality
of prize-fighting, and who, at the same time, were parties to the
adulteration of food that killed each year more babes than even
red-handed Herod had killed.
* Originally, they were private detectives; but they quickly became
hired fighting men of the capitalists, and ultimately developed
into the Mercenaries of the Oligarchy.
"This delicate, aristocratic-featured gentleman was a dummy
director and a tool of corporations that secretly robbed widows and
orphans. This gentleman, who collected fine editions and was a
patron of literature, paid blackmail to a heavy-jowled, black-
browed boss of a municipal machine. This editor, who published
patent medicine advertisements, called me a scoundrelly demagogue
because I dared him to print in his paper the truth about patent
medicines.* This man, talking soberly and earnestly about the
beauties of idealism and the goodness of God, had just betrayed his
comrades in a business deal. This man, a pillar of the church and
heavy contributor to foreign missions, worked his shop girls ten
hours a day on a starvation wage and thereby directly encouraged
prostitution. This man, who endowed chairs in universities and
erected magnificent chapels, perjured himself in courts of law over
dollars and cents. This railroad magnate broke his word as a
citizen, as a gentleman, and as a Christian, when he granted a
secret rebate, and he granted many secret rebates. This senator
was the tool and the slave, the little puppet, of a brutal
uneducated machine boss;** so was this governor and this supreme
court judge; and all three rode on railroad passes; and, also, this
sleek capitalist owned the machine, the machine boss, and the
railroads that issued the passes.
* PATENT MEDICINES were patent lies, but, like the charms and
indulgences of the Middle Ages, they deceived the people. The only
difference lay in that the patent medicines were more harmful and
more costly.
** Even as late as 1912, A.D., the great mass of the people still
persisted in the belief that they ruled the country by virtue of
their ballots. In reality, the country was ruled by what were
called POLITICAL MACHINES. At first the machine bosses charged the
master capitalists extortionate tolls for legislation; but in a
short time the master capitalists found it cheaper to own the
political machines themselves and to hire the machine bosses.
"And so it was, instead of in paradise, that I found myself in the
arid desert of commercialism. I found nothing but stupidity,
except for business. I found none clean, noble, and alive, though
I found many who were alive--with rottenness. What I did find was
monstrous selfishness and heartlessness, and a gross, gluttonous,
practised, and practical materialism."
Much more Ernest told them of themselves and of his
disillusionment. Intellectually they had bored him; morally and
spiritually they had sickened him; so that he was glad to go back
to his revolutionists, who were clean, noble, and alive, and all
that the capitalists were not.
"And now," he said, "let me tell you about that revolution."
But first I must say that his terrible diatribe had not touched
them. I looked about me at their faces and saw that they remained
complacently superior to what he had charged. And I remembered
what he had told me: that no indictment of their morality could
shake them. However, I could see that the boldness of his language
had affected Miss Brentwood. She was looking worried and
apprehensive.
Ernest began by describing the army of revolution, and as he gave
the figures of its strength (the votes cast in the various
countries), the assemblage began to grow restless. Concern showed
in their faces, and I noticed a tightening of lips. At last the
gage of battle had been thrown down. He described the
international organization of the socialists that united the
million and a half in the United States with the twenty-three
millions and a half in the rest of the world.
"Such an army of revolution," he said, "twenty-five millions
strong, is a thing to make rulers and ruling classes pause and
consider. The cry of this army is: 'No quarter! We want all that
you possess. We will be content with nothing less than all that
you possess. We want in our hands the reins of power and the
destiny of mankind. Here are our hands. They are strong hands.
We are going to take your governments, your palaces, and all your
purpled ease away from you, and in that day you shall work for your
bread even as the peasant in the field or the starved and runty
clerk in your metropolises. Here are our hands. They are strong
hands!'"
And as he spoke he extended from his splendid shoulders his two
great arms, and the horseshoer's hands were clutching the air like
eagle's talons. He was the spirit of regnant labor as he stood
there, his hands outreaching to rend and crush his audience. I was
aware of a faintly perceptible shrinking on the part of the
listeners before this figure of revolution, concrete, potential,
and menacing. That is, the women shrank, and fear was in their
faces. Not so with the men. They were of the active rich, and not
the idle, and they were fighters. A low, throaty rumble arose,
lingered on the air a moment, and ceased. It was the forerunner of
the snarl, and I was to hear it many times that night--the token of
the brute in man, the earnest of his primitive passions. And they
were unconscious that they had made this sound. It was the growl
of the pack, mouthed by the pack, and mouthed in all
unconsciousness. And in that moment, as I saw the harshness form
in their faces and saw the fight-light flashing in their eyes, I
realized that not easily would they let their lordship of the world
be wrested from them.
Ernest proceeded with his attack. He accounted for the existence
of the million and a half of revolutionists in the United States by
charging the capitalist class with having mismanaged society. He
sketched the economic condition of the cave-man and of the savage
peoples of to-day, pointing out that they possessed neither tools
nor machines, and possessed only a natural efficiency of one in
producing power. Then he traced the development of machinery and
social organization so that to-day the producing power of civilized
man was a thousand times greater than that of the savage.
"Five men," he said, "can produce bread for a thousand. One man
can produce cotton cloth for two hundred and fifty people, woollens
for three hundred, and boots and shoes for a thousand. One would
conclude from this that under a capable management of society
modern civilized man would be a great deal better off than the
cave-man. But is he? Let us see. In the United States to-day
there are fifteen million* people living in poverty; and by poverty
is meant that condition in life in which, through lack of food and
adequate shelter, the mere standard of working efficiency cannot be
maintained. In the United States to-day, in spite of all your so-
called labor legislation, there are three millions of child
laborers.** In twelve years their numbers have been doubled. And
in passing I will ask you managers of society why you did not make
public the census figures of 1910? And I will answer for you, that
you were afraid. The figures of misery would have precipitated the
revolution that even now is gathering.
* Robert Hunter, in 1906, in a book entitled "Poverty," pointed out
that at that time there were ten millions in the United States
living in poverty.
** In the United States Census of 1900 (the last census the figures
of which were made public), the number of child laborers was placed
at 1,752,187.
"But to return to my indictment. If modern man's producing power
is a thousand times greater than that of the cave-man, why then, in
the United States to-day, are there fifteen million people who are
not properly sheltered and properly fed? Why then, in the United
States to-day, are there three million child laborers? It is a
true indictment. The capitalist class has mismanaged. In face of
the facts that modern man lives more wretchedly than the cave-man,
and that his producing power is a thousand times greater than that
of the cave-man, no other conclusion is possible than that the
capitalist class has mismanaged, that you have mismanaged, my
masters, that you have criminally and selfishly mismanaged. And on
this count you cannot answer me here to-night, face to face, any
more than can your whole class answer the million and a half of
revolutionists in the United States. You cannot answer. I
challenge you to answer. And furthermore, I dare to say to you now
that when I have finished you will not answer. On that point you
will be tongue-tied, though you will talk wordily enough about
other things.
"You have failed in your management. You have made a shambles of
civilization. You have been blind and greedy. You have risen up
(as you to-day rise up), shamelessly, in our legislative halls, and
declared that profits were impossible without the toil of children
and babes. Don't take my word for it. It is all in the records
against you. You have lulled your conscience to sleep with prattle
of sweet ideals and dear moralities. You are fat with power and
possession, drunken with success; and you have no more hope against
us than have the drones, clustered about the honey-vats, when the
worker-bees spring upon them to end their rotund existence. You
have failed in your management of society, and your management is
to be taken away from you. A million and a half of the men of the
working class say that they are going to get the rest of the
working class to join with them and take the management away from
you. This is the revolution, my masters. Stop it if you can."
For an appreciable lapse of time Ernest's voice continued to ring
through the great room. Then arose the throaty rumble I had heard
before, and a dozen men were on their feet clamoring for
recognition from Colonel Van Gilbert. I noticed Miss Brentwood's
shoulders moving convulsively, and for the moment I was angry, for
I thought that she was laughing at Ernest. And then I discovered
that it was not laughter, but hysteria. She was appalled by what
she had done in bringing this firebrand before her blessed
Philomath Club.
Colonel Van Gilbert did not notice the dozen men, with passion-
wrought faces, who strove to get permission from him to speak. His
own face was passion-wrought. He sprang to his feet, waving his
arms, and for a moment could utter only incoherent sounds. Then
speech poured from him. But it was not the speech of a one-
hundred-thousand-dollar lawyer, nor was the rhetoric old-fashioned.
"Fallacy upon fallacy!" he cried. "Never in all my life have I
heard so many fallacies uttered in one short hour. And besides,
young man, I must tell you that you have said nothing new. I
learned all that at college before you were born. Jean Jacques
Rousseau enunciated your socialistic theory nearly two centuries
ago. A return to the soil, forsooth! Reversion! Our biology
teaches the absurdity of it. It has been truly said that a little
learning is a dangerous thing, and you have exemplified it to-night
with your madcap theories. Fallacy upon fallacy! I was never so
nauseated in my life with overplus of fallacy. That for your
immature generalizations and childish reasonings!"
He snapped his fingers contemptuously and proceeded to sit down.
There were lip-exclamations of approval on the part of the women,
and hoarser notes of confirmation came from the men. As for the
dozen men who were clamoring for the floor, half of them began
speaking at once. The confusion and babel was indescribable.
Never had Mrs. Pertonwaithe's spacious walls beheld such a
spectacle. These, then, were the cool captains of industry and
lords of society, these snarling, growling savages in evening
clothes. Truly Ernest had shaken them when he stretched out his
hands for their moneybags, his hands that had appeared in their
eyes as the hands of the fifteen hundred thousand revolutionists.
But Ernest never lost his head in a situation. Before Colonel Van
Gilbert had succeeded in sitting down, Ernest was on his feet and
had sprung forward.
"One at a time!" he roared at them.
The sound arose from his great lungs and dominated the human
tempest. By sheer compulsion of personality he commanded silence.
"One at a time," he repeated softly. "Let me answer Colonel Van
Gilbert. After that the rest of you can come at me--but one at a
time, remember. No mass-plays here. This is not a football field.
"As for you," he went on, turning toward Colonel Van Gilbert, "you
have replied to nothing I have said. You have merely made a few
excited and dogmatic assertions about my mental caliber. That may
serve you in your business, but you can't talk to me like that. I
am not a workingman, cap in hand, asking you to increase my wages
or to protect me from the machine at which I work. You cannot be
dogmatic with truth when you deal with me. Save that for dealing
with your wage-slaves. They will not dare reply to you because you
hold their bread and butter, their lives, in your hands.
"As for this return to nature that you say you learned at college
before I was born, permit me to point out that on the face of it
you cannot have learned anything since. Socialism has no more to
do with the state of nature than has differential calculus with a
Bible class. I have called your class stupid when outside the
realm of business. You, sir, have brilliantly exemplified my
statement."
This terrible castigation of her hundred-thousand-dollar lawyer was
too much for Miss Brentwood's nerves. Her hysteria became violent,
and she was helped, weeping and laughing, out of the room. It was
just as well, for there was worse to follow.
"Don't take my word for it," Ernest continued, when the
interruption had been led away. "Your own authorities with one
unanimous voice will prove you stupid. Your own hired purveyors of
knowledge will tell you that you are wrong. Go to your meekest
little assistant instructor of sociology and ask him what is the
difference between Rousseau's theory of the return to nature and
the theory of socialism; ask your greatest orthodox bourgeois
political economists and sociologists; question through the pages
of every text-book written on the subject and stored on the shelves
of your subsidized libraries; and from one and all the answer will
be that there is nothing congruous between the return to nature and
socialism. On the other hand, the unanimous affirmative answer
will be that the return to nature and socialism are diametrically
opposed to each other. As I say, don't take my word for it. The
record of your stupidity is there in the books, your own books that
you never read. And so far as your stupidity is concerned, you are
but the exemplar of your class.
"You know law and business, Colonel Van Gilbert. You know how to
serve corporations and increase dividends by twisting the law.
Very good. Stick to it. You are quite a figure. You are a very
good lawyer, but you are a poor historian, you know nothing of
sociology, and your biology is contemporaneous with Pliny."
Here Colonel Van Gilbert writhed in his chair. There was perfect
quiet in the room. Everybody sat fascinated--paralyzed, I may say.
Such fearful treatment of the great Colonel Van Gilbert was unheard
of, undreamed of, impossible to believe--the great Colonel Van
Gilbert before whom judges trembled when he arose in court. But
Ernest never gave quarter to an enemy.
"This is, of course, no reflection on you," Ernest said. "Every
man to his trade. Only you stick to your trade, and I'll stick to
mine. You have specialized. When it comes to a knowledge of the
law, of how best to evade the law or make new law for the benefit
of thieving corporations, I am down in the dirt at your feet. But
when it comes to sociology--my trade--you are down in the dirt at
my feet. Remember that. Remember, also, that your law is the
stuff of a day, and that you are not versatile in the stuff of more
than a day. Therefore your dogmatic assertions and rash
generalizations on things historical and sociological are not worth
the breath you waste on them."
Ernest paused for a moment and regarded him thoughtfully, noting
his face dark and twisted with anger, his panting chest, his
writhing body, and his slim white hands nervously clenching and
unclenching.
"But it seems you have breath to use, and I'll give you a chance to
use it. I indicted your class. Show me that my indictment is
wrong. I pointed out to you the wretchedness of modern man--three
million child slaves in the United States, without whose labor
profits would not be possible, and fifteen million under-fed, ill-
clothed, and worse-housed people. I pointed out that modern man's
producing power through social organization and the use of
machinery was a thousand times greater than that of the cave-man.
And I stated that from these two facts no other conclusion was
possible than that the capitalist class had mismanaged. This was
my indictment, and I specifically and at length challenged you to
answer it. Nay, I did more. I prophesied that you would not
answer. It remains for your breath to smash my prophecy. You
called my speech fallacy. Show the fallacy, Colonel Van Gilbert.
Answer the indictment that I and my fifteen hundred thousand
comrades have brought against your class and you."
Colonel Van Gilbert quite forgot that he was presiding, and that in
courtesy he should permit the other clamorers to speak. He was on
his feet, flinging his arms, his rhetoric, and his control to the
winds, alternately abusing Ernest for his youth and demagoguery,
and savagely attacking the working class, elaborating its
inefficiency and worthlessness.
"For a lawyer, you are the hardest man to keep to a point I ever
saw," Ernest began his answer to the tirade. "My youth has nothing
to do with what I have enunciated. Nor has the worthlessness of
the working class. I charged the capitalist class with having
mismanaged society. You have not answered. You have made no
attempt to answer. Why? Is it because you have no answer? You
are the champion of this whole audience. Every one here, except
me, is hanging on your lips for that answer. They are hanging on
your lips for that answer because they have no answer themselves.
As for me, as I said before, I know that you not only cannot
answer, but that you will not attempt an answer."
"This is intolerable!" Colonel Van Gilbert cried out. "This is
insult!"
"That you should not answer is intolerable," Ernest replied
gravely. "No man can be intellectually insulted. Insult, in its
very nature, is emotional. Recover yourself. Give me an
intellectual answer to my intellectual charge that the capitalist
class has mismanaged society."
Colonel Van Gilbert remained silent, a sullen, superior expression
on his face, such as will appear on the face of a man who will not
bandy words with a ruffian.
"Do not be downcast," Ernest said. "Take consolation in the fact
that no member of your class has ever yet answered that charge."
He turned to the other men who were anxious to speak. "And now
it's your chance. Fire away, and do not forget that I here
challenge you to give the answer that Colonel Van Gilbert has
failed to give."
It would be impossible for me to write all that was said in the
discussion. I never realized before how many words could be spoken
in three short hours. At any rate, it was glorious. The more his
opponents grew excited, the more Ernest deliberately excited them.
He had an encyclopaedic command of the field of knowledge, and by a
word or a phrase, by delicate rapier thrusts, he punctured them.
He named the points of their illogic. This was a false syllogism,
that conclusion had no connection with the premise, while that next
premise was an impostor because it had cunningly hidden in it the
conclusion that was being attempted to be proved. This was an
error, that was an assumption, and the next was an assertion
contrary to ascertained truth as printed in all the text-books.
And so it went. Sometimes he exchanged the rapier for the club and
went smashing amongst their thoughts right and left. And always he
demanded facts and refused to discuss theories. And his facts made
for them a Waterloo. When they attacked the working class, he
always retorted, "The pot calling the kettle black; that is no
answer to the charge that your own face is dirty." And to one and
all he said: "Why have you not answered the charge that your class
has mismanaged? You have talked about other things and things
concerning other things, but you have not answered. Is it because
you have no answer?"
It was at the end of the discussion that Mr. Wickson spoke. He was
the only one that was cool, and Ernest treated him with a respect
he had not accorded the others.
"No answer is necessary," Mr. Wickson said with slow deliberation.
"I have followed the whole discussion with amazement and disgust.
I am disgusted with you gentlemen, members of my class. You have
behaved like foolish little schoolboys, what with intruding ethics
and the thunder of the common politician into such a discussion.
You have been outgeneralled and outclassed. You have been very
wordy, and all you have done is buzz. You have buzzed like gnats
about a bear. Gentlemen, there stands the bear" (he pointed at
Ernest), "and your buzzing has only tickled his ears.
"Believe me, the situation is serious. That bear reached out his
paws tonight to crush us. He has said there are a million and a
half of revolutionists in the United States. That is a fact. He
has said that it is their intention to take away from us our
governments, our palaces, and all our purpled ease. That, also, is
a fact. A change, a great change, is coming in society; but,
haply, it may not be the change the bear anticipates. The bear has
said that he will crush us. What if we crush the bear?"
The throat-rumble arose in the great room, and man nodded to man
with indorsement and certitude. Their faces were set hard. They
were fighters, that was certain.
"But not by buzzing will we crush the bear," Mr. Wickson went on
coldly and dispassionately. "We will hunt the bear. We will not
reply to the bear in words. Our reply shall be couched in terms of
lead. We are in power. Nobody will deny it. By virtue of that
power we shall remain in power."
He turned suddenly upon Ernest. The moment was dramatic.
"This, then, is our answer. We have no words to waste on you.
When you reach out your vaunted strong hands for our palaces and
purpled ease, we will show you what strength is. In roar of shell
and shrapnel and in whine of machine-guns will our answer be
couched.* We will grind you revolutionists down under our heel,
and we shall walk upon your faces. The world is ours, we are its
lords, and ours it shall remain. As for the host of labor, it has
been in the dirt since history began, and I read history aright.
And in the dirt it shall remain so long as I and mine and those
that come after us have the power. There is the word. It is the
king of words--Power. Not God, not Mammon, but Power. Pour it
over your tongue till it tingles with it. Power."
* To show the tenor of thought, the following definition is quoted
from "The Cynic's Word Book" (1906 A.D.), written by one Ambrose
Bierce, an avowed and confirmed misanthrope of the period:
"Grapeshot, n. An argument which the future is preparing in answer
to the demands of American Socialism."
"I am answered," Ernest said quietly. "It is the only answer that
could be given. Power. It is what we of the working class preach.
We know, and well we know by bitter experience, that no appeal for
the right, for justice, for humanity, can ever touch you. Your
hearts are hard as your heels with which you tread upon the faces
of the poor. So we have preached power. By the power of our
ballots on election day will we take your government away from you--"
"What if you do get a majority, a sweeping majority, on election
day?" Mr. Wickson broke in to demand. "Suppose we refuse to turn
the government over to you after you have captured it at the
ballot-box?"
"That, also, have we considered," Ernest replied. "And we shall
give you an answer in terms of lead. Power you have proclaimed the
king of words. Very good. Power it shall be. And in the day that
we sweep to victory at the ballot-box, and you refuse to turn over
to us the government we have constitutionally and peacefully
captured, and you demand what we are going to do about it--in that
day, I say, we shall answer you; and in roar of shell and shrapnel
and in whine of machine-guns shall our answer be couched.
"You cannot escape us. It is true that you have read history
aright. It is true that labor has from the beginning of history
been in the dirt. And it is equally true that so long as you and
yours and those that come after you have power, that labor shall
remain in the dirt. I agree with you. I agree with all that you
have said. Power will be the arbiter, as it always has been the
arbiter. It is a struggle of classes. Just as your class dragged
down the old feudal nobility, so shall it be dragged down by my
class, the working class. If you will read your biology and your
sociology as clearly as you do your history, you will see that this
end I have described is inevitable. It does not matter whether it
is in one year, ten, or a thousand--your class shall be dragged
down. And it shall be done by power. We of the labor hosts have
conned that word over till our minds are all a-tingle with it.
Power. It is a kingly word."
And so ended the night with the Philomaths.
