The Iron Heel | Page 7

humor, I thought, and I almost forgave him his clothes. But the
time went by, and the dinner went by, and he never opened his mouth to speak, while the
ministers talked interminably about the working class and its relation to the church, and
what the church had done and was doing for it. I noticed that my father was annoyed
because Ernest did not talk. Once father took advantage of a lull and asked him to say
something; but Ernest shrugged his shoulders and with an "I have nothing to say" went
on eating salted almonds.
But father was not to be denied. After a while he said:
"We have with us a member of the working class. I am sure that he can present things
from a new point of view that will be interesting and refreshing. I refer to Mr. Everhard."
The others betrayed a well-mannered interest, and urged Ernest for a statement of his
views. Their attitude toward him was so broadly tolerant and kindly that it was really
patronizing. And I saw that Ernest noted it and was amused. He looked slowly about him,
and I saw the glint of laughter in his eyes.
"I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy," he began, and then
hesitated with modesty and indecision.
"Go on," they urged, and Dr. Hammerfield said: "We do not mind the truth that is in any
man. If it is sincere," he amended.
"Then you separate sincerity from truth?" Ernest laughed quickly.
Dr. Hammerfield gasped, and managed to answer, "The best of us may be mistaken,

young man, the best of us."
Ernest's manner changed on the instant. He became another man.
"All right, then," he answered; "and let me begin by saying that you are all mistaken. You
know nothing, and worse than nothing, about the working class. Your sociology is as
vicious and worthless as is your method of thinking."
It was not so much what he said as how he said it. I roused at the first sound of his voice.
It was as bold as his eyes. It was a clarion-call that thrilled me. And the whole table was
aroused, shaken alive from monotony and drowsiness.
"What is so dreadfully vicious and worthless in our method of thinking, young man?" Dr.
Hammerfield demanded, and already there was something unpleasant in his voice and
manner of utterance.
"You are metaphysicians. You can prove anything by metaphysics; and having done so,
every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician wrong--to his own satisfaction.
You are anarchists in the realm of thought. And you are mad cosmos-makers. Each of
you dwells in a cosmos of his own making, created out of his own fancies and desires.
You do not know the real world in which you live, and your thinking has no place in the
real world except in so far as it is phenomena of mental aberration.
"Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to you talk and talk?
You reminded me for all the world of the scholastics of the Middle Ages who gravely and
learnedly debated the absorbing question of how many angels could dance on the point of
a needle. Why, my dear sirs, you are as remote from the intellectual life of the twentieth
century as an Indian medicine- man making incantation in the primeval forest ten
thousand years ago."
As Ernest talked he seemed in a fine passion; his face glowed, his eyes snapped and
flashed, and his chin and jaw were eloquent with aggressiveness. But it was only a way
he had. It always aroused people. His smashing, sledge-hammer manner of attack
invariably made them forget themselves. And they were forgetting themselves now.
Bishop Morehouse was leaning forward and listening intently. Exasperation and anger
were flushing the face of Dr. Hammerfield. And others were exasperated, too, and some
were smiling in an amused and superior way. As for myself, I found it most enjoyable. I
glanced at father, and I was afraid he was going to giggle at the effect of this human
bombshell he had been guilty of launching amongst us.
"Your terms are rather vague," Dr. Hammerfield interrupted. "Just precisely what do you
mean when you call us metaphysicians?"
"I call you metaphysicians because you reason metaphysically," Ernest went on. "Your
method of reasoning is the opposite to that of science. There is no validity to your
conclusions. You can prove everything and nothing, and no two of you can agree upon
anything. Each of you goes into his own consciousness to explain himself and the
universe. As well may you lift yourselves by your own bootstraps as to explain

consciousness by consciousness."
"I do not understand," Bishop Morehouse said. "It seems to me that