PROGRESS OF THE WORK.
During the spring and summer the work over the river went on so grandly
and surely, that the most skeptical doubted no longer that the great
enterprise would be accomplished. Bricks, of many shapes and colors and
forms, were ready by hundreds of thousands. The forest was laid out in
broad winding avenues, according to the plan; the water-main from the
lake was laid, the sewers and drains leading to the river in their
places, the great subterranean galleries for ventilation constructed,
the cellars completed, and the broad stone foundations of the immense
palace and buildings were all completed. Every mail from France brought
letters from the count giving the most minute directions, and so
harmoniously did everything work, that scarcely a day’s labor was lost
by any change of details in the plan. The bridge had been completed long
ago, and Oakdale was well pleased with the light, elegant structure
placed there as if by enchantment. For when the piers were laid, the
railroad disgorged at the station, one evening, a quantity of
strange-looking iron-ware, every part made exactly for its place and
fitted to its neighbor part. Some strangers, men from the Phœnix Works,
accompanied the charge, and in an incredibly short space of time, lo!
the bridge was laid and carriages bearing curious visitors and heavy
carts were passing over it. The jocose Social Palace laborers declared
that they passed over the river to their work in paddle-boats one
morning, and at night returned by the bridge!
The scrip issued by the town authorities to aid the building of the
bridge, passed everywhere without question, from the banking-house of
Kendrick & Burnham to the farmer’s stall in the Oakdale market. In fact,
the people rather preferred it to “greenbacks,” though at first they had
eyed it suspiciously, and asked questions. Then it came to be called
“Bridge Scrip,” and the “count’s money,” and was everywhere the text of
crude, or deep, financial theories. Said Kendrick, one of the
town-council, “This paper is out to the amount of fifty thousand
dollars. The taxes have just been collected, but the people took no
pains to pay their taxes with it. They did so only in a few cases. I
don’t see why it might not be kept forever in circulation.”
“Only,” said another, “we stand committed to burn it as fast as it comes
in.”
“Of course. I know that, and don’t intend to prevent it; but I only say,
why would anything but good come by keeping it in circulation? The men
who built the bridge are paid. Von Frauenstein was paid by this paper.
He has got it all paid out to his workmen. The scrip has done its work,
and it still keeps on working. I only ask, why not let it work for
us—that is, the town? It is not only as good as it was at first, but a
good deal better, for the town is rich, as everybody knows. What do you
think about it, Dr. Forest?”
“I? I think specie basis all rot. It is simply a relic of barbarism—when
there was no commerce, only barter. Then, when civilization advanced a
little, and men wanted to sell their ivory, and the buyer had not
rhinoceros hides, or whatever was wanted in exchange, there arose the
necessity for something, to give in exchange for the ivory, that would
buy what the seller wanted. Naturally the first money was bright beads,
bright metal coins—things of intrinsic value. As civilization
progresses, barter ceases, and commerce commences. We have arrived then
at the conception of value, and use a mere symbol of it. We don’t want
money now that has intrinsic value, any more than we want a figure nine
with nine positive strokes in it, or a yard-stick made of gold.”
“But you must have a basis of wealth,” said one of the listeners. “I
know we don’t want coin for business purposes. It is unhandy and
cumbrous. The commerce of to-day could not march a step without
bank-notes and checks. Now the United States issues our paper-money; but
it must keep specie in its treasury vaults to the amount of the paper
issued, according to some.”
“Which it does not do,” said the doctor, “and everybody knows it. You
are mistaken in supposing that. It is required simply to keep a certain
specie reserve; that is all.”
“Why don’t we bust up then?” asked an awkward new-comer, who felt the
heavy responsibility of citizenship.
“We can’t ‘bust up,’ my friend,” said the doctor, with a very broad
smile, “because we have a much better foundation for this paper-money
than rhinoceros hides, wampum, or gold coin. That foundation is the
wealth of the nation, and the credit of the people.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kendrick, “how you would fix your basis.”
“My idea,” said the doctor, “is that of many who have studied the
subject profoundly: that the basis should be the cereals and certain
other commodities necessary to the support of life and comfort. Average
their prices during twenty years, in order to get at your unit of value,
or dollar.”
“Ah! but that of necessity would fluctuate; one year is fruitful,
another unfruitful.”
“But the averaging process would preserve the equilibrium,” replied the
doctor; “and gold! you forget how that fluctuates. Why, the discovery of
a cheap method of extracting the gold from quartz and gold-bearing
sands, liable to happen any day, through our constantly-increasing
knowledge of chemistry, and your gold would become ten times as
plentiful as it is now. You see that is not the scientific basis. The
scientific basis should be the products of industry: the wealth of the
nation.”
“My dear friend,” said Kendrick, “this question of a proper circulating
medium has bothered philosophers from the foundation of the world, and
we shall not be likely to settle it in ten minutes on a street corner.”
Kendrick had good reasons for being puzzled. As a banker he was getting
into deep water; but no alarm had been sounded yet. As he took the
doctor’s arm and walked toward the new bridge, the doctor said:
“Nothing tends more directly to the demoralization of the people than a
fluctuating currency. It upsets all our ideas of probity. A man buys,
for example, a quantity of cotton to-day for a thousand dollars, payable
in three months. In three months gold has ‘gone up,’ as they say, and
instead of paying one thousand, he has to pay eleven or twelve hundred.
You see the result is disgust, distrust, and loss of nice moral balance.
A state of things making an inflated currency possible, creates our
stock and gold gamblers—makes men see little harm in influencing
Congress to favor great monopolies that oppress and rob the people. From
this, only one step to corrupting Congressmen with shares in enterprises
which they have then a direct interest in favoring. Now what must be the
effect of this on the laboring people, who are beginning to see where
they stand? I tell you they are everywhere being roused to desperation.
Go into any of the labor organizations here, and listen to what is
openly said. If you don’t come away with a vivid impression that this
deep muttering foretells a coming storm, all I can say is, you can’t
read the signs of the times.”
“I’ve thought of all this, doctor, but what can we do? Leave off banking
and all other business, and go to building social palaces? I think I’ll
wait and see how this one works after a few years. How do you know these
workingmen will be better satisfied? They want luxury and idleness.
That’s what they want.”
“Well, Kendrick, you might sympathize with them a little in that. But
that’s all rot. The workman will be well pleased when he has a good
home, which he can purchase with his rent; when he has real luxuries for
himself and family; when he sees his children being nobly educated; and
above all, when he knows he will have a pleasant home for his old age,
or if he dies before that, that his wife and children will be well
provided for. To not believe that, is to believe in the natural
depravity of the human heart.”
“Well, I swear, the longer I live the more doubts I have on that point,”
said Kendrick, rather ambiguously.
But while men talked and speculated, they watched with eager interest
the development of Frauenstein’s great project. Stevens, the doctor, and
all the chiefs of the operations, declared that their men worked with a
devotion unparalleled. The social lunch became the rule, and the men
ceased carrying their tin-kettles almost without exception. Too Soon had
as much as he could manage among the brickmakers, and so the doctor put
up another temporary building, about half-way between the site of the
palace and the woods, and a similar lunch provision to that for Stevens’
men, was established for the others. Too Soon, however, could not be
outdone, or even rivaled, by any one the doctor could find. The Chinaman
became a favorite with the men and with the idle boys, that were at
first a pest around the building, attracted by the unusual state of
things, or by the chance of getting something to eat, in exchange for
taking a turn at chopping Too Soon’s cold meat and vegetables, for he
was an economist by the transmitted instinct of generations. He saved
his gravy and dripping, and produced a hash every other day, which
became famous for its excellence.
Too Soon was wonderfully neat and methodical. He would not do the
slightest thing for the boys until his work was all done; but when they
had helped him clear the tables, wash the dishes, lock them away in the
pantry, and sweep out the place, he would entertain them by the most
wonderful jugglery or slight-of-hand feats. He spun tops up inclined
planes, and strings, made paper butterflies, that, under the influence
of his fan, acted for all the world like live ones endowed with reason;
and Young America soon learned that it was in its very swaddling-clothes
in the art of kite-flying. Too Soon was now a hero, and the boys fully
atoned for their former meanness to him, when he was a forlorn wretch in
their streets. They would do anything so that he could get his work
done. Sometimes they actually crowded him away from his wash-tub, and
rubbed out the napkins and table-cloths themselves. The way he dampened
his clothes, preparatory to ironing them, was great fun. To this end he
used to fill his mouth with water, and, by some trick they never could
imitate, send it out over the linen in a fine mist. One or two of them
partly learned the secret, and astonished Biddy at home by what they
knew about clothes-dampening.
Times were good in Oakdale. The only trouble was with certain great
manufacturers, whose men would desert and go over the river to work even
for less wages, because it was “jolly” there, as they said. Men came
from neighboring towns and besieged the doctor for work, or, failing,
took the place of deserters in the window-sash and blind factory of Ely
& Gerrish; and so hundreds of families moved into the town. Ely &
Gerrish, however, did not lose many of their workmen, for they had
provided some years ago a “workmen’s home,” a very superior
tenement-house, which had been constantly full of tenants; but some
other firms had to stop business.
The bet between the count and Kendrick was decided after considerable
difficulty in getting at the facts, in which they were finally aided by
a commission appointed by the town-council, who were persuaded that
statistics of this nature would be valuable. Kendrick lost, and the
hospital profited accordingly.
“I’m very sorry, Elias, that you did not win,” said Mrs. Kendrick.
“Are you? I should not have supposed it possible. All you women are so
devoted to Frauenstein.”
“If you had lost, you know the hospital would have received twice as
much,” said Mrs. Kendrick.
“I thought it mighty strange,” said Kendrick, “that you could be on my
side against the count. That explains.”
During this conversation Mrs. Kendrick asked her husband if he did not
believe that the count had put money in the flower firm of Dykes &
Delano.
“Of course I do. Clara has been rushing things since he left. There has
arrived invoice after invoice of foreign trees, which she has set out as
thick as reeds in a swamp; and she has a dozen men there at work all the
time, beside the women she employs.”
“The trees and shrubs, and all the new hot-house plants, are for the
grounds and hot-houses over the river, I am told,” said Mrs. Kendrick.
“I wonder you don’t go and see them. I never saw anything so fine in my
life.”
“Oh, I don’t care to. It would only make me more disgusted with this
affair of ours, that costs so much, and gives so little satisfaction to
anybody.”
“Well, you don’t manage it right. You should have somebody who
understands it. I wish I could do it myself, or make Louise interested;
and she would be, if they were where they could be seen, or if you had a
place for them clean enough to wear a decent dress into, or wide enough
to pass through without knocking down the pots. I’m sure I can’t bear to
go into it. I’d rather have a little twelve-foot conservatory opening
from my drawing-room than all your hot-houses, even if they did produce
five bunches of grapes with only seventy-five tons of coal! That little
room opening out of Clara’s dining-room is perfectly lovely—one mass of
color and perfume; and then the oiled floor is so clean, and the place
so roomy! Why, you can sit there with the largest arm-chair!”
Kendrick said that nothing ever pleased his wife, and he meant to give
up the hot-houses. They were a great expense for nothing. Mrs. Kendrick
was sure she hoped he was not keeping them up for her sake; and after a
good many cutting speeches on both sides, they ended in secretly pitying
each other, seeing that they obtained so little pleasure out of this
world. Then they gravitated into an indifferent conversation about the
convention, and Mr. Kendrick inquired about Clara’s address.
“I must confess it was very interesting,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “She was
applauded a great deal. I enjoyed the whole convention very much.”
Kendrick told her she was becoming radical. “I think men are greatly to
be blamed,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “for the little interest we take in
great questions. You, for instance, never talk to me of them. Why, I
actually did not know that women voted in Wyoming Territory. I was never
more astonished at anything than at a letter which Clara read from one
of the judges there, about the women jurors. It seems they give the
greatest satisfaction, except to the rumsellers and dance-house keepers.
Did you know this fact?”
“On the contrary, I read in the paper lately that most of their
decisions have been set aside.”
“Well, this letter was written only three weeks ago, and the judge says
everything favorable; that the morality of the place is greatly
improved; that before the women sat on juries it was almost impossible
to convict men for murder or manslaughter, and the laws against
drunkenness and gambling were disobeyed with impunity. Now this is all
changed, and he says particularly that not a single verdict, civil or
criminal, has been set aside where a part of the jury has been composed
of women. What do you think of that, Elias?”
“Why, my paper must have lied. I have long thought a man might almost as
well do without a metropolitan paper. They don’t seem to be conducted in
the interest of any decent principle. But I don’t understand about those
Wyoming juries. Would you really sit on a jury? I assure you, men
consider it a great bore.”
“I can’t say I should like to; but don’t we owe it as a duty? Whatever
is a duty should be done, whether agreeable or not.” Kendrick’s secret
thought was, that such a sentiment of devotion to duty, would certainly
tend to promote justice; but on that subject he said nothing. He asked
his wife how she would vote intelligently for political measures? How
she could decide, for example, whether free-trade or protection was the
right principle.
“How does the plantation hand decide that, Elias, and the ignorant
foreigner? I should not dare to vote as carelessly as they do. For my
part, I think it a great responsibility.”
“Well, how would you decide?”
“I should certainly study up the subject, and if I had not time for
that, I would go to the wisest and most upright man I knew, and ask him
to instruct me on the principles of free-trade and protection. That is
what _I_ should do.”
Kendrick pondered over this naive speech of his wife for a long time.
Any person who could take that trouble to do the best thing for the
interests of the country, might, he thought, have as good a right to
political freedom as the newly-enfranchised slaves! But then, even he
was becoming tinctured with radical ideas.
Not long before Susie’s return, she wrote to Clara a long letter,
describing life in the Social Palace at Guise. “I am,” she said, “so
impatient of this slow process of communicating my thoughts and
feelings, and I long to sit down by your side and talk a few volumes.
Truly I am a fortunate being, in having the rare advantage of coming
here. It is something to think of with pride and delight, as long as I
live.
“The people who live here are most of them nothing but poor, uneducated
working people, and you can tell at a glance those who have but just
arrived from the older residents. A single year, surrounded by such
order and beauty, such social advantages of every kind, works wonders.
The women at first, some of them, set up their cook-stoves, and wash and
cook in their apartments; but the first time they take their linen to
the laundries, they see the advantage of washing there, and the custom
is soon established. So of cooking; they find that the great public
kitchen, cooks better than they can, and they are glad to send there for
their soups and meats, which are so cheap, that it does not pay to broil
themselves over their own stoves. This, alone, is a most important thing
in the emancipation of women. Mr. Godin has thought of everything. But
the nursery and the schools! Oh, Clara, I wish you could see them. I
said everything was free; there is one exception. No one can keep his
children out of school. Every child is bound to have a good practical
and industrial education.
“One thing struck me as strange: all drink wine at dinner, even to the
small children; but for these it is diluted with water. Yet I have not
seen a case of intoxication since I have been here—not even in the café
and billiard-room, where there is much discussion and lively
conversation. The best comment on the temperance and order of the place,
is the fact that there has not been a single police case in the
Familistère since it was founded, and yet there are over a thousand
people living here.
“I sit in the council of twelve (women), whenever they meet, so that I
may learn how they conduct business. There are often very spirited
discussions, but never disorder or any discourtesy. This council directs
the internal interests, nurseries, schools, oversees the food and other
supplies, but it is not limited to these; it can discuss all matters. By
natural attraction, it is found the women’s council gravitate to this
business. Sometimes the council of twelve men meets with and deliberates
with the council of women.
“One thing strikes every visitor: the exquisite cleanliness of the
apartments, the windows, the corridors, the courts, the schools, and the
gardens and parks. Then, too, there is very little illness among the
children. Why should there be? They have the conditions for growth and
happiness. In the nursery of some seventy _poupons_ (three or four years
old), and nearly as many nurselings, there is no racket, though plenty
of play and laughter. All these pretty babies go to bed without rocking,
and without crying, and wake in the morning the same way, waiting each
his turn to be bathed, and dressed, and fed. These are their first
lessons. If a new-comer sets up a ‘howling,’ as Min says, all the rest
look at him with wide open eyes, and he can’t long stand against the
public opinion of his peers! Their pretty little iron cribs, canopied
with snowy muslin, have each a sacking bottom filled with bran; over
this the sheet goes. Let me tell you how these beds are kept sweet and
fresh. Any moisture in this bran immediately forms a lump, which is
taken out, and after a few days, more or less, the whole is replaced by
fresh bran. The _nourrisons_, or nursing-babies, are very fond of
watching the _poupons_, in the same immense room, and only separated
from them by a little railing. They see them march to music, and try to
imitate their little gymnastic exercises. Their ambition is to become
_poupons_, which they do at about two years, or a very little over. One
indispensable qualification for this promotion is, that they shall have
learned to keep themselves clean—to use their neat little earth closets
adroitly, like their big comrades, the _poupons_! The _poupons_ are
marvelously accomplished in the eyes of the _nourrisons_. In their turn,
the _poupons_ look up to the _bambins_. Oh, it is such a delight to see
all these blessed, happy children! All the way up from the nurse’s arms
to the highest classes, they are disciplined and educated for a high and
useful career. It is instilled into them from the first, that they must
respect the rights of others: the infant should not cry, because he will
disturb his little comrades who wish to rest! In eating, he must not be
greedy, for that offends the good taste of his companions, or robs them
of their share. In meeting any one in the grounds or courts, he must bow
gracefully, for all have a right to courteous treatment; and so on all
the way through, the rights of others are respected. There are no
punishments, except withholding the disorderly or refractory child from
the organized plays and sports in the parks and ground. This is found
all potent. But I could go on all night. Let me sum it all up in this:
Monsieur Godin has discovered and applied the laws of social harmony,
and therefore he deserves immortality.
“I see very little of the count. He is very busy. One day he is in
Paris, the next in London, and so on; though he is kind enough to write
me very often. Min is in the _bambinat_ all day. She is perfectly happy,
and the whole _bambinat_ does her reverence as a distinguished visitor!
She is learning French as only children can.”
Clara constantly received letters from Susie; long, delightful letters,
full of enthusiasm, and tenderness, and hope for the future; but the
count was silent. He did not even mention her in his letters to the
doctor, and although this pained her, there was a possible meaning in
it, sweeter than all the conventional remembrances in the world. Once
only he wrote: “I have not written to you, dear friend, from a motive
you may regard as very boyish; but I should never attempt to express
anything but the exact truth to one like you: the reason of my silence
is simply, not knowing what to say. Would you believe me so much a
child? I can only answer: you are responsible. You have thus affected
me. When I am in your presence, I can talk of indifferent subjects. I
cannot write of them.
“There is a mystery in my life, or rather in my character—a riddle I am
waiting for you to read. I am tempted to disclose it, and yet dare not;
therefore I sit with the ink drying on my pen.
“I believe in you in all ways. I trust your delicate insight to
understand even this awkward attempt to approach you, as I trust your
generosity to deal patiently with my weakness. You also have been
silent, my friend, and sometimes I am vain enough to ascribe that
silence to a like cause with mine; but I dare not be too bold. There are
some hopes that must not be rashly cultivated; their disappointment
would destroy my power to do the work which no other can do for me. In
two weeks, if the gods are kind to me, I shall stand in your presence.
“Believe me, with sincere devotion,
“PAUL VON FRAUENSTEIN.”
This, to some, might seem a very singular missive from a man of the
world like Frauenstein—a man sure of himself, confident of his power,
and accustomed to the caresses of women. But there are others who will
understand from it, that Paul was deeply in love; and that just in
proportion to the strength of this passion in certain high natures,
while there is any doubt of its meeting a perfect response, there is
always great weakness, and a humility that creates self-distrust. The
fear that his love might fail to awaken a perfect response, at times
overwhelmed him and made him as weak as a little child. He had wooed
other women boldly; but this one, he could not approach. To trouble her
serene soul with his passion seemed like an impertinence. He saw
himself, like Adam in Paradise, standing naked and trembling before a
divinely superior being, who held his fate in her hands. He could do
nothing but wait some sign from her—some unmistakable, slight sign, that
so gracious a lady must know well how to convey. Could she hesitate
because of a dead legal tie? That should not hamper free expression of
sentiment in a grand, self-poised woman, the daughter of such a man as
Dr. Forest, though it might hinder the fruition of hopes. Busy as Paul
was with his pressing responsibilities, it was impossible to banish the
thought of Clara from one of his waking moments. Between him and every
object, her fair face appeared, and the memory of her tender eyes, her
entrancing smile, the play of her mobile features, and her soft voice,
were dearer far to him than all the realities of life. “Some time she
_must_ love me!” he said. “A grand passion cannot exist when one object
is passive. It is not her beauty that draws me; it must be love
answering unto love.”
About the time Clara received her first letter from the count, there
arrived a formidable legal document from Boston—a copy of Dr. Delano’s
divorce. What he had said to her during their last interview, proved no
idle prediction. Clara ran her eye down the page of “legal-cap” until
she came to the last paragraph, which read: “_And it is further ordered
and adjudged that it shall be lawful for the said complainant to marry
again, in the same manner as though the said defendant were actually
dead; but it shall not be lawful for the said defendant to marry again
until the said complainant be actually dead._”
“This, then, is law,” thought Clara. “No wonder Charlotte said it is not
common sense.” She showed the instrument to her father, but he hardly
glanced at it. He was very glad. “That’s one good piece of business
finished,” he said. He was full of care and anxiety about the work under
his direction, and talked only of that, so Clara forbore to call his
attention to her own vexation. In her ignorance of legal forms, she
regarded this as a perpetual barrier to her ever marrying. A little
while ago, she would have given herself but slight trouble about such a
thing, being quite persuaded that she would never love again. It was
different now. The letter she had just received from Von Frauenstein
opened a new world to her—a world never to be entered. It was like
shipwreck in full view of the Happy Isles.
Whenever Clara recalled this divorce, she felt humiliated, wronged, the
victim of a hideous farce. How could she be bound to one who was free to
marry again, “in the same manner as though” she were actually dead? The
question recurred continually, and day by day it seemed more difficult
to speak to her father about it; and then he had no power to change the
decree, and why trouble him for nothing? Meanwhile Albert made prompt
use of his freedom. He married Ella and established her in the family
home. Miss Charlotte then quitted it, as she had determined, and went to
live with the Kendricks in Oakdale, until she should decide on a
permanent residence. Ella pouted terribly at the conduct of Miss
Charlotte, in leaving the very day after the wedding, for her presence
was necessary to give tone to the union. There had been ugly stories
abroad about her and Dr. Delano, connected with his separation from his
wife; and the departure of Charlotte, especially her going to Oakdale,
where Clara lived, seemed to confirm them. Many of the older
acquaintances of the Delanos “put on airs,” to use Ella’s expression,
and were at best only coldly polite; and so it happened that her triumph
in marrying Albert was robbed of all its sweetness.