During the first few days he kept the fact diligently before his mind
that he was in a land where there was “work and bread for all.” In
fact, for convenience’ sake he fitted it to a little tune and hummed it
to himself; but as time wore on the fact itself began to take on a
doubtful look, and next the tune got fatigued and presently ran down
and stopped. His first effort was to get an upper clerkship in one of
the departments, where his Oxford education could come into play and do
him service. But he stood no chance whatever. There, competency was no
recommendation; political backing, without competency, was worth six of
it. He was glaringly English, and that was necessarily against him in
the political centre of a nation where both parties prayed for the
Irish cause on the house-top and blasphemed it in the cellar. By his
dress he was a cowboy; that won him respect—when his back was not
turned—but it couldn’t get a clerkship for him. But he had said, in a
rash moment, that he would wear those clothes till the owner or the
owner’s friends caught sight of them and asked for that money, and his
conscience would not let him retire from that engagement now.
At the end of a week things were beginning to wear rather a startling
look. He had hunted everywhere for work, descending gradually the scale
of quality, until apparently he had sued for all the various kinds of
work a man without a special calling might hope to be able to do,
except ditching and the other coarse manual sorts—and had got neither
work nor the promise of it.
He was mechanically turning over the leaves of his diary, meanwhile,
and now his eye fell upon the first record made after he was burnt out:
“I myself did not doubt my stamina before, nobody could doubt it now,
if they could see how I am housed, and realise that I feel absolutely
no disgust with these quarters, but am as serenely content with them as
any dog would be in a similar kennel. Terms, twenty-five dollars a
week. I said I would start at the bottom. I have kept my word.”
A shudder went quaking through him, and he exclaimed:
“What have I been thinking of! _This_ the bottom! Mooning along a whole
week, and these terrific expenses climbing and climbing all the time! I
must end this folly straightway.”
He settled up at once and went forth to find less sumptuous lodgings.
He had to wander far and seek with diligence, but he succeeded. They
made him pay in advance—four dollars and a half; this secured both bed
and food for a week. The good-natured, hardworked landlady took him up
three flights of narrow, uncarpeted stairs and delivered him into his
room. There were two double-bedsteads in it, and one single one. He
would be allowed to sleep alone in one of the double beds until some
new boarder should come, but he wouldn’t be charged extra.
So he would presently be required to sleep with some stranger! The
thought of it made him sick. Mrs. Marsh, the landlady, was very
friendly and hoped he would like her house—they all liked it, she said.
“And they’re a very nice set of boys. They carry on a good deal, but
that’s their fun. You see, this room opens right into this back one,
and sometimes they’re all in one and sometimes in the other; and hot
nights they all sleep on the roof when it don’t rain. They get out
there the minute it’s hot enough. The season’s so early that they’ve
already had a night or two up there. If you’d like to go up and pick
out a place, you can. You’ll find chalk in the side of the chimney
where there’s a brick wanting. You just take the chalk and—but of
course you’ve done it before.”
“Oh, no, I haven’t.”
“Why, of course you haven’t—what am I thinking of? Plenty of room on
the Plains without chalking, I’ll be bound. Well, you just chalk out a
place the size of a blanket anywhere on the tin that ain’t already
marked off, you know, and that’s your property. You and your bed-mate
take turnabout carrying up the blanket and pillows and fetching them
down again; or one carries them up and the other fetches them down, you
fix it the way you like, you know. You’ll like the boys, they’re
everlasting sociable—except the printer. He’s the one that sleeps in
that single bed—the strangest creature; why, I don’t believe you could
get that man to sleep with another man, not if the house was afire.
Mind you, I’m not just talking, I know. The boys tried him, to see.
They took his bed out one night, and so when he got home about three in
the morning—he was on a morning paper then, but he’s on an evening one
now—there wasn’t any place for him but with the iron-moulder; and if
you’ll believe me, he just set up the rest of the night—he did, honest.
They say he’s cracked, but it ain’t so, he’s English—they’re awful
particular. You won’t mind my saying that. You—you’re English?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. I could tell it by the way you mispronounce the words
that’s got a’s in them, you know; such as saying loff when you mean
laff —but you’ll get over that. He’s a right down good fellow, and a
little sociable with the photographer’s boy and the caulker and the
blacksmith that work in the navy yard, but not so much with the others.
The fact is, though it’s private, and the others don’t know it, he’s a
kind of an aristocrat, his father being a doctor, and _you_ know what
style _that_ is—in England, I mean, because in this country a doctor
ain’t so _very_ much, even if he’s _that_. But over there of course
it’s different. So this chap had a falling out with his father, and was
pretty high strung, and just cut for this country, and the first he
knew he had to get to work or starve. Well, he’d been to college, you
see, and so he judged _he_ was all right—did you say anything?”
“No—I only sighed.”
“And there’s where he was mistaken. Why, he mighty near starved. And I
reckon he would have starved sure enough, if some jour’ printer or
other hadn’t took pity on him and got him a place as apprentice. So he
learnt the trade, and then he was all right—but it was a close call.
Once he thought he had _got_ to haul in his pride and holler for his
father and—why, you’re sighing again. Is anything the matter with
you?—does my clatter—”
“Oh, _dear_—no. Pray go on—I like it.”
“Yes, you see, he’s been over here ten years; he’s twenty-eight, now,
and he ain’t pretty well satisfied in his mind, because he can’t get
reconciled to being a mechanic and associating with mechanics, he
being, as he says to me, a _gentleman_, which is a pretty plain
letting-on that the boys ain’t, but of course I know enough not to let
_that_ cat out of the bag.”
“Why—would there be any harm in it?”
“Harm in it? They’d lick him, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t _you?_ Of course
you would. Don’t you ever let a man say you ain’t a gentleman in _this_
country. But laws, what am I thinking about? I reckon a body would
think twice before he said a cowboy wasn’t a gentleman.”
A trim, active, slender and very pretty girl of about eighteen walked
into the room now, in the most satisfied and unembarrassed way. She was
cheaply but smartly and gracefully dressed, and the mother’s quick
glance at the stranger’s face as he rose, was of the kind which
inquires what effect has been produced, and expects to find indications
of surprise and admiration.
“This is my daughter Hattie—we call her Puss. It’s the new boarder,
Puss.” This without rising.
The young Englishman made the awkward bow common to his nationality and
time of life in circumstances of delicacy and difficulty, and these
were of that sort; for, being taken by surprise, his natural, lifelong
self sprang to the front, and that self of course would not know just
how to act when introduced to a chambermaid, or to the heiress of a
mechanics’ boarding house. His other self—the self which recognized the
equality of all men—would have managed the thing better, if it hadn’t
been caught off guard and robbed of its chance. The young girl paid no
attention to the bow, but put out her hand frankly and gave the
stranger a friendly shake and said:
“How do you do?”
p109.jpg (23K)
Then she marched to the one washstand in the room, tilted her head this
way and that before the wreck of a cheap mirror that hung above it,
dampened her fingers with her tongue, perfected the circle of a little
lock of hair that was pasted against her forehead, then began to busy
herself with the slops.
“Well, I must be going—it’s getting towards supper time. Make yourself
at home, Mr. Tracy, you’ll hear the bell when it’s ready.”
The landlady took her tranquil departure, without commanding either of
the young people to vacate the room. The young man wondered a little
that a mother who seemed so honest and respectable should be so
thoughtless, and was reaching for his hat, intending to disembarrass
the girl of his presence; but she said:
“Where are you going?”
“Well—nowhere in particular, but as I am only in the way here—”
“Why, who said you were in the way? Sit down—I’ll move you when you are
in the way.”
She was making the beds, now. He sat down and watched her deft and
diligent performance.
“What gave you that notion? Do you reckon I need a whole room just to
make up a bed or two in?”
“Well no, it wasn’t that, exactly. We are away up here in an empty
house, and your mother being gone—”
The girl interrupted him with an amused laugh, and said:
“Nobody to protect me? Bless you, I don’t need it. I’m not afraid. I
might be if I was alone, because I do hate ghosts, and I don’t deny it.
Not that I believe in them, for I don’t. I’m only just afraid of them.”
“How can you be afraid of them if you don’t believe in them?”
“Oh, _I_ don’t know the _how_ of it—that’s too many for _me;_ I only
know it’s _so_. It’s the same with Maggie Lee.”
“Who is that?”
“One of the boarders; young lady that works in the fact’ry.”
“She works in a factory?”
“Yes. Shoe factory.”
“In a shoe factory; and you call her a young lady?”
“Why, she’s only twenty-two; what should you call her?”
“I wasn’t thinking of her age, I was thinking of the title. The fact
is, I came away from England to get away from artificial forms—for
artificial forms suit artificial people only—and here you’ve got them
too. I’m sorry. I hoped you had only men and women; everybody equal; no
differences in rank.”
The girl stopped with a pillow in her teeth and the case spread open
below it, contemplating him from under her brows with a slightly
puzzled expression. She released the pillow and said:
“Why, they _are_ all equal. Where’s any difference in rank?”
“If you call a factory girl a young _lady_, what do you call the
President’s wife?”
“Call her an _old_ one.”
“Oh, you make age the only distinction?”
“There ain’t any other to make as far as I can see.”
“Then _all_ women are ladies?”
“Certainly they are. All the respectable ones.”
“Well, that puts a better face on it. Certainly there is no harm in a
title when it is given to everybody. It is only an offense and a wrong
when it is restricted to a favored few. But Miss—er—”
“Hattie.”
“Miss Hattie, be frank; confess that that title _isn’t_ accorded by
everybody to everybody. The rich American doesn’t call her cook a
lady—isn’t that so?”
“Yes, it’s so. What of it?”
He was surprised and a little disappointed, to see that his admirable
shot had produced no perceptible effect.
“What _of_ it?” he said. “Why this: equality is _not_ conceded here,
after all, and the Americans are no better off than the English. In
fact there’s no difference.”
“Now _what_ an idea. There’s nothing in a title except what is _put_
into it—you’ve said that yourself. Suppose the title is _clean_,
instead of lady. You get that?”
“I believe so. Instead of speaking of a woman as a _lady_, you
substitute clean and say she’s a clean person.”
“That’s it. In England the swell folks don’t speak of the working
people as gentlemen and ladies?”
“Oh, no.”
“And the working people don’t call _themselves_ gentlemen and ladies?”
“Certainly not.”
“So if you used the other word there wouldn’t be any change. The swell
people wouldn’t call anybody but themselves ‘clean,’ and those others
would drop sort of meekly into their way of talking and _they_ wouldn’t
call themselves clean. We don’t do that way here. Everybody calls
himself a lady or gentleman, and thinks he _is_, and don’t care what
anybody else thinks him, so long as he don’t say it out loud. You think
there’s no difference. You _knuckle down_ and we _don’t_. Ain’t that a
difference?”
“It is a difference I hadn’t thought of; I admit that. Still—_calling_
one’s self a lady doesn’t—er—”
“I wouldn’t go on if I were you.”
Howard Tracy turned his head to see who it might be that had introduced
this remark. It was a short man about forty years old, with sandy hair,
no beard, and a pleasant face badly freckled but alive and intelligent,
and he wore slop-shop clothing which was neat but showed wear. He had
come from the front room beyond the hall, where he had left his hat,
and he had a chipped and cracked white wash-bowl in his hand. The girl
came and took the bowl.
“I’ll get it for you. You go right ahead and _give_ it to him, Mr.
Barrow. He’s the new boarder—Mr. Tracy—and I’d just got to where it was
getting too deep for me.”
“Much obliged if you will, Hattie. I was coming to borrow of the boys.”
He sat down at his ease on an old trunk, and said, “I’ve been listening
and got interested; and as I was saying, I wouldn’t go on, if I were
you. You see where you are coming to, don’t you? _Calling_ yourself a
lady doesn’t elect you; that is what you were going to say; and you saw
that if you said it you were going to run right up against another
difference that you hadn’t thought of: to-wit, Whose _right_ is it to
do the electing? Over there, twenty thousand people in a million elect
themselves gentlemen and ladies, and the nine hundred and eighty
thousand _accept_ that decree and swallow the affront which it puts
upon them. Why, if they didn’t accept it, it wouldn’t _be_ an election,
it would be a dead letter and have no force at all. Over here the
twenty thousand would-be exclusives come up to the polls and vote
themselves to be ladies and gentlemen. But the thing doesn’t stop
there. The nine hundred and eighty thousand come and vote themselves to
be ladies and gentlemen _too_, and that elects the whole nation. Since
the whole million vote themselves ladies and gentlemen, there is no
question about that election. It _does_ make absolute equality, and
there is no fiction about it; while over yonder the _inequality_, (by
decree of the infinitely feeble, and consent of the infinitely strong,)
is also absolute—as real and absolute as our equality.”
Tracy had shrunk promptly into his English shell when this speech
began, notwithstanding he had now been in severe training several weeks
for contact and intercourse with the common herd on the common herd’s
terms; but he lost no time in pulling himself out again, and so by the
time the speech was finished his valves were open once more, and he was
forcing himself to accept without resentment the common herd’s frank
fashion of dropping sociably into other people’s conversations
unembarrassed and uninvited. The process was not very difficult this
time, for the man’s smile and voice and manner were persuasive and
winning. Tracy would even have liked him on the spot, but for the
fact—fact which he was not really aware of—that the equality of men was
not yet a reality to him, it was only a theory; the _mind_ perceived,
but the _man_ failed to feel it. It was Hattie’s ghost over again,
merely turned around. Theoretically Barrow was his equal, but it was
distinctly distasteful to see him exhibit it. He presently said:
“I hope in all sincerity that what you have said is true, as regards
the Americans, for doubts have crept into my mind several times. It
seemed that the equality must be ungenuine where the sign-names of
castes were still in vogue; but those sign-names have certainly lost
their offence and are wholly neutralized, nullified and harmless if
they are the undisputed property of every individual in the nation. I
think I realize that caste does not exist and cannot exist except by
common consent of the masses outside of its limits. I thought caste
created itself and perpetuated itself; but it seems quite true that it
only creates itself, and is perpetuated by the people whom it despises,
and who can dissolve it at any time by assuming its mere sign-names
themselves.”
“It’s what I think. There isn’t any power on earth that can prevent
England’s thirty millions from electing themselves dukes and duchesses
to-morrow and calling themselves so. And within six months all the
former dukes and duchesses would have retired from the business. I wish
they’d try that. Royalty itself couldn’t survive such a process. A
handful of frowners against thirty million laughers in a state of
irruption. Why, it’s Herculaneum against Vesuvius; it would take
another eighteen centuries to find that Herculaneum after the
cataclysm. What’s a Colonel in our South? He’s a nobody; because
they’re all colonels down there. No, Tracy” (shudder from Tracy)
“nobody in England would call you a gentleman and you wouldn’t call
yourself one; and I tell you it’s a state of things that makes a man
put himself into most unbecoming attitudes sometimes—the broad and
general recognition and acceptance of caste _as_ caste does, I mean.
Makes him do it unconsciously—being bred in him, you see, and never
thought over and reasoned out. You couldn’t conceive of the Matterhorn
being flattered by the notice of one of your comely little English
hills, could you?”
“Why, no.”
“Well, then, let a man in his right mind try to conceive of Darwin
feeling flattered by the notice of a princess. It’s so grotesque that
it—well, it paralyzes the imagination. Yet that Memnon _was_ flattered
by the notice of that statuette; he _says_ so—says so himself. The
system that can make a god disown his godship and profane it—oh, well,
it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong and ought to be abolished, I should
say.”
The mention of Darwin brought on a literary discussion, and this topic
roused such enthusiasm in Barrow that he took off his coat and made
himself the more free and comfortable for it, and detained him so long
that he was still at it when the noisy proprietors of the room came
shouting and skylarking in and began to romp, scuffle, wash, and
otherwise entertain themselves. He lingered yet a little longer to
offer the hospitalities of his room and his book shelf to Tracy and ask
him a personal question or two:
“What is your trade?”
“They—well, they call me a cowboy, but that is a fancy. I’m not that. I
haven’t any trade.”
“What do you work at for your living?”
“Oh, anything—I mean I _would_ work at, anything I could get to do, but
thus far I haven’t been able to find an occupation.”
“Maybe I can help you; I’d like to try.”
“I shall be very glad. I’ve tried, myself, to weariness.”
“Well, of course where a man hasn’t a regular trade he’s pretty bad off
in this world. What you needed, I reckon, was less book learning and
more bread-and-butter learning. I don’t know what your father could
have been thinking of. You ought to have had a trade, you ought to have
had a trade, by _all_ means. But never mind about that; we’ll stir up
_something_ to do, I guess. And don’t you get homesick; that’s a bad
business. We’ll talk the thing over and look around a little. You’ll
come out all right. Wait for me—I’ll go down to supper with you.”
By this time Tracy had achieved a very friendly feeling for Barrow and
would have _called_ him a friend, maybe, if not taken too suddenly on a
straight-out requirement to realize on his theories. He was glad of his
society, anyway, and was feeling lighter hearted than before. Also he
was pretty curious to know what vocation it might be which had
furnished Barrow such a large acquaintanceship with books and allowed
him so much time to read.