STRIFE

Not since Hauptmann's "Weavers" was placed before the thoughtful public,

has there appeared anything more stirring than "Strife."

Its theme is a strike in the Trenartha Tin Plate Works, on the borders

of England and Wales. The play largely centers about the two dominant

figures: _John Anthony_, the President of the Company, rigid, autocratic

and uncompromising; he is unwilling to make the slightest concession,

although the men have been out for six months and are in a condition of

semi-starvation. On the other hand there is _David Roberts_, an

uncompromising revolutionist, whose devotion to the workers and the

cause of freedom is at red-white heat. Between them are the strikers,

worn and weary with the terrible struggle, driven and tortured by the

awful sight of poverty at home.

At a directors' meeting, attended by the Company's representatives from

London, _Edgar Anthony_, the President's son and a man of kindly

feeling, pleads in behalf of the strikers.

_Edgar._ I don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this

means starvation to the men's wives and families ... It won't kill

the shareholders to miss a dividend or two; I don't see that

_that's_ reason enough for knuckling under.

_Wilder._ H'm! Shouldn't be a bit surprised if that brute Roberts

hadn't got us down here with the very same idea. I hate a man with a

grievance.

_Edgar._ We didn't pay him enough for his discovery. I always said

that at the time.

_Wilder._ We paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three

years later. If that's not enough! What does he want, for goodness'

sake?

_Tench._ Company made a hundred thousand out of his brains, and paid

him seven hundred--that's the way he goes on, sir.

_Wilder._ The man's a rank agitator! Look here, I hate the Unions.

But now we've got Harness here let's get him to settle the whole

thing.

_Harness_, the trade union official, speaks in favor of compromise. In

the beginning of the strike the union had withdrawn its support, because

the workers had used their own judgment in deciding to strike.

_Harness._ I'm quite frank with you. We were forced to withhold our

support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of

current rates. I expect to make them withdraw those demands

to-day.... Now, I want to see something fixed upon before I go back

tonight. Can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war

business? What good's it doing you? Why don't you recognize once for

all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's good

for them just as you want what's good for you.... There's just one

very simple question I'd like to put to you. Will you pay your men

one penny more than they force you to pay them?

Of course not. With trade unionism lacking in true solidarity, and the

workers not conscious of their power, why should the Company pay one

penny more? _David Roberts_ is the only one who fully understands the

situation.

_Roberts._ Justice from London? What are you talking about, Henry

Thomas? Have you gone silly? We know very well what we

are--discontented dogs--never satisfied. What did the Chairman tell

me up in London? That I didn't know what I was talking about. I was

a foolish, uneducated man, that knew nothing of the wants of the

men I spoke for.... I have this to say--and first as to their

condition.... Ye can't squeeze them any more. Every man of us is

well nigh starving. Ye wonder why I tell ye that? Every man of us is

going short. We can't be no worse off than we've been these weeks

past. Ye needn't think that by waiting ye'll drive us to come in.

We'll die first, the whole lot of us. The men have sent for ye to

know, once and for all, whether ye are going to grant them their

demands.... Ye know best whether ye can afford your tyranny--but

this I tell ye: If ye think the men will give way the least part of

an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever made. Ye think

because the Union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that

we'll be coming on our knees to you one fine morning. Ye think

because the men have got their wives an' families to think of--that

it's just a question of a week or two--

The appalling state of the strikers is demonstrated by the women: _Anna

Roberts_, sick with heart trouble and slowly dying for want of warmth

and nourishment; _Mrs. Rous_, so accustomed to privation that her

present poverty seems easy compared with the misery of her whole life.

Into this dismal environment comes _Enid_, the President's daughter,

with delicacies and jams for _Annie_. Like many women of her station she

imagines that a little sympathy will bridge the chasm between the

classes, or as her father says, "You think with your gloved hands you

can cure the troubles of the century."

_Enid_ does not know the life of _Annie Roberts'_ class: that it is all

a gamble from the "time 'e's born to the time 'e dies."

_Mrs. Roberts._ Roberts says workin' folk have always lived from

hand to mouth. Sixpence to-day is worth more than a shillin'

to-morrow, that's what they say.... He says that when a working

man's baby is born, it's a toss-up from breath to breath whether it

ever draws another, and so on all 'is life; an' when he comes to be

old, it's the workhouse or the grave. He says that without a man is

very near, and pinches and stints 'imself and 'is children to save,

there can be neither surplus nor security. That's why he wouldn't

have no children, not though I wanted them.

The strikers' meeting is a masterly study of mass psychology,--the men

swayed hither and thither by the different speakers and not knowing

whither to go. It is the smooth-tongued _Harness_ who first weakens

their determination to hold out.

_Harness._ Cut your demands to the right pattern, and we'll see you

through; refuse, and don't expect me to waste my time coming down

here again. I'm not the sort that speaks at random, as you ought to

know by this time. If you're the sound men I take you for--no matter

who advises you against it--you'll make up your minds to come in,

and trust to us to get your terms. Which is it to be? Hands

together, and victory--or--the starvation you've got now?

Then _Old Thomas_ appeals to their religious sentiments:

_Thomas._ It iss not London; it iss not the Union--it iss Nature. It

iss no disgrace whateffer to a potty to give in to Nature. For this

Nature iss a fery pig thing; it is pigger than what a man is. There

is more years to my hett than to the hett of anyone here. It is a

man's pisness to pe pure, honest, just, and merciful. That's what

Chapel tells you.... We're going the roat to tamnation. An' so I say

to all of you. If ye co against Chapel I will not pe with you, nor

will any other Got-fearing man.

At last _Roberts_ makes his plea, _Roberts_ who has given his

all--brain, heart and blood--aye, sacrificed even his wife to the cause.

By sheer force of eloquence and sincerity he stays his fickle comrades

long enough at least to listen to him, though they are too broken to

rise to his great dignity and courage.

_Roberts._ You don't want to hear me then? You'll listen to Rous and

to that old man, but not to me. You'll listen to Sim Harness of the

Union that's treated you so _fair_; maybe you'll listen to those men

from London.... You love their feet on your necks, don't you?... Am

I a liar, a coward, a traitor? If only I were, ye'd listen to me,

I'm sure. Is there a man of you here who has less to gain by

striking? Is there a man of you that had more to lose? Is there a

man among you who has given up eight hundred pounds since this

trouble began? Come, now, is there? How much has Thomas given

up--ten pounds or five or what? You listened to him, and what had he

to say? "None can pretend," he said, "that I'm not a believer in

principle--but when Nature says: 'No further,' 'tes going against

Nature!" I tell you if a man cannot say to Nature: "Budge me from

this if ye can!"--his principles are but his belly. "Oh, but,"

Thomas says, "a man can be pure and honest, just and merciful, and

take off his hat to Nature." I tell you Nature's neither pure nor

honest, just nor merciful. You chaps that live over the hill, an' go

home dead beat in the dark on a snowy night--don't ye fight your way

every inch of it? Do ye go lyin' down an' trustin' to the tender

mercies of this merciful Nature? Try it and you'll soon know with

what ye've got to deal. 'Tes only by that (_he strikes a blow with

his clenched fist_) in Nature's face that a man can be a man. "Give

in," says Thomas; "go down on your knees; throw up your foolish

fight, an' perhaps," he said, "perhaps your enemy will chuck you

down a crust." ... And what did he say about Chapel? "Chapel's

against it," he said. "She's against it." Well, if Chapel and Nature

go hand in hand, it's the first I've ever heard of it.

Surrendering's the work of cowards and traitors.... You've felt the

pinch o't in your bellies. You've forgotten what that fight 'as

been; many times I have told you; I will tell you now this once

again. The fight o' the country's body and blood against a

blood-sucker. The fight of those that spend themselves with every

blow they strike and every breath they draw, against a thing that

fattens on them, and grows and grows by the law of _merciful_

Nature. That thing is Capital! A thing that buys the sweat o' men's

brows, and the tortures o' their brains, at its own price. Don't I

know that? Wasn't the work o' my brains bought for seven hundred

pounds, and hasn't one hundred thousand pounds been gained them by

that seven hundred without the stirring of a finger. It is a thing

that will take as much and give you as little as it can. That's

Capital! A thing that will say--"I'm very sorry for you, poor

fellows--you have a cruel time of it, I know," but will not give one

sixpence of its dividends to help you have a better time. That's

Capital! Tell me, for all their talk, is there one of them that will

consent to another penny on the Income Tax to help the poor? That's

Capital! A white-faced, stony-hearted monster! Ye have got it on its

knees; are ye to give up at the last minute to save your miserable

bodies pain? When I went this morning to those old men from London,

I looked into their very 'earts. One of them was sitting there--Mr.

Scantlebury, a mass of flesh nourished on us: sittin' there for all

the world like the shareholders in this Company, that sit not moving

tongue nor finger, takin' dividends--a great dumb ox that can only

be roused when its food is threatened. I looked into his eyes and I

saw _he was afraid_--afraid for himself and his dividends, afraid

for his fees, afraid of the very shareholders he stands for; and all

but one of them's afraid--like children that get into a wood at

night, and start at every rustle of the leaves. I ask you, men--give

me a free hand to tell them: "Go you back to London. The men have

nothing for you!" Give, me that, and I swear to you, within a week

you shall have from London all you want. 'Tis not for this little

moment of time we're fighting, not for _ourselves_, our own little

bodies, and their wants, 'tis for all those that come after

throughout all time. Oh! men--for the love o' them, don't roll up

another stone upon their heads, don't help to blacken the sky, an'

let the bitter sea in over them. They're welcome to the worst that

can happen to me, to the worst that can happen to us all, aren't

they--aren't they? If we can shake the white-faced monster with the

bloody lips, that has sucked the life 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 what we are, less than the very dogs.

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

dust heap. Such is the fate of _Anthony_, the President of the Company,

and of _David Roberts_. To be sure they represent opposite poles--poles

antagonistic to each other, poles divided by a terrible gap that can

never be bridged over. Yet they share a common fate. _Anthony_ is the

embodiment of conservatism, of old ideas, of iron methods:

_Anthony._ I have been Chairman of this Company since its inception

two and thirty years ago.... I have had to do with "men" for fifty

years; I've always stood up to them; I have never been beaten yet. I

have fought the men of this Company four times, and four times I

have beaten them.... The men have been treated justly, they have had

fair wages, we have always been ready to listen to complaints. It

has been said that times have changed; if they have, I have not

changed with them. Neither will I. It has been said that masters and

men are equal! Cant! There can only be one master in a house! Where

two men meet the better man will rule. It has been said that Capital

and Labor have the same interests. Cant! Their interests are as wide

asunder as the poles. It has been said that the Board is only part

of a machine. Cant! We _are_ the machine; its brains and sinews; it

is for us to lead and to determine what is to be done; and to do it

without fear or favor. Fear of the men! Fear of the shareholders!

Fear of our own shadows! Before I am like that, I hope to die. There

is only one way of treating "men"--with the iron hand. This

half-and-half business, the half-and-half manners of this

generation, has brought all this upon us. Sentiments and softness

and what this young man, no doubt, would call his social policy. You

can't eat cake and have it! This middle-class sentiment, or

socialism, or whatever it may be, is rotten. Masters are masters,

men are men! Yield one demand, and they will make it six. They are

like Oliver Twist, asking for more. If I were in _their_ place I

should be the same. But I am not in their place.... I have been

accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of my pride--I

am thinking of the future of this country, threatened with the black

waters of confusion, threatened with mob government, threatened with

what I cannot say. If by any conduct of mine I help to bring this on

us, I shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the face. Before I put

this amendment to the Board, I have one more word to say. If it is

carried, it means that we shall fail in what we set ourselves to do.

It means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe to all Capital.

It means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe ourselves.

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 and spend millions of

dollars in social research work. _Anthony_ is a worthy foe; 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 inspiration of

modern ideas. He, too, is consistent: he wants nothing for his class

short of complete victory.

It is inevitable that compromise and petty interest should triumph until

the masses become imbued with the spirit of a _David Roberts_. Will

they 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 the elements in their midst that are forever seeking to

reconcile the irreconcilable--Capital and Labor. They will have to learn

that men like _David Roberts_ are the very forces that have

revolutionized the world and thus paved the way for emancipation out of

the clutches of the "white-faced monster with bloody lips," toward a

brighter horizon, a freer life, and a truer recognition of human values.