‘I have 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 foment 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 anti-social, and it seems to me, anti-socialistic.’
‘Not guilty,’ he answered. ‘Class hatred is neither in the text nor in the spirit of anything I have ever written.’
‘Oh!’ 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 one hundred and thirty-two,’ 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 foment 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 one hundred and twenty-six: “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 labour 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 Morehouse nodded.
‘And petty and selfish?’
Again he nodded.
‘Watch out!’ Ernest warned. ‘I said “selfish.”‘
‘The average man is selfish,’ the Bishop affirmed valiantly.
‘Wants all he can get?’
‘Wants 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 that capital would perish if there were no labour 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 men on the street railway furnish the labour. The stockholders furnish the capital. By the joint effort of the working men and the capital, money is earned.3 They divide between them this money that is earned. Capital’s share is called “dividends”. Labours’ share is called “wages.”‘
‘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 of the same thing, there is a conflict of interest. This is the conflict of interest between labour 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 street car running.’
‘Another strike!’4 the Bishop queried with alarm.
‘Yes, they’re quarrelling over the division of the earnings of the street railways.’
Bishop Morehouse 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 Morehouse ignored him and went on:
‘Their outlook is too narrow. Men should be men, not brutes. There will be violence and murder now, and sorrowing widows and orphans. Capital and labour should be friends. They should work hand in hand and 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’s 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 in the pulpit. Pig-ethics! There is no other name for it.’
Bishop Morehouse turned appealingly to my father, but he laughed and nodded his head.
‘I’m afraid Mr Everhard is right,’ he said. ‘Laissezfaire, 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 in so far as the Church does not protest, it condones, for remember the Church is supported by the capitalist class.’
‘I have 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.’5
‘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 faintly.
‘Then let me explain. With the introduction of machinery and the factory system in the latter part of the eighteenth century, the great mass of the working people was separated from the land. The old system of labour 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 agonised 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 slaughter-house was made of the nation by the capitalists, the Church was dumb. It did not protest, as today it does not protest. As Austin Lewis6says, 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.7 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?’