SCENE: _The drug-store, as in Acts I and II_.
AT RISE: _The line of convicts is filing past the counter, as at the
opening of Act I, having their prescriptions put up by Porter. They are
in a state of angry excitement, with difficulty repressed by the guards.
Every man is moaning or snarling at every moment when the guards’ eyes
are not upon him. The guards move here and there, threatening men with
their clubs and commanding: “Silence! Shut up there! Hold your tongue!”
But at some other place in the line men will shout, exclamations which
are repeated again and again: “Jimmie Valentine is dead! You murdered
Jimmie Valentine! Liars! Scoundrels! To hell with you! To hell with the
state of Ohio! God damn this prison! You killed Jimmie Valentine!
Murderers!” Porter fills the prescriptions, keeping tightly shut lips,
but his hands are trembling, and it is evident that he also is deeply
moved. Joe is making his usual pretense of cleaning up, but with
difficulty, because of his excitement; he turns this way and that as he
hears the cries, and his eyes are staring wide. Finally the last of the
line is driven off, and the roaring dies away to a murmur._
_Joe_: Gawdamighty, Misteh Porteh, de men in his place is sho gone
crazy! Dey is somethin goin to bust loose here tonight. (_Porter makes
no reply, but puts away his boxes and bottles_) Oh, dat po feller,
Jimmie Valentine! Didn’t even give him a chance to see his po ole mammy!
Misteh Porteh, did you hear what dey say bout her? (_silence from
Porter_) Dey say she’s stannin all day out by de gate in de snow. Dey
won’t even let her in to see de body; dey ain’t tole her when dey gwine
bury him. What you spose dey got agin dat po ole woman? (_No answer_) Ah
knows how it is, Misteh Porteh, you doan trust yoself to open yo mouth
bout his hyar business. Well, Ah seen times when I’d missed a lot o
trouble if Ah’d kep my mouf shut. Maybe dis is one of em. Well, Ah go
empty de trash-basket. (_takes the basket and goes off left. Porter sits
at his desk, staring in front of him_)
_Dr. Walters_ (_enters right_): Well, Porter?
_Porter_: Good evening, doctor.
_Dr._: Having trouble here this evening?
_Porter_: A little noise.
_Dr._: Too bad! Too bad! A nasty situation. Looks as if it might be
worse before it’s better. What do you think?
_Porter_: I am here as an inmate, doctor; I am not supposed to have
opinions.
_Dr._: Humph! Discretion is the better part of valor. Well, have you
anything to report to me?
_Porter_: I took the liberty of sewing up the head of a guard who had a
spike thrown at him.
_Dr._: Seems a good job; thank you.
_Porter_: Here is the week’s report. (_hands him paper; he takes the
paper and examines it. Joe appears at door, left, with empty
trash-basket; seeing the doctor he stops, and thus overhears the
conversation which follows_)
_Dr._: By the way, another matter—not a pleasant one. (_he goes to the
shelf and takes bottle of alcohol_) This alcohol continues to disappear.
_Porter_: I don’t think so, sir.
_Dr._: You don’t? (_he holds it to the light critically_)
_Porter_: I have had occasion to use quite a little of it on my night’s
rounds.
_Dr._: Indeed? (_a pause_) I think it will be advisable for me to go
with you on your rounds, and see how that happens.
_Porter_: Certainly, doctor. (_a pause_) There is something I will say
about that.
_Dr._: Well?
_Porter_: I hope you are not suspecting me of being a thief.
_Dr._: I have no right to do so; but it is my duty to try to make
certain about the matter. We cannot have drinking going on in this
institution, especially at such a ticklish time as this. I don’t like
the job of playing detective, but somebody has to do it.
_Porter_: Doctor, I wish you to understand something that I have never
before talked about in this place. I am here because I was accused of
taking bank funds; but somebody else got that money—I did not. I am
taking what fate handed out to me, but I wish you to know that I am not
that sort of man.
_Dr._: I possess a normal amount of discernment, Porter, and I
appreciate your services in this position; it is not always easy to find
a registered pharmacist in a prison.
_Porter_: Thank you, doctor.
_Dr._: Nevertheless, it will be my duty to go the rounds with you this
evening.
_Porter_: Very well. (_the doctor goes out, right, and Porter remains
seated at his desk, staring gloomily before him_)
_Joe_ (_comes on, puts down the empty trash-basket, and begins feeble
pretense at dusting the bottles and boxes_): Misteh Porteh, you didn’t
see po Jimmie Valentine befo he died, did you? (_silence_) Ah spose you
jes couldnt bear it. Lordy, but mah eyes is sore wid all dis cryin.
(_silence_) Dat Docteh Walters is a stiff kindeh genleman, aint he,
Misteh Porteh? (_silence_) He say he doan like to play detective, but he
do it good, seem to me.
_Porter_ (_sternly_): What do you know about that?
_Joe_ (_scared_): Ah was comin, Misteh Porteh—Ah had to come in wid de
trash-basket, Ah couldn’t hep hearin. Ah wasnt meanin to spy—de Lawd
knows _Ah_ aint no detective, naw suh! (_silence_) But you know
(_timidly_) Ah was goin be yo body-servant, and kindeh look out fo you;
an Ah know dat Docteh Walters is a stiff kindeh genleman—he’s a Yankee
genleman, not like dey is in de South.
_Porter_: Get out of here now and stop your chatter.
_Joe_ (_goes right, towards the door into hospital; as he reaches the
door a low murmur comes from the next room, and rises to a clamor of
moans and protest; Joe looks off, then turns to Porter_): Oh, Misteh
Porteh, dey’s come to put dat po Jimmie Valentine in de wheel-barrow. An
dey aint let his po ole Mammy see him! Oh, dat po feller! Oh, dat po
feller! He’s daid an gone an dey goin to put him in de wheel-barrow!
(_his voice rises to a wail as he goes off right_)
_Porter_ (_puts his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds; his manner
indicating utter despair and breakdown_): Oh, God! Oh, God! (_as the
clamor from the next room continues, he rises, looks about him
cautiously, and then crosses to the shelf containing the bottle of
alcohol. He takes a glass and starts to pour some out_)
_Joe_ (_reappears in doorway, right, and watches Porter, then runs
quickly to him in distress_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, naw suh, you mussnt do
dat, suh!
_Porter_ (_angrily_): What the devil have you to do with it?
_Joe_ (_in frenzy of fear_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, suh, dat Docteh Walters
fin’ it out! Oh, suh, de Lawd hep us, suh, dey put you in de hole, dey
take you down in de basement and paddle you, dey give you de water
sho—you couldn’t stan it, Misteh Porteh, oh suh, please suh—doan let em
ketch you takin it!
_Porter_ (_draws himself up with dignity_): Joe, you are making a
presumptuous fool of yourself.
_Joe_: Listen, Misteh Porteh, suh, you aint quite yosef right now, Ah
knows how it is, suh, you mos crazy oveh what happen to dat po Jimmie
Valentine! But oh, suh, _please_ suh—doan take it out o dat bottle—
_Porter_: You black ape, how do you know what’s in this bottle?
_Joe_: Ah knows, Misteh Porteh, Ah _sho_ knows!
_Porter_: I thought you said you couldn’t read.
_Joe_: Hanwritin, Misteh Porteh, hanwritin. But Ah knows what’s in dat
bottle, cause Ah done tuck it mahself—many’s a time—
_Porter_: Why, you infernal scoundrel!
_Joe_: Befo you come hyar, Misteh Porteh, Ah tuck it. Not since you
come, boss. Ah wouldn’t do nothin to git you into trouble. Aint you tole
me Ah was yo body-servant, jes like mah ole daddy in de Jedge Adair
famly?
_Porter_: Was it the duty of the body-servant to run his master’s life?
_Joe_: Yes, Misteh Porteh, hones, it sho nuff was. (_he grins_) Misteh
Porteh, lemme tell you story—a sho nuff true story, what you kin
write—it’s what mah ole daddy tole me jes befo he died—he hadn’t never
tole it befo, but he wanted me to know bout Jedge Adair an de famly
troubles. De Jedge, he was president of de Traders’ Bank, and de bank
was gittin into trouble. Mah ole daddy he know bout what was goin on, an
he seen de Jedge was worried, he was drinkin too much whiskey. An one
night mah ole daddy had to go to de bank, it was somethin what he had
forgot to do, so he went at night—he had a key, cause de Jedge he
trusted him wid everything. Well, mah ole daddy was in dah, and he heard
someone a foolin wid de do’. He thought it was a burglar, so he hid
hisself, and who should he see come into de bank but de Jedge hisself.
De Jedge went to de vault, an he open it, an he take out a suit-case and
start to go off wid it. Mah ole daddy he guess right quick what dat
meant, de Jedge was in trouble an goin to run away wid de money of de
bank. So mah ole daddy come out an speak to him an plead wid him fo de
honor of de famly not to take dat suit-case; and de Jedge, first he was
mad, den he choke a little, an he say, all right, an say no mo, an mah
ole daddy drive him to de depot an he go away widout de suit-case.
_Porter_ (_puts the bottle back in its place and stands thinking about
the story_): Where did he go, Joe?
_Joe_: He went fishin, Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: Fishing!
_Joe_: Yessuh; he was a goin fishin wid Cunnel Gwathmey.
_Porter_: But what did he want with the bank’s money if he was going
fishing?
_Joe_: Ah dunno dat, boss; maybe he meant to hide it.
_Porter_: Did the judge ever admit to your father what he had in that
suit-case?
_Joe_: Naw, suh, he doan never speak of it again.
_Porter_: And your father never had a chance to look into it?
_Joe_: Naw, suh.
_Porter_: And you say the judge was drinking too much?
_Joe_: Yes, suh, dey was talk of it.
_Porter_: Well, you ebony jackass, you woolly baboon! (_a chuckle_) You
wait, and I’ll write that story, and read it to you, and you’ll see what
it was Judge Adair left behind him when he went fishing with Colonel
Gwathmey!
_Joe_ (_puzzled, but pleased to have accomplished his purpose_): All
right, boss, Ah sho be glad to hear dat story. Yes suh, Ah be glad to
hear any story what you write, cause Ah sho been hearin a lot bout dis
writin you’re doin—(_sounds of shrieks from under the stage; Joe
starts_) Oh, Misteh Porteh, dey beatin some po felleh fo makin a noise!
Dey be beatin a whole pile of em—all night long, fo helpin in dis
ruction! Us gotta stay here all night an lissen to em, Misteh Porteh;
you gotta stan it somehow!
_Porter_ (_distracted_): Yes, I’ve got to stand it!
_Joe_ (_a fresh roar from the hospital, off right_): Oh, dat po Jimmie
Valentine! (_he goes to door and looks off_) Oh, dey got him in de
wheel-barrow! Dat po Jimmie Valentine, dey takin him to de dead-house,
an his po ole mammy aint seen him! (_the sound of the wheel-barrow off
right, approaching_)
_Porter_ (_wildly_): Turn off that light, Joe. I can’t stand the sight
of it! (_he staggers to the desk, and falls into the chair, his head
buried in his arms_).
_Joe_ (_switches off the light. His voice rises to a shriek_): Dat po
Jimmie Valentine! Dat po Jimmie Valentine!
(_The wheel-barrow crosses from right to left, as in Act I. The sounds
of its bumping become thunderous; these sounds, with the clamor from the
hospital, the cries from under the stage, and the wailing of Joe, cover
a quick change to the bank scene as in Act II. Joe exit. When the change
is complete, the noise dies away, and violet light appears upon the
scene, disclosing Porter seated at the desk in the bank, staring before
him in deep thought._)
_Jimmie Valentine_ (_enters, in his dapper business man aspect; he
greets Porter with quiet friendliness_): Hello, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_ (_quietly, in half-dream fashion_): Hellow, Jimmie. (_pause_)
Jimmie, I’m a damned coward.
_Jimmie_: Oh, no, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_: I didn’t come to see you before you died, Jimmie; I ducked on
it.
_Jimmie_: Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Porter, I understood that.
_Porter_: I just couldn’t bear it; I knew I’d break down, and I ran
away.
_Jimmie_: There wasn’t a thing you could do, Mr. Porter—it was better to
have it over with.
_Porter_: And that poor old mother of yours, waiting outside at the gate
in the snow—
_Jimmie_: It wouldn’t have done any good for me to see her, Mr. Porter.
Nothing would really make her happy but to have me back as a kid.
_Porter_: Life doesn’t do us that favor, Jimmie.
_Jimmie_: I know it. But I’m all right now. I’m going to marry a sweet
girl, and be vice-president of this bank before long. Would you like me
to show you how I opened the vault?
_Porter_: No, Jimmie, no! That’s another way I was a coward; I wrote it
differently—I had you use a kit of tools.
_Jimmie_: That’s all right, Mr. Porter—that’s the way I wanted it.
People will see me like I wanted to be, and maybe that’ll help some poor
kid to keep straight. Write your stories that way, and people will get
some good out of them. Well, so long, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_: So long, Jimmie. (_he rises and goes left, to wave Jimmie off;
after Jimmie has gone, he stands partly in the shadows; the light grows
dimmer_)
(_Uncle Caesar enters right; he is Joe, made up as his old father, but
wearing blue uniform and cap. He pays no attention to Porter, but takes
some papers from cashier’s drawer and puts them in his pocket, and is
about to leave, when there is a sound at the door off right; he steps
back into the shadows and stands watching as the Judge enters, made up
as Judge Adair, bank president, clad in long waterproof coat, waterproof
fisherman’s hat, and carrying several fishing rods, disjointed and
wrapped in little cloth covers. The Judge does not see Porter or Caesar,
but sets his rods on the desk and goes to the vault and turns the
combination and opens it; he goes in and comes out at once, carrying
suit-case_)
_Caesar_ (_having watched this procedure with signs of intense concern,
now comes forward, hesitating and trembling_): Marse Jedge.
_Judge_ (_starts_): Who’s that? Caesar? Why, you old blackguard, what
the devil you doin’ here this time of night?
_Caesar_: Ah done tole Sisteh Adeline Hoskins to come to mah house at
sebin o’clock tomorrer mawnin, fo to git de pass-book of de Sons and
Daughters of de Burnin Bush, fo to kyar it to de meetin of de bo’d of
rangements. Ah done fogit it, so Ah come to git it.
_Judge_: Humph! You better get home out of the night air. It’s damp.
You’ll hardly be worth killing tomorrow on account of your rheumatism.
Think it’ll be a clear day, Caesar?
_Caesar_ (_terribly embarrassed and frightened, but summoning his
resolution and stammering_): Ah low it will, suh. De sun sot red las
night Marse Jedge, you member de day dey-all rode de tunnament at Oak
Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin, and you crown Miss Lucy de
queen?
_Judge_: Tournament? Yes, I remember very well—but what the deuce are
you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go long home,
Caesar. I believe you’re sleep-walking.
_Caesar_: Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder, wid a sword, an say: “Ah
mek you a knight; rise up, pure an fearless an widout reproach.” Dat
what Miss Lucy say. Dat’s been a long time ago, but me nor you ain’t
forgot it. An den dar’s another time we ain’t forgot—de time when Miss
Lucy lay on her las bed. She sent for Uncle Caesar, an she say: “Uncle
Caesar, when Ah die, Ah want you to take good care of Marse Jedge. Seem
like”—so Miss Lucy say—“he listen to you mo dan to anybody else. He apt
to be mighty fractious sometimes, an maybe he cuss you when you try to
suade him, but he need somebody what understan him to be roun wid him.
He am like a little child sometimes”—so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes
shinin in her po, thin face—“but he always been”—dem was her words—“my
knight, pure an fearless an widout reproach.”
_Judge_: You—you old windbag! I believe you are crazy. I told you to go
home, Caesar. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven’t kept the
scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn’t it, Caesar, when
she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing
like a coffee-colored gander?
_Caesar_: Marse Jedge, fo Gawd’s sake, doan take dis wid you. Ah knows
what’s in it. Don kyar it wid you. Dey’s big trouble in dat valise for
you. Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Adair an bow down dem dat own it
wid shame and triberlation. Marse Judge, you can kill dis ole nigger ef
you will, but don’t take away dis hyar valise. If Ah ever crosses over
de Jordan, what Ah gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: “Uncle
Caesar, wharfo didn you take good care of Marse Jedge?”
_Judge_: Caesar, you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon
the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So
you know what is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is some
excuse, but—go home, Caesar—not another word!
_Caesar_: Marse Jedge, gimme dis hyar valise. Ah got a right, suh, to
talk to you dis hyar way. Ah slaved fo you an tended to you from a child
up. I went th’ough de war as yo body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees
an sent em back to de No’th. Ah was at yo weddin, an Ah was n fur away
when yo Miss Azalea was bawn. Ah been a Adair, all cept in color an
’titlements. Both of us is old, Marse Jedge. Taint goin to be long tell
we gwine to see Miss Lucy an has to give an account of our doins. De ole
nigger man wont be spected to say much mo dan he done all he could by de
famly dat owned him. But de Adairs, dey must say dey been livin pure an
fearless an widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Jedge—Ah’m gwine to
hab it. Ah’m gwine to do Miss Lucy’s biddin. Turn er loose, Marse Jedge.
_Judge_: Take it, Caesar. And let the subject drop—now mind! You’ve said
quite enough.
_Jennings_ (_calls off right_): Hello, there, Judge! Are you comin?
(_enters, as Colonel Gwathmey, in fishing costume, with rods_) We’ll
miss that train. What’s the matter here?
_Judge_: Well, Colonel, I’ve been having a little trouble. I came in to
get the liquor that I had in this suit-case—
_Caesar_ (_with gestures of amazement and confusion_): What’s dat you
say, Marse Jedge?
_Judge_: I said the liquor that I had in this suit-case. What did you
think I had in it?
_Caesar_ (_staggered_): Ah—Ah—oh—Ah—dat is—(_recovering himself
suddenly_) Dat’s right, Marse Jedge, de liquor. Ah didn’t zacly hear
straight, Ah’s gittin so ole—mah ears is wusser an wusser—
_Judge_ (_to Jennings_): Well, this infernally presumptuous old nigger
has been breaking up our arrangements. I don’t know how he found out
what I was doing—I had the liquor hid in that vault, and was trying to
sneak it out, but here he is, and he’s vetoed the proceedings. He means
right, and—well, I reckon he _is_ right. He has noticed that I’ve been
indulging a little more than a gentleman should, and he has laid for me
some reaching arguments.
_Jennings_: Well, I’ll be hornswoggled.
_Judge_: I’m going to quit drinking. I’ve come to the conclusion that a
man can’t keep it up and be quite what he’d like to be—“pure and
fearless and without reproach”—that’s the way old Caesar quoted it.
_Jennings_: Well, I’ll have to admit that the old darkey’s argument
can’t conscientiously be overruled.
_Judge_: Still (_with a ghost of a smile_) there are two quarts of the
finest old silk-velvet Bourbon in that satchel you ever wet your lips
with. Take it home, Caesar, and put it somewhere I can’t find it!
_Caesar_: Yes, Marse Jedge; thank’ee, Cunnel Gwathmey. Ah hopes you
genlemen has a good fishin day. Looks to me like it promise mighty fine
weather—de sun sot red las night, an you know what dat means fo
fishermen’s luck. Ah members one time when de Jedge an me was
youngsters—(_the three of them go off, at right, in the midst of the
Negro’s chatter_)
_Porter_ (_wanders about distracted; goes to cashier’s drawer and opens
it_): It’s gone! It’s gone! The money isn’t here that ought to be here.
And they’ll blame me for it! Oh, why did I ever come into a bank? What
do I know about taking care of money? (_he stops and gazes at Athol, who
enters right, clad as in Act I_)
_Athol_ (_drifts towards him, dreamlike, silent; at last she whispers_):
Will!
_Porter_: Athol! (_with intense distress_) Sweetheart, some of the money
is gone from the drawer, and they’re blaming me for it. You know how it
is—people take money out, and they’re supposed to put in a slip, but
they forget to do it and what can I do?
_Athol_: Will, dear, I love you.
_Porter_: They are going to put me in prison—five years, they’ve
sentenced me to. And when I come out, I’ll be an ex-convict. People will
brand me with it—I’ll never be able to escape!
_Athol_: Will, dear.
_Porter_ (_sobs_): Sweetheart, I can’t go to prison, oh, I can’t stand
it! I’m going to die! I’ll kill myself!
_Athol_ (_gently_): No, Will, you won’t do that. You know that I love
you. And there is Margaret—who would take care of her? I can’t last much
longer, you know.
_Porter_: Oh, God, I can’t stand being in prison—the things they’ll do
to me! They’ll handcuff me, and shave my head, and put me in
stripes—they may even beat me! I’ll come out a maniac!
_Athol_: Whatever they do, you will stand it for my sake. And you will
come out, and start over, and be yourself. You know my faith in you,
Will—and you have to be the thing I have dreamed.
_Porter_ (_with sudden intensity_): Listen, Athol, there is an easy way
to die; the thought of it haunts me—to die for the poor devils in
prison! That’s what I ought to do—take a stand against the graft and
cruelty, and let anything come that will!
_Athol_ (_embraces him, tenderly, as if he were her child_): A man’s
wife learns to know him, Will. Listen; you will die many deaths, in your
imagination; but always you will live to die others.
_Porter_ (_yielding a little to her beguilement_): Ah, sweetheart, if
only I could have your guidance.
_Athol_ (_leads him to chair beside the desk, facing audience; she
kneels beside him_): You have it, Will—always; you have everything
you’ve ever had, and many things you’ve only dreamed. Precious gifts,
you have—fancy, and tenderness—and merry words, a shining flood. You
will take them into prison with you, and bring them out unharmed; and
you will learn new things, new understanding, new pity—and the future
will be before you. You will find a way to help people—your own way; to
suggest a little kindness to them, a little humor, in the hope that
sometime it will become contagious.
_Porter_: I said those very words in the prison; I am always quoting
you.
_Athol_: Once upon a time you told me about some foolish person in New
York who talked about the Four Hundred—those few who really counted. You
said you would write about the Four Million—they were the ones who
counted.
_Porter_: I think of that now and then.
_Athol_: Write about them, Will! Write _for_ them! I see them, eager,
hungry, craving just the sort of pity mixed with laughter that is your
gift. Yes, I see them! Will! Will—look at them! (_she points; a
searchlight behind the scenes is suddenly turned upon the audience
through an aperture in the back drop; it plays here and there, and
Athol’s voice rises with excitement_) Faces! Faces! Millions of
faces—and all of them your lovers! Eager faces, shining, with gratitude,
with hope, with fun—all of them ready to cheer you, to shout to you—to
tell the affection they bear you! Go forth, Will Porter! Do your work,
and take your place as their story teller—the voice of the Four Million!
(_Dulcie enters at right; the little shop-girl, clad in pitiful
imitation finery; frail, emaciated, hungry in body and soul; she carries
a wreath of laurel_)
_Porter_: Who are you?
_Dulcie_: I am Dulcie, the little shop-girl. Mine is the Unfinished
Story, which you will finish. I have never had a true friend—not among
men; but you are my friend. (_she puts the wreath upon his head_) Rise,
O. Henry, the little shop-girl’s knight! (_he rises, and she steps back
a foot or two, and recites_)
He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer.
He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.
His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean,
Step from the pages of the magazine
With slapstick or sombrero or with cane:
The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain.
They overact each part. But at the height
Of banter and of canter and delight
The masks fall off for one queer instant there
And show real faces: faces full of care
And desperate longing: love that’s hot or cold;
And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold....
And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd
With something nigh to chivalry he trod.
And oft the drear and driven would defend—
The little shop-girls’ knight unto the end.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MAMMONART
_An Essay in Economic Interpretation_
“_Mammonart_” studies the artists from a point of view entirely new;
asking how they get their living, and what they do for it; turning their
pockets inside out, seeing what is in them and where it comes from.
“_Mammonart_” puts to painters, sculptors, poets, novelists, dramatists
and composers the question already put to priests and preachers, editors
and journalists, college presidents and professors, school
superintendents and teachers: WHO OWNS YOU, AND WHY?
“_Mammonart_” examines art and literature as instruments of propaganda
and repression, employed by ruling classes of the community; or as
weapons of attack, employed by new classes rising into power.
“_Mammonart_” challenges the great ones now honored by critical
authority and asks to what extent they are servants of ruling-class
prestige and instruments of ruling-class safety.
“_Mammonart_” asserts that mankind is today under the spell of utterly
false conceptions of what art is and should be; of utterly vicious and
perverted standards of beauty and dignity in all the arts.
“_Mammonart_” is a history of culture, and also a battle-cry.
----------
E. HALDEMAN JULIUS telegraphs: “This is real constructive
criticism. My heartiest congratulations.”
GEORGE STERLING writes: “You may not know everything, son, but you
can sure turn out interesting stuff!”
400 PAGES. CLOTH $2.00; PAPER $1.00
UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, Calif.
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The Brass Check
_A Study of American Journalism_
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Who owns the press and why?
When you read your daily paper, are you reading facts or propaganda? And
whose propaganda?
Who furnishes the raw material for your thoughts about life? Is it
honest material?
No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the
first time the questions are answered in a book.
The first edition of this book, 23,000 copies, was sold out two weeks
after publication. Paper could not be obtained for printing, and a
carload of brown wrapping paper was used. The printings to date amount
to 144,000 copies. The book is being published in Great Britain and
colonies, and in translations in Germany, France, Holland, Norway,
Sweden, Denmark, Italy, Hungary and Japan.
Hermann Bessemer, in the “Neues Journal,” Vienna:
“Upton Sinclair deals with names, only with names, with balances,
with figures, with documents, a truly stunning, gigantic
fact-material. His book is an armored military train which with
rushing pistons roars through the jungle of American monster-lies,
whistling, roaring, shooting, chopping off with Berserker rage the
obscene heads of these evils. A breath-taking, clutching,
frightful book.”
From the pastor of the Community Church, New York:
“I am writing to thank you for sending me a copy of your new book,
‘The Brass Check.’ Although it arrived only a few days ago, I have
already read it through, every word, and have loaned it to one of
my colleagues for reading. The book is tremendous. I have never
read a more strongly consistent argument or one so formidably
buttressed by facts. You have proved your case to the handle. I
again take satisfaction in saluting you not only as a great
novelist, but as the ablest pamphleteer in America today. I am
already passing around the word in my church and taking orders for
the book.”—John Haynes Holmes.
440 pages. Cloth-bound, $1.50; paper-bound, $1
UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, Calif.
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THE GOSLINGS
_A Study of American Schools_
By Upton Sinclair
Who owns the schools, and why?
Are your children getting education, or propaganda? And whose
propaganda?
No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the
first time the questions are answered in a book.
H. L. MENCKEN on “The Goslings”: “I’d be recreant to my vows at
ordination if I did not commend his volume unqualifiedly as
excellent reading. It is, in fact, one of the most interesting
books I have got through for months. It presents a vast mass of
scandalous and amusing facts, it sorts them out very deftly, and
it is very well written. Why he has had to publish it himself I
can’t make out. Are all the regular publishers idiots?”
The Los Angeles “Times” on “The Goslings”: “As to the truth of the
charges, we have only the author’s word for it.... One would think
that if one-half of the charges are true something should be done
about it; on the other hand, if they are not true, something
should be done to suppress the book.”
From Floyd Dell: “Written with a magnificent and tragic candor.”
“The Goslings,” 464 pages; cloth $2, paper $1
UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, California
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THE GOOSE-STEP
_A Study of American Education_
By Upton Sinclair
_Who owns the colleges, and why?_
_Are your sons and daughters getting education, or propaganda?_
_And whose propaganda?_
_No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the
first time the questions are answered in a book._
From H. L. MENCKEN:
“‘The Goose-Step’ came in at last yesterday afternoon, and I fell
on it last night. My very sincere congratulations. I have read on
and on with constant joy in the adept marshalling of facts, the
shrewd presentation of personalities, the lively and incessant
humor. It is not only a fine piece of writing; it is also a sound
piece of research. It presents a devastating, but, I believe,
thoroughly fair and accurate picture of the American universities
today. The faults of ‘The Brass Check’ and ‘The Profits of
Religion’ are not in it. It is enormously more judicial and
convincing than either of those books. You are here complaining of
nothing. You simply offer the bald and horrible facts—but with
liveliness, shrewdness, good humor. An appalling picture of a
moral and mental debasement! Let every American read it and ponder
it!”
A few questions considered in “The Goose-Step”: Do you know the
extent to which the interlocking directors of railroads and steel
and oil and coal and credit in the United States are also the
interlocking trustees of American “higher” education? Do you think
that our colleges and universities should be modeled on the lines
of our government, or on the lines of our department-stores? Do
you know that eighty-five per cent of college and university
professors are dissatisfied with being managed by floor-walkers?
Do you know for how many different actions and opinions a
professor may lose his job? Do you know how many professors have
to do their own laundry? Do you know why American college
presidents with few exceptions are men who do not tell the truth?
Do you know to what extent “social position” takes precedence over
scholarship in American academic life?
A few of the institutions dealt with:
The University of the House of Morgan; The University of
Lee-Higginson; The University of U. G. I.; The Tiger’s Lair; The
Bull-dog’s Den; The University of the Black Hand; The University
of the Lumber Trust; The University of the Chimes; The
Universities of the Anaconda; The University of the Latter Day
Saints; The Mining Camp University.
500 pages, cloth $2.00, paper $1.00, postpaid.
UPTON SINCLAIR, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
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Transcriber’s Notes
This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Itemized changes
from the original text:
• Front matter: Added period to match other entries in list (Act. IV)
• p. 3: Removed period from “Al. Jennings”
• p. 9: Replaced “Misth” with “Misteh” (Ah wants you to know, Misteh
Porter)
• p. 14: Replaced “offstage” with “off-stage” (a voice calling,
off-stage right)
• p. 15: Supplied missing opening parenthesis (Uncle Caesar looks
about...)
• p. 16: Replaced “steal” with “steals”
• p. 19: Replaced “galliptious” with “galluptious”
• p. 19: Replaced “silk velvet” with “silk-velvet” (silk-velvet
Kentucky Bourbon)
• p. 30: Removed period from end of stage direction (...fires a shot)
• p. 33: Replaced “red hot” with “red-hot” (I’ll mix them red-hot)
• p. 36: Replaced “lemon-peel” with “lemon peel” (lemon peel on the
cocktail of creation)
• p. 40: Substituted em-dash for unclear punctuation in printed text
(...teach someone else that trick—)
• p. 41: Replaced “ma’m” with “ma’am” (forty-five years, ma’am)
• p. 45: Added colon to match format (sings:)
• p. 46: Replaced “Well-Fargo” with “Wells-Fargo”
• p. 46: Added period after “del amor” to match other occurrences
• p. 47: Added italics to stage direction
• p. 48: Removed duplicated word “guards” (“prison guards enter”)
• p. 52: Replaced “body servant” with “body-servant” (I was goin be yo
body-servant)
• p.53: Removed duplicated word “in” (“had in that suit-case”)
• p.55: Replaced “scuteheon” with “scutcheon” (haven’t kept the
scutcheon very clear)
Some other inconsistencies in the original text, including
inconsistencies in hyphenation, punctuation in contractions, and
variations in spelling in dialect passages, were not corrected.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.