Billy boy,” said he, “we do lead rotten useless lives.”
“Good Lord!” I thought; it was the first sign of a soul I had ever
noted in Old Joe! “Why,” I argued, “you sell paper, and that's
useful, isn't it?”
“I don't know whether it is or not. Look at what's printed on
it--mostly advertisements and bunk.” And again we walked for a bit.
“By the way,” said the ex-centre-rush, “before he got through, I saw
that aura, or whatever you call it. I guess I'm getting nutty, too!”
XXXVI
The first thing I did on Sunday morning was to pick up the “Western
City Times,” to see what it had done to Carpenter. I found that he
had achieved the front page, triple column, with streamer head all
the way across the page:
PROPHET IN TOWN, HEALS SICK, RAVES AT RICH AMERICA IS MOBLAND,
ALLEGED IN RED RIOT OF TALK
There followed a half page story about Carpenter's strenuous day in
Western City, beginning with a “Bolshevik stump speech” to a mob of
striking tailors. It appears that the prophet had gone to the Hebrew
quarter of the city, and finding a woman railing at a butcher
because of “alleged extortion,” had begun a speech, inciting a mob,
so that the police reserves had to be called out, and a riot was
narrowly averted. From there the prophet had gone to the Labor
Temple, announcing himself to the reporters as “fresh from God,”
with a message to “Mobland,” his name for what he prophesied America
would be under his rule. He had then healed a sick boy, the
performance being carefully staged in front of moving picture
cameras. The account of the “Times” did not directly charge that the
performance was a “movie stunt,” but it described it in a mocking
way which made it obviously that. The paper mentioned T-S in such a
way as to indicate him as the originator of the scheme, and it had
fun with Mary Magna, pawning her paste jewels. It published the
flash-light picture, and also a picture of Carpenter walking down
the street, trailed by his mob.
In another column was the climax, the “red riot of talk” at Grant
Hall. James, the striking carpenter, had indulged in virulent and
semi-insane abuse of the rich; after which the new prophet had
stirred the mob to worse frenzies. The “Times” quoted sample
sentences, such as: “Do not think that I am come to bring you ease
and comfort; I am come to bring strife and disorder to this world.”
I turned to the editorial page, and there was a double-column
leader, made extra impressive by leads. “AN INFAMOUS BLASPHEMY,” was
the heading. Perhaps you have a “Times” in your own city; if so, you
will no doubt recognize the standard style:
“For many years this newspaper has been pointing out to the people
of Western City the accumulating evidence that the men who
manipulate the forces of organized labor are Anarchists at heart,
plotting to let loose the torch of red revolution over this fair
land. We have clearly showed their nefarious purpose to overthrow
the Statue of Liberty and set up in its place the Dictatorship of
the Walking Delegate. But, evil as we thought them, we were naive
enough to give them credit for an elemental sense of decency. Even
though they had no respect for the works of man, we thought at least
they would spare the works of God, the most sacred symbols of divine
revelation to suffering humanity. But yesterday there occurred in
this city a performance which for shameless insolence and
blasphemous perversion exceeds anything but the wildest flight of a
devil's imagination, and reveals the bosses of the Labor Trust as
wanton defilers of everything that decent people hold precious and
holy.
“What was the spectacle? A moving picture producer, moved by blind,
and we trust unthinking lust for gain, produces in our midst an
alleged 'prophet,' dressed in a costume elaborately contrived to
imitate and suggest a Sacred Presence which our respect for religion
forbids us to name; he brings this vile, perverted creature forward,
announcing himself to the newspapers as 'fresh from God,' and
mouthing phrases of social greed and jealousy with which for the
past few years the Hun-agents and Hun-lovers in our midst have made
us only too sickenly familiar. This monstrous parody of divine
compassion is escorted to that headquarters of Pro-Germanism and red
revolution, the Labor Temple, and there performs, in the presence of
moving picture cameras, a grotesque parody upon the laying on of
hands and the healing of the sick. The 'Times' presents a photograph
of this incredible infamy. We apologize to our readers for thus
aiding the designs of cunning publicity-seekers, but there is no
other way to make clear to the public the gross affront to decency
which has been perpetrated, and the further affronts which are being
planned. This appears to be a scheme for making a moving picture
'star'; this 'Carpenter'--note the silly pun--is to become the
latest sensation in million dollar movie dolls, and the American
public is to be invited to pay money to witness a story of sacred
things played by a real 'prophet' and worker of 'miracles'!”
“But the worst has yet to be told. The masters of the Labor Trust,
not to be outdone in bidding for unholy notoriety, had the insolence
to invite this blasphemous charlatan to their riot of revolutionary
ranting called a 'protest meeting.' He and other creatures of his
ilk, summoning the forces which are organizing red ruin in our city,
proceed to rave at the police and the courts for denying to mobs of
strikers the right to throw brickbats at honest workers looking for
jobs, and to hold the pistol of the boycott at the heads of
employers who dare to stand for American liberty and democracy! We
have heard much mouthing of class venom and hate in this community,
but never have our ears been affronted by anything so unpardonable
as this disguising of the doctrine of Lenin and Trotsky in the robes
of Christian revelation. This 'prophet fresh from God,' as he styles
himself, is a man of peace and brotherly love--oh, yes, of course!
We know these wolves in sheeps' clothing, these pacifists and lovers
of man with the gold of the Red International in their pockets, and
slavering from their tongues the fine phrases of idealism which
conveniently protect them from the strong hand of the law! We have
seen their bloody work for four years in Russia, and we tell them
that if they expect to prepare the confiscation of property and the
nationalization of women in this country while disguising themselves
in moving picture imitations of religion, they are grossly
underestimating the intelligence of the red-blooded citizens of this
great republic. We shall be much mistaken if the order-loving and
patriotic people of our Christian community do not find a way to
stamp their heel upon this vile viper before its venom shall have
poisoned the air we breathe.”
XXXVII
Then I picked up the “Examiner.” Our “Examiner” does not go in so
much for moral causes; it is more interested in getting circulation,
for which it relies upon sensation, and especially what it calls
“heart interest,” meaning sex. It had found what it wanted in this
story, as you may judge by the headlines:
MOVIE QUEEN PAWNS JEWELS FOR PROPHET OF GOD
Then followed a story of which Mary Magna was the centre, with T-S
and myself for background. The reporter had hunted out the Mexican
family with which Carpenter had spent the night, and he drew a
touching picture of Carpenter praying over Mary in this humble home,
and converting her to a better life. Would the “million dollar
vamp,” as the “Examiner” called her, now take to playing only
religious parts? Mary was noncommittal on the point; and pending her
decision, the “Examiner” published her portraits in half a dozen of
her most luxurious roles--for example, as Salome after taking off
the seventh veil. Side by side with Carpenter, that had a real
“punch,” you may believe!
The telephone rang, and there was the voice of T-S, fairly raving.
He didn't mind the “Examiner” stuff; that was good business, but
that in the “Times”--he was going to sue the “Times” for a million
dollars, by God, and would I back him in his claim that he had not
put Carpenter up to the healing business?
After a bit, the magnate began apologizing for his repudiation of
the prophet. He was in a position, just now with these hard times,
where the Wall Street crowd could ruin him if he got in bad with
them. And then he told me a curious story. Last night, after the
meeting, young Everett, his secretary, had come to him and asked if
he could have a couple of months' leave of absence without pay. He
was so much interested in Carpenter that he wanted to follow him and
help him!
“Y' know, Billy,” said the voice over the phone, “y' could a'
knocked me over vit a fedder! Dat young feller, he vas alvays so
quiet, and such a fine business feller, I put him in charge of all
my collections. I said to him, 'Vot you gonna do?' And he said, 'I
gonna learn from Mr. Carpenter.' Says I, 'Vot you gonna learn?' and
he says, 'I gonna learn to be a better man.' Den he vaits a minute,
and he says, 'Mr. T-S, he _told_ me to foller him!' J' ever hear de
like o' dat?”
“What did you say?”
“Vot could I say? I vanted to say, 'Who's givin' you de orders?' But
I couldn't, somehow! I hadda tell him to go ahead, and come back
before he forgot all my business.”
I dressed, and had my breakfast, and drove to St. Bartholomew's. It
was a November morning, bright and sunny, as warm as summer; and it
is always such a pleasure to see that goodly company of ladies and
gentlemen, so perfectly groomed, so perfectly mannered, breathing a
sense of peace and well being. Ah, that wonderful sense of well
being! “God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world!” And what a
curious contrast with the Labor Temple! For a moment I doubted
Carpenter; surely these ladies with their decorative bonnets, their
sweet perfumes, their gowns of rose and lilac and other pastel
shades--surely they were more important life-products than women in
frowsy and dowdy imitation clothes! Surely it was better to be
serene and clean and pleasant, than to be terrible and bewildered,
sick and quarrelsome! I was seized by a frenzy, a sort of
instinctive animal lust for this life of ease and prettiness. No
matter if those dirty, raucous-voiced hordes of strikers, and others
of their “ilk”--as the “Times” phrased it--did have to wash my
clothes and scrub my floors, just so that _I_ stayed clean and
decent!
I bowed to a score or two of the elegant ladies, and to their
escorts in shiny top hats and uncreased kid gloves, and went into
the exquisite church with its glowing stained glass window, and
looked up over the altar--and there stood Carpenter! I tell you, it
gave me a queer shock. There he was, up in the window, exactly where
he had always been; I thought I had suddenly wakened from a dream.
There had been no “prophet fresh from God,” no mass-meeting at Grant
Hall, no editorial in the “Times”! But suddenly I heard a voice at
my elbow: “Billy, what is this awful thing you've been doing?” It
was my Aunt Caroline, and I asked what she meant, and she answered,
“That terrible prophet creature, and getting your name into the
papers!”
So I knew it was true, and I walked with my dear, sweet old auntie
down the aisle, and there sat Aunt Jennie, with her two lanky girls
who have grown inches every time I run into them; and also Uncle
Timothy. Uncle Timothy was my guardian until I came of age, so I am
a little in awe of him, and now I had to listen to his whispered
reproaches--it being the first principle of our family never to “get
into the papers.” I told him that it wasn't my fault I had been
knocked down by a mob, and surely I couldn't help it if this man
Carpenter found me while I was unconscious, and made me well. Nor
could I fail to be polite to my benefactor, and try to help him
about. My Uncle Timothy was amazed, because he had accepted the
“Times” story that it was all a “movie” hoax. Everybody will tell
you in Western City that they “never believe a word they read in the
'Times'”; but of course they do--they have to believe something, and
what else have they?
I was trying to think about that picture over the altar. Of course,
they would naturally have replaced it! I wondered who had found old
de Wiggs up there; I wondered if he knew about it, and if he had any
idea who had played that prank. I looked to his pew; yes, there he
sat, rosy and beaming, bland as ever! I looked for old Peter Dexter,
president of the Dexter Trust company--yes, he was in his pew,
wizened and hunched up, prematurely bald. And Stuyvesant Gunning, of
the Fidelity National--they were all here, the masters of the city's
finance and the pillars of “law and order.” Some wag had remarked if
you wanted to call directors' meeting after the service, you could
settle all the business of Western City in St. Bartholomew's!
The organ pealed and the white-robed choir marched in, bearing the
golden crosses, and followed by the Reverend Dr. Lettuce-Spray,
smooth-shaven, plump and beautiful, his eyes bent reverently on the
floor. They were singing with fervor that most orthodox of hymns:
The church's one foundation Is Jesus Christ, her Lord.
It is a beautiful old service, as you may know, and I had been
taught to love it and thrill to it as a little child, and we never
forget those things. Peace and propriety are its keynotes; order and
dignity, combined with sensuous charm. Everyone knows his part, and
it moves along like a beautiful machine. I knelt and prayed, and
then sat and listened, and then stood and sang--over and over for
perhaps three-quarters of an hour. We came to the hymn which
precedes the sermon, and turning to the number, we obediently
proclaimed:
The Son of God goes forth to war A kingly crown to gain: His
blood-red banner streams afar: Who follows in His train?
During the singing of the last verse, the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had
moved silently into the pulpit. After the choir had sung “Amen,” he
raised his hands in invocation--and at that awesome moment I saw
Carpenter come striding up the aisle!
XXXVIII
He knew just where he was going, and walked so fast that before
anyone had time to realize what was happening, he was on the altar
steps, and facing the congregation. You could hear the gasp of
amazement; he was so absolutely identical with the painted figure
over his head, that if he had remained still, you could not have
told which was painting and which was flesh and blood. The rector in
the pulpit stood with his mouth open, staring as if seeing a ghost.
The prophet stretched out both his hands, and pointed two accusing
fingers at the congregation. His voice rang out, stern and
commanding: “Let this mockery cease!” Again he cried: “What do ye
with my Name?” And pointing over his head: “Ye crucify me in stained
glass!”
There came murmurs from the congregation, the first mutterings of a
storm. “Oh! Outrageous! Blasphemy!”
“Blasphemy?” cried Carpenter. “Is it not written that God dwelleth
not in temples made with hands? Ye have built a temple to Mammon,
and defile the name of my Father therein!”
The storm grew louder. “This is preposterous!” exclaimed my uncle
Timothy at my side. And the Reverend Lettuce-Spray managed to find
his voice. “Sir, whoever you are, leave this church!”
Carpenter turned upon him. “You give orders to me--you who have
brought back the moneychangers into my Father's temple?” And
suddenly he faced the congregation, crying in a voice of wrath:
“Algernon de Wiggs! Stand up!”
Strange as it may seem, the banker rose in his pew; whether under
the spell of Carpenter's majestic presence, or preparing to rush at
him and throw him out, I could not be sure. The great banker's face
was vivid scarlet.
And Carpenter pointed to another part of the congregation. “Peter
Dexter! Stand up!” The president of the Dexter Trust Company also
arose, trembling as if with palsy, mumbling something, one could not
tell whether protest or apology.
“Stuyvesant Gunning! Stand up!” And the president of the Fidelity
National obeyed. Apparently Carpenter proposed to call the whole
roll of financial directors; but the procedure was halted suddenly,
as a tall, white-robed figure strode from its seat near the choir.
Young Sidney Simpkinson, assistant to the rector, went up to
Carpenter and took him by the arm.
“Leave this house of God,” he commanded.
The other faced him. “It is written, Thou shalt not take the name of
the Lord thy God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless
that taketh His name in vain.”
Young Simpkinson wasted no further words in parley. He was an
advocate of what is known as “muscular Christianity,” and kept
himself in trim playing on the parish basket-ball team. He flung his
strong arms about Carpenter, and half carrying him, half walking
him, took him down the steps and down the aisle. As he went,
Carpenter was proclaiming: “It is written, My house shall be called
a house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves. He that
steals little is called a pickpocket, but he that steals much is
called a pillar of the church. Verily, he that deprives the laborer
of the fruit of his toil is more dangerous than he that robs upon
the highway; and he that steals the state and the powers of
government is the father of all thieves.”
By that time, the prophet had been hustled two-thirds down the
aisle; and then came a new development. Unobserved by anyone, a
number of Carpenter's followers had come with him into the church;
and these, seeing the way he was being handled, set up a cry: “For
shame! For shame!” I saw Everett, secretary to T-S, and Korwsky,
secretary of the tailor's union; I saw some one leap at Everett and
strike him a ferocious blow in the teeth, and two other men leap
upon the little Russian and hurl him to the ground.
I started up, involuntarily. “Oh, shame! Shame!” I cried, and would
have rushed out into the aisle. But I had to pass my uncle, and he
had no intention of letting me make myself a spectacle. He threw his
arms about me, and pinned me against the pew in front; and as he is
one of the ten ranking golfers at the Western City Country Club, his
embrace carried authority. I struggled, but there I stayed,
shouting, “For shame! For shame!” and my uncle exclaiming, in a
stern whisper, “Shut up! Sit down, you fool!” and my Aunt Caroline
holding onto my coat-tails, crying, and my aunt Jennie threatening
to faint.
The melee came quickly to an end, for the men of the congregation
seized the half dozen disturbers and flung them outside, and mounted
guard to make sure they did not return. I sank back into my seat, my
worthy uncle holding my arm tightly with both hands, lest I should
try to make my escape over the laps of Aunt Caroline and Aunt
Jennie.
All this time the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had been standing in the
pulpit, making no sound. Now, as the congregation settled back into
order, he said, with the splendid, conscious self-possession of one
who can remain “equal to the occasion”: “We will resume the
service.” And he opened his portfolio, and spread out his manuscript
before him, and announced:
“Our text for the morning is the fifth chapter of the gospel
according to St. Matthew, the thirty-ninth and fortieth verses: 'But
I say unto you, that ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man
shall sue thee at law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy
cloak also.”
XXXIX
I sat through the sermon, and the offertory, and the recessional.
After that my uncle tried to detain me, to warn and scold me; but he
no longer used physical force, and nothing but that would have held
me. At the door I asked one of the ushers what had become of the
prophet, thinking he might be in jail. But the answer was that the
gang had gone off, carrying their wounded; so I ran round the corner
to where my car was parked, and within ten minutes I was on Western
City Street, where Carpenter had announced that he would speak.
There had been nothing said about the proposed meeting in the
papers, and no one knew about it save those who had been present at
Grant Hall. But it looked as if they had told everyone they knew,
and everyone they had told had come. The wide street was packed
solid for a block, and in the midst of this throng stood Carpenter,
upon a wagon, making a speech.
There was no chance to get near, so I bethought me of an alley which
ran parallel to the street. There was an obscure hotel on the
street, and I entered it through the rear entrance, and had no
trouble in persuading the clerk to let me join some of the guests of
the hotel who were watching the scene from the second story windows.
The first thing which caught my attention was the figure of Everett,
seated on the floor of the wagon from which the speech was being
made. I saw that his face was covered with blood; I learned later
that he had three teeth knocked out, and his nose broken.
Nevertheless, there he was with his stenographer's notebook, taking
down the prophet's words. He told me afterwards that he had taken
even what Carpenter said in the church. “I've an idea he won't last
very long,” was the way he put it; “and if they should get rid of
him, every word he's said will be precious. Anyhow, I'm going to get
what I can.”
Also I saw Korwsky, lying on the floor of the wagon, evidently
knocked out; and two other men whom I did not know, nursing battered
and bloody faces. Having taken all that in at a glance, I gave my
attention to what Carpenter was saying.
He was discussing churches and those who attend them. Later on, my
attention was called to the curious fact that his discourse was
merely a translation into modern American of portions of the
twenty-third chapter of St. Matthew; a free adaptation of those
ancient words to present day practices and conditions. But I had no
idea of this while I listened; I was shocked by what seemed to me a
furious tirade, and the guests of the hotel were even more
shocked--I think they would have taken to throwing things out of the
windows at the orator, had it not been for their fear of the crowd.
Said Carpenter:
“The theologians and scholars and the pious laymen fill the leisure
class churches, and it would be all right if you were to listen to
what they preach, and do that; but don't follow their actions, for
they never practice what they preach. They load the backs of the
working-classes with crushing burdens, but they themselves never
move a finger to carry a burden, and everything they do is for show.
They wear frock-coats and silk hats on Sundays, and they sit at the
speakers' tables at the banquets of the Civic Federation, and they
occupy the best pews in the churches, and their doings are reported
in all the papers; they are called leading citizens and pillars of
the church. But don't you be called leading citizens, for the only
useful man is the man who produces. (Applause.) And whoever exalts
himself shall be abased, and whoever humbles himself shall be
exalted.