The Iron Heel E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The soft summer wind 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!

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Leseprobe

TheIronHeel

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

THEIRONHEEL

CHAPTER IMYEAGLE

The soft summer wind stirs the redwoods, and Wild-Water ripples sweetcadences over its mossy stones. There are butterflies in the sunshine, and fromeverywherearisesthedrowsyhumofbees.Itissoquietandpeaceful,andIsithere, and ponder, and am restless. It is the quiet that makes me restless. Itseemsunreal.Alltheworldisquiet,butitisthequietbeforethestorm.Istrainmy ears, and all my senses, for some betrayal of that impending storm. Oh,thatitmaynotbepremature!Thatitmaynotbepremature!

Small wonder that I am restless. I think, and think, and I cannot cease fromthinking. I have been in the thick of life so long that I am oppressed by thepeace and quiet, and I cannot forbear from dwelling upon that mad maelstromof death and destruction so soon to burst forth. In my ears are the cries of thestricken;andIcansee,asIhaveseeninthepast,allthemarringandmangling

of the sweet, beautiful flesh, and the souls torn with violence from proudbodies and hurled to God. Thus do we poor humans attain our ends, strivingthrough carnage and destruction to bring lasting peace and happiness upon theearth.

And then I am lonely. When I do not think of what is to come, I think of whathas been and is no more—my Eagle, beating with tireless wings the void,soaring toward what was ever his sun, the flaming ideal of human freedom. Icannot sit idly by and wait the great event that is his making, though he is nothere to see. He devoted all the years of his manhood to it, and for it he gavehislife.Itishishandiwork.Hemadeit.

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 hischaracter, and so noble a character cannot be blazoned forth too brightly. Hiswasagreatsoul,and,whenmylovegrowsunselfish,mychiefestregretisthathe is not here to witness to-morrow's dawn. We cannot fail. He has built toostoutly and too surely for that. Woe to the Iron Heel! Soon shall it be thrustbackfromoffprostratehumanity.Whenthewordgoesforth,thelaborhostsofall the world shall rise. There has been nothing like it in the history of theworld. The solidarity of labor is assured, and for the first time will there be aninternationalrevolutionwideastheworldiswide.

You see, I am full of what is impending. I have lived it day and night utterlyand for so long that it is ever present in my mind. For that matter, I cannotthink of my husband without thinking of it. He was the soul of it, and how canIpossiblyseparatethetwointhought?

As I have said, there is much light that I alone can throw upon his character. Itis well known that he toiled hard for liberty and suffered sore. How hard hetoiled and how greatly he suffered, I well know; for I have been with himduring these twenty anxious years and I know his patience, his untiring effort,his infinite devotion to the Cause for which, only two months gone, he laiddownhislife.

IshalltrytowritesimplyandtotellherehowErnestEverhardenteredmylife

—how I first met him, how he grew until I became a part of him, and thetremendous changes he wrought in my life. In this way may you look at himthrough my eyes and learn him as I learned him—in all save the things toosecretandsweetformetotell.

ItwasinFebruary,1912,thatIfirstmethim,when,asaguestofmyfather'satdinner, he came to our house in Berkeley. I cannot say that my very firstimpression of him was favorable. He was one of many at dinner, and in thedrawing-roomwherewegatheredandwaitedforalltoarrive,hemadearatherincongruousappearance.Itwas"preacher'snight,"asmyfatherprivately

calledit,andErnestwascertainlyoutofplaceinthemidstofthechurchmen.

Inthefirstplace,hisclothesdidnotfithim.Heworeaready-madesuitofdark cloth that was ill adjusted to his body. In fact, no ready-made suit ofclothes ever could fit his body. And on this night, as always, the cloth bulgedwith his muscles, while the coat between the shoulders, what of the heavyshoulder-development, was a maze of wrinkles. His neck was the neck of aprize-fighter, thick and strong. So this was the social philosopher and ex-horseshoermyfatherhaddiscovered,wasmythought.Andhecertainlylookeditwiththosebulgingmusclesandthatbull-throat.ImmediatelyIclassifiedhim—asortofprodigy,Ithought,aBlindTomoftheworkingclass.

And then, when he shook hands with me! His handshake was firm and strong,but he looked at me boldly with his black eyes—too boldly, I thought. Yousee,Iwasacreatureofenvironment,andatthattimehadstrongclassinstincts.Suchboldnessonthepartofamanofmyownclasswouldhavebeenalmostunforgivable.IknowthatIcouldnotavoiddroppingmyeyes,and I was quite relieved when I passed him on and turned to greet BishopMorehouse—a favorite of mine, a sweet and serious man of middle age,Christ-likeinappearanceandgoodness,andascholaraswell.

But this boldness that I took to be presumption was a vital clew to the natureof Ernest Everhard. He was simple, direct, afraid of nothing, and he refused towastetimeonconventionalmannerisms."Youpleasedme,"heexplainedlongafterward; "and why should I not fill my eyes with that which pleases me?" Ihave said that he was afraid of nothing. He was a natural aristocrat—and thisin spite of the fact that he was in the camp of the non-aristocrats. He was asuperman, a blond beast such as Nietzsche has described, and in addition hewasaflamewithdemocracy.

Intheinterestofmeetingtheotherguests,andwhatofmyunfavorableimpression, I forgot all about the working-class philosopher, though once ortwice at table I noticed him—especially the twinkle in his eye as he listened tothe talk first of one minister and then of another. He has humor, I thought, andIalmostforgavehimhisclothes.Butthetimewentby,andthedinnerwentby,andheneveropenedhismouthtospeak,whiletheministerstalkedinterminably about the working class and its relation to the church, and whatthe churchhad doneand wasdoing forit.I noticedthat myfather wasannoyed because Ernest did not talk. Once father took advantage of a lull andasked him to say something; but Ernest shrugged his shoulders and with an "Ihavenothingtosay"wentoneatingsaltedalmonds.

Butfatherwasnottobedenied.Afterawhilehesaid:

"Wehavewithusamemberoftheworkingclass.Iamsurethathecanpresentthingsfromanewpointofviewthatwillbeinterestingandrefreshing.Irefer

toMr.Everhard."

Theothersbetrayedawell-manneredinterest,andurgedErnestforastatementof his views. Their attitude toward him was so broadly tolerant and kindly thatit was really patronizing. And I saw that Ernest noted it and was amused. Helookedslowlyabouthim,andIsawtheglintoflaughterinhiseyes.

"I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy," he began, andthenhesitatedwithmodestyandindecision.

"Goon,"theyurged,andDr.Hammerfieldsaid:"Wedonotmindthetruththatisinanyman.Ifitissincere,"heamended.

"Thenyouseparatesincerityfromtruth?"Ernestlaughedquickly.

Dr. Hammerfield gasped, and managed to answer, "The best of us may bemistaken,youngman,thebestofus."

Ernest'smannerchangedontheinstant.Hebecameanotherman.

"All right, then," he answered; "and let me begin by saying that you are allmistaken.Youknownothing,andworsethannothing,abouttheworkingclass.Yoursociologyisasviciousandworthlessasisyourmethodofthinking."

Itwasnotsomuchwhathesaidashowhesaidit.Irousedatthefirstsoundofhis voice. It was as bold as his eyes. It was a clarion-call that thrilled me. Andthewholetablewasaroused,shakenalivefrommonotonyanddrowsiness.

"Whatissodreadfullyviciousandworthlessinourmethodofthinking,youngman?"Dr.Hammerfielddemanded,andalreadytherewassomethingunpleasantinhisvoiceandmannerofutterance.

"Youaremetaphysicians.Youcanproveanythingbymetaphysics;andhavingdone so, every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician wrong—tohis own satisfaction. You are anarchists in the realm of thought. And you aremad 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 inwhich you live, and your thinking has no place in the real world except in sofarasitisphenomenaofmentalaberration.

"Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to you talkand talk? You reminded me for all the world of the scholastics of the MiddleAges who gravely and learnedly debated the absorbing question of how manyangels could dance on the point of a needle. Why, my dear sirs, you are asremotefromtheintellectuallifeofthetwentiethcenturyasanIndianmedicine-man making incantation in the primeval forest ten thousand yearsago."

As Ernest talked he seemed in a fine passion; his face glowed, his eyessnappedandflashed,andhischinandjawwereeloquentwithaggressiveness.

But it was only a way he had. It always aroused people. His smashing, sledge-hammer manner of attack invariably made them forget themselves. And theywere forgetting themselves now. Bishop Morehouse was leaning forward andlisteningintently.ExasperationandangerwereflushingthefaceofDr.Hammerfield. And others were exasperated, too, and some were smiling in anamused and superior way. As for myself, I found it most enjoyable. I glancedat father, and I was afraid he was going to giggle at the effect of this humanbombshellhehadbeenguiltyoflaunchingamongstus.

"Your terms are rather vague," Dr. Hammerfield interrupted. "Just preciselywhatdoyoumeanwhenyoucallusmetaphysicians?"

"I call you metaphysicians because you reason metaphysically," Ernest wenton. "Your method of reasoning is the opposite to that of science. There is novalidity to your conclusions. You can prove everything and nothing, and notwoofyoucanagreeuponanything.Eachofyougoesintohisownconsciousness to explainhimself andthe universe.As well may youliftyourselvesbyyourownbootstrapsastoexplainconsciousnessbyconsciousness."

"I do not understand," Bishop Morehouse said. "It seems to me that all thingsof the mind are metaphysical. That most exact and convincing of all sciences,mathematics, is sheerly metaphysical. Each and every thought-process of thescientificreasonerismetaphysical.Surelyyouwillagreewithme?"

"As you say, you do not understand," Ernest replied. "The metaphysicianreasonsdeductivelyoutofhisownsubjectivity.Thescientistreasonsinductively from the facts of experience. The metaphysician reasons fromtheory to facts, the scientist reasons from facts to theory. The metaphysicianexplainstheuniversebyhimself,thescientistexplainshimselfbytheuniverse."

"ThankGodwearenotscientists,"Dr.Hammerfieldmurmuredcomplacently."Whatareyouthen?"Ernestdemanded.

"Philosophers."

"Thereyougo,"Ernestlaughed."Youhavelefttherealandsolidearthandareup in the air with a word for a flying machine. Pray come down to earth andtellmepreciselywhatyoudomeanbyphilosophy."

"Philosophyis—" (Dr. Hammerfield paused and cleared his throat)

—"something that cannot be defined comprehensively except to such mindsand temperaments as are philosophical. The narrow scientist with his nose in atest-tubecannotunderstandphilosophy."

Ernest ignored the thrust. It was always his way to turn the point back upon anopponent,andhediditnow,withabeamingbrotherlinessoffaceand

utterance.

"Then you will undoubtedly understand the definition I shall now make ofphilosophy. But before I make it, I shall challenge you to point out error in itortoremainasilentmetaphysician.Philosophyismerelythewidestscienceofall.Itsreasoningmethodisthesameasthatofanyparticularscienceandofallparticular sciences. And by that same method of reasoning, the inductivemethod, philosophy fuses all particular sciences into one great science. AsSpencersays,thedataofanyparticularsciencearepartiallyunifiedknowledge. Philosophy unifies the knowledge that is contributed by all thesciences. Philosophy is the science of science, the master science, if youplease.Howdoyoulikemydefinition?"

"Verycreditable,verycreditable,"Dr.Hammerfieldmutteredlamely.ButErnestwasmerciless.

"Remember," he warned, "my definition is fatal to metaphysics. If you do notnow point out a flaw in my definition, you are disqualified later on fromadvancing metaphysical arguments. You must go through life seeking thatflawandremainingmetaphysicallysilentuntilyouhavefoundit."

Ernest waited. The silence was painful. Dr. Hammerfield was pained. He wasalso puzzled. Ernest's sledge-hammer attack disconcerted him. He was notused to the simple and direct method of controversy. He looked appealinglyaroundthetable,butnooneansweredforhim.Icaughtfathergrinningintohisnapkin.

"There is another way of disqualifying the metaphysicians," Ernest said, whenhe had rendered Dr. Hammerfield's discomfiture complete. "Judge them bytheir works. What have they done for mankind beyond the spinning of airyfancies and the mistaking of their own shadows for gods? They have added tothe gayety of mankind, I grant; but what tangible good have they wrought formankind? They philosophized, if you will pardon my misuse of the word,abouttheheartastheseatoftheemotions,whilethescientistswereformulating the circulation of the blood. They declaimed about famine andpestilenceasbeingscourgesofGod,whilethescientistswerebuildinggranariesanddrainingcities.Theybuildedgodsintheirownshapesandoutoftheir own desires, while the scientists were building roads and bridges. Theywere describing the earth as the centre of the universe, while the scientistswere discovering America and probing space for the stars and the laws of thestars. In short, the metaphysicians have done nothing, absolutely nothing, formankind. Step by step, before the advance of science, they have been drivenback.Asfastastheascertainedfactsofsciencehaveoverthrowntheirsubjectiveexplanationsofthings,theyhavemadenewsubjectiveexplanationsofthings,includingexplanationsofthelatestascertainedfacts.Andthis,I

doubtnot,theywillgoondoingtotheendoftime.Gentlemen,ametaphysicianisamedicineman.ThedifferencebetweenyouandtheEskimowho makes a fur-clad blubber-eating god is merely a difference of severalthousandyearsofascertainedfacts.Thatisall."

"YetthethoughtofAristotleruledEuropefortwelvecenturies,"Dr.Ballingfordannouncedpompously."AndAristotlewasametaphysician."

Dr.Ballingfordglancedaroundthetableandwasrewardedbynodsandsmilesofapproval.

"Your illustration is most unfortunate," Ernest replied. "You refer to a verydark period in human history. In fact, we call that period the Dark Ages. Aperiod wherein science was raped by the metaphysicians, wherein physicsbecameasearchforthePhilosopher'sStone,whereinchemistrybecamealchemy,andastronomybecameastrology.SorrythedominationofAristotle'sthought!"

Dr.Ballingfordlookedpained,thenhebrightenedupandsaid:

"Granted this horrible picture you have drawn, yet you must confess thatmetaphysics was inherently potent in so far as it drew humanity out of thisdarkperiodandonintotheilluminationofthesucceedingcenturies."

"Metaphysicshadnothingtodowithit,"Ernestretorted.

"What?" Dr. Hammerfield cried. "It was not the thinking and the speculationthatledtothevoyagesofdiscovery?"

"Ah, my dear sir," Ernest smiled, "I thought you were disqualified. You havenot yet picked out the flaw in my definition of philosophy. You are now on anunsubstantial basis. But it is the way of the metaphysicians, and I forgive you.No,Irepeat,metaphysicshadnothingtodowithit.Breadandbutter,silksandjewels, dollars and cents, and, incidentally, the closing up of the overlandtrade-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 thecaravans to India. The traders of Europe had to find another route. Here wasthe original cause for the voyages of discovery. Columbus sailed to find a newroute to the Indies. It is so stated in all the history books. Incidentally, newfacts were learned about the nature, size, and form of the earth, and thePtolemaicsystemwentglimmering."

Dr.Hammerfieldsnorted.

"Youdonotagreewithme?"Ernestqueried."ThenwhereinamIwrong?"

"I can only reaffirm my position," Dr. Hammerfield retorted tartly. "It is toolongastorytoenterintonow."

"Nostoryistoolongforthescientist,"Ernestsaidsweetly."Thatiswhythe

scientistgetstoplaces.ThatiswhyhegottoAmerica."

I shall not describe the whole evening, though it is a joy to me to recall everymoment, every detail, of those first hours of my coming to know ErnestEverhard.

Battle royal raged, and the ministers grew red-faced and excited, especially atthemomentswhenErnestcalledthemromanticphilosophers,shadow-projectors,andsimilarthings.Andalwayshecheckedthembacktofacts."The fact, man, the irrefragable fact!" he would proclaim triumphantly, whenhe had brought one of them a cropper. He bristled with facts. He tripped themup with facts, ambuscaded them with facts, bombarded them with broadsidesoffacts.

"Youseemtoworshipattheshrineoffact,"Dr.Hammerfieldtauntedhim.

"There is no God but Fact, and Mr. Everhard is its prophet," Dr. Ballingfordparaphrased.

Ernestsmilinglyacquiesced.

"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.' Butthe man from Texas says, 'You've got to put it in my hand.' From which it isapparentthatheisnometaphysician."

Another time, when Ernest had just said that the metaphysical philosopherscouldneverstandthetestoftruth,Dr.Hammerfieldsuddenlydemanded:

"What is the test of truth, young man? Will you kindly explain what has solongpuzzledwiserheadsthanyours?"

"Certainly,"Ernestanswered.Hiscocksurenessirritatedthem."Thewiseheads have puzzled so sorely over truth because they went up into the air afterit. Had they remained on the solid earth, they would have found it easilyenough—ay,theywouldhavefoundthattheythemselveswerepreciselytestingtruthwitheverypracticalactandthoughtoftheirlives."

"The test, the test," Dr. Hammerfield repeated impatiently. "Never mind thepreamble. Give us that which we have sought so long—the test of truth. Giveitus,andwewillbeasgods."

There was an impolite and sneering scepticism in his words and manner thatsecretly pleased most of them at the table, though it seemed to bother BishopMorehouse.

"Dr. Jordan has stated it very clearly," Ernest said. "His test of truth is: 'Will itwork?Willyoutrustyourlifetoit?'"

"Pish!" Dr. Hammerfield sneered. "You have not taken Bishop Berkeley intoaccount.Hehasneverbeenanswered."

"Thenoblestmetaphysicianofthemall,"Ernestlaughed."Butyourexampleisunfortunate.AsBerkeleyhimselfattested,hismetaphysicsdidn'twork."

Dr.Hammerfieldwasangry,righteouslyangry.ItwasasthoughhehadcaughtErnestinatheftoralie.

"Young man," he trumpeted, "that statement is on a par with all you haveutteredto-night.Itisabaseandunwarrantedassumption."

"I am quite crushed," Ernest murmured meekly. "Only I don't know what hitme.You'llhavetoputitinmyhand,Doctor."

"I will, I will," Dr. Hammerfield spluttered. "How do you know? You do notknow that Bishop Berkeley attested that his metaphysics did not work. Youhavenoproof.Youngman,theyhavealwaysworked."

"ItakeitasproofthatBerkeley'smetaphysicsdidnotwork,because—"Ernestpaused calmly for a moment. "Because Berkeley made an invariable practiceof going through doors instead of walls. Because he trusted his life to solidbread and butter and roast beef. Because he shaved himself with a razor thatworkedwhenitremovedthehairfromhisface."

"But those are actual things!" Dr. Hammerfield cried. "Metaphysics is of themind."

"Andtheywork—inthemind?"Ernestqueriedsoftly.Theothernodded.

"And even a multitude of angels can dance on the point of a needle—in themind," Ernest went on reflectively. "And a blubber-eating, fur-clad god canexist and work—in the mind; and there are no proofs to the contrary—in themind.Isuppose,Doctor,youliveinthemind?"

"Mymindtomeakingdomis,"wastheanswer.

"That'sanotherwayofsayingthatyouliveupintheair.Butyoucomebacktoearth at meal-time, I am sure, or when an earthquake happens along. Or, tellme,Doctor,doyouhavenoapprehensioninanearthquakethatthatincorporealbodyofyourswillbehitbyanimmaterialbrick?"

Instantly, and quite unconsciously, Dr. Hammerfield's hand shot up to hishead, where a scar disappeared under the hair. It happened that Ernest hadblundered on an apposite illustration. Dr. Hammerfield had been nearly killedin the Great Earthquake by a falling chimney. Everybody broke out into roarsoflaughter.

"Well?"Ernestasked,whenthemerrimenthadsubsided."Proofstothecontrary?"

And in the silence he asked again, "Well?" Then he added, "Still well, but notsowell,thatargumentofyours."

But Dr. Hammerfield was temporarily crushed, and the battle raged on in newdirections. On point after point, Ernest challenged the ministers. When theyaffirmed that they knew the working class, he told them fundamental truthsabout the working class that they did not know, and challenged them fordisproofs. He gave them facts, always facts, checked their excursions into theair,andbroughtthembacktothesolidearthanditsfacts.

How the scene comes back to me! I can hear him now, with that war-note inhis voice, flaying them with his facts, each fact a lash that stung and stungagain. And he was merciless. He took no quarter, and gave none. I can neverforgettheflayinghegavethemattheend:

"Youhaverepeatedlyconfessedto-night,bydirectavowalorignorantstatement, that you do not know the working class. But you are not to beblamedforthis.Howcanyouknowanythingabouttheworkingclass?Youdonotliveinthesamelocalitywiththeworkingclass.Youherdwiththecapitalist class in another locality. And why not? It is the capitalist class thatpays you, that feeds you, that puts the very clothes on your backs that you arewearing to-night. And in return you preach to your employers the brands ofmetaphysicsthatareespeciallyacceptabletothem;andtheespeciallyacceptable brands are acceptable because they do not menace the establishedorderofsociety."

Heretherewasastirofdissentaroundthetable.

"Oh, I am not challenging your sincerity," Ernest continued. "You are sincere.You preach what you believe. There lies your strength and your value—to thecapitalist class. But should you change your belief to something that menacestheestablishedorder,yourpreachingwouldbeunacceptabletoyouremployers, and you would be discharged. Every little while some one oranotherofyouissodischarged.AmInotright?"

Thistimetherewasnodissent.Theysatdumblyacquiescent,withtheexceptionofDr.Hammerfield,whosaid:

"Itiswhentheirthinkingiswrongthattheyareaskedtoresign."

"Which is another way of saying when their thinking is unacceptable," Ernestanswered, and then went on. "So I say to you, go ahead and preach and earnyour pay, but for goodness' sake leave the working class alone. You belong inthe enemy's camp. You have nothing in common with the working class. Yourhands are soft with the work others have performed for you. Your stomachsare round with the plenitude of eating." (Here Dr. Ballingford winced, andevery eye glanced at his prodigious girth. It was said he had not seen his ownfeet in years.) "And your minds are filled with doctrines that are buttresses ofthe established order. You are as much mercenaries (sincere mercenaries, Igrant)aswerethemenoftheSwissGuard.Betruetoyoursaltandyourhire;

guard, with your preaching, the interests of your employers; but do not comedown to the working class and serve as false leaders. You cannot honestly bein the two camps at once. The working class has done without you. Believeme, the working class will continue to do without you. And, furthermore, theworkingclasscandobetterwithoutyouthanwithyou."

CHAPTER IICHALLENGES.

After the guests had gone, father threw himself into a chair and gave vent toroars of Gargantuan laughter. Not since the death of my mother had I knownhimtolaughsoheartily.

"I'll wager Dr. Hammerfield was never up against anything like it in his life,"helaughed."'Thecourtesiesofecclesiasticalcontroversy!'Didyounoticehowhe began like a lamb—Everhard, I mean, and how quickly he became aroaring lion? He has a splendidly disciplined mind. He would have made agoodscientistifhisenergieshadbeendirectedthatway."

I need scarcely say that I was deeply interested in Ernest Everhard. It was notalone what he had said and how he had said it, but it was the man himself. Ihad 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. Andmylikeforhimwasfoundedonthingsbeyondintellectandargument.Regardless of his bulging muscles and prize-fighter's throat, he impressed meas an ingenuous boy. I felt that under the guise of an intellectual swashbucklerwas a delicate and sensitive spirit. I sensed this, in ways I knew not, save thattheyweremywoman'sintuitions.

There was something in that clarion-call of his that went to my heart. It stillrang in my ears, and I felt that I should like to hear it again—and to see againthat glint of laughter in his eyes that belied the impassioned seriousness of hisface. And there were further reaches of vague and indeterminate feelings thatstirredinme.Ialmostlovedhimthen,thoughIamconfident,hadIneverseenhim again, that the vague feelings would have passed away and that I shouldeasilyhaveforgottenhim.

ButIwasnotdestinednevertoseehimagain.Myfather'snew-borninterestinsociology and the dinner parties he gave would not permit. Father was not asociologist. His marriage with my mother had been very happy, and in theresearches of his own science, physics, he had been very happy. But whenmotherdied,hisownworkcouldnotfilltheemptiness.Atfirst,inamildway,hehaddabbledinphilosophy;then,becominginterested,hehaddriftedon

into economics and sociology. He had a strong sense of justice, and he soonbecame fired with a passion to redress wrong. It was with gratitude that Ihailed these signs of a new interest in life, though I little dreamed what theoutcome would be. With the enthusiasm of a boy he plunged excitedly intothesenewpursuits,regardlessofwhithertheyledhim.

He had been used always to the laboratory, and so it was that he turned thedining room into a sociological laboratory. Here came to dinner all sorts andconditions of men,—scientists, politicians, bankers, merchants, professors,labor leaders, socialists, and anarchists. He stirred them to discussion, andanalyzedtheirthoughtsoflifeandsociety.

He had met Ernest shortly prior to the "preacher's night." And after the guestswere gone, I learned how he had met him, passing down a street at night andstopping to listen to a man on a soap-box who was addressing a crowd ofworkingmen. The man on the box was Ernest. Not that he was a mere soap-box orator. He stood high in the councils of the socialist party, was one of theleaders, and was the acknowledged leader in the philosophy of socialism. Buthe had a certain clear way of stating the abstruse in simple language, was aborn expositor and teacher, and was not above the soap-box as a means ofinterpretingeconomicstotheworkingmen.

My father stopped to listen, became interested, effected a meeting, and, afterquite an acquaintance, invited him to the ministers' dinner. It was after thedinner that father told me what little he knew about him. He had been born intheworkingclass,thoughhewasadescendantoftheoldlineofEverhardsthat for over two hundred years had lived in America. At ten years of age hehad gone to work in the mills, and later he served his apprenticeship andbecame a horseshoer. He was self-educated, had taught himself German andFrench, and at that time was earning a meagre living by translating scientificandphilosophicalworksforastrugglingsocialistpublishinghouseinChicago.Also,hisearningswereaddedtobytheroyaltiesfromthesmallsalesofhisowneconomicandphilosophicworks.

This much I learned of him before I went to bed, and I lay long awake,listeninginmemorytothesoundofhisvoice.Igrewfrightenedatmythoughts. 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 wantonlyroved until I found myself considering him as a lover, as a husband. I hadalways heard that the strength of men was an irresistible attraction to women;buthewastoostrong."No!no!"Icriedout."Itisimpossible,absurd!"Andonthe morrow I awoke to find in myself a longing to see him again. I wanted tosee him mastering men in discussion, the war-note in his voice; to see him, inall his certitude and strength, shattering their complacency, shaking them outoftheirrutsofthinking.Whatifhedidswashbuckle?Tousehisownphrase,

"it worked," it produced effects. And, besides, his swashbuckling was a finethingtosee.Itstirredoneliketheonsetofbattle.

Several days passed during which I read Ernest's books, borrowed from myfather. His written word was as his spoken word, clear and convincing. It wasits absolute simplicity that convinced even while one continued to doubt. Hehad 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 stress on what he calledthe class struggle, the antagonism between labor and capital, the conflict ofinterest.

FatherreportedwithgleeDr.Hammerfield'sjudgmentofErnest,whichwastothe effect that he was "an insolent young puppy, made bumptious by a littleandveryinadequatelearning."Also,Dr.HammerfielddeclinedtomeetErnestagain.

But Bishop Morehouse turned out to have become interested in Ernest, andwas anxious for another meeting. "A strong young man," he said; "and verymuchalive,verymuchalive.Butheistoosure,toosure."

Ernest came one afternoon with father. The Bishop had already arrived, andwe were having tea on the veranda. Ernest's continued presence in Berkeley,bytheway,wasaccountedforbythefactthathewastakingspecialcoursesinbiology at the university, and also that he was hard at work on a new bookentitled"PhilosophyandRevolution."

The veranda seemed suddenly to have become small when Ernest arrived. Notthat he was so very large—he stood only five feet nine inches; but that heseemed to radiate an atmosphere of largeness. As he stopped to meet me, hebetrayed a certain slight awkwardness that was strangely at variance with hisbold-lookingeyesandhisfirm,surehandthatclaspedforamomentingreeting. And in that moment his eyes were just as steady and sure. Thereseemedaquestioninthemthistime,andasbeforehelookedatmeoverlong.

"I have been reading your 'Working-class Philosophy,'" I said, and his eyeslightedinapleasedway.

"Of course," he answered, "you took into consideration the audience to whichitwasaddressed."

"Idid,anditisbecauseIdidthatIhaveaquarrelwithyou,"Ichallenged."I, too, have a quarrel with you, Mr. Everhard," Bishop Morehouse said.Ernestshruggedhisshoulderswhimsicallyandacceptedacupoftea.

TheBishopbowedandgavemeprecedence.

"Youfomentclasshatred,"Isaid."Iconsideritwrongandcriminaltoappealtoallthatisnarrowandbrutalintheworkingclass.Classhatredisanti-social,

and,itseemstome,anti-socialistic."

"Notguilty,"heanswered."ClasshatredisneitherinthetextnorinthespiritofanythingIhaveeverywritten."

"Oh!"Icriedreproachfully,andreachedforhisbookandopenedit.HesippedhisteaandsmiledatmewhileIranoverthepages.

"Pageonehundredandthirty-two,"Ireadaloud:"'Theclassstruggle,therefore, presents itself in the present stage of social development betweenthewage-payingandthewage-paidclasses.'"

Ilookedathimtriumphantly.

"Nomentionthereofclasshatred,"hesmiledback."But,"Ianswered,"yousay'classstruggle.'"

"A different thing from class hatred," he replied. "And, believe me, we fomentno hatred. We say that the class struggle is a law of social development. Weare not responsible for it. We do not make the class struggle. We merelyexplain it, as Newton explained gravitation. We explain the nature of theconflictofinterestthatproducestheclassstruggle."

"Butthereshouldbenoconflictofinterest!"Icried.

"I agree with you heartily," he answered. "That is what we socialists are tryingto bring about,—the abolition of the conflict of interest. Pardon me. Let meread an extract." He took his book and turned back several pages. "Page onehundred and twenty-six: 'The cycle of class struggles which began with thedissolution of rude, tribal communism and the rise of private property will endwiththepassingofprivatepropertyinthemeansofsocialexistence.'"

"ButIdisagreewithyou,"theBishopinterposed,hispale,asceticfacebetrayingbyafaintglowtheintensityofhisfeelings."Yourpremiseiswrong.There is no such thing as a conflict of interest between labor and capital—or,rather,thereoughtnottobe."

"Thank you," Ernest said gravely. "By that last statement you have given mebackmypremise."

"Butwhyshouldtherebeaconflict?"theBishopdemandedwarmly.Ernest shrugged his shoulders. "Because we are so made, I guess.""Butwearenotsomade!"criedtheother.

"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 discussingthecommonandordinaryaverageman?"

"Thecommonandordinaryman,"wastheanswer.

"Whoisweakandfallible,pronetoerror?"BishopMorehousenodded.

"Andpettyandselfish?"Againhenodded.

"Watchout!"Ernestwarned."Isaid'selfish.'"

"TheaveragemanISselfish,"theBishopaffirmedvaliantly."Wantsallhecanget?"

"Wantsallhecanget—truebutdeplorable."

"Then I've gotyou." Ernest'sjaw snappedlike atrap. "Letme showyou. Hereisamanwhoworksonthestreetrailways."

"Hecouldn'tworkifitweren'tforcapital,"theBishopinterrupted.

"True,andyouwillgrantthatcapitalwouldperishiftherewerenolabortoearnthedividends."

The Bishop was silent."Won'tyou?"Ernestinsisted.TheBishopnodded.

"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 workingmen on thestreet railway furnish the labor. The stockholders furnish the capital. By thejoint effort of the workingmen and the capital, money is earned. They dividebetween them this money that is earned. Capital's share is called 'dividends.'Labor'sshareiscalled'wages.'"

"Very good," the Bishop interposed. "And there is no reason that the divisionshouldnotbeamicable."

"You have already forgotten what we had agreed upon," Ernest replied. "Weagreedthattheaveragemanisselfish.Heisthemanthatis.Youhavegoneupintheairandarearrangingadivisionbetweenthekindofmenthatoughttobebut are not. But to return to the earth, the workingman, being selfish, wants allhe can get in the division. The capitalist, being selfish, wants all he can get inthedivision.Whenthereisonlysomuchofthesamething,andwhentwomen want all they can get of the same thing, there is a conflict of interestbetween labor and capital. And it is an irreconcilable conflict. As long asworkingmenandcapitalistsexist,theywillcontinuetoquarreloverthedivision. If you were in San Francisco this afternoon, you'd have to walk.Thereisn'tastreetcarrunning."

"Anotherstrike?"theBishopqueriedwithalarm.

"Yes,they'requarrellingoverthedivisionoftheearningsofthestreetrailways."

BishopMorehousebecameexcited.

"Itiswrong!"hecried."Itissoshort-sightedonthepartoftheworkingmen.Howcantheyhopetokeepoursympathy—"

"Whenwearecompelledtowalk,"Ernestsaidslyly.ButBishopMorehouseignoredhimandwenton:

"Their outlook is too narrow. Men should be men, not brutes. There will beviolence and murder now, and sorrowing widows and orphans. Capital andlabor should be friends. They should work hand in hand and to their mutualbenefit."

"Ah, now you are up in the air again," Ernest remarked dryly. "Come back toearth.Remember,weagreedthattheaveragemanisselfish."

"Butheoughtnottobe!"theBishopcried.

"And there I agree with you," was Ernest's rejoinder. "He ought not to beselfish, but he will continue to be selfish as long as he lives in a social systemthatisbasedonpig-ethics."

TheBishopwasaghast,andmyfatherchuckled.

"Yes, pig-ethics," Ernest went on remorselessly. "That is the meaning of thecapitalist system. And that is what your church is standing for, what you arepreaching for every time you get up in the pulpit. Pig-ethics! There is no othernameforit."

BishopMorehouseturnedappealinglytomyfather,buthelaughedandnoddedhishead.