Anarchism and Other Essays (Version 2) — The Modern Drama, pt. 2

How could a society machine-sewn, fathom the seething depths whence issued the great masterpiece of Henrik Ibsen?

It could not understand, and therefore it poured the vials of abuse and venom upon its greatest benefactor.

That Ibsen was not daunted he has proved by his reply in AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE.

In that great drama Ibsen performs the last funeral rites over a decaying and dying social system.

Out of its ashes rises the regenerated individual, the bold and daring rebel.

Dr. Stockman, an idealist, full of social sympathy and solidarity, is called to his native town as the physician of the baths.

He soon discovers that the latter are built on a swamp, and that instead of finding relief the patients, who flock to the place, are being poisoned.

An honest man, of strong convictions, the doctor considers it his duty to make his discovery known.

But he soon learns that dividends and profits are concerned neither with health nor principles.

Even the reformers of the town, represented in the PEOPLE'S MESSENGER, always ready to prate of their devotion to the people, withdraw their support from the "reckless" idealist, the moment they learn that the doctor's discovery may bring the town into disrepute, and thus injure their pockets.

But Doctor Stockman continues in the faith he entertains for has townsmen.

They would hear him.

But here, too, he soon finds himself alone.

He cannot even secure a place to proclaim his great truth.

And when he finally succeeds, he is overwhelmed by abuse and ridicule as the enemy of the people.

The doctor, so enthusiastic of his townspeople's assistance to eradicate the evil, is soon driven to a solitary position.

The announcement of his discovery would result in a pecuniary loss to the town, and that consideration induces the officials, the good citizens, and soul reformers, to stifle the voice of truth.

He finds them all a compact majority, unscrupulous enough to be willing to build up the prosperity of the town on a quagmire of lies and fraud.

He is accused of trying to ruin the community.

But to his mind "it does not matter if a lying community is ruined.

It must be levelled to the ground.

All men who live upon lies must be exterminated like vermin.

You'll bring it to such a pass that the whole country will deserve to perish."

Doctor Stockman is not a practical politician.

A free man, he thinks, must not behave like a blackguard.

"He must not so act that he would spit in his own face."

For only cowards permit "considerations" of pretended general welfare or of party to override truth and ideals.

"Party programmes wring the necks of all young, living truths; and considerations of expediency turn morality and righteousness upside down, until life is simply hideous."

These plays of Ibsen--THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY, A DOLL'S HOUSE, GHOSTS, and AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE--constitute a dynamic force which is gradually dissipating the ghosts walking the social burying ground called civilization.

Nay, more; Ibsen's destructive effects are at the same time supremely constructive, for he not merely undermines existing pillars; indeed, he builds with sure strokes the foundation of a healthier, ideal future, based on the sovereignty of the individual within a sympathetic social environment.

England with her great pioneers of radical thought, the intellectual pilgrims like Godwin, Robert Owen, Darwin, Spencer, William Morris, and scores of others; with her wonderful larks of liberty--Shelley, Byron, Keats--is another example of the influence of dramatic art.

Within comparatively a few years, the dramatic works of Shaw, Pinero, Galsworthy, Rann Kennedy, have carried radical thought to the ears formerly deaf even to Great Britain's wondrous poets.

Thus a public which will remain indifferent reading an essay by Robert Owen, on Poverty, or ignore Bernard Shaw's Socialistic tracts, was made to think by MAJOR BARBARA, wherein poverty is described as the greatest crime of Christian civilization.

"Poverty makes people weak, slavish, puny; poverty creates disease, crime, prostitution; in fine, poverty is responsible for all the ills and evils of the world."

Poverty also necessitates dependency, charitable organizations, institutions that thrive off the very thing they are trying to destroy.

The Salvation Army, for instance, as shown in MAJOR BARBARA, fights drunkenness; yet one of its greatest contributors is Badger, a whiskey distiller, who furnishes yearly thousands of pounds to do away with the very source of his wealth.

Bernard Shaw, therefore, concludes that the only real benefactor of society is a man like Undershaft, Barbara's father, a cannon manufacturer, whose theory of life is that powder is stronger than words.

"The worst of crimes," says Undershaft, "is poverty.

All the other crimes are virtues beside it; all the other dishonors are chivalry itself by comparison.

Poverty blights whole cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very soul of all who come within sight, sound, or smell of it.

What you call crime is nothing; a murder here, a theft there, a blow now and a curse there: what do they matter?

They are only the accidents and illnesses of life; there are not fifty genuine professional criminals in London.

But there are millions of poor people, abject people, dirty people, ill-fed, ill-clothed people.

They poison us morally and physically; they kill the happiness of society; they force us to do away with our own liberties and to organize unnatural cruelties for fear they should rise against us and drag us down into their abyss....

Poverty and slavery have stood up for centuries to your sermons and leading articles; they will not stand up to my machine guns.

Don't preach at them; don't reason with them.

Kill them....

It is the final test of conviction, the only lever strong enough to overturn a social system....

Vote!

Bah!

When you vote, you only change the name of the cabinet.

When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders, and set up new."

No wonder people cared little to read Mr. Shaw's Socialistic tracts.

In no other way but in the drama could he deliver such forcible, historic truths.

And therefore it is only through the drama that Mr. Shaw is a revolutionary factor in the dissemination of radical ideas.

After Hauptmann's DIE WEBER, STRIFE, by Galsworthy, is the most important labor drama.

The theme of STRIFE is a strike with two dominant factors: Anthony, the president of the company, rigid, uncompromising, unwilling to make the slightest concession, although the men held out for months and are in a condition of semi-starvation; and David Roberts, an uncompromising revolutionist, whose devotion to the workingman and the cause of freedom is at white heat.

Between them the strikers are worn and weary with the terrible struggle, and are harassed and driven by the awful sight of poverty and want in their families.

The most marvellous and brilliant piece of work in STRIFE is Galsworthy's portrayal of the mob, its fickleness, and lack of backbone.

One moment they applaud old Thomas, who speaks of the power of God and religion and admonishes the men against rebellion;

the next instant they are carried away by a walking delegate, who pleads the cause of the union,--the union that always stands for compromise, and which forsakes the workingmen whenever they dare to strike for independent demands; again they are aglow with the earnestness, the spirit, and the intensity of David Roberts--all these people willing to go in whatever direction the wind blows.

It is the curse of the working class that they always follow like sheep led to slaughter.

Consistency is the greatest crime of our commercial age.

No matter how intense the spirit or how important the man, the moment he will not allow himself to be used or sell his principles, he is thrown on the dustheap.

Such was the fate of the president of the company, Anthony, and of David Roberts.

To be sure they represented opposite poles--poles antagonistic to each other, poles divided by a terrible gap that can never be bridged over.

Yet they shared a common fate.

Anthony is the embodiment of conservatism, of old ideas, of iron methods: "I have been chairman of this company thirty-two years.

I have fought the men four times.

I have never been defeated.

It has been said that times have changed.

If they have, I have not changed with them.

It has been said that masters and men are equal.

Cant.

There can be only one master in a house.

It has been said that Capital and Labor have the same interests.

Cant.

Their interests are as wide asunder as the poles.

There is only one way of treating men--with the iron rod.

Masters are masters.

Men are men."

We may not like this adherence to old, reactionary notions, and yet there is something admirable in the courage and consistency of this man, nor is he half as dangerous to the interests of the oppressed, as our sentimental and soft reformers who rob with nine fingers, and give libraries with the tenth; who grind human beings like Russell Sage, and then spend millions of dollars in social research work; who turn beautiful young plants into faded old women, and then give them a few paltry dollars or found a Home for Working Girls.

Anthony is a worthy foe; and to fight such a foe, one must learn to meet him in open battle.

David Roberts has all the mental and moral attributes of his adversary, coupled with the spirit of revolt, and the depth of modern ideas.

He, too, is consistent, and wants nothing for his class short of complete victory.

"It is not for this little moment of time we are fighting, not for our own little bodies and their warmth; it is for all those who come after, for all times.

Oh, men, for the love of them don't turn up another stone on their heads, don't help to blacken the sky.

If we can shake that white-faced monster with the bloody lips that has sucked the lives out of ourselves, our wives, and children, since the world began, if we have not the hearts of men to stand against it, breast to breast and eye to eye, and force it backward till it cry for mercy, it will go on sucking life, and we shall stay forever where we are, less than the very dogs."

It is inevitable that compromise and petty interest should pass on and leave two such giants behind.

Inevitable, until the mass will reach the stature of a David Roberts.

Will it ever?

Prophecy is not the vocation of the dramatist, yet the moral lesson is evident.

One cannot help realizing that the workingmen will have to use methods hitherto unfamiliar to them; that they will have to discard all those elements in their midst that are forever ready to reconcile the irreconcilable, namely Capital and Labor.

They will have to learn that characters like David Roberts are the very forces that have revolutionized the world and thus paved the way for emancipation out of the clutches of that "white-faced monster with bloody lips," towards a brighter horizon, a freer life, and a deeper recognition of human values.

No subject of equal social import has received such extensive consideration within the last few years as the question of prison and punishment.

Hardly any magazine of consequence that has not devoted its columns to the discussion of this vital theme.

A number of books by able writers, both in America and abroad, have discussed this topic from the historic, psychologic, and social standpoint, all agreeing that present penal institutions and our mode of coping with crime have in every respect proved inadequate as well as wasteful.

One would expect that something very radical should result from the cumulative literary indictment of the social crimes perpetrated upon the prisoner.

Yet with the exception of a few minor and comparatively insignificant reforms in some of our prisons, absolutely nothing has been accomplished.

But at last this grave social wrong has found dramatic interpretation in Galworthy's JUSTICE.

The play opens in the office of James How and Sons, Solicitors.

The senior clerk, Robert Cokeson, discovers that a check he had issued for nine pounds has been forged to ninety.

By elimination, suspicion falls upon William Falder, the junior office clerk.

The latter is in love with a married woman, the abused, ill-treated wife of a brutal drunkard.

Pressed by his employer, a severe yet not unkindly man, Falder confesses the forgery, pleading the dire necessity of his sweetheart, Ruth Honeywill, with whom he had planned to escape to save her from the unbearable brutality of her husband.

Notwithstanding the entreaties of young Walter, who is touched by modern ideas, his father, a moral and law-respecting citizen, turns Falder over to the police.

The second act, in the court-room, shows Justice in the very process of manufacture.

The scene equals in dramatic power and psychologic verity the great court scene in RESURRECTION.

Young Falder, a nervous and rather weakly youth of twenty-three, stands before the bar.

Ruth, his married sweetheart, full of love and devotion, burns with anxiety to save the young man whose affection brought about his present predicament.

The young man is defended by Lawyer Frome, whose speech to the jury is a masterpiece of deep social philosophy wreathed with the tendrils of human understanding and sympathy.

He does not attempt to dispute the mere fact of Falder having altered the check; and though he pleads temporary aberration in defense of his client, that plea is based upon a social consciousness as deep and all-embracing as the roots of our social ills--"the background of life, that palpitating life which always lies behind the commission of a crime."

He shows Falder to have faced the alternative of seeing the beloved woman murdered by her brutal husband, whom she cannot divorce; or of taking the law into his own hands.

The defence pleads with the jury not to turn the weak young man into a criminal by condemning him to prison, for "justice is a machine that, when someone has given it a starting push, rolls on of itself....

Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which, at the worst, was one of weakness?

Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons?...

I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man.

For as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face....

The rolling of the chariot wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him."

But the chariot of Justice rolls mercilessly on, for--as the learned Judge says--"the law is what it is--a majestic edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another."

Falder is sentenced to three years' penal servitude.

In prison, the young, inexperienced convict soon finds himself the victim of the terrible "system."

The authorities admit that young Falder is mentally and physically "in bad shape," but nothing can be done in the matter: many others are in a similar position, and "the quarters are inadequate."

The third scene of the third act is heart-gripping in its silent force.

The whole scene is a pantomime, taking place in Falder's prison cell.

"In fast-falling daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening.

He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise.

He stops at the door.

He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside.

He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound--and remains perfectly motionless.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life.

Then, turning abruptly, he begins pacing his cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage.

He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron.

Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, holding his head, as if he felt that it were going to burst, and stops under the window.

But since he cannot see out of it he leaves off looking, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it, as if trying to make a companion of his own face.

It has grown very nearly dark.

Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there.

There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up.

The cell is brightly lighted.

Falder is seen gasping for breath.

A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible.

Falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamor.

But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell.

And gradually it seems to hypnotize him.

He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door.

The banging sound, traveling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder's hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell.

He suddenly raises his clenched fists.

Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it."

Finally Falder leaves the prison, a broken ticket-of-leave man, the stamp of the convict upon his brow, the iron of misery in his soul.

Thanks to Ruth's pleading, the firm of James How and Son is willing to take Falder back in their employ, on condition that he give up Ruth.

It is then that Falder learns the awful news that the woman he loves had been driven by the merciless economic Moloch to sell herself.

She "tried making skirts ...

cheap things....

I never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton, and working all day.

I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve....

And then ...

my employer happened--he's happened ever since."

At this terrible psychologic moment the police appear to drag him back to prison for failing to report himself as ticket-of-leave man.

Completely overwhelmed by the inexorability of his environment, young Falder seeks and finds peace, greater than human justice, by throwing himself down to death, as the detectives are taking him back to prison.

It would be impossible to estimate the effect produced by this play.

Perhaps some conception can be gained from the very unusual circumstance that it had proved so powerful as to induce the Home Secretary of Great Britain to undertake extensive prison reforms in England.

A very encouraging sign this, of the influence exerted by the modern drama.

It is to be hoped that the thundering indictment of Mr. Galsworthy will not remain without similar effect upon the public sentiment and prison conditions of America.

At any rate, it is certain that no other modern play has borne such direct and immediate fruit in wakening the social conscience.

Another modern play, THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE, strikes a vital key in our social life.

The hero of Mr. Kennedy's masterpiece is Robert, a coarse, filthy drunkard, whom respectable society has repudiated.

Robert, the sewer cleaner, is the real hero of the play; nay, its true and only savior.

It is he who volunteers to go down into the dangerous sewer, so that his comrades "can 'ave light and air."

After all, has he not sacrificed his life always, so that others may have light and air?

The thought that labor is the redeemer of social well-being has been cried from the housetops in every tongue and every clime.

Yet the simple words of Robert express the significance of labor and its mission with far greater potency.

America is still in its dramatic infancy.

Most of the attempts along this line to mirror life, have been wretched failures.

Still, there are hopeful signs in the attitude of the intelligent public toward modern plays, even if they be from foreign soil.

The only real drama America has so far produced is THE EASIEST WAY, by Eugene Walter.

It is supposed to represent a "peculiar phase" of New York life.

If that were all, it would be of minor significance.

That which gives the play its real importance and value lies much deeper.

It lies, first, in the fundamental current of our social fabric which drives us all, even stronger characters than Laura, into the easiest way--a way so very destructive of integrity, truth, and justice.

Secondly, the cruel, senseless fatalism conditioned in Laura's sex.

These two features put the universal stamp upon the play, and characterize it as one of the strongest dramatic indictments against society.

The criminal waste of human energy, in economic and social conditions, drives Laura as it drives the average girl to marry any man for a "home"; or as it drives men to endure the worst indignities for a miserable pittance.

Then there is that other respectable institution, the fatalism of Laura's sex.

The inevitability of that force is summed up in the following words: "Don't you know that we count no more in the life of these men than tamed animals?

It's a game, and if we don't play our cards well, we lose."

Woman in the battle with life has but one weapon, one commodity--sex.

That alone serves as a trump card in the game of life.

This blind fatalism has made of woman a parasite, an inert thing.

Why then expect perseverance or energy of Laura?

The easiest way is the path mapped out for her from time immemorial.

She could follow no other.

A number of other plays could be quoted as characteristic of the growing role of the drama as a disseminator of radical thought.

Suffice to mention THE THIRD DEGREE, by Charles Klein; THE FOURTH ESTATE, by Medill Patterson; A MAN'S WORLD, by Ida Croutchers,--all pointing to the dawn of dramatic art in America, an art which is discovering to the people the terrible diseases of our social body.

It has been said of old, all roads lead to Rome.

In paraphrased application to the tendencies of our day, it may truly be said that all roads lead to the great social reconstruction.

The economic awakening of the workingman, and his realization of the necessity for concerted industrial action; the tendencies of modern education, especially in their application to the free development of the child;

the spirit of growing unrest expressed through, and cultivated by, art and literature, all pave the way to the Open Road.

Above all, the modern drama, operating through the double channel of dramatist and interpreter, affecting as it does both mind and heart, is the strongest force in developing social discontent, swelling the powerful tide of unrest that sweeps onward and over the dam of ignorance, prejudice, and superstition.

[1] HONOR.

[2] MAGDA.

[3] BEFORE SUNRISE.

[4] THE WEAVERS.

[5] THE SUNKEN BELL.

[6] YOUTH.

[7] THE AWAKENING OF SPRING.

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