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.[1]

[1] 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.[2] 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.

[2] 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 mediæval

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 _confrères_ 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’[3] 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.”

[3] 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.”[4]

[4] 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[5] 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.

[5] 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.[6] 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;[7] 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.

[6] _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.

[7] 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[8] 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.[9] 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.

[8] 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.

[9] 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.[10] 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.”

[10] 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.