 THE FORWARD OF THE ION HEAL At first this earth, a stage so gloomed with woe, you almost sicken at the shifting of the scenes. And yet, be patient, our playwright may show in some fifth act what this wild drama means. It cannot be said that the Everhard manuscript is an important historical document. To the historian it bristles with errors, not errors of fact, but errors of interpretation, looking back across the seven centuries that have lapsed since Avis Everhard completed her manuscript, events, and the bearings of events that were confused and veiled to her are clear to us. She lacked perspective. She was too close to the events she writes about, nay, she was merged in the events she has described. Nevertheless, as a personal document, the Everhard manuscript is of inestimable value. But here again enter error of perspective and visiation due to the bias of love. Yet we smile, indeed, and forgive Avis Everhard for the heroic lines upon which she modeled her husband. We know today that he was not Sir Colossal, and that he loomed among the events of his times less largely than the manuscript would lead us to believe. We know that Ernest Everhard was an exceptionally strong man, but not so exceptional as his wife thought him to be. He was, after all, but one of a large number of heroes who throughout the world devoted their lives to the revolution, though it must be conceded that he did unusual work, especially in his elaboration and interpretation of working-class philosophy. Proletarian science and proletarian philosophy were his phrases for it, and therein he shows the provincialism of his mind a defect, however, that was due to the times, and that none in that day could escape. But to return to the manuscript. Especially valuable is it in communicating to us the feel of those terrible times. Nowhere do we find more vividly portrayed the psychology of the persons that lived in that turbulent period embraced between the years 1912 and 1932, their mistakes and ignorance, their doubts and fears and misapprehensions, their ethical delusions, their violent passions, their inconceivable sordidness and selfishness. These are the things that are so hard for us to this enlightened age to understand. History tells us that these things were, and biology and psychology tell us why they were. But history and biology and psychology do not make these things alive. We accept them as facts, but we are left without sympathetic comprehension of them. This sympathy comes to us, however, as we peruse the ever-hard manuscript. We enter into the minds of the actors in that long-ago world drama, and for the time being their mental processes are our mental processes. Not alone do we understand Avis Everhard's love for her hero husband, but we feel, as he felt in those first days, the vague and terrible loom of the oligarchy. The iron heel, well-named, we feel descending upon and crushing mankind. And in passing we note that that historic phrase, the iron heel, originated in Ernest Everhard's mind. This we may say is the one moot question that this newfound document clears up. Previous to this, the earliest known use of the phrase occurred in the pamphlet Ye Slaves, written by George Milford, and published in December 1912. This George Milford was an obscure agitator about whom nothing is known, save the one additional bit of information gained from the manuscript, which mentions that he was shot in the Chicago Commune. Evidently, he had heard Ernest Everhard make use of the phrase in some public speech, most probably when he was running for Congress in the fall of 1912. From the manuscript we learn that Everhard used the phrase at a private dinner in the spring of 1912. This is, without discussion, the earliest known occasion on which the oligarchy was so designated. The rise of the oligarchy will always remain a cause of secret wonder to the historian and the philosopher. Other great historical events have their place in social evolution, they were inevitable. Their coming could have been predicted with the same certitude that astronomers today predict the outcome of the movements of stars. Without these other great historical events social evolution could not have preceded. Primitive communism, chattel slavery, surf slavery, and wage slavery were necessary stepping stones in the evolution of society. But it were ridiculous to assert that the iron heel was a necessary stepping stone. Rather, today, it is adjudged a step aside or a step backward to the social tyrannies that made the early word a hell, but that were as necessary as the iron heel was unnecessary. Black as feudalism was, yet the coming of it was inevitable. What else than feudalism could have followed upon the breakdown of that great centralized government machine known as the Roman Empire? Not so, however, with the iron heel. In the orderly procedure of social evolution there was no place for it. It was not necessary, and it was not inevitable. It must always remain the great curiosity of history, a whim, a fantasy, an apparition, a thing unexpected and undreamed. And it should serve as a warning to those rash political theorists of today who speak with certitude of social processes. Capitalism was adjudged by the sociologists of the time to be the culmination of bourgeois rule, the ripened fruit of the bourgeois revolution, and we of today can but applaud that judgment. Following upon capitalism it was held, even by such intellectual and antagonistic giants as Herbert Spencer, that socialism would come out of the decay of self-seeking capitalism it was held, would arise that flower of the ages the brotherhood of man, instead of which appalling alike to us who look back and to those that lived at that time. Capitalism, rotten ripe, sent forth that monstrous offshoot, the oligarchy. Too late did the socialist movement of the early twentieth century divine the coming of the oligarchy, even as it was divine the oligarchy was there, a fact established in blood, a stupendous and awful reality, nor even then as the ever-hard manuscript wealth shows was any permanent attributed to the iron heel. Its overthrow was a matter of a few short years, or was the judgment of the revolutionists. It is true, they realized that the peasant revolt was unplanned, and that the first revolt was premature, but they little realized that the second revolt, planned and mature, was doomed to equal futility and more terrible punishment. It is apparent that Avis Everhard completed the manuscript during the last days of preparation for the second revolt, hence the fact that there is no mention of the disastrous outcome of the second revolt. It is quite clear that she intended the manuscript for immediate publication as soon as the iron heel was overthrown, so that her husband, so recently dead, should receive full credit for all that he had ventured and accomplished. Then came the frightful crushing of the second revolt, and it is probable that in the moment of danger, as she fled or was captured by the mercenaries, she hid the manuscript in the hollow oak at Wake Robin Lodge. Of Avis Everhard there is no further record. Undoubtedly she was executed by the mercenaries, and as is well known, no record of such executions was kept by the iron heel. But little did she realize, even then, that she hid the manuscript and prepared to flee how terrible had been the breakdown of the second revolt. Little did she realize that the tortuous and distorted evolution of the next three centuries would compel a third revolt, and a fourth revolt, and many revolts, all drowned in seas of blood. Yet the world movement of labour should come into its own. And little did she dream that for seven long centuries the tribute of her love to Ernest Everhard would repose undisturbed in the heart of the ancient oak of Wake Robin Lodge. Many merideth, Ardis, November the 27th, 419, B-O-M. CHAPTER ONE OF THE IRON HEAL by Jack London Soft summer winds stirs the redwoods, and wild water ripples sweet cadences over its mossy stones. There are butterflies in the sunshine, and from everywhere arises the drowsy hum of bees. It is so quiet and peaceful, and I sit here and ponder, and am restless. It is the quiet that makes me restless, it seems unreal. All the world is quiet, but it is the quiet before the storm. I strain my ears, and all my senses, for some betrayal of that impending storm. Oh, that it may not be premature, that it may not be premature. The second revolt was largely the work of Ernest Everhard, though he cooperated, of course, with the European leaders. The capture and secret execution of Everhard was the great event of the spring of 1932 A.D. Yet so thoroughly had he prepared for the revolt that his fellow conspirators were able, with little confusion or delay, to carry out his plans. It was after Everhard's execution that his wife went to wake Robin Lodge, a small bungalow in the Sonoma Hills of California. Small wonder that I am restless, I think, and think, and I cannot cease from thinking. I have been in the thick of life so long that I am oppressed by the peace and quiet, and I cannot forbear from dwelling upon that mad maelstrom of death and destruction so soon to burst forth. In my ears are the cries of the stricken, and I can see, as I have seen in the past, all the marring and mangling of the sweet, beautiful flesh, and the souls torn with violence from proud bodies and hurled at God. Thus do we poor humans attain our ends, striving through carnage and destruction to bring lasting peace and happiness upon the earth. Without doubt, she here refers to the Chicago Commune. And then I am lonely. When I do not think of what is to come, I think of what has been and is no more. My eagle, beating with tireless wings, the void, soaring toward what was ever his son, the flaming ideal of human freedom. I cannot sit idly by and wait the great event that is his making, though he is not here to see. He devoted all the years of his manhood to it, and for it he gave his life. It is his handiwork. He made it. With all respect to Avis Everhard, it must be pointed out that Everhard was but one of many able leaders who planned the Second Revolt, and we today, looking back across the centuries, can safely say that even had he left, the Second Revolt would not have been less calamitous in its outcome than it was. And so it is in this anxious time of waiting that I shall write of my husband. There is much light that I alone of all persons living can throw upon his character, and so noble a character cannot be blazed and forth too brightly. His was a great soul, and when my love grows unselfish, my chiefest regret is that he is not here to witness tomorrow's dawn. We cannot fail. He has built too stoutly and too surely for that. Woe to the iron heel! Soon shall it be thrust back from off-prostrate humanity. When the word goes forth, the labour-host of all the world shall rise. There has been nothing like it in the history of the world. The solidarity of labour is assured, and for the first time will there be an international revolution wide, as the world is wide. The Second Revolt was truly international. It was a colossal plan, too colossal to be wrought by the genius of one man alone. Labour in all the oligarchies of the world was prepared to rise at the signal. Germany, Italy, France, and all Australasia were labour countries, socialist states. They were ready to lend aid to the revolution. Calently they did, and it was for this reason when the Second Revolt was crushed that they, too, were crushed by the united oligarchies of the world, their socialist governments being replaced by oligarchical governments. You see, I am full of what is impending. I have lived it day and night utterly and for so long that it is ever present in my mind. For that matter, I cannot think of my husband without thinking of it. He was the soul of it. And how can I possibly separate the two in thought? As I have said, there is much light that I alone can throw upon his character. It is well known that he toiled hard for liberty and suffered sore. How hard he toiled and how greatly he suffered, I well know. For I have been with him during these twenty anxious years, and I know his patience, his untiring effort, his infinite devotion to the cause for which only two months are gone, he laid down his life. I shall try to write simply and to tell here how Ernest Everhard entered my life, how I first met him, how he grew until I became a part of him, and the tremendous changes he wrought in my life. In this way may you look at him through my eyes and learn him as I learned him, in all safety things too secret and sweet for me to tell. It was in February 1912 that I first met him, when, as a guest of my father's at dinner, he came to our house in Berkeley. I cannot say that my very first impression of him was favourable. He was one of many at dinner, and in the drawing-room where we gathered and waited for all to arrive he made a rather incongruous appearance. It was preacher's night, as my father privately called it, and Ernest was certainly out of place in the midst of the churchmen. John Cunningham, Avis Everhard's father, was a professor at the State University at Berkeley, California. His chosen field was physics, and in addition he did much original research and was greatly distinguished as a scientist. His chief contribution to science was his studies of the electron and his monumental work on the identification of matter and energy, wherein he established beyond caval and for all time that the ultimate unit of matter and the ultimate unit of force were identical. This idea had been earlier advanced but not demonstrated by Sir Oliver Lodge and other students in the field of radioactivity. In the first place his clothes did not fit him. He wore a ready-made suit of dark cloth that was ill-adjusted to his body. His ready-made suit of clothes ever could fit his body, and on this night as always the cloth bulged with his muscles, while the coat between his shoulders, what of the heavy shoulder development, was a maze of wrinkles. His neck was the neck of a price-fighter, thick and strong. So this was the social philosopher and ex-horse-shoe my father had discovered was my thought, and he certainly looked at with those bulging muscles and that bull throat. Immediately I classified him, a sort of prodigy I thought, a blind tom of the working class. In that day it was the custom of men to compete for purses of money. They fought with their hands. When one was beaten into insensibility or killed, the survivor took the money. This obscure reference applies to a blind Negro musician who took the world by storm in the latter half of the nineteenth century of the Christian era, and then, when he shook hands with me, his handshake was firm and strong, and he looked at me boldly with his black eyes. Too boldly, I thought, you see, I was a creature of environment, and at that time had strong class instincts. Such boldness on the part of a man of my own class would have been almost unforgivable. I know that I could not avoid dropping my eyes, and I was quite relieved when I passed him on and turned to greet Bishop Morehouse, a favorite of mine, a sweet and serious man of middle age, Christ-like in appearance and goodness, and a scholar as well. But this boldness that I took to be presumption was a vital clue to the nature of Ernest Everhard. He was simple, direct, afraid of nothing, and he refused to waste time on conventional mannerisms. You pleased me, he explained long afterward, and why should I not fill my eyes with that which pleases me? I have said that he was afraid of nothing. He was a natural aristocrat, and this in spite of the fact that he was in the camp of the non-aristocrats. He was a superman, a blond beast such as Nietzsche has described, and in addition he was a flame with democracy. Frederick Nietzsche, the mad philosopher of the 19th century of the Christian era, who caught wild glimpses of truth, but who, before he was done, reasoned himself around the great circle of human thought and off into madness. In the interest of meeting the other guests and what of my unfavorable impression, I forgot all about the working-class philosopher, though once or twice at table I noticed him, especially the twinkle in his eye as he listened to the talk first of one minister and then of another. He has humour, I thought, but I almost forgave him his clothes. But the time went by, and the dinner went by, and he never opened his mouth to speak, while the ministers talked interminably about the working-class and its relation to the church, and what the church had done and was doing for it. I noticed that my father was annoyed because Ernest did not talk. Once father took advantage of a lull and asked him to say something, but Ernest shrugged his shoulders, and with an I have nothing to say, went on eating salted almonds. But father was not to be denied. After a while he said, We have with us a member of the working-class. I am sure that he can present things from a new point of view that will be of interesting and refreshing. I refer to Mr Everhard. The others portrayed a well-mannered interest and urged Ernest for a statement of his views. Their attitude toward him was so broadly tolerant and kindly that it was really patronizing. And I saw that Ernest noted it and was amused. He looked slowly about him, and I saw that lint of laughter in his eyes. I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy, he began, and then hesitated with modesty and indecision. Go on, they urged, and Dr Hammerfield said, We do not mind the truth that is in any man, if it is sincere, he amended. Then you separate sincerity from truth, Ernest laughed quickly. Dr Hammerfield gasped and managed to answer. The best of us may be mistaken, young man. The best of us. Ernest Manner changed on the instant he became another man. All right, then, he answered. And let me begin by saying that you are all mistaken. You know nothing, and worse than nothing, about the working-class. Your sociology is as vicious and worthless as is your method of thinking. It was not so much what he said as how he said it. I roused at the first sound of his voice. It was as bold as his eyes. It was a clarion call that thrilled me. And the whole table was aroused, shaken alive from monotony and drowsiness. What is so dreadfully vicious and worthless in our method of thinking, young man? Dr Hammerfield demanded, and already there was something unpleasant in his voice and manner of utterance. You are metaphysicians. You can prove anything by metaphysics, and have done so. Every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician wrong, to his own satisfaction. You are anarchists in the realm of thought, and you are mad Cosmos-makers. Each of you dwells in a Cosmos of his own making, created out of his own fancies and desires. You do not know the real world in which you live, and your thinking has no place in the real world, except insofar as it is phenomena for mental aberration. Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to you talk and talk? You reminded me for all the world of the scholastics of the Middle Ages who gravely and learnedly debated the absorbing question of how many angels could dance on the point of a needle. Why, my dear sirs, you are as remote from the intellectual life of the 20th century as an Indian medicine man making incantation in the primeval forest ten thousand years ago. As Ernest talked, he seemed in a fine passion. His face glowed, his eyes snapped and flashed, and his chin and jaw were eloquent with aggressiveness. But it was only a way he had. It always aroused people. His smashing, sledgehammer manner of attack invariably made them forget themselves, and they were forgetting themselves now. Bishop Morehouse was leaning forward and listening intently. Exasperation and anger were flushing the face of Dr. Hammerfield, and others were exasperated too, and some were smiling in an amused and superior way. As for myself, I found it most enjoyable. I glanced at father, and I was afraid he was going to giggle at the effect of this human bombshell he had been guilty of launching amongst us. Your terms are rather vague, Dr. Hammerfield interrupted. Just precisely what do you mean when you call us metaphysicians? I call you metaphysicians because you reason metaphysically, Ernest went on. Your method of reasoning is the opposite to that of science. There is no validity to your conclusions. You can prove everything and nothing. And no two of you can agree upon anything. Each of you goes into his own consciousness to explain himself and the universe. As well may you lift yourselves by your own bootstraps as to explain consciousness by consciousness. I do not understand, Bishop Morehouse said. It seems to me that all things of the mind are metaphysical. The most exact and convincing of all sciences mathematics is surely metaphysical. Each and every thought process of the scientific reasoner is metaphysical. Surely you will agree with me. As you say, you do not understand, Ernest replied. The metaphysician reasons deductively out of his own subjectivity. The scientist reasons inductively from the facts of experience. The metaphysician reasons from theory to facts. The scientist reasons from facts to theory. The metaphysician explains the universe by himself. The scientist explains himself by the universe. Thank God we are not scientists, Dr. Hammerfield murmured complacently. What are you then, Ernest demanded? Philosophers. There you go, Ernest laughed. You have left the real and solid earth and are up in the air with a word for a flying machine. Pray come down to earth and tell me precisely what you mean by philosophy. Philosophy is, Dr. Hammerfield paused and cleared his throat, something that cannot be defined comprehensively except to such minds and temperaments as are philosophical. The narrow scientist with his nose in the test tube cannot understand philosophy. Ernest ignored the thrust. It was always his way to turn the point back upon an opponent, and he did it now with a beaming brotherliness of face and utterance. Then you will undoubtedly understand the definition I shall now make of philosophy, but before I make it I shall challenge you to point out error in it or to remain a silent metaphysician. Philosophy is merely the widest science of all. Its reasoning method is the same as that of any particular science and of all particular sciences. And by that same method of reasoning, the inductive method, philosophy fuses all particular sciences into one great science. As Spencer says, the data of any particular science are partially unified knowledge. Philosophy unifies a knowledge that is contributed by all the sciences. Philosophy is the science of science, the master science, if you please. How do you like my definition? Very creditable. Very creditable, Dr. Hammerfield muttered lamely. But Ernest was merciless. Remember, he warned, my definition is fatal to metaphysics. If you do not now point out a flaw in my definition, you are disqualified later on from advancing metaphysical arguments. You must go through life seeking that flaw and remaining metaphysically silent until you have found it. Ernest waited. The silence was painful. Dr. Hammerfield was pained. He was also puzzled. Ernest's sledgehammer attack disconcerted him. He was not used to the simple and direct method of controversy. He looked appealingly around the table, but no one answered for him. I caught father grinning into his napkin. There is another way of disqualifying the metaphysicians. Ernest said, when he had rendered Dr. Hammerfield's discomfort your complete. Judge them by their works. What have they done for mankind beyond the spinning of airy fancies and the mistaking of their own shadows for gods? They have added to the gaiety of mankind, I grant. But what tangible good have they wrought for mankind? They philosophised, if you will pardon my misuse of the word, about the heart as the seat of the emotions, while the scientists were formulating the circulation of the blood. They declaimed about famine and pestilence as being scourges of God, while the scientists were building granaries and draining cities. They builded gods in their own shapes and out of their own desires, while the scientists were building roads and bridges. They were describing the earth as the centre of the universe, while the scientists were discovering America and probing space for the stars and the laws of the stars. In short, the metaphysicians have done nothing, absolutely nothing for mankind, step by step before the advance of science they have been driven back. As fast as the ascertained facts of science have overthrown their subjective explanation of things, they have made their new subjective explanations of things, including explanations of the latest ascertained facts. And this, I doubt not, they will go on doing to the end of time. Gentlemen, a metaphysician is a medicine-man. The difference between you and the Eskimo who makes a fur-clad blubber-eating-god is merely a difference of several thousand years of ascertained facts. That is all. Yet the thought of Aristotle ruled Europe for 12 centuries. Dr. Balingford announced pompously, and Aristotle was a metaphysician. Dr. Balingford glanced around the table and was rewarded by nods and smiles of approval. Your illustration is most unfortunate, Ernest replied. You refer to a very dark period in human history. In fact, we call that period the Dark Ages, a period wherein science was raped by the metaphysicians, wherein physics became a search for the philosopher's stone, wherein chemistry became alchemy and astronomy became astrology. Sorry, the domination of Aristotle's thought. Dr. Balingford looked pained, then he brightened up and said, granted this horrible picture you have drawn, yet you must confess that metaphysics was inherently potent insofar as it drew humanity out of this dark period and on into the illumination of the succeeding centuries. Metaphysics had nothing to do with it, Ernest retorted. What? Dr. Hammerfield cried. It was not the thinking and the speculation that led to the voyages of discovery. My dear sir, Ernest smiled. I thought you were disqualified. You have not yet picked out the floor in my definition of philosophy. You are now on an unsubstantial basis, but it is the way of the metaphysicians, and I forgive you. No, I repeat, metaphysics had nothing to do with it. Bread and butter, silks and jewels, dollars and cents, and incidentally the closing up of the overland trade routes to India were the things that caused the voyages of discovery. With the fall of Constantinople in 1453, the Turks blocked the way of the caravans to India. The traders of Europe had to find another route. Here was the original course for the voyages of discovery. Columbus sailed to find a new route to the Indies. It is so stated in all the history books. Incidentally, new facts were learned about the nature, size, and form of the earth, and the Ptolemaic system went glimmering. Dr. Hammerfield snorted. Ah, you do not agree with me, Ernest queried. Then wherein am I wrong? I can only reaffirm my position. Dr. Hammerfield retorted tidily. It is too long a story to enter into now. No story is too long for the scientist, Ernest said sweetly. That is why the scientist gets to places. That is why he got to America. I shall not describe the whole evening, though it is a joy to me to recall every moment, every detail of those first hours of my coming to know Ernest Everhard. Battle royal raged and the ministers grew red faced and excited, especially at the moment when Ernest called them romantic philosophers, shadow projectors, and similar things. And always he checked them back to facts. The fact, man, the irrefragable fact, he would proclaim triumphantly when he had brought one of them a cropper. He bristled with facts. He tripped them up with facts, ambuscated them with facts, bombarded them with broadsides of facts. You seem to worship at the shrine of fact, Dr. Hammerfield taunted him. There is no God but fact, and Mr. Everhard is its prophet. Dr. Balingford paraphrased. Ernest smilingly aqueoused. I'm like the man from Texas, he said. And on being solicited, he explained, you see, the man from Missouri always says, you've got to show me. But the man from Texas says, you've got to put it in my hand, from which it is apparent that he is no metaphysician. Another time when Ernest had just said that the metaphysical philosophers could never stand the test of truth, Dr. Hammerfield suddenly demanded, what is the test of truth, young man? Will you kindly explain what has so long puzzled wiser heads than yours? Certainly, Ernest answered. His cocksureness irritated them. The wise heads have puzzled so sorely over truth because they went up into the air after it. Had they remained on the solid earth, they would have found it easily enough. Aye, they would have found that they themselves were precisely testing truth with every practical act and thought of their lives. The test, the test, Dr. Hammerfield repeated impatiently, never mind the preamble, give us that which we have sought so long, the test of truth. Give it us, and we will be as gods. There was an impolite and sneering skepticism in his words and manner that secretly pleased most of them at the table, though it seemed to bother Bishop Morehouse. Dr. Jordan has stated it very clearly, Ernest said. His test of truth is, will it work? Will you trust your life with it? Note. A noted educator of the late 19th and early 20th centuries of the Christian era, he was president of the Stanford University, a private benefaction of the times. Pish! Dr. Hammerfield sneered. You have not taken Bishop Berkeley into account. He has never been answered. Note. An idealistic monist who long puzzled the philosophers of that time with his denial of the existence of matter, but whose clever argument was finally demolished when the new empiric facts of science were philosophically generalized. The noblest metaphysician of them all, Ernest laughed. But your example is unfortunate, as Berkeley himself attested his metaphysics didn't work. Dr. Hammerfield was angry, righteously angry. It was as though he had caught Ernest in a theft or a lie. Young man, he trumpeted. That statement is on a par with all you have uttered tonight. It is a base and unwarranted assumption. Quite crushed, Ernest murmured meekly. Only I don't know what hit me. You'll have to put it in my hand, doctor. I will, I will, Dr. Hammerfield spluttered. How do you know? You do not know that Bishop Berkeley attested that his metaphysics did not work? You have no proof. Young man, they have always worked. I take it as proof that Berkeley's metaphysics did not work because, Ernest paused calmly for a moment, because Berkeley made an invariable practice of going through doors instead of walls, because he trusted his life to solid bread and butter and roast beef, because he shaved himself with a razor that worked when it removed the hair from his face. But those are actual things, Dr. Hammerfield cried. Metaphysics is of the mind. And they work in the mind, Ernest queried softly. The others nodded. And even a multitude of angels can dance on the point of a needle in the mind. Ernest went on, reflectively, and a blubber-eating fur-clad god can exist and work in the mind. And there are no proofs to the contrary in the mind. I suppose, Dr., you live in the mind? My mind, to me, a kingdom is, was the answer. That's another way of saying that you live up in the air, but you come back to earth at mealtime, I am sure. Oh, when an earthquake happens along. Or tell me, Dr., do you have no apprehension in an earthquake that that incorporeal body of yours will be hit by an immaterial brick? Instantly, and quite unconsciously, Dr. Hammerfield's hand shot up to his head, where a scar disappeared under the hair. It happened that Ernest had blundered on an apperze of illustration. Dr. Hammerfield had nearly been killed in the great earthquake by a falling chimney. Everybody broke out in roars of laughter. Note, the great earthquake of 1906 A.D. that destroyed San Francisco. Well, Ernest asked, when the merriment had subsided, proofs to the contrary? And in the silence he asked again, well? Then he added, still well, but not so well. That argument of yours. But Dr. Hammerfield was temporarily crushed and the battle raged on in new directions on point after point, Ernest challenged the ministers. When they affirmed that they knew the working class, he told them fundamental truths about the working class that they did not know and challenged them for disproofs. He gave them facts, always facts, checked their excursions into the air and brought them back to the solid earth and its facts. How the scene comes back to me. I can hear him now with that war note in his voice, flaying them with his facts, each fact a lash that stung and stung again. And he was merciless. He took no quarter and gave none. I can never forget the flaying he gave them at the end. Note, this figure arises from the customs of the times when among men fighting to the death in their wild animal way, a beaten man threw down his weapons. It was at the option of the victor to slay him or spare him. You have repeatedly confessed tonight by direct avowal or ignorant statement that you do not know the working class. Be you or not to be blamed for this? How can you know anything about the working class? You do not live in the same locality with the working class. You heard with the capitalist class in another locality. And why not? It is the capitalist class that pays you, that feeds you, that puts the very clothes on your backs that you were wearing tonight. And in return, you preach to your employers a brand of metaphysics that are especially acceptable to them. And the especially acceptable brands are acceptable because they do not menace the established order of society. Here, there was a stir of dissent around the table. Oh, I'm not challenging your sincerity, and this continued. You are sincere. You preach what you believe. There lies your strength and your value to the capitalist class. But should you change your belief to something that menaces the established order, your preaching would be unacceptable to your employers and you would be discharged. Every little while, someone or another of you is so discharged, am I not right? Note. During this period, there were many ministers cast out of the church for preaching unacceptable doctrine, especially where they cast out when their preaching became tainted with socialism. This time, there was no dissent. They sat dumbly acquiescent with the exception of Dr. Hammerfield, who said, it is when their thinking is wrong that they are asked to resign, which is another way of saying when their thinking is unacceptable, Ernest answered, and then went on. So I say to you, go ahead and preach and earn your pay, but for goodness sake, leave the working class alone. You belong in the enemy's camp. You have nothing in common with the working class. Your hands are soft with the work others have performed for you. Your stomach's around with the planetude of eating. Here, Dr. Balingford winced and every eye glanced at his prodigious girth. It was said he had not seen his own feet in years. And your minds are filled with doctrines that are buttresses of the established order. You are as much mercenaries, since their mercenaries I grant, as were the men of the Swiss guard. Be true to your salt and your hire. Guard with your preaching the interests of your employers, but do not come down to the working class and serve as false leaders. You cannot honestly be in the two camps at once. The working class is done without you. Believe me, the working class will continue to do without you. And furthermore, the working class can do better without you than with you. Note, the hired foreign palace guards of Louis XIV, the King of France that was beheaded by his people. End of chapter one, recording by Matt Saw, Montreal. Matt Saw.org. Chapter two of The Iron Heel by Jack London. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Matt Saw. Challenges. After the guests had gone, Father threw himself into a chair and gave vent to roars of gargantuan laughter. Not since the death of my mother had I known him to laugh so heartily. I'll wager Dr. Hammerfield was never up against anything like it in his life, he laughed. The courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy. Did you notice how he began like a lamb? Everhard, I mean, and how quickly he became a roaring lion? He has a splendidly disciplined mind. He would have made a good scientist if his energies had been directed that way. I need scarcely say that I was deeply interested in Ernest Everhard. It was not alone what he had said and how he had said it, but it was the man himself. I had never met a man like him. I suppose that was why, in spite of my twenty-four years, I had not married. I liked him. I had to confess it to myself. And my like for him was founded on things beyond intellect and argument. Regardless of his bulging muscles and prize-fighters' throat, he impressed me as an ingenious boy. I felt that under the guise of an intellectual swashbuckler was a delicate and sensitive spirit. I sensed this in ways I knew not, save that they were my woman's intuitions. There was something in that clarion call of his that went to my heart. It still rang in my ears, and I felt that I should like to hear it again, and to see again that glint of laughter in his eyes that belied the impassioned seriousness of his face. And there were further reaches of vague and indeterminate feelings that stirred in me. I almost loved him then, though I am confident, had I never seen him again, that the vague feelings would have passed away, and I should easily have forgotten him. But I was not destined never to see him again. My father's newborn interest in sociology and the dinner parties he gave would not permit. Father was not a sociologist. His marriage with my mother had been very happy, and in the researchers of his own science, physics, he'd been very happy, that when my mother died his own work could not fill the emptiness. At first, in a mild way, he had dabbled in philosophy, then becoming interested he had drifted on into economics and sociology. He had a strong sense of justice, and he soon became fired with a passion to redress wrong. It was with gratitude that I held these signs of a new interest in life, though I little dreamed what the outcome would be. With the enthusiasm of a boy, he plunged excitedly into these new pursuits regardless of whether they led him. He had been used always to the laboratory, and so it was that he turned the dining room into a sociological laboratory. He came to dinner all sorts and conditions of men, scientists, politicians, bankers, merchants, professors, labour leaders, socialists, and anarchists. He stirred them to discussion and analysed their thoughts of life and society. He had met earnest shortly prior to the preacher's night, and after the guests were gone I learned how he had met him passing down a street at night and stopping to listen to a man on a soapbox who was addressing a crowd of working men. The man on the box was earnest. Not that he was a mere soapbox orator, he stood high in the councils of the Socialist Party, was one of the leaders, and was the acknowledged leader in the philosophy of socialism. But he had a certain clear way of stating the abstruse in simple language, was a born expositor and teacher, and was not above the soapbox as a means of interpreting economics to the working men. My father stopped to listen, became interested, effected a meeting, and, after quite an acquaintance, invited him to the minister's dinner. It was after the dinner that father told me what little he knew about him. He had been born in the working class, though he was a descendant of the old line of ever-hards that for over two hundred years had lived in America. Note, the distinction between being native-born and foreign-born was sharp and invidious in those days. At ten years of age he had gone to work in the mills, and later he served his apprenticeship and became a horseshoer. He was self-educated, had taught himself German and French, and at that time was earning a meager living by translating scientific and philosophical works for a struggling socialist publishing house in Chicago. Also, his earnings were added to by the royalties from the small sales of his own economic and philosophic works. This much I learned of him before I went to bed, and I lay long awake listening in memory to the sound of his voice. I grew frightened at my thoughts. He was so unlike the men of my own class, so alien and so strong. His masterfulness delighted me and terrified me, for my fancies wantonly roved until I found myself considering him as a lover, as a husband. I had always heard that the strength of men was an irresistible attraction to women, but he was too strong. No, no, I cried out. It is impossible, absurd! And on the morrow, I awoke to find in myself a longing to see him again. I wanted to see him mastering men in discussion, with the war-note in his voice, to see him in all his certitude and strength, shattering their complacency, shaking them out of their ruts of thinking. What if he did swashbuckle? To use his own phrase, it worked. It produced effects, and besides, his swashbucking was a fine thing to see. It stirred one like the onset of battle. Several days passed during which I read Ernest Spock's borrowed from my father. His written word was, as his spoken word, clear and convincing. It was its absolute simplicity that convinced even while one continued to doubt. He had the gift of lucidity. He was the perfect expositor. Yet, in spite of his style, there was much that I did not like. He laid too great a stress on what he called the class struggle, the antagonism between labor and capital, the conflict of interest. Father reported with glee, Dr. Hammerfield's judgment of Ernest, which was to the effect that he was, an insolent young puppy made bumpious by a little and very inadequate learning. Also Dr. Hammerfield declined to meet Ernest again. But Bishop Morehouse turned out to have become interested at Ernest and was anxious for another meeting. A strong young man, he said, and very much alive, very much alive, but he is too sure, too sure. Ernest came one afternoon with father. The bishop had already arrived and we were having tea on the veranda. Ernest's continued presence in Berkeley, by the way, was accounted for by the fact that he was taking special courses in biology at the university and also that he was hard at work on a new book entitled Philosophy and Revolution. Note, this book continued to be secretly printed throughout the three centuries of the Iron Heel. There are several copies of various editions in the National Library of Ardis. The veranda seemed suddenly to have become small when Ernest arrived. Not that he was so very large, he stood only five feet nine inches, but that he seemed to radiate an atmosphere of largeness. As he stopped to meet me, he betrayed a certain slight awkwardness that was strangely at variance with his bold-looking eyes and his firm, sure hand that clasped for a moment in greeting. And in that moment, his eyes were just as steady and sure. There seemed a question in them this time, and as before, he looked at me over long. I've been reading your working-class philosophy, I said, and his eyes lighted in a pleased way. Of course, he answered, you took into consideration the audience to which it was addressed. I did, and it is because I did that I have a quarrel with you, I challenged. I too have a quarrel with you, Mr. Everhard, Bishop Morehouse said. Ernest shrugged his shoulders whimsically and accepted a cup of tea. The bishop bowed and gave me precedence. You ferment class hatred, I said. I consider it wrong and criminal to appeal to all that is narrow and brutal in the working-class. Class hatred is antisocial, and it seems to me antisocialistic. Not guilty, he answered. Class hatred is neither in the text nor in the spirit of anything I have ever written. Ah! I cried reproachfully, and reached for his book and opened it. He sipped his tea and smiled at me while I ran over the pages. Page 132, I read aloud, the class struggle therefore presents itself in the present stage of social development between the wage-paying and the wage-paid classes. I looked at him triumphantly. No mention there of class hatred, he smiled back. But, I answered, you say class struggle. A different thing from class hatred, he replied, and believe me, we ferment no hatred. We say that the class struggle is a law of social development. We are not responsible for it. We do not make the class struggle. We merely explain it as Newton explained gravitation. We explain the nature of the conflict of interest that produces the class struggle. But there should be no conflict of interest, I cried. I agree with you heartily, he answered. That is what we socialists are trying to bring about, the abolition of the conflict of interest. Pardon me, let me read an extract. He took his book and turned back several pages. Page 126, the cycle of class struggles which began with the dissolution of rude tribal communism and the rise of private property will end with the passing of private property in the means of social existence. But I disagree with you, the bishop interposed. His pale, ascetic face betraying by a faint glow the intensity of his feelings. Your premise is wrong. There is no such thing as a conflict of interest between labor and capital, or rather there ought not to be. Thank you, Ernest said gravely. By that last statement you have given me back my premise. But why should there be a conflict? The bishop demanded warmly. Ernest shrugged his shoulders. Because we are so made, I guess. But we are not so made, cried the other. Are you discussing the ideal man? Ernest asked, unselfish and godlike and so few in numbers as to be practically non-existent. Or are you discussing the common and ordinary average man? The common and ordinary man was the answer. Who is weak and fallible, prone to error? Bishop Moore has nodded. And petty and selfish? Again he nodded. Watch out, Ernest warned. I said, selfish. Well, the average man is selfish, the bishop affirmed valiantly. Once all he can get, true but deplorable. Then I've got you. Ernest's jaw snapped like a trap. Let me show you. Here is a man who works on the street railways. He couldn't work if it weren't for capital, the bishop interrupted. True, and you will grant the capital would perish if there were no labor to earn the dividends. The bishop was silent. Won't you? Ernest insisted. The bishop nodded. Then our statements cancel each other, Ernest said in a matter-of-fact tone. And we are where we were. Now to begin again. The working man on the street railway furnished the labor, the stockholders furnished the capital, by the joint effort of the working man and the capital money is earned. Note, in those days, groups of predatory individuals controlled all the means of transportation and for the use of same levied toll upon the public. Very good, the bishop interposed, and there is no reason that the division should not be amicable. You have already forgotten what we had agreed upon, Ernest replied. We agreed that the average man is selfish. He is the man that is. You have gone up in the air and are arranging a division between the kind of men that ought to be, but are not. But to return to the earth, the working man, being selfish, wants all he can get in the division. The capitalist, being selfish, wants all he can get in the division. When there is only so much of the same thing and when two men want all they can get out of the same thing, there is a conflict of interest between labor and capital. And it is an irreconcilable conflict. As long as working men and capitalists exist, they will continue to quarrel over the division. If you were in San Francisco this afternoon, you'd have to walk. There isn't a streetcar running. Another strike, the bishop queried with alarm. Note, these quarrels were very common in those irrational and anarchic times. Sometimes the laborers refused to work. Sometimes the capitalists refused to let the laborers work. In the violence and turbulence of such disagreements, much property was destroyed and many lives lost. All this is inconceivable to us, as inconceivable as another custom of that time, namely the habit the men of the lower classes had of breaking the furniture when they quarreled with their wives. Yes, they're quarreling over the division of the earnings of the street railways. Bishop Moiles became excited. It is wrong, he cried. It is so short-sighted on the part of the working men. How can they hope to keep our sympathy when we are compelled to walk? Ernest said slyly, but Bishop Moiles ignored him and went on. Their outlook is too narrow. Men should be men, not brutes. There will be violence and murder, now in sorrowing widows and orphans. Capital and labor should be friends. They should work hand in hand to their mutual benefit. Ah, now you are up in the air again, Ernest remarked dryly. Come back to earth. Remember, we agreed that the average man is selfish. But he ought not to be, the Bishop cried. And there I agree with you, was Ernest rejoinder. He ought not to be selfish, but he will continue to be selfish as long as he lives in a social system that is based on pig ethics. The Bishop was aghast, and my father chuckled. Yes, pig ethics, Ernest went on remorselessly. That is the meaning of the capitalist system. And that is what your church is standing for, what you are preaching for every time you get up in the pulpit. Pig ethics, there is no other name for it. Bishop Moiles turned appealingly to my father, but he laughed and nodded his head. I'm afraid Mr. Everhard is right, he said. Let's say fair, the let alone policy of each for himself and devil take the hindmost. As Mr. Everhard said the other night, the function you churchmen perform is to maintain the established order of society, and society is established on that foundation. But that is not the teaching of Christ, cried the Bishop. The church is not teaching Christ these days, Ernest put in quickly. That is why the working men will have nothing to do with the church. The church condones the frightful brutality and savagery with which the capitalist class treats the working class. The church does not condone it, the Bishop objected. The church does not protest against it, Ernest replied. And insofar as the church does not protest, it condones. For remember, the church is supported by the capitalist class. I had not looked at it in that light, the Bishop said naively. You must be wrong, I know that there is much that is sad and wicked in this world, I know that the church has lost the, what you call the proletariat. Note, proletariat, derived originally from the Latin proletari, the name given in the census of Servius Tullius to those who were of value to the state only as the rearers of offspring, proles. In other words, they were of no importance either for wealth or position or exceptional ability. You never had the proletariat, Ernest cried. The proletariat has grown up outside the church and without the church. I do not follow you, the Bishop said fairly. Then let me explain. With the introduction of machinery and the factory system in the latter part of the 18th century, the great mass of the working people was separated from the land. The old system of labor was broken down. The working people were driven from their villages and herded in factory towns. The mothers and children were put to work at the new machines. Family life ceased. The conditions were frightful. It is a tale of blood. I know, I know, Bishop Morehouse interrupted with an agonized expression on his face. It was terrible, but it occurred a century and a half ago. And there, a century and a half ago originated the modern proletariat. Ernest continued, and the church ignored it. While a slaughterhouse was made of the nation by the capitalists, the church was dumb. It did not protest as today it does not protest. As Austin Lewis says, speaking of that time, those to whom the command feed my lambs had been given saw those lambs sold into slavery and worked to death without a protest. The church was dumb then, and before I go on, I want you either flatly to agree with me or flatly to disagree with me. Was the church dumb then? Note, Austin Lewis was candidate for governor of California on the socialist ticket and the fall election of 1906 Christian Era, an Englishman by birth, a writer of many books on political economy and philosophy, and one of the socialist leaders of the times. Note, there is no more horrible page in history than the treatment of the child and women slaves in the English factories in the latter half of the 18th century of the Christian Era. In such industrial hells arose some of the proudest fortunes of that day. Bishop Morehouse hesitated. Like Dr. Hammerfield, he was unused to this fierce infighting, as Ernest called it. The history of the 18th century is written, Ernest prompted. If the church was not dumb, it will be found not dumb in the books. I'm afraid the church was dumb, the Bishop confessed. And the church is dumb today. There I disagree, said the Bishop. Ernest paused, looking at him searchingly and accepted the challenge. All right, he said, let us see. In Chicago, there are women who toil all the week for 90 cents. Has the church protested? This is news to me, was the answer. 90 cents per week, it's horrible. Has the church protested? Ernest insisted. The church does not know the Bishop was struggling hard. Yet the command to the church was, feed my lambs, Ernest sneered. And then the next moment, pardon my sneer, Bishop, but can you wonder that we lose patience with you? When have you protested to your capitalistic congregations at the working of children in the Southern Cotton Mills? Children, six and seven years of age, working every night at 12 hour shifts. They never see the blessed sunshine, they die like flies. The dividends are paid out of their blood and out of the dividends, magnificent churches are build in New England wherein your kind preaches pleasant platitudes to the sleek, full-bellied recipients of those dividends. Note. Everhard might have drawn a better illustration from the Southern Church's outspoken defense of chattel slavery prior to what is known as the War of the Rebellion. Several such illustrations culled from the documents of the times are here appended. In 1835 AD, the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church resolved that, slavery is recognized in both the old and the New Testaments and is not condemned by the authority of God. The Charleston Baptist Association issued the following in an address in 1835 AD. The right of masters to dispose of the time of their slaves has been distinctly recognized by the creator of all things, who is surely at liberty to vest the right of property over any object whomsoever he pleases. The Reverend E.D. Simon, Doctor of Divinity and Professor in the Randolph Mass on Methodist College of Virginia wrote, extracts from holy writ unequivocally assert the right of property and slaves together with the usual incidents to that right. The right to buy and sell is clearly stated. Upon the whole then, whether we consult the Jewish policy instituted by God himself or the uniform opinion and practice of mankind in all ages or the injunctions of the New Testament and the moral law, we are brought to the conclusion that slavery is not immoral. Having established the point that the first African slaves were legally brought into bondage, the right to detain their children in bondage follows as an indispensable consequence. Thus we see that the slavery that exists in America was founded in right. It is not at all remarkable that this same note should have been struck by the church a generation or so later in relation to the defense of capitalistic property. In the great museum at Asgard, there is a book entitled, Essays in Application, written by Henry Van Dyke. The book was published in 1905 of the Christian era. From what we can make out, Van Dyke must have been a churchman. The book is a good example of whatever hard would have called bourgeois thinking. Note the similarity between the utterance of the Charleston Baptist Association quoted above and the following utterance of Van Dyke 70 years later. The Bible teaches that God owns the world. It distributes to every man, according to his own good pleasure, conformably to general laws. I did not know the bishop murmured faintly. His face was pale and he seemed suffering from nausea. Then you have not protested, the bishop shook his head. Then the church is dumb today as it was in the 18th century. The bishop was silent and for once earnest forbore to press the point. And do not forget, whenever a churchman does protest, that he is discharged. I hardly think that is fair, was the objection. Will you protest? Ernest demanded. Show me evils such as you mentioned in our own community and I will protest. I'll show you, Ernest said quietly. I am at your disposal. I will take you on a journey through hell. And I shall protest. The bishop strained himself in his chair and over his gentle face spread the harshness of the warrior. The church shall not be dumb. You will be discharged, was the warning. I shall prove the contrary, was the retort. I shall prove, if what you say is so, that the church has aired through ignorance and furthermore I hold that whatever is horrible industrial society is due to the ignorance of the capitalist class. It will mend all that is wrong as soon as it receives the message and this message it shall be the duty of the church to deliver. Ernest laughed. He laughed brutally and I was driven to the bishop's defense. Remember, I said, you see but one side of the shield, there is much good in us though you give us credit for no good at all. Bishop Morehouse is right. The industrial wrong, terrible as you say it is, is due to ignorance. The divisions of society have become too widely separated. The wild Indian is not so brutal and savage as the capitalist class, he answered. And in that moment I hated him. You do not know us, I answered. We are not brutal and savage. Prove it, he challenged. How can I prove it to you? I was growing angry. He shook his head. I do not ask you to prove it to me, I ask you to prove it to yourself. I know, I said, you know nothing, was his rude reply. There, there children, father said soothingly. I do not care, I began indignantly but Ernest interrupted. I understand you have money, or your father has, which is the same thing, money invested in the Sierra Mills. What is that to do with it? I cried. Nothing much, he began slowly, except that the gown you wear is stained with blood, the food you eat is a bloody stew, the blood of little children and of strong men is dripping from your very roof beams. I can close my eyes now, and hear it drip, drop, drip, drop, all about me. And, suiting the action to the words, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. I burst into tears of mortification and hurt vanity. I had never been so brutally treated in my life. Both the bishop and my father were embarrassed and perturbed. They tried to lead the conversation away into easier channels, but Ernest opened his eyes, looked at me, and waved them aside. His mouth was stern and his eyes, too, and in the latter there was no glint of laughter. What he was about to say. What terrible castigation he was going to give me, I never knew. For at that moment a man, passing along the sidewalks, stopped and glanced in at us. He was a large man, poorly dressed, and on his back was a great load of Rotan and bamboo stands, chairs, and screens. He looked at the house as if debating whether or not he should come in and try to sell some of his wares. That man's name is Jackson, Ernest said. With that strong body of his, he should be at work and not peddling, I answered curtly. Note, in that day there were many thousands of these poor merchants called peddlers. They carried their whole stock in trade from door to door. It was a most wasteful expenditure of energy. Distribution was as confused and irrational as the whole general system of society. Notice the sleeve of his left arm, Ernest said gently. I looked and saw that the sleeve was empty. It was some of the blood from that arm that I heard dripping from your roof beams, Ernest said with continued gentleness. He lost his arm in the Sierra Mills, and like a broken down horse you turned him out on the highway to die. When I say you, I mean the superintendent and the officials that you and the other stockholders pay to manage the mills for you. It was an accident. It was caused by his trying to save the company a few dollars. The toothed drum of the picker caught his arm. He might have let the small flint that he saw in the teeth go through. It would have smashed out a double row of spikes, but he reached for the flint and his arm was picked and clawed to shreds from the fingertips to the shoulder. It was at night. The mills were working overtime. They paid a fat dividend that quarter. Jackson had been working many hours, and his muscles had lost their resiliency and snap. They made his movements a bit slow. That was why the machine caught him. He had a wife and three children. And what did the company do for him, I asked? Nothing. Oh, yes, they did do something. They successfully fought the damage suit he brought when he came out of hospital. The company employs very efficient lawyers, you know. You have not told the whole story, I said with conviction, or else you do not know the whole story. Maybe the man was insolent. Insolent? Ha, ha. His laughter was mephestrophalian. Great God. Insolent. And with his arm chewed off. Nevertheless, he was a meek and lowly servant, and there is no record of his having been insolent. But the courts, I urged. The case would not have been decided against him, had there been no more to the affair than you have mentioned. Colonel Ingram is leading counsel for the company. He is a shrewd lawyer. Ernest looked at me intently for a moment and then went on. I'll tell you what you do, Miss Cunningham. You investigate Jackson's case. I had already determined to, I said coldly. All right, he beamed good-naturedly, and I'll tell you where to find him. But I tremble for you when I think of all you are to prove by Jackson's arm. And so it came about that both the Bishop and I accepted Ernest's challenges. They went away together, leaving me smarting with a sense of injustice that had been done to me and my class. The man was a beast. I hated him, then, and consoled myself with the thought that his behaviour was what was to be expected from a man of the working class. End of Chapter 2. Recording by Matt Saw. Montreal. Matt Saw.org. Chapter 3 of The Iron Heel by Jack London. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Matt Saw. Jackson's Arm Little did I dream the fateful part Jackson's arm was to play in my life. Jackson himself did not impress me when I hunted him out. I found him in a crazy ramshackle house down near the bay on the edge of the marsh. Pools of stagnant waters to around the house, their surfaces covered with a green and putrid-looking scum while the stench that arose from them was intolerable. Note. Ramshackle. An adjective descriptive of ruined and dilapidated houses in which great numbers of the working people found shelter in those days. They invariably paid rent and, considering the value of such houses, enormous rent to the landlords. I found Jackson the meek and lowly man he had been described. He was making some sort of ratten work, and he toiled on stolidly while I talked with him. But in spite of his meekness and lowliness, I fancied I caught the first note of a nascent bitterness in him when he said, They might have given me a job as watchman, anyway. Note. In those days, thievery was incredibly prevalent. Everybody stole property from everybody else. The lords of society stole legally or else legalized their stealing, while the poorer classes stole illegally. Nothing was safe unless guarded. Enormous numbers of men were employed as watchmen to protect property. The houses of the well-to-do were a combination of safe-deposit vault and fortress. The appropriation of the personal belongings of others by our own children of the day has looked upon as a rudimentary survival of the theft characteristic that in those early times was universal. I got little out of him. He struck me as stupid, and yet the deafness with which he worked with his one hand seemed to belie his stupidity. This suggested an idea to me. How did you happen to get your arm caught in the machine? I asked. He looked at me in a slow and pondering way and shook his head. I don't know. It just happened. Carelessness? I prompted. No, he answered. I ain't for calling it that. I was working overtime, and I guess I was tired out some. I worked seventeen years in them mills, and I've took notice that most of the accidents happens just before whistle-blow. I'm willing to bet that more accidents happens in the hour before whistle-blow than in all the rest of the day. A man ain't so quick after working steady for hours. I've seen too many of them cut up and gouged and chored not to know. Note, the labourers were called to work and dismissed by savage, screaming, nerve-wracking steam-wessels. Many of them, I queried. Hundreds and hundreds and children, too. With the exception of the terrible details, Jackson's story of his accident was the same as that I had already heard. When I asked him if he had broken some rule of working the machinery, he shook his head. I chucked off the belt with my right hand, he said, and made a reach for the flint with my left. I didn't stop to see if the belt was off. I thought my right hand had done it, only it didn't. I reached quick, and the belt wasn't all the way off. And then my arm was chewed off. It must have been painful, I said sympathetically. The crunching of the bones wasn't nice, was his answer. His mind was rather hazy concerning the damaged suit. Only one thing was clear to him, and that was that he had not got any damages. He had a feeling that the testimony of the four men and the superintendent had brought about the adverse decision of the court. Their testimony, as he put it, wasn't what it ought to have been. And to them, a result to go. One thing was plain. Jackson's situation was wretched. His wife was in ill health, and he was unable to earn by his retina work and peddling sufficient food for the family. He was back in his rent, and the oldest boy, lad of eleven, had started to work in the mills. It might have given me that watchman's job, were his last words as I went away. By the time I had seen the lawyer who had handled Jackson's case, and the two four men and the superintendent at the mills who had testified, I began to feel that there was something, after all, in Ernest's contention. He was a weak and insufficient-looking man, the lawyer. And at sight of him, I did not wonder that Jackson's case had been lost. My first thought was that it had served Jackson right for getting such a lawyer. But the next moment, two of Ernest's statements came flashing into my consciousness. The company employs very efficient lawyers, and Colonel Ingram is a shrewd lawyer. I did some rapid thinking. It dawned upon me that, of course, the company could afford finer legal talent than could a working man like Jackson. But this was merely a minor detail. There was some very good reason I was sure why Jackson's case had gone against him. Why did you lose the case? I asked. The lawyer was perplexed and worried for a moment, and I found it in my heart to pity the wretched little creature. Then he began to whine. I do believe his whine was congenital. He was a man beaten at birth. He whined about the testimony. The witnesses had given only the evidence that helped the other side. Not one word could he get out of them that would have helped Jackson. They knew which side their bread was butted on. Jackson was a fool. He had been brow-beaten and confused by Colonel Ingram. Colonel Ingram was brilliant at cross-examination. He had made Jackson answer damaging questions. How could his answers be damaging if he had the right on his side? I demanded. What's right got to do with it? He demanded back. You see all those books? He moved his hand over the array of volumes on the walls of his tiny office. All my reading and studying of them has taught me that law is one thing, and right is another thing. Ask any lawyer. You go to Sunday school to learn what is right, but you go to those books to learn law. Do you mean to tell me that Jackson had the right on his side and yet was beaten? I queried tentatively. Do you mean to tell me that there is no justice in Judge Caldwell's court? The little lawyer glared at me a moment, and then the belligerents faded out of his face. I hadn't a fair chance. He began whining again. They made a fool out of Jackson and out of me, too. What chance had I? Colonel Ingram is a great lawyer. If he wasn't great, would he have charge of the law business of the Sierra Mills, of the Erstan Land Syndicate, of the Berkeley Consolidated, of the Oakland San Leandro and Pleasant and Electric? He's a corporation lawyer, and corporation lawyers are not paid for being fools. Note. The function of the corporation lawyer was to serve by corrupt methods, the money-grabbing propensities of the corporations. It is on record that Theodore Roosevelt, at that time President of the United States, said in 1905 AD in his address at Harvard commencement, We all know that, as things actually are, many of the most influential and most highly-renumerated members of the bar in every centre of wealth make it their special task to work out bold and ingenious schemes by which their wealthy clients, individual or corporate, can evade the laws which are made to regulate, in the interests of the public, the uses of great wealth. What do you think the Sierra Mills alone give him $20,000 a year for? Because he's worth $20,000 a year to them, that's what for? I'm not worth that much. If I was, I wouldn't be on the outside, starving and taking cases like Jackson's. What do you think I'd have got if I'd won Jackson's case? You'd have robbed him, most probably, I answered. Of course I would, he cried angrily. I've got to live, haven't I? Note. A typical illustration of the internecine strife that permeated all society. Men preyed upon one another like ravening wolves. The big wolves ate the little wolves, and in the social pack Jackson was one of the least of the little wolves. He has a wife and children, I chided. So have I a wife and children, he retorted, and there's not a soul in this world except myself that cares whether they starve or not. His face suddenly softened, and he opened his watch, and showed me a small photograph of a woman and two little girls pasted inside the case. There they are. Look at them. We've had a hard time. A hard time. I had hoped to send them away to the country if I'd won Jackson's case. They're not healthy here, but I can't afford to send them away. When I started to leave, he dropped back into his wine. I hadn't the ghost of a chance. Colonel Ingram and Judge Coldwell are pretty friendly. I'm not saying that if I'd got the right kind of testimony out of their witnesses on cross-examination that friendship would have decided the case, and yet I must say that Judge Coldwell did a whole lot to prevent my getting that very testimony. Why, Judge Coldwell and Colonel Ingram belong to the same lodge and the same club. They live in the same neighbourhood, one I can't afford. And their wives are always in and out of each other's houses. They're always having wist parties and such things back and forth. And yet you think Jackson had the right of it? I asked, pausing for the moment on the threshold. I don't think I know it was his answer. And at first I thought he had some show, too, but I didn't tell my wife. I didn't want to disappoint her. She had her heart set on a trip to the country hard enough as it was. Why did you not call attention to the fact that Jackson was trying to save the machinery from being injured? I asked Peter Donnelly, one of the four men who had testified at the trial. He pondered a long time before replying. Then he cast an anxious look about him and said, Because of a good wife and three of the sweetest children you ever laid eyes on, that's why. I do not understand, I said. In other words, because it wouldn't have been healthy. He answered, You mean? I began. But he interrupted passionately. I mean what I said. It's long years I've worked in the mills. I began as a little lad on the spindles. I worked up ever since. It's by hard work I've got to my present exalted position. I'm a foreman, if you please, and I doubt me if there's a man in the mills that put out a hand to drag me from drowning. I used to belong to the Union, but I've stayed by the company through two strikes. They called me scab. There's not a man among them today to take a drink with me if I asked him. Do you see the scars on my head where I was struck with flying bricks? There ain't a child at the spindles, but what would curse me name? My only friend is the company. It's not my duty, but my bread and butter and the life of my children to stand by the mills. That's why. Was Jackson to blame? I asked. He should have got the damages. He was a good worker and never made trouble. Then you were not at liberty to tell the whole truth, as you had sworn to do. He shook his head. The truth? The whole truth and nothing but the truth? I said solemnly. Again his face became impassioned and he lifted it, not to me but to heaven. I'd let my soul and body burn in everlasting hell for them children of mine, was his answer. Henry Dallas, the superintendent, was a vulpine-faced creature who regarded me insolently and refused to talk. Not a word could I get from him concerning the trial and his testimony. But with the other foreman I had better luck. James Smith was a hard-faced man and my heart sank as I encountered him. He too gave me the impression that he was not a free agent. As we talked I began to see that he was mentally superior to the average of his kind. He agreed with Peter Donnelly that Jackson should have got damages, and he went farther and called the action heartless and cold-blooded that had turned the worker adrift after he had been made helpless by the accident. Also he explained that there were many accidents in the mills, and that the company's policy was to fight to the bitter end all consequent damage suits. It means hundreds of thousands a year to the stockholders, he said, and as he spoke I remembered the last dividend that had been paid my father, and the pretty gown for me and the books for him that had been bought out of that dividend. I remembered Ernest's charge that my gown was stained with blood, and my flesh began to crawl underneath my garments. When you testified at the trial, you didn't point out that Jackson received his accident through trying to save the machinery from damage, I said. No, I did not, was the answer, and his mouth set bitterly. I testified to the effect that Jackson injured himself by neglect and carelessness, and that the company was not in any way to blame or viable. Was it carelessness? I asked. Gollit that, or anything you want to call it? The fact is a man gets tired after he's been working for hours. I was becoming interested in the man. He certainly was of a superior kind. You are better educated than most working men, I said. I went through high school, he replied. I worked my way through doing janitor work. I wanted to go through the university, but my father died, and I came to work in the mills. I wanted to become a naturalist, he explained shyly, as though confessing a weakness. I love animals, but I came to work in the mills. When I was promoted to foreman, I got married. Then the family came, and—well, I wasn't my own boss any more. What do you mean by that? I asked. I was explaining why I testified at the trial the way I did, why I followed instructions. Whose instructions? Colonel Ingram. He outlined the evidence I was to give. And it lost Jackson's case for him. He nodded, and the blood began to rise darkly in his face. And Jackson had a wife and two children dependent on him. I know, he said quietly, though his face was growing darker. Tell me, I went on. Was it easy to make yourself over from what you were, say in high school, to the man you must have become to do such a thing at the trial? The suddenness of his outburst startled and frightened me. He ripped out a savage oath and clenched his fists as though about to strike me. Note. It is interesting to note the virilities of language that were common speech in that day, as indicative of the life red of claw and fang that was then lived. References here made, of course, not to the oath of Smith, but to the verb ripped used by Avis Everhard. I beg your pardon, he said the next moment. No, it was not easy. And now I guess you can go away. You've got all you wanted out of me, but let me tell you this before you go. It won't do you any good to repeat anything I've said. I'll deny it, and there are no witnesses. I'll deny every word of it. And if I have to, I'll do it under oath on the witness stand. After my interview with Smith, I went to my father's office in the chemistry building, and there encountered Ernest. It was quite unexpected, but he met me with his bold eyes and firm hand-clasp, and with that curious blend of his awkwardness and ease. It was as though our last stormy meeting was forgotten, but I was not in the mood to have it forgotten. I have been looking up Jackson's case, I said abruptly. He was all interested attention, and waited for me to go on, though I could see in his eyes the certitude that my convictions had been shaken. He seems to have been badly treated, I confessed. I think some of his blood is dripping from our roof beams. Of course, he answered. If Jackson and all his fellows were treated mercifully, the dividends would not be so large. I shall never be able to take pleasure in pretty counts again, I added. I felt humble and contrite, and was aware of a sweet feeling that Ernest was a sort of father-confessor. Then, as ever after his strength appealed to me, it seemed to radiate a promise of peace and protection. And nor will you be able to take pleasure in sackcloth. He said gravely. There are the jute mills, you know, and the same thing goes on there. It goes on everywhere. Our boasted civilisation is based upon blood, soaked in blood, and neither you nor I nor any of us can escape the scarlet stain. The men you talked with, who were they? I told them all that had taken place. And not one of them was a free agent, he said. They were all tied to the merciless industrial machine, and the pathos of it, and the tragedies that they are tied by their heartstrings. Their children. Always the young life that is their instinct to protect. This instinct is stronger than any ethic they possess. My father. He lied. He stole. He did all sorts of dishonourable things to put bread into my mouth, and into the mouths of my brothers and sisters. He was a slave to the industrial machine, and it stamped his life out, worked him to death. But you, I interjected. You are surely a free agent. Not wholly, he replied. I am not tied by my heartstrings. I am often thankful that I have no children, and I dearly love children, yet if I am married I should not dare to have any. That surely is bad doctrine, I cried. I know it is, he said sadly. But it is expedient doctrine. I am a revolutionist, and it is a perilous vocation. I laughed incredulously. If I tried to enter your father's house at night to steal his dividends from the Sierra Mills, what would he do? He sleeps with a revolver on the stand by the bed. I answered, he would most probably shoot you. And if I, and a few others, should lead a million and a half men into the houses of all the well to do, there would be a great deal of shooting, wouldn't there? Note. This reference is to the socialist vote cast in the United States in 1910. The rise of this vote clearly indicates the swift growth of the Party of Revolution. Its voting strength in the United States in 1888 was 2068, in 1902, 127,713, in 1904, 435,040, in 1908, 1,108,427, and in 1910, 1,688,211. Yes, but you're not going to do that, I objected. It is precisely what I'm doing. And we intend to take not the mere wealth in the houses, but all the sources of that wealth, all the mines, and railroads, and factories, and banks, and stores. That is the revolution. It is truly perilous. There will be more shooting, I'm afraid, than even I dream of. But, as I was saying, no one today is a free agent. We are all caught up in the wheels and cogs of the industrial machine. You've found that you were, and that the men you talked with were taught with more of them. Go and see Colonel Ingram. Look up the reporters that kept Jackson's case out of the papers and the editors that run the papers. You will find them all slaves of the machine. A little later in our conversation, I asked him a simple little question about the liability of working men to accidents, and received a statistical lecture in return. It is all in the books, he said. The figures have been gathered, and it has been proved conclusively that accidents rarely occur in the first hours of the morning work, but that they increase rapidly in the succeeding hours as the work has grown tired and slower in both their muscular and mental processes. Why, do you know that your father has three times as many chances for safety of life and limb than has a working man? He has. The insurance company's no. Note. In the terrible wolf struggle of those centuries, no man was permanently safe, no matter how much wealth he amassed. Out of fear for the welfare of their families, men devised the scheme of insurance. To us, in this intelligent age, such a device is laughably absurd and primitive, but in that age insurance was a very serious matter. The amusing part of it is that the funds of the insurance companies were frequently plundered and wasted by the very officials who were entrusted with the management of them. They will charge him four dollars and twenty cents a year on a thousand-dollar accident policy, and for the same policy they will charge a labourer fifteen dollars. And you? I asked, and in the moment of asking, I was aware of a solicitude that was something more than slight. Oh, as a revolutionist, I have about eight chances to the working man's one of being injured or killed. He answered carelessly. The insurance companies charged the highly trained chemists that handle explosives eight times what they charge the working men. I don't think they'd insure me at all. Why did you ask? My eyes fluttered, and I could feel the blood warm in my face. It was not that he had caught me in my solicitude, but that I had caught myself and in his presence. Just then my father came in and began making preparations to depart with me. Ernest returned some books he had borrowed and went away first. But just as he was going, he turned and said, Oh, by the way, while you are ruining your own peace of mind, and I am ruining the bishops, you'd better look up Mrs. Wixon and Mrs. Pyrtonweth. Their husbands, you know, are the two principal stockholders in the mills. Like all the rest of humanity, those two women are tied to the machine, but they are so tied that they sit on top of it. THE MORE I THOUGHT of Jackson's arm, the more shaken I was. I was confronted by the concrete. For the first time I was seeing life. My university life and study and culture had not been real. I had learned nothing but theories of life and society that looked all very well on the printed page, but now I had seen life itself. Jackson's arm was a fact of life. The fact, man, the irrefragable fact of Ernest's was ringing in my consciousness. It seemed monstrous, impossible, that our whole society was based upon blood. And yet there was Jackson. I could not get away from him. Constantly my thought swung back to him as the compass to the pole. He had been monstrously treated. His blood had not been paid for in order that a larger dividend might be paid. And I knew a score of happy complacent families that had received those dividends, and by that much had profited by Jackson's blood. If one man could be so monstrously treated, and society move on its way unheeding, might not many men be so monstrously treated? I remembered Ernest's women of Chicago who toiled for ninety cents a week and the child slaves of the Southern Cotton Mills he had described. And I could see their one white hands from which the blood had been pressed, at work upon the cloth out of which had been made my gown. And then I thought of the Sierra Mills and the dividends that had been paid, and I saw the blood of Jackson upon my gown as well. Jackson I could not escape. Always my meditations led me back to him. Down in the depths of me I had a feeling that I stood on the edge of a precipice. It was as though I were about to see a new and awful revelation of life. And not I alone. My whole world was turning over. There was my father. I could see the effect Ernest was beginning to have on him. And then there was the bishop. When I had last seen him he had looked a sick man. He was at high nervous tension, and in his eyes there was unspeakable horror. From the little I learned I knew that Ernest had been keeping his promise of taking him through hell. But what scenes of hell the bishop's eyes had seen I knew not, for he seemed too stunned to speak about them. Once the feeling strung upon me that my little world and all the world was turning over, I thought of Ernest as the cause of it. And also I thought, we were so happy and peaceful before he came. And the next moment I was aware that the thought was a treason against truth, and Ernest rose before me transfigured the apostle of truth with shining brows and the fearlessness of one of God's own angels battling for the truth and the right and battling for the sucker of the poor and lonely and oppressed. And then there arose before me another figure, the Christ. He too had taken the part of the lowly and oppressed, and against all the established power of priest and Pharisee. And I remembered his end upon the cross, and my heart contracted with a pang as I thought of Ernest. Was he too destined for a cross? He with his clarion call and war-noted voice and all the fine man's vigor of him. And in that moment I knew that I loved him, and that I was melting with desire to comfort him. I thought of his life as sordid, harsh and meagre life it must have been. And I thought of his father, who had lied and stolen for him and been worked to death, and he himself had gone into the mills when he was ten. All my heart seemed bursting with desire to fold my arms around him and to rest his head on my breast, his head that must be weary with so many thoughts, and to give him rest, just rest and easement and forgetfulness for a tender space. I met Colonel Ingram at a church reception. Him I knew well, and had known him well for many years. I trapped him behind large palms and rubber plants, though he did not know he was trapped. He met me with the conventional gaity and gallantry. He was ever a graceful man, diplomatic, tactful and considerate. And as for appearance, he was the most distinguished looking man in our society. Beside him, even the venerable head of the university looked tordery and small. And yet I found Colonel Ingram situated the same as the unlettered mechanics. He was not a free agent. He too was bound upon the wheel. I shall never forget the change in him when I mentioned Jackson's case. His smile in good nature vanished like a ghost, a sudden, frightful expression distorted his well-bred face. I felt the same alarm that I had felt when James Smith broke out. But Colonel Ingram did not curse. That was the slight difference that was left between the working man and him. He was framed as a wit. But he had no wit now, and unconsciously, this way and that he glanced for avenues of escape. But he was trapped amid the palms and rubber trees. Oh, he was sick of the sound of Jackson's name. Why had I brought the matter up? He did not relish my joke. It was poor taste on my part and very inconsiderate. Did I not know that in his profession personal feelings did not count? He left his personal feelings at home when he went down to the office. At the office he had only professional feelings. Should Jackson have received damages? I asked. Certainly, he answered. That is, personally, I have a feeling that he should. But that has nothing to do with the legal aspects of the case. He was getting his scattered wits slightly in hand. Tell me, has Wright anything to do with the law? I asked. You have used the wrong initial consonant. He smiled in answer. Might, I queried. And he nodded his head. And yet we are supposed to get justice by means of the law? That is the paradox of it, he counted. We do get justice. You are speaking professionally now, are you not? I asked. Colonel Ingram blushed, actually blushed. And again he looked anxiously about him for a way of escape. But I blocked his path and did not offer to move. Tell me, I said, when one surrenders his personal feelings to his professional feelings, may not the action be defined as a sort of spiritual mayhem? I did not get an answer. Colonel Ingram had ingloriously bolted, overturning a palm in his flight. Next I tried the newspapers. I wrote a quiet, restrained, dispassionate account of Jackson's case. I made no charges against the men with whom I had talked, nor for that matter did I even mention them. I gave the actual facts of the case, the long years Jackson had worked in the mills, his effort to save the machinery from damage and the consequent accident, and his own present wretched and starving condition. The three local newspapers rejected my communication, likewise did the two weaklies. I got hold of Percy Layton. He was a graduate of the university, had gone in for journalism, and was then serving his apprenticeship as reporter on the most influential of the three newspapers. He smiled when I asked him the reason the newspapers suppressed all mention of Jackson or his case. Editorial policy. He said, We have nothing to do with that. It's up to the editors. But why is it policy? I asked. We're all solid with the corporations. If you paid advertising rates, you couldn't get any such matter into the papers. Man who tried to smuggle it in would lose his job. You couldn't get it in if you paid ten times the regular advertising rates. How about your own policy? I questioned. It would seem your function is to twist truth at the command of your employers, who in turn obey the behest of the corporations. I haven't anything to do with that. He looked uncomfortable for the moment, and then brightened as he saw his way out. I, myself, do not write untruthful things. I keep square all right with my own conscience. Of course, there's lots of this repugnant in the course of the day's work. But then you see that's all part of the day's work. He wound up boyishly. Yet you expect to sit at an editor's desk some day and conduct the policy? I'll be case-hardened by that time, was his reply. Since you are not yet case-hardened, tell me what you think right now about the general editorial policy? I don't think, he answered quickly. One can't kick over the ropes if he's going to succeed in journalism. I've learned that much at any rate. And he nodded his young head sagely. But the right, I persisted. Oh, you don't understand the game. Of course it's all right, because it comes out all right, don't you see? Delightfully vague, I murmured. But my heart was aching for the youth of him. I felt that I must either scream or burst into tears. I was beginning to see through the appearances of the society in which I had always lived, and to find the frightful realities that were beneath. There seemed a tacit conspiracy against Jackson, and I was aware of a thrill of sympathy for the whining lawyer who had ingloriously fought his case. But this tacit conspiracy grew large. Not alone was it aimed against Jackson. It was aimed against every working man who was maimed in the mills. And if against every man in the mills, why not against every man in all the other factors and mills? In fact, was it not true of all the industries? And if this was so, then society was a lie. I shrank back from my own conclusions. It was too terrible and awful to be true. But there was Jackson, and Jackson's arm, and the blood that stained my gown and dripped from my own roof beams. And there were many Jackson's, hundreds of them in the mills alone, as Jackson himself had said. Jackson, I could not escape. I saw Mr. Wixen and Mr. Pyrtonweth, the two men who held most of the stock in the Sierra Mills. But I could not shake them as I had shaken the mechanics in their employ. I discovered that they had an ethic superior to that of the rest of society. It was what I may call the aristocratic ethic, or the master ethic. Note. Before Avis Everhard was born, John Stuart Mill in his essay On Liberty wrote, Wherever there is an ascendant class, a large portion of the morality emanates from its class interests and its class feelings of superiority. They talked in large ways of policy and they identified policy and right, and to me they talked in fatherly ways, patronizing my youth and inexperience. They were the most hopeless of all I had encountered in my quest. They believed absolutely that their conduct was right. There was no question about it, no discussion. They were convinced that they were the saviours of society, and that it was they who had made happiness for the many, and they drew pathetic pictures of what would be the sufferings of the working class, were it not for the employment that they and they alone by their wisdom provided for it. Fresh from these two masters, I met Ernest and related my experience. He looked at me with a pleased expression and said, Really, this is fine. You are beginning to dig truth for yourself. It is your own empirical generalization, and it is correct. No man in the industrial machine is a free will agent, except the large capitalist, and he isn't, if you'll pardon the Irishism. Note. Verbal contradictions, called bulls, were long and amiable weakness of the ancient Irish. You see, the masters are quite sure that they are right in what they are doing. That is the crowning absurdity of the whole situation. They are so tied by their human nature that they can't do a thing unless they think it is right. They must have a sanction for their acts. When they want to do a thing in business, of course, they must wait till their arises in their brain somehow, a religious or ethical or scientific or philosophic concept that the thing is right, and then they go ahead and do it, unwitting that one of the weaknesses of the human mind is that the wish is parent to the thought. No matter what they want to do, the sanction always comes. They are superficial casuists. They are Jesuitical. They even see their way to doing wrong that right may come of it. One of the pleasant and axiomatic fictions they have created is that they are superior to the rest of mankind in wisdom and efficiency. Therefrom comes their sanction to manage the bread and butter of the rest of mankind. They have even resurrected the theory of the divine right of kings, commercial kings in their case. Note, the newspapers in 1902 of that era credited the President of the Anthracite Coltrust to George F. Bayer with the annunciation of the following principle. The rights and interests of the laboring man will be protected by the Christian men to whom God, in his infinite wisdom, has given the property interests of the country. The weakness in their position lies in that they are merely businessmen. They are not philosophers. They are not biologists nor sociologists. If they were, of course, all would be well. A businessman who was also a biologist and a sociologist would know approximately the right thing to do for humanity. But outside the realm of business these men are stupid. They know only business. They do not know mankind nor society, and yet they set themselves up as arbiters of the fates of the hungry millions and all the other millions thrown in. History someday will have an excruciating laugh at their expense. I was not surprised when I had my talk out with Mrs. Wixen and Mrs. Purton-Waith. They were society women. Note, society is here used in a restricted sense, a common usage of the times to denote the gilded drone that did no labour but only glutted themselves at the honey-vats of the workers. Neither the businessmen nor the labourers had time or opportunity for society. Society was the creation of the idle rich who toiled not, and who in this way played. Their homes were palaces. They had many homes scattered over the country in the mountains, on lakes, and by the sea. They were tended by armies of servants, and their social activities were bewildering. They patronised the university and the churches, and the pastors especially bowed at their knees in meek subservience. Note, bring on your tainted money, was the express sentiment of the church during this period. There were powers these two women. What of the money that was theirs? The power of subsidisation of thought was theirs to a remarkable degree, as I was soon to learn under Ernest's tuition. They aped their husbands and talked in the same large ways about policy and the duties and responsibilities of the rich. They were swayed by the same ethic that dominated their husbands, the ethic of their class, and they uttered glib phrases that their own ears did not understand. Also they grew irritated when I told them of the deplorable condition of Jackson's family, and when I wondered that they had made no voluntary provision for the man, I was told that they thanked no one for instructing them in their social duties. When I asked them flatly to assist Jackson, they as flatly refused. The astounding thing about it was that they refused in almost identically the same language, and this in face of the fact that I interviewed them separately, and that one did not know that I had been or was going to see the other. Their common reply was that they were glad of the opportunity to make it perfectly plain that no premium would ever be put on carelessness by them, nor would they by paying for accident tempt the poor to herd themselves in the machinery. Note, in the files of the Outlook, a critical weekly of the period, in the number dated August 18th 1906, is related the circumstance of a working man losing his arm, the details of which are quite similar to those of Jackson's case as related by Avis Everhard, and they were sincere these two women. They were drunk with conviction of the superiority of their class and of themselves. They had a sanction in their own class ethic for every act they performed. As I drove away from Mrs. Pyrton Waithe's great house, I looked back at it, and I remembered Ernest's expression that they were bound to the machine, but that they were so bound that they sat on top of it. End of chapter four. Recording by Matt Saw, Montreal, mattsaw.org