_By Robert Hunter_
I remember as a little lad of eight or nine years, walking with my
father in one of the streets of Terre Haute. A tall, slender, handsome
young man stopped to talk with my father. At first I was fascinated by
the way they grasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes. I was then
impressed by their animated conversation. But they talked on and on
until it seemed to me hours in length; and finally I began to tug at my
father’s coat-tails, urging him to come on. After a while they parted,
and my father said to me very seriously, “You should not interrupt me,
Robert, when I am talking. That young man is one of the greatest souls
of this earth, and you should have listened to what he said.”
From time to time afterwards I heard of ’Gene, and many were the stories
told of him. Everyone spoke of his friendship for the poor. He could
never keep money in his pocket. His wife says he always gives away his
clothes to those who come to his door; and he gives his best suits,
never his old ones.
Once I was told he had a gold watch of considerable value which had been
given to him, and a fireman who had been out of work for some time
stopped him to say that he had a job offered on the railroad, but he
would have to have a watch before he could go to work. Immediately ’Gene
took out his gold watch and give it to the man, telling him to return it
when he was able to buy one for himself.
These and countless other stories are told by his fellow-citizens. Many
of them do not understand ’Gene. His views and his work they cannot
comprehend, but every man, woman and child in that town loves him with a
devotion quite extraordinary.
They say that a prophet is without honor in his own country, but in
Terre Haute you will find that however much they misunderstand the work
that ’Gene is doing there is not one who does not honor and love him.
Ask anyone. Go to the poor, the vagrant, the hobo. Go to the churches,
to the rich, to the banker, to the traction magnate. You will find that
every single one will say that ’Gene has something which other men do
not possess. Some will say he is rash, unwise, and too radical. Others
will say that he is too good for this world, and that his visions and
dreams are the fanciful outpourings of a generous but impractical soul.
But ask them about his character, his honesty, his sincerity, and
unconsciously many of them will remove their hats.
Some of these statements will seem an exaggeration. But one cannot avoid
that in speaking of ’Gene. When one who knows him makes any statement,
no matter how moderate, it will seem to others who do not know him an
exaggeration.
’Gene has followed Truth wherever she has led. He does not ask what is
politic, what is wise, what is expedient; he only asks what is truth. He
loves Truth beyond all things. She is his absolute mistress, and he has
gone with her from riches to poverty, from popularity to unpopularity.
He has gone with her out of great positions into small positions. He has
stood up for her against all men. For her he has seemed at times to
sacrifice all earthly gain, and to accept without one pang of regret
misunderstanding, misrepresentation, and almost universal condemnation.
For her he has been momentarily one of the most popular men in the
country, and for her he has been momentarily one of the most unpopular
men in the country. He has been her companion when everyone believed in
her, and he has been her companion when to believe in her meant to go
into prison stripes, behind iron bars.
Sometimes I have differed with ’Gene. I have said to him that what he
was doing was unwise, impolitic, dangerous. At such times, under such
criticism, he is always kindly but undeterred; and it is his conscience
that answers you back and asks, “But is it right? Is it true?”
Shortly after I left college I went to live in one of the most
poverty-stricken districts of Chicago. One Sunday it was announced that
Eugene would come there to speak. Thousands came to hear him, and
overflowing the hall a multitude waited outside to hear him speak from a
truck. After waiting for two hours perhaps, ’Gene came out and began to
speak. Most of the audience were foreigners who could hardly understand
a word of English, and as I heard his beautiful words and saw their
wistful, earnest faces I felt that something more powerful, penetrating
and articulate than mere words was passing between the audience and the
speaker. For a moment it seemed to me that a soul was speaking from the
eyes and frame of ’Gene, and that, regardless of differences of language
and all the traditional barriers that separated him from the multitude
about him, they understood and believed all he said. I remember how my
heart beat, and how tears began to flow from my boyish eyes. I was
ashamed for fear someone would see me. And it was not because of
anything that ’Gene was saying. It was solely because of something back
of the man, something greater than the man, something bigger, more
powerful, and more moving than any words or expression. And after the
thing was over I went to him, helped him on with his coat, and fondled
him as I would my own father or brother. And as we went away together
there kept coming into my heart the words of Ruth:
“Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee.
For whither thou goest I will go, and whither thou lodgest I will lodge.
Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”