MAMMONART
_An Essay in Economic Interpretation_
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR
PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
COPYRIGHT, 1924, 1925
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
First edition, February, 1925, 4,000 copies, clothbound,
4,000 copies, paperbound.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Ogi, the Son of Og 1
II. Who Owns the Artists? 7
III. Art and Personality 11
IV. The Laborer and His Hire 14
V. The Lord’s Anointed 16
VI. Artificial Childhood 19
VII. Mrs. Ogi Emerges 21
VIII. The Horse-Trade 23
IX. The Class Lie 25
X. Mrs. Ogi Orders Jazz 27
XI. The Populist Convention 29
XII. Kansas and Judea 32
XIII. The Communist Almanac 35
XIV. God’s Propaganda 38
XV. Mrs. Prestonia Orders Plumbing 40
XVI. Mrs. Ogi Orders Etiquette 42
XVII. William Randolph Alcibiades 45
XVIII. The Age of Hero-Worship 46
XIX. Hundred Per Cent Athenian 49
XX. The Funny Man of Reaction 52
XXI. Athens and Los Angeles 56
XXII. The Slave Empire 58
XXIII. Dumb Pious Æneas 60
XXIV. The Roman Four Hundred 63
XXV. The American Empire 68
XXVI. The Christian Revolution 70
XXVII. The Ins and the Outs 71
XXVIII. The Heaven of Elegance 74
XXIX. The Muckraker’s Hell 77
XXX. The Pious Poisoners 80
XXXI. The Papal Paymasters 84
XXXII. Who Is Crazy? 88
XXXIII. Ogi, Anglomaniac 92
XXXIV. Phosphorescence and Decay 95
XXXV. The Good Man Theory 98
XXXVI. Comic Relief 101
XXXVII. Praise for Puritans 105
XXXVIII. Comrade’s Progress 110
XXXIX. Vanity Fair 113
XL. Glory Propaganda 116
XLI. Unbridled Desires 120
XLII. The Harpooner of Hypocrisy 124
XLIII. Écrasez l’Infame 130
XLIV. The Trumpeter of Revolution 135
XLV. The Harvard Manner 139
XLVI. The Poisoned Rat 142
XLVII. Virtue Rewarded 144
XLVIII. The Good Fellow’s Code 146
XLIX. The Gauger of Genius 148
L. The Brain Proprietor 150
LI. Politics Is Fate 154
LII. Behind the Hedge-Rows 159
LIII. Tory Romance 163
LIV. The Meaning of Magic 167
LV. The Tory Whip 171
LVI. The Fear That Kills 173
LVII. The First Lord of Letters 175
LVIII. The Angel of Revolt 178
LIX. The Stable-Keeper’s Son 183
LX. The Predatory Artist 190
LXI. The Old Communard 194
LXII. Tyger, Tyger! 199
LXIII. The Child of His Age 202
LXIV. Prayer in Adultery 204
LXV. Main Street in France 206
LXVI. The Mattress Grave 209
LXVII. Siegfried-Bakunin 211
LXVIII. The Gospel of Silence 216
LXIX. The Lullaby Laureate 220
LXX. High-Brow Society 225
LXXI. Official Pessimism 228
LXXII. God Save the People 231
LXXIII. The Collector of Snobs 233
LXXIV. Arts and Crafts 236
LXXV. Seeing America First 239
LXXVI. The Age of Innocence 242
LXXVII. A Snow-Bound Saint 244
LXXVIII. Puritanism in Decay 246
LXXIX. The Angel Israfel 249
LXXX. The Good Grey Poet 253
LXXXI. Cabbage Soup 258
LXXXII. Dead Souls 260
LXXXIII. The Russian Hamlet 263
LXXXIV. The Dead-House 265
LXXXV. The Christian Bull-Dog 268
LXXXVI. The Peasant Count 271
LXXXVII. Headaches and Dyspepsia 276
LXXXVIII. The Troughs of Zolaism 279
LXXXIX. The Sportive Demon 283
XC. The Foe of Formulas 285
XCI. The Biological Superior 289
XCII. The Overman 291
XCIII. The Octopus Cities 295
XCIV. The Inspired Parrakeet 298
XCV. The Green Carnation 302
XCVI. The White Chrysanthemum 307
XCVII. The Duel of Wit 312
XCVIII. The Cultured-Class Historian 316
XCIX. The Premier Novelist 322
C. The Uncrowned King 326
CI. Smiling America 333
CII. The Eminent Tankard-Man 337
CIII. The Soldier of Fortune 341
CIV. The Bowery Boy 345
CV. The California Octopus 349
CVI. The Old-Fashioned American 353
CVII. Badgad-on-the-Subway 357
CVIII. Supermanhood 363
CIX. The Stealthy Nemesis 372
CX. The Rebel Immortal 379
CXI. A Text-Book for Russia 383
MAMMONART
CHAPTER I
OGI, THE SON OF OG
One evening in the year minus ninety-eight thousand and
seventy-six--that is, one hundred thousand years ago--Ogi, the son of
Og, sat in front of a blazing fire in the cave, licking his greasy lips
and wiping his greasy fingers upon the thick brown hair of his chest.
The grease on Ogi’s lips and fingers had come from a chunk out of an
aurochs, which Ogi had roasted on a sharpened stick before the fire. The
tribe had been hunting that day, and Ogi himself had driven the spear
through the eye of the great creature. Being young, he was a hero; and
now he had a hero’s share of meat in him, and sat before the fire,
sleepy-eyed, retracing in dull, slow revery the incidents of the hunt.
In his hand was the toasting-stick, and he toyed with it, making marks
upon the ground. Presently, half involuntarily, there came a pattern
into these marks: a long mark--that was how the body of the aurochs
went; two marks in front, the forelegs of the aurochs; two marks in
back, the hind legs; a big scratch in front, the head. And suddenly Ogi
found a thrill running over him. There was the great beast before him,
brought magically back to life by markings in the dirt. Ogi had made the
first picture!
But then terror seized him. He lived in a world of terror, and always
had to act before he dared to think. Hastily he scratched over the dirt,
until every trace of the magic beast was gone. He gazed behind him,
expecting to see the spirit of the aurochs, summoned into the cave by
this fearful new magic. He glanced at the other members of his tribe,
crouching sleepily about the fire, to see if they had noticed his daring
venture.
But nothing evil happened; the meat in Ogi’s stomach did not develop bad
spirits that summer night, neither did the lightning poke him with its
dagger, nor a tree-limb crash upon his head. Therefore, next evening a
temptation came upon him; he remembered his marks, and ventured to bring
back his magic aurochs, and sit before the fire and watch him toss his
head and snort at his enemies. As time passed Ogi did a thing yet
bolder; he made a straight up-and-down mark, with two prongs underneath,
and a round circle on top; Ogi himself, a double Ogi, with his long
spear stopping the monster’s charge!
Even that did not prove bad magic; Ogi did not sicken, no
lightning-daggers or tree-branches struck him. With practice, another
idea came; he indicated the body of the aurochs by two marks, one above
and one below, where the creature vanished into space. Between these
were other scratches indicating a shaggy coat; and in the head a round
spot, with a black hole punched deep by the toasting-stick--the eye of
the monster, glaring balefully at Ogi, and filling him with such thrills
as had never before passed along the nerves of a living organism.
Of course such big magic could not long remain a secret. Ogi was
irresistibly driven to show his homemade aurochs to the tribe, and there
was a tremendous commotion. It was a miracle, all made clear by their
gruntings; they knew the monster instantly--an aurochs, and nothing
else! They cried out with delight at the cleverness of the
representation.
(And ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and sixty-six years later, when
the writer was a little boy, he used to see in a certain home of wealth
which he visited, three pictures hanging in the dining-room, and
appealing to gastronomic emotions. One picture represented several
peaches on a platter, another represented half a dozen fish on a string,
the third showed two partridges hanging by their necks. The members of
the tribe of Ogi, now called the Merchants and Manufacturers Association
of Baltimore, would gather at supper parties and marvel at this big
magic. Here were works of art, and all knew they were works of art, and
knew exactly why; they would say of the fish: “You can see the very
shine of the scales!” Of the peaches: “You can rub the fuzz off them!”
Of the birds: “You can bury your hands in the feathers!”)
But when the first thrills had passed, the dwellers in the cave with Ogi
fell victims to panic. An aurochs was a fearful and destructive beast;
it was hard enough to have to kill him for food--but now to bring back
his angry spirit was tempting fate. In the Holy Mountain fronting the
cave dwelt the Great Hunter, who made all aurochs, and would be jealous
of usurpers. The Witch Doctor of the tribe, who visited the Great Hunter
and made spells for good luck--he was the proper person to make magic,
and not an up-start boy. So the Witch Doctor trampled out the drawing of
Ogi, and the Old Man of the tribe, who made the laws, drove him out from
the cave, and into the night where the sabre-toothed tiger roamed.
(And last winter the writer stood one night at 43rd Street and Broadway,
a busy corner of New York, and across the front of a building a whole
block long he beheld great letters of violet fire, spelling three words:
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. He entered the building, and there upon a silver
screen he saw a flash of lightning, followed by a burst of clouds and a
terrifying clatter of stage thunder, and out of the lightning and clouds
and thunder was unrolled before his eyes the Second Commandment: _Thou
shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything
that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in
the water under the earth._)
Ogi found a cave of his own, and escaped the sabre-tooth tiger. And not
all the furies of the Witch Doctor, nor even the Ten Commandments of the
Great Hunter, could take from his mind the memory of those delicious
thrills which had stolen over him when he made the magic aurochs in the
dirt. Being now alone, he had time for magic, and he got red stones and
covered the walls of his cave with pictured beasts of many sorts. And
presently came young men from the tribe, and beholding what he had done,
they took to visiting him in secret to share the forbidden thrills.
(And on Main Street in our Great City, I can take you to a cave with
letters of fire over the top, called an “arcade,” and you may go in, and
find the magic of Ogi hidden in little boxes, into which you drop a
token made of copper, and see what is to be seen. One part of this cave
is labeled, _For Men Only_. I have never been into this part, and
therefore do not know what magic the descendants of Ogi have there
hidden; but it is interesting to know that a nerve channel, once
established in a living organism, can be handed down through generations
to the number of three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three.)
Now in the course of time it happened that there was war in the tribe
between the Old Man and the Next Oldest Man; and also between the Old
Witch Doctor and the Next Doctor. The rebels, having learned about the
magic of Ogi, desired to make use of it. There was a secret meeting, at
which the rebel Witch Doctor declared that he had had an interview with
the Great Hunter on the Holy Mountain, and the Great Hunter Himself had
given Ogi power to make the magic aurochs, and to kill them in magic
hunts. In other words, said the Witch Doctor, Ogi was an Inspired
Artist; and if he and his friends would help the new party into power,
Ogi would become Court Painter, and his scratches would be raised to the
status of Ritual. Needless to say, Ogi was delighted at that, and
likewise his friends, some of whom had learned to make scratches almost
as good as Ogi’s, and who desired now to become Inspired Artists, and to
decorate the cave walls and weapons of the tribe.
But one provision must be made clear, said the rebel Witch Doctor; Ogi
and his friends must understand that they were to glorify the magic of
this particular Witch Doctor. When they portrayed hunting, they must
make it plain that it was the new Old Man who was head of the hunt; they
must make him wonderful and fearful to the tribe. Ogi and his pupils
answered that so long as they were permitted to make drawings of aurochs
and of hunters, it made not the slightest difference what aurochs and
what hunters they portrayed. Art was a thing entirely aloof from
politics and propaganda. And so the bargain was settled; the banner of
insurrection was raised, and the new Old Man became head of the tribe,
and the new Witch Doctor set up his magic behind the aurochs-skin
curtains in the far end of the cave; and Ogi made many pictures of both
of them.
(And I have walked through the palaces of kings, and through temples and
cathedrals in many lands, and have seen long rows of portraits of the
Old Men of many tribes, clad in robes of gorgeous colors, and wearing
upon their heads crowns of gold and flashing jewels; they were called
kings and emperors and dukes and earls and princes and captains of
industry and presidents of chambers of commerce. I have seen also the
portraits and statues of Witch Doctors of many varieties of magic; they
were called popes and priests and cardinals and abbots and college
presidents and doctors of divinity. And always the paintings were called
Old Masters.)
So Ogi became Court Painter and painted the exploits of his tribe. And
when the tribe went out to battle with other tribes, Ogi made pictures
to show the transcendent beauty of his tribe, and the unloveliness of
the tribe they were to destroy.
(And when my tribe went out to battle, its highly paid magazine
illustrators made pictures of noble-faced maidens shouting war-cries,
and it was called a Liberty Bond Campaign. And the story-tellers of my
tribe became martial, and called themselves Vigilantes.)
Now Ogi throve greatly, developing his technique, so that he could show
all kinds of beasts and men. The fame of his magic spread, and other
tribes came to visit the caves and to marvel at his skill, and to gaze
reverently upon the Inspired Artist.
(And in a certain hotel restaurant in New York I was admitted behind the
magic red cord which separates the great from the unheard of, and
sitting at a table my companion enlightened me with discreet nods and
whispers, saying: “That is Heywood Broun; and next to him is Rita
Weiman; and that’s Mencken just coming in; and that round little man in
the brown suit and the big spectacles is Hergesheimer.”)
The fame of Ogi, and the magic of which he was master, brought thrills
to the young women of the tribe, and they cast themselves at his feet,
and so his talent was not lost to future generations.
(And in the galleries of Europe I gazed upon miles of madonnas--madonnas
mournful and madonnas smiling, madonnas with wavy golden hair and
madonnas with straight black hair--but never a madonna that was not
plump, manicured and polished and robed in silks and satins, as became
the mistresses of court painters, and of popes and cardinals and abbots
able to pay for publicity.)
The sons and grandsons of Ogi cultivated his magic, and found new ways
to intensify the thrills of art. They learned to make clay figures, and
to carve the Old Men of the tribe and the Witch Doctors out of wood and
stone.
(And just before the war, being in Berlin, I was taken by a friend for a
drive down the Sieges Allée, between rows of white marble monsters in
halberd and helm and cowl and royal robes, brandishing sceptres and
mitres, battle-axes and two-bladed swords. Being myself a barbarian, I
ventured to titter at this spectacle; whereupon my friend turned pale,
and put his fingers upon my lips, indicating the driver of the hack, and
whispering how more than once it had happened that presumptuous
barbarians who tittered at the Old Men of the Hohenzollern tribe had
been driven by a loyal hackman straight to the police station and to
jail.)
Likewise the sons of Ogi learned to make noises in imitation of the
songs of birds, and so they were able to bring back the thrills of first
love. They learned to imitate the rolling of thunder, and the clash of
clubs and spears in battle fury, and so they were able to renew the
glory of the hunt and the slaughter.
(And in the year 1870 the Khedive of Egypt offered a prize of ten
thousand pounds to that descendant of Ogi who should make the most
powerful magic out of his ancestral slaughterings; and now, throughout
all civilization, the masters of the machines of slaughter put on their
honorific raiment, and escort their pudgy wives, bedecked with jewels,
to performances of their favorite grand opera, “Aida.”)
Likewise the descendants of Ogi learned to enact their adventures in
imitation hunts. Inspired by music, they would dance about the
camp-fire, thrusting their weapons into a magic aurochs, shouting when
they saw him fall, and licking their chops at the taste of imaginary
flesh.
(And in thirty thousand “movie” houses throughout the United States the
tribes now gather to woo and win magic darlings of luxury, and lick
their chops over the acquirement of imaginary millions; also to shudder
at wicked Russian Bolsheviks with bristling beards, at villainous “Red”
agitators with twisted faces, and at such other spectacles as the Old
Men and the Witch Doctors prepare for them, according to instructions
from the Great Hunter on the Holy Mountain.)
Three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three generations have passed,
and in every generation the descendants of Ogi have had to face the
problem of their relationship to the Old Men and the Witch Doctors. Ogi
himself was a hunter, who slew his aurochs with his own hand, and
butchered and cooked his meat before he ate it. But now it has been long
since any descendant of Ogi has driven a spear through the eye of a
charging aurochs. They have become specialists in the imaginary; their
hands adjusted, not to spears and stone hatchets, but to brushes and
pencils, fountain-pens and typewriter keys. So, when they are cast out
from the tribe they can no longer face the sabre-toothed tiger and find
meat for themselves and their beautiful women; so, more than ever, the
grip of the Old Men and the Witch Doctors grows tight upon them. More
than ever it is required that their pictures and stories shall deal with
things of which the Old Men and the Witch Doctors approve; more than
ever they are called upon to honor and praise the customs of their
tribe, as against the customs of all other tribes of men or angels.