you shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; you don't go in
yourself and you don't let others go in. Woe unto you, doctors of
divinity and Presbyterians, hypocrites! for you foreclose mortgages
on widows' houses, and for a pretense you make long prayers. For
this you will receive the greater damnation! Woe unto you, doctors
of divinity and Methodists, hypocrites! for you send missionaries to
Africa to make one convert, and when you have made him, is twice as
much a child of hell as yourselves. (Applause.) Woe unto you, blind
guides, with your subtleties of doctrine, your transubstantiation
and consubstantiation and all the rest of it; you fools and blind!
Woe unto you, doctors of divity and Episcopalians, hypocrites! for
you drop your checks into the collection-plate and you pay no heed
to the really important things in the Bible, which are justice and
mercy and faith in goodness. You blind guides, who choke over a fly
and swallow a flivver! (Laughter.) Woe unto you, doctors of divinity
and Anglicans, hypocrites! for you dress in immaculate clothing kept
clean by the toil of frail women, but within you are full of
extortion and excess. You blind high churchmen, clean first your
hearts, so that the clothes you wear may represent you. Woe unto
you, doctors of divinity and Baptists, hypocrites! for you are like
marble tombs which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are
full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness. Even so you appear
righteous to men, but inside you are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.
(Applause.) Woe unto you doctors of divinity and Unitarians,
hypocrites! because you erect statues to dead reformers, and put
wreaths upon the tombs of old-time martyrs. You say, if we had been
alive in those days, we would not have helped to kill those good
men. That ought to show you how to treat us at present. (Laughter.)
But you are the children of those who killed the good men; so go
ahead and kill us too! You serpents, you generation of vipers, how
can you escape the damnation of hell?”
XL
When Carpenter stopped speaking, his face was dripping with sweat,
and he was pale. But the eager crowd would not let him go. They
began to ask him questions. There were some who wanted to know what
he meant by saying that he came from God, and some who wanted to
know whether he believed in the Christian religion. There were
others who wanted to know what he thought about political action,
and if he really believed that the capitalists would give up without
using force. There was a man who had been at the relief kitchen, and
noted that he ate soup with meat in it, and asked if this was not
using force against one's fellow creatures. The old gentleman who
represented spiritualism was on hand, asking if the dead are still
alive, and if so, where are they?
Then, before the meeting was over, there came a sick man to be
healed; and others, pushing their way through the crowd, clamoring
about the wagon, seeking even to touch the hem of Carpenter's
garments. After a couple of hours of this he announced that he was
worn out. But it was a problem to get the wagon started; they could
only move slowly, the driver calling to the people in front to make
room. So they went down the street, and I got into my car and
followed at a distance. I did not know where they were going, and
there was nothing I could do but creep along--a poor little rich boy
with a big automobile and nobody to ride in it, or to pay any
attention to him.
The wagon drove to the city jail; which rather gave me a start,
because I had been thinking that the party might be arrested at any
minute, on complaint to the police from the church. But apparently
this did not trouble Carpenter. He wished to visit the strikers who
had been arrested in front of Prince's restaurant. He and several
others stood before the heavy barred doors asking for admission,
while a big crowd gathered and stared. I sat watching the scene,
with phrases learned in earliest childhood floating through my mind:
“I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto
me.”
But it appeared that Sunday was not visitors' day at the jail, and
the little company was turned away. As they climbed back into the
wagon, I saw two husky fellows come from the jail, a type one learns
to know as plain clothes men. “Why won't they let him in?” cried
some one in the crowd; and one of the detectives looked over his
shoulder, with a sneering laugh: “We'll let him in before long,
don't you worry!”
The wagon took up its slow march again. It was a one-horse
express-cart, belonging, as I afterwards learned, to a compatriot of
Korwsky the tailor. This man, Simon Karlin, earned a meager living
for himself and his family by miscellaneous delivery in his
neighborhood; but now he was so fascinated with Carpenter that he
had dropped everything in order to carry the prophet about. I
mention it, because next day in the newspapers there was much fun
made of this imitation man of God riding about town in a half
broken-down express-wagon, hauled by a rickety and spavined old nag.
The company drove to one of the poorer quarters of the city, and
stopped before a workingman's cottage on a street whose name I had
never heard before. I learned that it was the home of James, the
striking carpenter, and on the steps were his wife and a brood of
half a dozen children, and his old father and mother, and several
other people unidentified. There were many who had walked all the
way following the wagon, and others gathered quickly, and besought
the prophet to speak to them, and to heal their sick. Apparently his
whole life was to consist of that kind of thing, for he found it
hard to refuse any request. But finally he told them he must be
quiet, and went inside, and James mounted guard at the door, and I
sat in my car and waited until the crowd had filtered away. There
was no good reason why I should have been admitted, but James
apparently was glad to see me, and let me join the little company
that was gathered in his home.
There was Everett, who had now washed the blood off his face, but
had not been able to put back his lost teeth, nor to heal the
swollen mass that had once been his upper lip and nose. And there
was Korwsky, who was now able to sit up and smile feebly, and two
other men, whose names I did not learn, nursing battered faces.
Carpenter prayed over them all, and they became more cheerful, and
eager to talk about the adventure, each telling over what had
happened to him. I noted that Everett, in spite of what must have
been intense pain, was still faithfully taking down every word the
prophet uttered.
It had been known that Carpenter was to honor this house with his
presence, and the family were all dressed in their best, and had got
together a supper, in spite of hard times and strikes. We had
sandwiches and iced tea and a slice of pie for each of us, and I was
interested to observe that the prophet, tired as he was, liked to
laugh and chat over his food, exactly like any uninspired human
being. He never failed to get the children around him and tell them
stories, and hear their bright laughter.
XLI
But, of course, serious things kept intruding. Karlin the express
driver, had a sick wife, and Carpenter heard about her and insisted
upon going to see her. Apparently there was no end to this business
of the poor being sick. It was a new thing to me--this world
swarming with dirty and miserable and distracted people. Of course,
I had known about “the poor,” but always either in the abstract, or
else as an individual, or a family, that one could help. But here
was a new world, thickly peopled, swarming; that was the terrible
part of it--the vastness of it, the thickness of the population in
these regions of “the poor.” It was like some sort of delirium; like
being lost in a wilderness, of which the trees were miseries, and
deformities, and pains! I could understand to the full Carpenter's
feeling when he put his hands to his forehead, exclaiming: “There is
so much to do and so few to do it! Pray to God, that he will send
some to help us!”
When he returned from Simon Karlin's, he brought with him the
latter's wife, whom he had healed of a fever; and here was another
of the company whom he insisted upon helping--“Comrade” Abell, one
of the men I had noticed at the meeting last night, and who appeared
to be done up. This man, I learned, was secretary of the Socialist
local of Western City. I had known there were Socialists in the
city, just as I knew there were poor, but I had never seen one, and
was curious about Abell. He was a lawyer; and that might suggest to
you a certain type of person, brisk and well dressed--but
apparently Socialist lawyers are not true to type. Comrade Abell was
a shy, timid little man, with black hair straggling about his ears,
and sometimes into his eyes. He had a gentle, pathetic face, and his
voice was melancholy and caressing. He was clad in a frock coat of
black broadcloth, which had once been appropriate for Sunday; but I
should judge it had been worn for twenty years, for it was green
about the collar and the cuffs and button-holes.
Comrade Abell's office and also his home were in a second story,
over a grocery-store in this neighborhood, and here also was a
little hall used as a meeting-place by the Socialists. Every
Saturday night Abell and two or three of his friends conducted a
soap-box meeting on Western City Street, and gave away propaganda
leaflets and sold a few pamphlets and books. He had had quite a
supply of literature of all kinds at his office, nearly two thousand
dollars worth, he told Carpenter, but a few months previously the
place had been mobbed. A band of ex-service men, accompanied by a
few police and detectives, had raided it and terrified the wife and
children by breaking down the doors and throwing the contents of
desks and bureaus out on the floor. They had dumped the literature
into a truck and carted it away, and after two or three weeks they
had dumped it back again, having found nothing criminal in it. “But
they ruined it so that it can't be sold!” broke in James,
indignantly. “Most of it was bought on credit, and how can we pay
for it.”
James was also a Socialist, it appeared, while Korwsky and his
friend Karlin advocated “industrial action,” and these fell to
arguing over “tactics,” while Carpenter asked questions, so as to
understand their different points of view. Presently Korwsky was
called out of the room, and came back with an announcement which he
evidently considered grave. John Colver was in the neighborhood, and
wanted to know if Carpenter would meet him.
“Who is John Colver?” asked the prophet. And it was explained that
this was a dangerous agitator, now under sentence of twenty years in
jail, but out on bail pending the appeal of his case to the supreme
court. Colver was a “wobbly,” well known as one of their poets. Said
Korwsky, “He tinks you vouldn't like to know him, because if de
spies find it out, dey vould git after you.”
“I will meet any man,” said Carpenter. “My business is to meet men.”
And so in a few minutes the terrible John Colver was escorted into
the room.
Now, every once in a while I had read in the “Times” how another
bunch of these I.W.W's. were put on trial, and how they were
insolent to the judge, and how it was proved they had committed many
crimes, and how they were sentenced to fourteen years in State's
prison under our criminal syndicalism act. Needless to say, I had
never seen one of these desperate men; but I had a quite definite
idea what they looked like--dark and sinister creatures, with
twisted mouths and furtive eyes. I knew that, because I had seen a
couple of moving picture shows in which they figured. But now for
the first time I met one, and behold, he was an open-faced, laughing
lad, with apple cheeks and two most beautiful rows of even white
teeth that gleamed at you!
“Fellow-worker Carpenter!” he cried; and caught the prophet by his
two hands. “You are an old friend of ours, though you may not know
it! We drink a toast to you in our jungles.”
“Is that so?” said Carpenter.
“I suppose I really have no right to see you,” continued the other,
“because I'm shadowed all the time, and you know my organization is
outlawed.”
“Why is it outlawed?”
“Well,” said Colver, “they say we burn crops and barns, and drive
copper-nails into fruit-trees, and spikes into sawmill lumber.”
“And do you do that?”
Colver laughed his merry laugh. “We do it just as often as you act
for the movies, Fellow-worker Carpenter!”
“I see,” said Carpenter. “What do you really do?”
“What we really do is to organize the unskilled workers.”
“For what do you organize them?”
“So that they will be able to run the industries when the system of
greed breaks down of its own rottenness.”
“I see,” said the prophet, and he thought for a moment. “It is a
slave revolt!”
“Exactly,” said the other.
“I know what they do to slave revolts, my brother. You are fortunate
if they only send you to prison.”
“They do plenty more than that,” said Colver. “I will give you our
pamphlet, 'Drops of Blood,' and you may read about some of the
lynching and tarring and feathering and shooting of Mobland.” His
eyes twinkled. “That's a dandy name you've hit on! I shall be
surprised if it doesn't stick.”
Carpenter went on questioning, bent upon knowing about this outlaw
organization and its members. It was clear before long that he had
taken a fancy to young John Colver. He made him sit beside him, and
asked to hear some of his poetry, and when he found it really vivid
and beautiful, he put his arm about the young poet's shoulders.
Again I found memories of old childhood phrases stirring in my mind.
Had there not once been a disciple named John, who was especially
beloved?
XLII
Presently the young agitator began telling about an investigation he
had been making in the lumber country of the Northwest. He was
writing a pamphlet on the subject of a massacre which had occurred
there. A mob of ex-soldiers had stormed the headquarters of the
“wobblies,” and the latter had defended themselves, and killed two
or three of their assailants. A news agency had sent out over the
country a story to the effect that the “wobblies” had made an
unprovoked assault upon the ex-soldiers. “That's what the papers do
to us!” said John Colver. “There have been scores of mobbings as a
result, and just now it may be worth a man's life to be caught
carrying a red card in any of these Western states.”
So there was the subject of non-resistance, and I sat and listened
with strangely mingled feelings of sympathy and repulsion, while
this group of rebels of all shades and varieties argued whether it
was really possible for the workers to get free without some kind of
force. Carpenter, it appeared, was the only one in the company who
believed it possible. The gentle Comrade Abell was obliged to admit
that the Socialists, in using political action, were really
resorting to force in a veiled form. They sought to take possession
of the state by voting; but the state was an instrument of force,
and would use force to carry out its will. “You are an anarchist!”
said the Socialist lawyer, addressing Carpenter.
To my surprise Carpenter was not shocked by this.
“If I admit no power but love,” said he, “how can I have anything to
do with government?”
More visitors called, and were admitted, and presently the little
room was packed with people, and a regular meeting was in progress.
I heard more strange ideas than I had ever known existed in the
world. I tried not to be offended; but I thought there ought to be
at least a few words said for plain ordinary human beings who carry
no labels, so I ventured now and then to put in a mild
suggestion--for example, that there were quite a few people in the
world who did not love all their neighbors, and could not be
persuaded to love them all at once, and it might be necessary to put
just a little restraint upon them for a time. Again I suggested,
maybe the workers were not yet sufficiently educated to run the
industries, they might need some help from the present masters.
“Just a little more education,” I ventured--
And John Colver laughed, the first ugly laugh I had heard from him.
“Education by the masters? Education at the end of a club!”
“My boy,” I argued, “I know there are plenty of employers who are
rough, but there are others who are good men, who would like to
change the system, would like to do something, if they knew what it
was. But who will tell them what to do? Take me, for example. I have
a great deal of wealth which I have not earned; but what can I do
about it? What do you say, Mr. Carpenter?”
I turned to him, as the true authority; and the others also turned
to him. He answered, without hesitation: “Sell everything that you
have and give it to the unemployed.”
“But,” said I, “would that really solve the problem. They would
spend it, and we should be right where we were before.”
Said Carpenter: “They are unemployed because you have taken from
them wealth which you have not earned. Give it back to them.”
And then, seeing that I was not satisfied, he added: “How hard it is
for a rich man to understand the meaning of social justice! Indeed,
it would be easier for a strike leader to get the truth published in
your 'Times', than for a rich man to understand what the word social
justice means.”
The company laughed, and I subsided, and let the wave of
conversation roll by. It was only later that I realized the part I
had just been playing. It had been easy for me to recognize T-S as
St. Peter, but I had not known myself as that rich young man who had
asked for advice, and then rejected it. “When he heard this, he was
very sorrowful; for he was very rich.” Yes, I had found my place in
the story!
XLIII
You may believe that next morning my first thought was to get hold
of the “Times” and see what they had done to my prophet. Sure
enough, there he was on the front page, three columns wide, with the
customary streamer head:
MOB OF ANARCHISTS RAID ST. BARTHOLMEW'S
PROPHET AND RAGGED HORDE BREAK UP CHURCH SERVICES
I skimmed over the story quickly; I noted that Carpenter was
represented as having tried to knock down the Reverend Mr.
Simpkinson, and that the prophet's followers had assaulted members
of the congregation. I confess to some relief upon discovering that
my own humble part in the adventure had not been mentioned. I
suspected that my Uncle Timothy must have been busy at the telephone
on Sunday evening! But then I turned to the “Examiner,” and alas,
there I was! “A certain rich young man,” rising up to protect an
incendiary prophet! I remembered that my Uncle Timothy had had a
violent row with the publisher of the “Examiner” a year or two ago,
over some political appointment!
The “Times” had another editorial, two columns, double leaded.
Yesterday the paper had warned the public what to expect; today it
saw the prophecies justified, and what it now wished to know was,
had Western City a police department, or had it not? “How much
longer do our authorities propose to give rein to this fire-brand
imposter? This prophet of God who rides about town in a broken-down
express-wagon, and consorts with movie actresses and red agitators!
Must the police wait until his seditious doctrines have fanned the
flames of mob violence beyond control? Must they wait until he has
gathered all the others of his ilk, the advocates of lunacy and
assassination about him, and caused an insurrection of class envy
and hate? We call upon the authorities of our city to act and act at
once; to put this wretched mountebank behind bars where he belongs,
and keep him there.”
There was another aspect of this matter upon which the “Times” laid
emphasis. After long efforts on the part of the Chamber of Commerce
and other civic organizations, Western City had been selected as the
place for the annual convention of the Mobland Brigade. In three
days this convention would be called to order, and already the
delegates were pouring in by every train. What impression would they
get of law and order in this community? Was this the purpose for
which they had shed their blood in a dreadful war--that their
country might be affronted by the ravings of an impious charlatan?
What had the gold-star mothers of Western City to say to this? What
did the local post of the Mobland Brigade propose to do to save the
fair name of their city? Said the “Times”: “If our supine
authorities refuse to meet this emergency, we believe there are
enough 100% Americans still among us to protect the cause of public
decency, and to assert the right of Christian people to worship
their God without interference from the Dictatorship of the Lunatic
Asylum.”
Now, I had been so much interested in Carpenter and his adventures
that I had pretty well overlooked this matter of the Mobland Brigade
and its convention. I belong to the Brigade myself, and ought to
have been serving on the committee of arrangements; instead of
which, here I was chasing around trying to save a prophet, who, it
appeared, really wanted to get into trouble! Yes, the Brigade was
coming; and I could foresee what would happen when a bunch of these
wild men encountered Carpenter's express wagon on the street!
XLIV
I swallowed a hasty cup of coffee, and drove in a taxi to the Labor
Temple. Carpenter had said he would be there early in the morning,
to help with the relief work again. I went to the rooms of the
Restaurant Workers, and found that he had not yet arrived. I noticed
a group of half a dozen men standing near the door, and there seemed
something uncordial in the look they gave me. One of them came
toward me, the same who had sought my advice about permitting
Carpenter to speak at the mass meeting. “Good morning,” he said; and
then: “I thought you told me this fellow Carpenter was not a red?”
“Well,” said I, taken by surprise, “is he?”
“God Almighty!” said the other. “What do you call this?” And he held
up a copy of the “Times.” “Going in and shouting in the middle of a
church service, and trying to knock down a clergyman!”
I could not help laughing in the man's face. “So even you labor men
believe what you read in the 'Times'! It happens I was present in
the church myself, and I assure you that Carpenter offered no
resistance, and neither did anyone else in his group. You remember,
I told you he was a man of peace, and that was all I told you.”
“Well,” said the other, somewhat more mildly, “even so, we can't
stand for this kind of thing. That's no way to accomplish anything.
A whole lot of our members are Catholics, and what will they make of
carryings-on like this? We're trying to persuade people that we're a
law-abiding organization, and that our officials are men of sense.”
“I see,” said I. “And what do you mean to do about it?”
“We have called a meeting of our executive committee this morning,
and are going to adopt a resolution, making clear to the public that
we knew nothing about this church raid, and that we don't stand for
such things. We would never have permitted this man Carpenter to
speak on our platform, if we had known about his ideas.”
I had nothing to say, and I said it. The other was watching me
uneasily. “We hear the man proposes to come back to our relief
kitchen. Is that so?”
“I believe he does; and I suppose you would rather he didn't. Is
that it?” The other admitted that was it, and I laughed. “He has had
his thousand dollars worth of hospitality, I suppose.”
“Well, we don't want to hurt his feelings,” said the other. “Of
gourse our members are having a hard time, and we were glad to get
the money, but it would be better if our central organization were
to contribute the funds, rather than to have us pay such a price as
this newspaper publicity.”
“Then let your committee vote the money, and return it to Mr. T-S,
and also to Mary Magna.”
It took the man sometime to figure out a reply to this proposition.
“We have no objection to Mr. T-S coming here,” he said, “or Miss
Magna either.”
“That is,” said I, “so long as they obey the law, and don't get in
bad with the Western City 'Times'!” After a moment I added, “You may
make your mind easy. I will go downstairs and wait for Mr.
Carpenter, and tell him he is not wanted.”
And so I left the Labor Temple and walked up and down on the
sidewalk in front. It was really rather unreasonable of me to be
annoyed with this labor man for having voiced the same point of view
of “common sense” which I had been defending to Carpenter's group on
the previous evening. Also, I was obliged to admit to myself that if
I were a labor leader, trying to hold together a group of
half-educated men in the face of public sentiment such as existed in
this city, I might not have the same carefree, laughing attitude
towards life as a certain rich young man whose pockets were stuffed
with unearned increments.
To this mood of tolerance I had brought myself, when I saw a white
robe come round the corner, arm in arm with a frock coat of black
broadcloth. Also there came Everett, looking still more ghastly, his
nose and lip having become purple, and in places green. Also there
was Korwsky, and two other men; Moneta, a young Mexican cigarmaker
out of work, and a man named Hamby, who had turned up on the
previous evening, introducing himself as a pacifist who had been
arrested and beaten up during the war. Somehow he did not conform to
my idea of a pacifist, being a solid and rather stoutish fellow,
with nothing of the idealist about him. But Carpenter took him, as
he took everybody, without question or suspicion.
XLV