The Daily Worker Newspaper, August 23, 1924, Page 9

-eousness! Characters: A A Breniler, A Docker, and A Crowd of Workers, Men and Women. (The sun is dying in the brown haze of a London evening. The water of the Thames Is darkening into cold, black steel. Down the long curve of the embankment the lights stud the dusk like a row of liquid pearls. In an angle of the embankment wall, the Premier stands, leaning against the Parapet, gazing down the long quiet reach of the river. There are shadows about him. He is resting, after his short, but nervous and violent, walk from Downing Street. As he speaks, the sun goes down gradually and com- pletely; the shadows thicken, and the details of the place are lost in dark. ness.) This is a new thing—this doubt. This is the first time it has arisen since I*»have come to my new power. What can it be, this treacherous creeping doubt, which came gnawing at my heart, while I was in the midst of my great discussions? There are princes and premiers of all the earth who come to speak with me—with me, who have come up from the low places to confound them with admiration! Ah, once there was contempt in the eyes of the rulers. Once they looked at me with pity or with a negligent despising. I have shown them! Now I am at the highest place—all the secret dreams of my long nights are fulfilled. Then why doubt? Oh, this i$ solid, if anything in the world is solid! Here is the massed might of an empire which obeys my word, which stands about me to pro- tect me and do my bidding. I have stood with the princes territorial, and the princes of the church; I have wel- comed kings, and have supped with ambassadors from far empires. Surely I have not failed? Out of the ruin of the world, I said I would make order. I, the poor one who once was mocked, am to be the restorer. Now I am come—and let the world know there is a new master, ordained by God and everlasting right- Look, you people of the world, I am he who is tiie new Sa- vior! Then, why this creeping doubt? Perhaps I am not well tonight; my labors have made me tired, and my thots will not be stilled or controlled. Yes, it is true that, in pursuance of my great purpose, I have done things which once I abhorred. But, since I came to this power, it seems that only the power is essential—and the means do not matter. Otherwise, why should I be put in this place—by God, by destiny; by whatever powers rule this shifting life? Yes, I can remember how, in the old days, we cried out against some of the things to which I now willingly set my hand. My hand... . My hand? What? Here I raise it till the beam falls upon it. Is there blpod upon it? Ah, fool! My nerves are broken with the strain. What are the lives of a few—or of many—when world issues are at hand, for me to settle? Those yapping idiots who prate about promises and pledges! What I said in this speech or in that! There were a thousand speeches, and a thousand things said—that is poli- War on War The Disillusioned Soldier Speak By LOUIS REGUERA. We who were disillusioned by entering the World War for the international bankers, let us pause for a moment on that date, August 4, 1914, and also let us vision our experiences through those years that ended (temporarily) in the armistice of November 11, 1918. With the flare of drums and flags, patriotism— honor of home and acclamations of the versatile pen prostitute, Woodrow Wilson, we enlisted. Thousands like myself, believing that this was to end warg for all time and peace would reign tics. Must I be bound to them all, by these fools? Voices—there , are voices tonight. There is the far-away crying of mil- lions who seek freedom, bread. India? Ah, it is not politic!“ We must go on—despite all; the oi ue machine must. go on. \ But, why, then, this doubt? Ah, there is the worst doubt of all, and it has only come to me tonight. This is a poisonous and devilish doubt, the most wounding of all. Do I in truth hold power? Or have I been made drunken by the outward forms of power? Can it be that those who once despised me, still do so, beneath their polite friendliness? Can it be that those dark colossal forces are using me, as they have used all oth- ers?) Am I a tinselled puppet in their hands, drunk with the thot that I am a new Messiah, come to make a new world, or a new Napoleon of states- manship, come to rule, with firmer power? Doth my right hand know what my left hand doeth? Or am I still he of whom they talk with quiet smiles of derision, in the high places where the kings of gold and iron and steel foregather? Have I sold my peo- ple, and my early high thots and dreams, for this empty show of power? Oh, there is blackness in the night, and in my heart! Let this moment be cursed. Put out the lights, deaden THE LONDON “POWER” Play in One Act By Charles Ashleigh is one y large building which abuts onto the stage, with lighted win- dows. It is some sort of public meet- ing place, in a poor quarter. He is erect now, and more confident. He|- has thot himself into a new mood.) Where on earth am I? This must surely be the quarter of the workers. Yes, these narrow houses. . . . I remember. . . Well, I must not for- get, tomorrow, to tell the Chief Secre- tary to prepare all the papers on the Cuban Compensation question. Then, there is the Duke of Cambodia who comes to dine at eight. Also I have heard that the tribesmen of Astolen are becoming insolent. It is regret- table, but, if they will not submit to our efforts to bring them peace and civilization, we must act with firm- ness, The Air Force, I hear, is in ex- cellent conditon and morale. And to- morrow there is the matter of a new fleet—there are not enough ships, it appears, of the new formidable type— we must. have more! We must have more, so that My Government shall be-feared in all parts of the earth! Ah, this is the essence of power. I have been foolish, thus evening. My nerves. . . . I was not used to those rich foods. . . There was once a boy, who lived in a poor house, in a village, and he ate plain oatmeal. But this plain food fed his dreams. He went out into the world, and men lis- CONFERENCE And it is always capitalism that pulls the strings of its political puppets: Herriot, MacDonald, Theunis. my mind—I cannot look upon myself! (He rushes into the night. The scene Is blackened; then again dim forms appear; the forms of houses, whose angles are just discernible against the darkness. It isa narrow sordid street, along which he has come, after hours of wandering. There forever. No more clash of interests, of races, religions and nationalism would ever brew again. Today some of us live to telt the tale about our experiences—ana a sorry, pitiful taly it is. A good deal more wiser are seme of us after coming out with our akin. We did not heed the Communists. Some ot us now are militant Comrunists! Since that slaughter which still bleeds from the workers’ bl.od, to this date a new youth soldiery has grown up. We who had former ey- periences in the art’of warfare ave now going to talk to these younger (future) soldiers like the Commu- nists talked to us. Are we going to let them be carried away by the empty bubbles that swayed us to enlist? Comrades, a profound moral tened to his words, for he had a great|too safe for the likes of you! power of words. He painted a fair world that might come, when all of the oppressed were united. -He told them they should cease from complaining, and should fight. There were some great gath- erings, and tens of thousands heard duty lies before us! ‘Let us not be meek moral cowards and so fail to Rel the truth by not exposing the war oreated by the international bankers for their sole gain at the wacrifice of our lives and the en- slavement of those that survived. War ensiaves the workers of all countries! War destroys home and d-generates the physical and men- ta: bodies of both sexes! War on war! Comrades, let us war on war now with our voices and interna- tional solidarity. Expose the two agencies, sole gainers, that create wars: 1. The dope houses (the churches), and 2, the international bankers. Let our voices be a clarion call to all our comrades to war on war so that our voices will make the corrupt capitalistic socie- his words of revolt, and were ign ened thereby. But that was long ago. + » « « It seems like centuries. . There was a strange fire in me, in those early days when I still believed. What have I said? When 1 still believed? Ah, we must face facts! There has been a war, and the world has crumbled. All that matters is power. Let me grasp that amidst the ruin, What is that black shadow, bending to pick, from the gutter, foul scraps of food. Look, it is rising, straighten- ing its crooked height. It points at me. What did you say? (He staggers back, Whispering:) “Judas!” “Ju- das,” it said: and pointed at me its accusing finger. Ah, I dream again! I must see the royal physician; I am sick. There was no one there. .. . Well, then—YES! I will be frank, here in this dark place where no one hears, frank with the shadows and with my soul. I AM JUDAS, if you will! I WILL HAVE POWER! IAM PART OF THE GREAT MACHINE OF POWER. Away with your trump- ery protests, fools! You were made to be ruled, and ruled you shall be; altho I must lull you in your chains with the phrases you love to hear! I have been disturbed by your pro- tests, your cries of revolution. It seems I once aided that illusion in your minds. But now I care no longer for you. I have conquered! I am power! And you—you are silent, and my servants. (He stands, with folded arms, madly exalted, filled with a maniacal self- worship. Suddenly the lights in the windows of the hall darken from white to scarlet. A great voice from within cries, “Down with the traitors! Long live the Revolution!” and a thousand voices take up the cry. Then the “Internationale” is heard, sung by many voices, loud and full-throated. The meeting is over. The doors of the hall are thrown open, and a great red light streams out upon the stage. The worker.audience begins to pour out, still singing. The crimson beams are full upon the frock-coated, top- hatted figure, standing in the center of the stage.) Ah, scum! What do you do? The rabble is trying to overthrow my au- thority. What is this noise of Revo- lution? Where are my guards? Where are the police? Order, we must have order, so that we may proceed peace- fully, gradually, gradually, gradually Where are the police, my po- teh ae lice? (Several workers stop, gazing curi. ously at the distraught man. An im- mense burly docker, in working- clothes, with a scarlet band about his arm, and a rifle slung across his back, comes up to him, and contempt- uously inspects the raving figure.) The Docker: Gor’blimy, mates, look at this toff! ’E ain’t ‘alf excited! Looks a bit dotty, don’t ’e? *Armless, tho, I suppose. ‘Ere, mate, you better get off to bed, and out of our way! We got work to do tonight which ain’t Come on, mates! (They once more start the “Inter- nationale,” and, singing, the mass pours across the stage, from the hall, and out at the other side. They are still marching and singing as the cur- tain descends. ties and the dope house agents, priest, parson and rabbi tremble with nightmares. The world still bleeds from the debacle of the World War and destitution is rampant everywhere. While in ‘one.sixth of the globe’s surface (Soviet Russia) peace reigns and workers go about with heads uplifted and brows not knitted from dire wants. On with the propaganda —the DAILY WORKER! More power to your press! You editors that are risking your lives daily by exposing this viper monster of international bankers, tong live! More power to your trains and pens on war on wat and for the ultimate overthrow of capi talism.