by Jack London
CHAPTER VI
ADUMBRATIONS
It was about this time that the warnings of coming events began to fallabout us thick and fast. Ernest had already questioned father's policyof having socialists and labor leaders at his house, and of openlyattending socialist meetings; and father had only laughed at him forhis pains. As for myself, I was learning much from this contact with theworking-class leaders and thinkers. I was seeing the other side ofthe shield. I was delighted with the unselfishness and high idealismI encountered, though I was appalled by the vast philosophic andscientific literature of socialism that was opened up to me. I waslearning fast, but I learned not fast enough to realize then the perilof our position.
There were warnings, but I did not heed them. For instance, Mrs.Pertonwaithe and Mrs. Wickson exercised tremendous social power inthe university town, and from them emanated the sentiment that I was atoo-forward and self-assertive young woman with a mischievous penchantfor officiousness and interference in other persons' affairs. ThisI thought no more than natural, considering the part I had playedin investigating the case of Jackson's arm. But the effect of sucha sentiment, enunciated by two such powerful social arbiters, Iunderestimated.
True, I noticed a certain aloofness on the part of my general friends,but this I ascribed to the disapproval that was prevalent in my circlesof my intended marriage with Ernest. It was not till some time afterwardthat Ernest pointed out to me clearly that this general attitude ofmy class was something more than spontaneous, that behind it were thehidden springs of an organized conduct. "You have given shelter to anenemy of your class," he said. "And not alone shelter, for you havegiven your love, yourself. This is treason to your class. Think not thatyou will escape being penalized."
But it was before this that father returned one afternoon. Ernest waswith me, and we could see that father was angry--philosophically angry.He was rarely really angry; but a certain measure of controlled angerhe allowed himself. He called it a tonic. And we could see that he wastonic-angry when he entered the room.
"What do you think?" he demanded. "I had luncheon with Wilcox."
Wilcox was the superannuated president of the university, whose witheredmind was stored with generalizations that were young in 1870, and whichhe had since failed to revise.
"I was invited," father announced. "I was sent for."
He paused, and we waited.
"Oh, it was done very nicely, I'll allow; but I was reprimanded. I! Andby that old fossil!"
"I'll wager I know what you were reprimanded for," Ernest said.
"Not in three guesses," father laughed.
"One guess will do," Ernest retorted. "And it won't be a guess. It willbe a deduction. You were reprimanded for your private life."
"The very thing!" father cried. "How did you guess?"
"I knew it was coming. I warned you before about it."
"Yes, you did," father meditated. "But I couldn't believe it. At anyrate, it is only so much more clinching evidence for my book."
"It is nothing to what will come," Ernest went on, "if you persist inyour policy of having these socialists and radicals of all sorts at yourhouse, myself included."
"Just what old Wilcox said. And of all unwarranted things! He said itwas in poor taste, utterly profitless, anyway, and not in harmony withuniversity traditions and policy. He said much more of the same vaguesort, and I couldn't pin him down to anything specific. I made it prettyawkward for him, and he could only go on repeating himself and tellingme how much he honored me, and all the world honored me, as a scientist.It wasn't an agreeable task for him. I could see he didn't like it."
"He was not a free agent," Ernest said. "The leg-bar* is not always worngraciously."
* LEG-BAR--the African slaves were so manacled; also criminals. It was not until the coming of the Brotherhood of Man that the leg-bar passed out of use.
"Yes. I got that much out of him. He said the university needed everso much more money this year than the state was willing to furnish; andthat it must come from wealthy personages who could not but be offendedby the swerving of the university from its high ideal of the passionlesspursuit of passionless intelligence. When I tried to pin him down towhat my home life had to do with swerving the university from its highideal, he offered me a two years' vacation, on full pay, in Europe,for recreation and research. Of course I couldn't accept it under thecircumstances."
"It would have been far better if you had," Ernest said gravely.
"It was a bribe," father protested; and Ernest nodded.
"Also, the beggar said that there was talk, tea-table gossip and soforth, about my daughter being seen in public with so notorious acharacter as you, and that it was not in keeping with university toneand dignity. Not that he personally objected--oh, no; but that there wastalk and that I would understand."
Ernest considered this announcement for a moment, and then said, and hisface was very grave, withal there was a sombre wrath in it:
"There is more behind this than a mere university ideal. Somebody hasput pressure on President Wilcox."
"Do you think so?" father asked, and his face showed that he wasinterested rather than frightened.
"I wish I could convey to you the conception that is dimly forming in myown mind," Ernest said. "Never in the history of the world was societyin so terrific flux as it is right now. The swift changes in ourindustrial system are causing equally swift changes in our religious,political, and social structures. An unseen and fearful revolution istaking place in the fibre and structure of society. One can only dimlyfeel these things. But they are in the air, now, to-day. One can feelthe loom of them--things vast, vague, and terrible. My mind recoils fromcontemplation of what they may crystallize into. You heard Wickson talkthe other night. Behind what he said were the same nameless, formlessthings that I feel. He spoke out of a superconscious apprehension ofthem."
"You mean . . . ?" father began, then paused.
"I mean that there is a shadow of something colossal and menacing thateven now is beginning to fall across the land. Call it the shadow of anoligarchy, if you will; it is the nearest I dare approximate it. Whatits nature may be I refuse to imagine.* But what I wanted to say wasthis: You are in a perilous position--a peril that my own fear enhancesbecause I am not able even to measure it. Take my advice and accept thevacation."
* Though, like Everhard, they did not dream of the nature of it, there were men, even before his time, who caught glimpses of the shadow. John C. Calhoun said: "A power has risen up in the government greater than the people themselves, consisting of many and various and powerful interests, combined into one mass, and held together by the cohesive power of the vast surplus in the banks." And that great humanist, Abraham Lincoln, said, just before his assassination: "I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. . . . Corporations have been enthroned, an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money-power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed."
"But it would be cowardly," was the protest.
"Not at all. You are an old man. You have done your work in the world,and a great work. Leave the present battle to youth and strength. Weyoung fellows have our work yet to do. Avis will stand by my side inwhat is to come. She will be your representative in the battle-front."
"But they can't hurt me," father objected. "Thank God I am independent.Oh, I assure you, I know the frightful persecution they can wage ona professor who is economically dependent on his university. But I amindependent. I have not been a professor for the sake of my salary. Ican get along very comfortably on my own income, and the salary is allthey can take away from me."
"But you do not realize," Ernest answered. "If all that I fear be so,your private income, your principal itself, can be taken fro
m you justas easily as your salary."
Father was silent for a few minutes. He was thinking deeply, and I couldsee the lines of decision forming in his face. At last he spoke.
"I shall not take the vacation." He paused again. "I shall go on withmy book.* You may be wrong, but whether you are wrong or right, I shallstand by my guns."
* This book, "Economics and Education," was published in that year. Three copies of it are extant; two at Ardis, and one at Asgard. It dealt, in elaborate detail, with one factor in the persistence of the established, namely, the capitalistic bias of the universities and common schools. It was a logical and crushing indictment of the whole system of education that developed in the minds of the students only such ideas as were favorable to the capitalistic regime, to the exclusion of all ideas that were inimical and subversive. The book created a furor, and was promptly suppressed by the Oligarchy.
"All right," Ernest said. "You are travelling the same path that BishopMorehouse is, and toward a similar smash-up. You'll both be proletariansbefore you're done with it."
The conversation turned upon the Bishop, and we got Ernest to explainwhat he had been doing with him.
"He is soul-sick from the journey through hell I have given him. I tookhim through the homes of a few of our factory workers. I showed him thehuman wrecks cast aside by the industrial machine, and he listened totheir life stories. I took him through the slums of San Francisco, andin drunkenness, prostitution, and criminality he learned a deeper causethan innate depravity. He is very sick, and, worse than that, he has gotout of hand. He is too ethical. He has been too severely touched. And,as usual, he is unpractical. He is up in the air with all kinds ofethical delusions and plans for mission work among the cultured. Hefeels it is his bounden duty to resurrect the ancient spirit of theChurch and to deliver its message to the masters. He is overwrought.Sooner or later he is going to break out, and then there's going to bea smash-up. What form it will take I can't even guess. He is a pure,exalted soul, but he is so unpractical. He's beyond me. I can't keephis feet on the earth. And through the air he is rushing on to hisGethsemane. And after this his crucifixion. Such high souls are made forcrucifixion."
"And you?" I asked; and beneath my smile was the seriousness of theanxiety of love.
"Not I," he laughed back. "I may be executed, or assassinated, but Ishall never be crucified. I am planted too solidly and stolidly upon theearth."
"But why should you bring about the crucifixion of the Bishop?" I asked."You will not deny that you are the cause of it."
"Why should I leave one comfortable soul in comfort when there aremillions in travail and misery?" he demanded back.
"Then why did you advise father to accept the vacation?"
"Because I am not a pure, exalted soul," was the answer. "Because I amsolid and stolid and selfish. Because I love you and, like Ruth ofold, thy people are my people. As for the Bishop, he has no daughter.Besides, no matter how small the good, nevertheless his littleinadequate wail will be productive of some good in the revolution, andevery little bit counts."
I could not agree with Ernest. I knew well the noble nature ofBishop Morehouse, and I could not conceive that his voice raised forrighteousness would be no more than a little inadequate wail. But I didnot yet have the harsh facts of life at my fingers' ends as Ernest had.He saw clearly the futility of the Bishop's great soul, as coming eventswere soon to show as clearly to me.
It was shortly after this day that Ernest told me, as a good story, theoffer he had received from the government, namely, an appointment asUnited States Commissioner of Labor. I was overjoyed. The salary wascomparatively large, and would make safe our marriage. And then itsurely was congenial work for Ernest, and, furthermore, my jealous pridein him made me hail the proffered appointment as a recognition of hisabilities.
Then I noticed the twinkle in his eyes. He was laughing at me.
"You are not going to . . . to decline?" I quavered.
"It is a bribe," he said. "Behind it is the fine hand of Wickson, andbehind him the hands of greater men than he. It is an old trick, old asthe class struggle is old--stealing the captains from the army of labor.Poor betrayed labor! If you but knew how many of its leaders have beenbought out in similar ways in the past. It is cheaper, so much cheaper,to buy a general than to fight him and his whole army. There was--butI'll not call any names. I'm bitter enough over it as it is. Dear heart,I am a captain of labor. I could not sell out. If for no other reason,the memory of my poor old father and the way he was worked to deathwould prevent."
The tears were in his eyes, this great, strong hero of mine. He nevercould forgive the way his father had been malformed--the sordid lies andthe petty thefts he had been compelled to, in order to put food in hischildren's mouths.
"My father was a good man," Ernest once said to me. "The soul of him wasgood, and yet it was twisted, and maimed, and blunted by the savageryof his life. He was made into a broken-down beast by his masters, thearch-beasts. He should be alive to-day, like your father. He had astrong constitution. But he was caught in the machine and worked todeath--for profit. Think of it. For profit--his life blood transmutedinto a wine-supper, or a jewelled gewgaw, or some similar sense-orgy ofthe parasitic and idle rich, his masters, the arch-beasts."