I laughed, as an American would. "Penalty for lying! Who's going to throw the first stone?"
"Exactly. That's the awful part of it, Van. Your people are so used to public lying that you don't mind. You are paralyzed, be- numbed, calloused, to certain evils you should be keenly alive to. There are plenty of much less dangerous things you make far more noise about. You see the press is suffering from a marked confusion of function. It makes all its proud claims for freedom and protection as an "expression of public opinion," as "a medium of information," and then makes its main business the cheapest kind of catering to prejudices, and to a mar- ket—the market of the widest lowest popular taste for literary amusement. Why does 'the palladium of your liberties' have to carry those mind-weakening, soul-degenerating 'comics' ? They are neither information nor opinion—only bait."
"The people would not buy the papers if they were not amusing."
"What people would not? Wouldn't you?"
"Oh, I would, of course; I want to know the news; I mean the lower classes."
"And these 'lower classes,' so low that they take no interest in the news of the day and have to be given stuff suited to im- beciles, imbeciles with slightly criminal tastes—are they a large and permanent part of your democracy?"
"You mean that we ought to put out decent papers and see that the people are educated up to them ?"
"Why not?"
I was trying to see why not, but she went on:
"If your papers were what they ought to be, they could be used in the schools, should be so used. Every boy and girl in the high school should take the Current Events course. Each day they should be required to read the brief clear summary of real news which would not be a long task, and required to state what seemed to them most important, and why.
"This array of 'crimes and casualties' you print is not news—it is as monotonous as the alphabet. All that needs is a mere list, a bulletin from the sick chamber of society, interest- ing only to the specialist. But the children should be taught to see the world move—every day; to be interested, to feel re- sponsible. People educated like that wouldn't need to be baited with foul stuff to read the papers."
For the life of me I couldn't see anything the matter with this. If we can trust our government with the meteorological reports why not with the social ones?
"The best brains, the best backing, the whole country watch- ing," she continued, —"papers that gave the news—and people who could read them. Then your comment and opinion could be as free as it pleased—on the side. Anybody could publish all of that she wanted to. But why should private opinion be saddled on the public facts, Van?"
"All right; diagnosis accepted with reservations; remedy pro- posed too suspiciously simple. But go ahead—what else ails us? With every adult enfranchised, the newspapers reliable, our natural resources properly protected, developed and im- proved—would that do for a starter?"
"Not while half the people do not earn enough to be healthy." I groaned. "All right. Let's get down to it. Bring on your so-
cialism. Do you want it by evolution, or revolution, or both?" She was not deceived by my mock pathos. "What is your pre-
judice against socialism, Van? Why do you always speak as if it were—slightly ridiculous?"
I considered for a moment, thoughtfully.
"I suppose it is on account of my college education, and the kind of people I've lived with most," I answered.
"And what is your own sincere view of it?" That had to be considered too.
"Why—I suppose the theory is right enough," I began, but she stopped me to ask:
"What is the theory—as you see it?"
Then I was obliged to exhibit my limitations, for all I could produce was What I had heard other people say about it, what I could remember of various articles and reviews, mostly ad- verse, a fruitless excursion into the dogmatic mazes of Marx, and a moat unfavorable impression of certain socialist papers and pamphlets I had seen.
"That's about what I find everywhere," she was good enough to say. "That is your idea of it; now, very honestly, what is your feeling about it—say it right out, please."
So without waiting to be careful and to see if my feelings bore any relation to my facts, I produced a jumble of popular emotions, to the effect that Socialism was a lazy man's para- dise; that it was an effort of the underdog to get on top, that it was an unfair "evening down" of the rewards of superior ability with those of the inferior; that it was a class movement full of hatred and injustice, that nobody would be willing "to do the dirty work," and that "such a world wouldn't be worth living in, anyhow."
Ellador laughed merrily, both at this nondescript mass of current misconception, and at my guilty yet belligerent air, as who should say: "It may be discreditable, but that's the way I feel."
She sobered soon enough, and looked far past me—through me. "It's not you, Van dear," she said. "It's America talking. And America ought to be ashamed of itself. To have so little vision! To be so gullible! To believe so easily what the least study would disprove! To be so afraid of the very principles on which this nation rests!"
"This nation rests on the principle of individual liberty—not on government ownership," I protested.
"What individual liberty has the working man ?" she countered. "What choice of profession has his ill-born, ill-fed, illclothed, ill-taught child ? The thing you call 'free competition' is long past—and you never saw it go. You see ideas stay fixed in peoples' minds long after the facts have changed. Your in- dustrial world is in a state of what Ghent called 'feudalism'—and he was right. It is like Europe under the rob- ber barons, and your struggling trade unions are like the ef- forts of the escaping serfs in that period. It only takes a little history and economics to see the facts. The perplexing part of the problem, to me, is the dullness of the popular mind. You Americans are an intelligent people, and a somewhat educated people, but you can't seem to see things."
"Are we any blinder than other people, my lady? Do they re- cognize these glaring facts any better than we do?"
Ellador sat still a moment, running over her fresh clear view of the world, past and present.
"No," she said. "No other people is any better—in all ways—except New Zealanders perhaps. Yet ever so many coun- tries are wiser in some particulars, and you—with all your ad- vantages— haven't sense enough to see it. Oh I know you'll say the others don't see it either, but you ought to. You are free —and you are able to act when you do see. No, Van—there's no excuse for you. You had supreme advantages, you made a brave start, you established a splendid beginning, and then you sat back and bragged about your ancestors and your re- sources—and your prospects—and let the vermin crawl all over you."
Her eyes were grave, her tone solemn, her words most offensive.
"Look here, Ellador, why will you use that term. It's very disagreeable."
"What else can you call these people who hang like clusters of leeches on the public treasury, who hop like fleas to escape the law, who spin webby masses of special legislation in which to breed more freely, who creep and crawl on every public work that is undertaken, and fatten undisturbed on all private business? What do you call your 'sidewalk speculators' in theater-tickets, for instance—but vermin? Just to steal a ticket and go to see the play would be a clean manly thing to do com- pared to this. They are small ones, openly disgusting, yet you do nothing but grumble a little.
"To turn from little to big I want to know what you call your sleeping-car extorionists? What is the size limit of vermin, any- how? I suppose if a flea was a yard long he would be a beast of prey wouldn't he ?
"You certainly are—drastic, my dear girl. But what have you got against the sleeping cars? I've always thought our service was pretty good."
She shook her head slowly, regarding me with that motherly patient expression.
"The resignation of the American public to its devourers is like that of—of a sick kitten. You remember that poor little lean thing we picked up, and had to drop, quick, and brush ourselves? Why Van Jennings—don't you even know you are be- ing robbed, to the bone, by that sleeping-car company? Look here, please "
Then she produced one of those neat little sheets of figures I had so learned to respect. Most damaging things, Ellador's figures.
"Twelve double berths to a car, beside the 'stateroom,' or rooms which I won't count; twenty-four passengers, who have already bought a ticket on which they are entitled to transport- ation with accommodations in the day-coach. Usual price $5.00 for twenty-four hours. For this $5.00 the passenger receives by day a whole seat instead of a half one— unless there is a day crowd and then extra seats are cheerfully sold to other vic- tims—I have seen sleeping-cars crowded to standing ! By night he has a place to lie down—three by three by six, with a cur- tain for privacy."
"Well, but he is being carried on his journey all the time," I urged.
"So he is in the day-coach or chaircar. This money is not for transportation—that's paid for. It is for special accommodation. I am speaking of the kind of accommodation, and what is extor- ted for it. The night arrangements are what you know. Look at the price." "Two dollars and a half isn't so much," I urged, but she pursued relentlessly. "Wouldn't you think it was much, here, in this hotel, for a space of that size ?"
I looked about me at the comfortable room in the first-class hotel where we were then lodged, and thought of the preced- ing night, when we had had our two berths on the car. Here was a room twelve by fourteen by ten. There were two win- dows. There was a closet and a bathroom. There was every modern convenience in furniture. There was a wide, comfort- able bed. My room adjoined it, equally large and comfortable."
"This is $2.00 for twenty-four hours," she remarked. "That was $5.00."
"Sleeping cars are expensive to build," I remarked feebly. "More expensive than hotels?" she asked. "The hotel must pay ground rent, and taxes."
"The sleeping cars are not always full," I urged. "Neither are the hotels—are they?"
"But the car has to be moved——"
"Yes, and the railroad company pays the sleeping car for be- ing moved," she triumphed.
I wanted to say something about service; tried to, but she made merry over it.
"They have one conductor for their string of sleepers, and as to porters— we mostly pay them, you know."
I did know, of course.
"This is how I have figured it," said Ellador. "Of course I don't know the exact facts about their business, and they 'won't fell, but look at it this way: Suppose they average twenty pas- sengers per car—staterooms and all—at $5.00 a day; that's $100.00 a day income, $36,500.00 a year per car. Now they pay the porter about $30.00 a month, I understand, or less, leaving the public to do the rest. Each car's fraction of the conductor's wages wouldn't be more than $20.00, I should think; there's $50.00 a month, $600 a year for service. Then there is laundry work and cleanings-forty sheets —pillow- cases—towels—flat-work rates of course; and renovating at the end of the journey. I don't believe it comes to over—say $800.00 a year. Then there is insurance, depreciation, repairs " "Look here, Ellador, where did you get up these technicalit-
ies? Talking with business men, I suppose—as usual?"
"Yes, of course," she agreed. "And I'm very proud of them. Well—I'll allow $1,600.00 a year for that . That is $3,000.00 for their running expenses. And remember they are paid something for running—I don't know how much. That leaves $33,500.00. I will magnanimously leave off that $3,500.00—for times when they carried fewer passengers —call it a clear in- come of $30,000.00 a year. Now that is 10 per cent of $300,000.00. You don't honestly suppose that one sleeping car costs three hundred thousand dollars—do you, Van?"
I did not. I knew better. Anybody knows better.
"If it costs $100,000 to build and fit a sleeping car," she went on calmly, "then they could charge about $1.75 for their berths, and still 'make money,' as you call it. If ten per cent. is a legitimate 'profit,' I call the extra twenty per cent. a grinding extortion. What do you call it?"
"Up to date I never called it anything. I never noticed it."
She nodded. "Exactly. You people keep quiet and pay three times what is necessary for the right to live. You are bled—sucked—night and day, in every direction. Now then, if these blood-suckers are beasts of prey—fight them, conquer them. If they are vermin—Oh, I know you don't like the word—but Van, what is your estimate of people who are willing to endure—vermin?"
Chapter 10
GOING about with Ellador among familiar conditions, and see- ing things I never dreamed were there, was always interesting, though sometimes painful. It was like carrying a high-powered light into dark places. As she turned her mind upon this or that feature of American life it straightway stood out sharply from the surrounding gloom, as the moving searchlight of a river boat brings out the features of the shore.
I had known clever women, learned women, even brilliant women, a few. But the learned ones were apt to be bit heavy, the clever ones twinkled and capered like spangled acrobats, and the brilliant ones shone, indeed, like planets among stars, but somehow did not illuminate much.
Ellador was simple enough, modest enough. She was always keeping in mind how little she knew of our civilization, but what she saw she saw clearly and was able to make her hear- ers see. As I watched her, I began to understand what a special strength it was not to have in one's mind all the associate ideas and emotions ours are so full of. She could take up the color question, for instance, and discuss it dispassionately, with no particular sentiment, one way or the other. I heard her once with a Southern sociologist, who was particularly strong on what he called "race conflict."
