Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger
By WINSTON CHURCHILL
Occasionally the art of narrative may be improved by borrowing the methodof the movies. Another night has passed, and we are called upon toimagine the watery sunlight of a mild winter afternoon filtering throughbare trees on the heads of a multitude. A large portion of Hampton Commonis black with the people of sixteen nationalities who have gatheredthere, trampling down the snow, to listen wistfully and eagerly to a newdoctrine of salvation. In the centre of this throng on thebandstand—reminiscent of concerts on sultry, summer nights—are theitinerant apostles of the cult called Syndicalism, exhorting by turns indivers tongues. Antonelli had spoken, and many others, when Janet,impelled by a craving not to be denied, had managed to push her waylittle by little from the outskirts of the crowd until now she stoodalmost beneath the orator who poured forth passionate words in a languageshe recognized as Italian. Her curiosity was aroused, she was unable toclassify this tall man whose long and narrow face was accentuated by apointed brown beard, whose lips gleamed red as he spoke, whose slim handswere eloquent. The artist as propagandist—the unsuccessful artist withmore facility than will. The nose was classic, and wanted strength; therestless eyes that at times seemed fixed on her were smouldering windowsof a burning house: the fire that stirred her was also consuming him.Though he could have been little more than five and thirty, his hair wasthinned and greying at the temples. And somehow emblematic of thisphysiognomy and physique, summing it up and expressing it in terms ofapparel, were the soft collar and black scarf tied in a flowing bow.Janet longed to know what he was saying. His phrases, like music, playedon her emotions, and at last, when his voice rose in crescendo at theclimax of his speech, she felt like weeping.
"Un poeta!" a woman beside her exclaimed.
"Who is he?" Janet asked.
"Rolfe," said the woman.
"But he's an Italian?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders. "It is his name that is all I know." Hehad begun to speak again, and now in English, with an enunciation, adistinctive manner of turning his phrases new to such gatherings inAmerica, where labour intellectuals are little known; surprising toJanet, diverting her attention, at first, from the meaning of his words."Labour," she heard, "labour is the creator of all wealth, and wealthbelongs to the creator. The wage system must be abolished. You, thecreators, must do battle against these self-imposed masters until youshall come into your own. You who toil miserably for nine hours andproduce, let us say, nine dollars of wealth—do you receive it? No, whatis given you is barely enough to keep the slave and the slave's familyalive! The master, the capitalist, seizes the rightful reward of yourlabour and spends it on luxuries, on automobiles and fine houses andwomen, on food he can't eat, while you are hungry. Yes, you are slaves,"he cried, "because you submit like slaves."
He waited, motionless and scornful, for the noise to die down. "Since Ihave come here to Hampton, I have heard some speak of the state, othersof the unions. Yet the state is your enemy, it will not help you to gainyour freedom. The legislature has shortened your hours,—but why? Becausethe politicians are afraid of you, and because they think you will becontent with a little. And now that the masters have cut your wages, thestate sends its soldiers to crush you. Onl