"I'm an optimist, Yetta, about this social conflict. I don't think it matters much what form people give to their activity. The important thing is not to be neutral. The thing that is needed is a passion for righteousness. Once a person sees – really sees – the conflict between greed and justice, and enlists in the revolution, it doesn't matter much whether he goes into the infantry or cavalry or artillery. I see in society a ruling class growing fat off injustice, a great, lethargic mass, indifferent through ignorance, and a constantly growing army of revolt. Anybody who doubts the outcome is a fool. History does not record a single year which did not bring some victory for Justice. But a person's equally a fool – I mean you, Isadore – who tries to prophesy just how the war will be conducted. There isn't any omniscient general back of us, directing the campaign. The progress towards victory is the result of myriad efforts, uncoordinated, often conflicting. It is entirely irrational – just like evolution. The anthropoidal ape, sitting under a prehistoric palm tree and picking fleas off his better half, did not know how – through the ages – his offspring were going to become men. Even with our superior intellects, our ability to study the records of the past and guess into the future, we cannot presage the steps of the progress. The directing force is the instinctive common sense of life. It's a more mysterious force than any theological God. It's always on the job, always pushing life through new experiments, through 'variations' to the better form.
"All evolution has been a history of life struggling for liberty. It was a momentous revolution, when the first tiny animalcule tore itself loose from immobility, when it conquered the ability to move about in quest of food and a larger life. And so one after another life conquered new abilities. It's abilities, not rights, that constitute liberty. Think how many fake experiments life made before it turned out a man. The same process is going on to-day. You can't crowd life into a definition. Justice is being approximated, not because of one formula. The victory will come not because the people accept one theory, but because of thousands and thousands of experiments. And the ones that fail are just as much a part of the process.
"Gradually this common sense of life is awaking the minds of the lethargic mass. This is sure progress. It matters not at all whether the mind of the individual come to life in the trade-union, the Socialist party, or the Anarchist Group – or the Salvation Army. The important thing is that a new person has conquered the ability to think for himself. It doesn't even matter whether the words that woke him to life were true or not.
"Life isn't logical. And socialism seems to me to have almost smothered its soul-stirring ideal in a wordy effort to seem logical. The trade-unions are illogical enough. At least you can say that for them. But it's only once in a while – by accident – that they sound the tocsin."
This kind of talk disturbed Isadore. From first to last it ran contrary to his manner of thinking. But in an illusive way it seemed to have a semblance of truth – a certain persuasiveness. The error – if error there was – was subtle and hard to nail down. As he listened he knew he was expected to answer it. He must defend his colors before Yetta. It was not an easy thing to do. His whole life was built on an abiding faith that the hope of his people lay in the activities of the Socialist party. There was no cant nor insincerity about him. He felt that the spread of such ideas as Longman's would render doubly difficult the work of his party. It vexed him not to be able at once to demolish his friend's heresies. But he was used to arguing with opponents who thought any change was unnecessary or impossible. Walter admitted all this and went further. Isadore was off his accustomed field.
"You're a hard person to argue with," he said, "because your ideas are so unusual. I don't mean to say you're wrong just because you are in a minority of one. But it's hard to reason against oratory. I wish you would put your position down on paper, so I could give it serious thought."
"Maeterlinck has come pretty close to it in Notre devoir social," Walter replied.
"Oh, that!" Isadore said contemptuously. "That isn't an argument, it's a sort of fairy story."
"Still calling names! There's truth in some fairytales – a whole lot of truth you can't express in your dialectics."
"That!" Isadore said, jumping at a point of attack, "is, I guess, the fundamental difference between us. You're a sort of mediævalist, living in a realm of romance and fairy stories – ruled over by your instinctive sense of life. You forget that we live in the age of reason. You said liberty consisted in abilities. Well, I believe that abilities bring obligations. Instead of jeering at reason and dialectics, I think it's our preeminent ability. We, reasoning animals, have a duty to use and perfect – and trust – our intellects. And the Socialist theory is the biggest triumph of the human mind. The theory of evolution is the only thing to compare with it. But Darwin had only to fight a superstition. It wasn't much of a feat to convince thinking people that it took more than one hundred and forty-four hour's to create the world – then his case was practically won. Marx had to fight not only such theological nonsense, but the entire opposition of the ruling class. Socialism had always been proscribed. A college professor who taught it frankly would lose his job. But it has never had a set-back. It has gathered about it as brilliant a group of intellects as has Darwinism. It's growing steadily.
"Having no trust in reason, you are driven back to violence. But I do believe in intelligence. I don't want to hang my hope of the future on such illogical things as dynamite and flying bullets.
"If you don't respect intellect and logic, of course you don't sympathize with Socialism. But you can't ask me to give up the results of my own reasoning, backed as they are by the best brains of our times, to accept your imaginings."
"I don't ask you to give up Socialism," Walter laughed. "On the contrary, as long as it seems truth to you, give up all the rest. Your ability seems to find its right setting in the party – just as Mabel's does in the trade-unions – just as I'd be ill at ease and useless in either.
"The point I want to insist on is my faith that, back of your reasoning and activity and back of my speculations and laziness, this instinctive sense of life is working out its own purpose. Only future generations will be able to know which – if either of us – is right."
This argument thrilled and fascinated Yetta. In the years that were to follow she was to hear such debates repeated endlessly. The new circle of friends she was to make were as passionately interested in such questions of social philosophy and ethics as are the art students of Paris in the relative value of line and color or the concept of pure beauty. In time talking would lose its charm; she was to realize that – as Walter had said – it often leads to brain-fag. But this, her first experience, was an immense event.
The two men leaned back in their chairs, their faces relaxed. They seemed to have talked themselves out. Yetta turned to Mabel, who sat beside her on the window-seat.
"You're not a Socialist?" she asked.
"No." Mabel replied. Such discussions bored her. "Nor an Anarchist either. I happen to be living in the year of grace 1903. I'm not interested in Isadore's logical deductions nor Walter's imaginings. They both know that if the working people want enough butter for their bread, – let alone Utopia, – they've got to organize. Cold experience shows that they can be organized on economic step-by-step demands, and that we can build up stable, practical unions along these lines – which every day are bringing to the working class a great spirit of unity. And cold experience also shows that the labor organizations which ask for the earth don't last. There have been dozens just like the Industrial Workers of the World before, and where are they now? Those people haven't enough practical sense to organize a picnic.
"If I were a theorist, instead of a rather busy person, I would have nothing against Industrial Unionism. It's on the cards, and I am working for it. But I haven't any time for these fanatical dreamers. I haven't anything against the Socialist idea of the working people going in for political representation. Whenever I get a chance I put in a word for it. But once more I've no time for people who don't do any real work and spend their time writing pamphlets about nothing at all and quarrelling over party intrigue. They're very wonderful, no doubt, with their reason and their imaginations – master-builders, the architects of the future, and all that. I'm quite content to be a little coral insect, adding my share to the very necessary foundations, which they forget about. Anyhow, to-night isn't 'Le Grand Soir' – and as dreaming isn't my job, I can't afford to sleep late. Come on."
In the doorway, as the four were going out, Mabel called Isadore, who was pairing off with Yetta, and asked him about the injunction in the cigar-makers' case. Walter dropped behind with Yetta. He was almost glad that Mabel had denied him these last few minutes of tête-a-tête with her. He had been looking forward to it all the evening. But there was not anything for him to say to her. So he talked to Yetta, as they crossed the Square.
"There's one thing I almost forgot. Mrs. Karner has taken a great fancy to you. I know she'd appreciate it if you went up to see her every once in a while. Don't let her know I suggested it, but something she said the other day made me see how much she likes you. She tries very hard to pretend not to care about anything, but at bottom she's serious – and good. In the League work you'll have to play around a good deal with some of the swells, and she's a good one to practice on.
"Well, here we are. I'll send the keys over by Mrs. Rocco when I go. You can move in any time you want to."
Mabel went up the steps and fitted her latch-key into the door. She reached down to shake hands with Walter.
"So long," she said with an even voice. "Good luck."
"About once in every long while," he said, "we'll get mail. I'd like to hear from you now and then."
"I'm not much of a letter-writer," she said, "but I won't forget you."
For the first time, Yetta really believed that Mabel did not love him.
"Good-by, Mr. Longman," she said. "We'll all be waiting for you to get back."
"Thanks! And I hope you'll write too – give me the news when you send me my mail. And the good chance to you. Good-by, Mabel."
"Good-by, Walter," she called back over her shoulder.
"Isadore," Walter said, as the door shut behind the girls, "come on over to the Lafayette and have a drink."
Braun looked at his watch.
"Oh, damn the time. Come on. I want somebody to talk to me."
BOOK IV
CHAPTER XIX
YETTA'S WORK
In the next few months Yetta learned a new meaning for the word "work." In the sweat-shop, day after day, she had sat before the machine, her mind a blank, three-quarters of her muscles lifeless, the rest speeding through a dizzying routine. Only when a thread broke had there been any thought to it. In the new work there was no repetition, none of this dead monotony. Every act, every word she spoke, was the result of a consciousness vividly alive. In the keen, exhilarating thrill of it she had little time to mope over Walter's absence.
It is a strange paradox of our life that, while no other social phenomenon touches us at so many intimate points as the organization of labor, while very few are of more importance, most of us know nothing at all about the details of this great industrial struggle. Our clothes bear the "union label" or are "scab." In either case they are an issue in the conflict. Heads have been broken over the question of whether this page, from which you are reading, should be printed in a "closed" or "open shop." Around our cigarettes, the boxes in which they are packed, the matches with which we light them, the easy-chairs in which we smoke them, and the carpets on which we carelessly spill the ashes, a tragic battle is raging. Nine out of every ten people we meet are concerned in it. The man who takes our nickel in the Subway, the waiter who serves our lunch, the guests at dinner, the unseen person who pulls up the curtain at the theatre, the taxicab chauffeur who takes us home, are all fighting for or against "unionism."
From the human point of view there is no vaster, more passionate drama. Intense convictions, bitter, senseless prejudices, the dogged heroism of hunger, comfort-loving cynicism, black treachery, and wholehearted idealism are among the motives which inspire the actors. The stage – which is our Fatherland – is crossed by hired thugs from the "detective agencies" and by dynamiters. In the troupe are such people as Jane Addams and Mr. Pinkerton, shedders of blood and preachers of peace. There are hardly any of us who do not at some time step upon the stage and act our parts.
From the viewpoint of politics, the conflict has a deeper significance. What is the statesmanlike attitude to the growing unrest of those who do the work of the world – an unrest which is steadily and rapidly organizing? Close to two million of our citizens pay dues to the unions, their number grows by a quarter of a million a year. This is a momentous fact in politics. What is to be done about it? No one who thinks of such things can deny that sooner or later we – as a nation – must answer that question.
Profound in its political significance, rich in human color, the organization of labor touches us on every hand. But very few of us have any idea of the life of those men and women who devote themselves to this imposing, threatening movement. What, for instance, is the daily work of the secretary of the Gasfitters' Union in our town? What is an "agitator"? What are his duties? How does he spend his time? Why?
It was into this little-known life that Yetta was plunged. First of all she was "Business Agent" – or as we more generally say "the Walking Delegate" – of her Vest-Makers' Union. She had to attend to all business between the organization and the bosses.
When a complaint reached her that some employer was violating the contract he had signed with the union, she had to investigate. If the charge was justified, she could call the girls out until the offending boss decided to observe his agreement.
It is just as hard for a labor organization to find a satisfactory "business agent," as it is for a mercantile concern. One will be too aggressive, another too yielding. One will be always irritating the employers and causing unnecessary friction. The next will make friends with the bosses and be twisted about their fingers. Once in a while a "business agent" sells out, betrays his constituents for a bribe, just as some of our political representatives have done.
Even in trades where the union has existed for a long time and somewhat stable relations have grown up between it and the employers, the position of "business agent" calls for a degree of tact and force which is rare. It is impossible for the delegate of the men to reach a cordial understanding with the bosses. He has at heart the interest of the entire trade, men working in different places under varied conditions, while the boss thinks only of his own shop. One is trying to enforce general rules, the other is seeking exceptions. The employer may be friendly with the union and in some sudden rush ask a favor which the men themselves would like to grant. But the walking delegate, knowing that all bosses are not so well disposed, that he may not grant to one what he refuses to others, cannot make exception, even if it seems reasonable to him.
Yetta's position was doubly difficult. The boss vest-makers were smarting under their defeat. They regarded the union as an unpleasant innovation, an infringement of their liberty. A visit from Yetta seemed an impertinence. On the other hand the new union was pitifully weak. The treasury was empty. The bosses knew this, knew just how much hunger the strike had meant to their employees. They tried to take advantage of the situation. The Association of Vest Manufacturers, after the disorganization which followed the strike, was getting together again. Their frequent meeting promised a new attack. All the girls felt trouble in the air. There were causes for quarrel in almost every shop. But a new strike – if it failed – would surely wreck the union. Everything was to gain by delaying the new outbreak. Yetta's common sense, supplemented by Mabel's experienced advice, pulled them through many tight places.
The crisis came in about a month at the very Crown Vest Company, before which Yetta had tried to kill Pick-Axe. The boss, Edelstein, was just the kind of man to have employed such a thug. He began the attack by discharging three girls who had been prominent in the strike. A clause in the settlement, which he had signed, had said there should be no discrimination against the unionists. If Edelstein was allowed to violate this agreement, the other bosses would surely follow suit, and one by one the little advantages so dearly won would be lost.
Yetta tried to reason with the man. He tilted his cigar at a pugnacious angle, put his feet on the desk, and insolently hummed a tune while she talked.
"If you think you can run my shop," he said, "you can guess again. The union wants to know why I fired these girls? Well, tell the union I didn't like the way they wore their hair."
"It's nine o'clock now," Yetta said. "If you don't reëmploy those girls by three – that's six hours – or give the union a serious reason for their discharge, I'll call a strike on your shop."
"Go ahead and call it," he said savagely. "My girls have had enough of your dirty union. They won't try striking again."
Although Yetta had managed to deliver her ultimatum with outward calm and a show of confidence, the next six hours were the most unpleasant she had ever spent. Would the girls walk out at her call? If they did not, it would surely kill the union. Edelstein was certainly offering them all sorts of inducements to stay. The other bosses were back of him, urging him on. They wanted to break the union. What had she to offer the girls but hunger and an ideal? There were not ten dollars in the treasury. Most of the girls were still in debt from the first strike; many of them would be dispossessed by their landlords if they struck again.
But Yetta's side was stronger than she realized. The success of the strike had taught the girls the tangible value of loyalty. The break-up of the employers' association had had the opposite effect. Each and every boss had tried to desert his fellows first and so make better terms with the union. Edelstein did not trust – would have been a fool to trust – the other employers. They were using him as a catspaw, and he knew it. If he succeeded in breaking the union, they would gladly profit by it. But, after all, they were his competitors; if he got into trouble single-handed, they would just as gladly profit by that. He consulted his forewomen. They all believed that enough of the force would go out to tie up his shop. So the three girls were reëmployed.
This victory gave Yetta new strength and confidence. She had taken the measure of her opponents and was not afraid any more. She went about her work with a firmer tread, with a greater faith in the eventual triumph of her cause. Her decisive stand with Edelstein had turned the balance. The bosses began to accept the union as an inevitable thing. Yetta did not have to call a strike for many months, not until the girls had recovered their breath and gathered enough strength to demand and win a new increase in wages.
Her work as business agent absorbed only a small amount of her time. Most of it went into efforts to organize the other garment workers. The success of the vest-makers had made a great impression on the sweated trades. The idea of "union" was popular. Sooner or later they were bound to organize – as the inevitable logic of events forces labor to unite everywhere. It was not smooth sailing by any means. But Yetta gradually grew to the stature of her work. Although she was sometimes discouraged at the slowness of her progress, Mabel was always radiant and talked much of her remarkable success.
But in her effort to ally the various garment trades, Yetta was face to face with the thorniest problem of labor organization. In union there is strength, and if we do not hang together, we will surely hang separately. But if you re-read the history of our country during the years between the Revolution and the ratification of the Constitution, and recall the various efforts at secession which culminated in the Civil War, you will be impressed by the difficulty of living up to this beautifully simple idea of united action in politics. It is not different in labor organization.
In almost every industry there are small trades of highly skilled men who occupy a favorable strategic position. It is so with "the cutters" in the business of making clothes. Their union was the oldest of all. Practically every man in the country who knew the trade was a member. They could not be replaced by unskilled "scabs." They were in a position to insist that the bosses address them as "Mister." Why should they join forces with these new and penniless unions? What had they to gain by putting their treasury at the disposal of the struggling "buttonhole workers"?
Why should the opulent province of New York enter into a union with tiny Delaware or far-away Georgia? In the proposed Congress how could representation be justly distributed? The cutters would not listen to any proposal which did not give them an overwhelming voice in the Council. It is against such cold facts as these that the theory of Industrial Unionism, which had sounded so alluring to Yetta as Longman outlined it, has to make headway.
At first Yetta was confused by the conflicting organizations which were struggling for support from the workers. There was the American Federation of Labor, to which Mabel gave her allegiance. Its organizers were practical men, interested first, last, and all the time in shop conditions. Effective in their way, but their cry, "A little less injustice, please," seemed timid to Yetta. Then there was the Socialist party. Their theories were more impressive to her – they went further in their demands and seemed to have a broader vision. But of all the Socialists she knew, Braun was the only one who interested himself actively in the organization of the workers. The rest seemed wholly occupied with political action. There was also the Industrial Workers of the World. They cared very little for either firmly organized unions, which were Mabel's hobby, or for the party in which Isadore put such faith. They placed all their emphasis on the Spirit of Revolt. In a more specific way than the other factions they were out for the Revolution. They appealed strongly to that side of Yetta which was vividly touched by the manifold misery she saw about her, the side of her personality which had struck out blindly at Pick-Axe. She recognized that it had been a blind and dangerous impulse. It was not likely to come again. But this phase of her character, although she feared it, she could not despise. It was not dead, it was only asleep. And she knew that the same thing was present in the hearts of all the down-trodden people – her comrades in the fight for life and liberty.
The triangular debate, which she had heard for the first time at Walter's farewell dinner, she heard repeated on all sides. She felt it no longer as an interesting academic discussion, but as the vital problem of the working-class. It was an issue towards which she would have to take a definite attitude.
The welter of ideas, the perplexing conflict between alluring theories and hard facts, was sharply illustrated to her by a mass meeting at Cooper Union which had been called to raise funds for the Western Federation of Miners. All classes of society were shocked at the news of violence and bloodshed in that spectacular outbreak of social war in Colorado. One thing was clear to all – there was no use preaching peace, no use talking about the harmony of interest between labor and capital, there was nothing the Civic Federation could do. The curtain had been torn aside. It was war.
Few of the workers in the city approved of the violent methods to which the miners had resorted. But in the heat of battle such considerations became insignificant. The working-class of New York wanted to help.
Two or three orderly speeches had been made, when confusion was caused by the miners' delegate. Instead of telling the story of the strike, as had been expected of him, he utilized his time in denunciation of the American Federation of Labor and in chanting the praises of Industrial Unionism. The audience had gathered to express their sympathy for the miners. He insulted the organization to which most of these Easterners belonged.
Yetta had never heard a more forceful piece of oratory. He had led a charge against the State militia, and he was not afraid of a hostile audience. His appearance of immense strength dominated the more puny city dwellers. His mighty voice rang out above the tumult and reduced it.
"The A. F. of L.," he shouted, "is a rotten aristocracy. Everywhere it is holding down the less fortunate workers. More strikes are double-crossed by 'labor leaders' than are lost in a fair fight. Until we smash it there's no hope for the working-class. Out in the mines we've already won a three-fifty day. Not for the skilled trades, but for every man who goes down. We don't have any leaders who go to the Civic Federation and drink champagne with the capitalists.
"Look at the unions you're proud of. You know as well as I do that the Big Six scabbed on the pressmen. Nobody in the printing industry has got a chance. The typographers have pigged it all.
"Nobody's got a look-in with the labor fakirs unless they've got enough money to pay initiation fees.
"You craft unionists have won your house and lot and 'benefits.' But I tell you that the Revolution is coming from the unskilled who can't pay your fees. If you don't get out of the way, you'll get run over with the rest of the aristocrats and grafters.
"Your graft is no good, anyhow. It won't last. It depends on your skill, and machines are killing skill every day. Look at the glass-blowers. That was a fine craft – wasn't it? You couldn't blow glass unless you had served a long apprenticeship. And when you once knew the trade, it was a cinch – a graft for the rest of your life. Sweet, wasn't it? Just the thing 'Old Sell-'em-out' Sam Gompers dreams about. All of a sudden somebody invented a machine. Now the glass-blowers are yelling about the Child Labor Law – a kid of twelve can do more work with a machine than a dozen men by hand.
"You craft unionists ought to go out and look at a machine – an automatic that's knocked Hell out of some other trade. You'd see what's coming to you and your A. F. of L.
"My father was a 'grainer,' painted the graining on wainscoting and bureaus – fine trade it was, too. He had a nice little house with a garden to it; the old woman had a servant. Some aristocrats we were. He was going to send me to college – he was. Then they invented a machine. He hit the trail to Colorado, and I went down in the mine when I was thirteen.
"Just think about that machine a minute. It could do the work better than men, so it put the 'grainers' out of business. It ain't got no feet, so it don't use shoes. Kind of hard on the cobblers. It ain't got no head, so it don't wear out three hats a year like my old man did. Kind of hard on the hat makers. The machine ain't got no belly, it don't eat nothing. That's a jolt for the butcher and baker – and the farmer too. The machine don't get sick. No use for a doctor. The machine" – he paused for his climax – "the machine has no soul – it don't even need a minister.
"The machine is killing the craft unions. It's bringing about the day of the unskilled. The answer is – Industrial Unionism."
The audience was too angry at his attack to applaud. The collection, when it was taken up, was not half what had been expected.
"Perfectly insane," was Mabel's comment as they walked home.
"But what he said sounded true to me," Yetta protested.
"True?" Mabel demanded. "What was the true reason he came? To raise money for the striking miners – who need it. He didn't even come here at his own expense. They sent him – to raise funds. He spouts a lot of his crazy ideas and spoils it all. I don't believe we collected enough to pay his railroad fare. Is that your idea of truth?"
Yetta could not find an answer.
But the effort to solve such problems as this was a big factor in her mental development. It gave her added incentive to study. She sought learning not because "culture" is conventionally considered a good thing, but because she had a vital need for a wider knowledge in her daily life.
As Walter had foretold, she found constant temptation to neglect her study. She resisted it bravely. But when the "knee-pant operatives," whom she had organized, went out, she could not find heart for books. She gave all her time to the strike. It was only a three weeks' interruption. But the next year the buttonhole workers were out for two solid months, the hottest of the year – and lost. It was Yetta's first defeat. The last weeks had been a nightmare. Children had died of hunger. Some older women had hanged themselves. When at last it was over, Yetta dragged herself up to the Woman's Trade Union League and wrote out her resignation.
"What on earth do you mean?" Mabel asked.