A Not Very Tragic Relapse into the Toils of the World, and of Finance.
HAVING been properly treated as a bunco man by systematic piety
in a certain city further south, I had double-barrelled special
recommendations sent to a lofty benevolence in Asheville, from a
religious leader of New York, the before-mentioned Charles F. Powlison.
It was with confidence that I bade good-by to the chicken-merchant
who drove me into the city. I entered the office of the black-coated,
semi-clerical gentleman who had received the Powlison indorsements.
My stick pounded his floor. The heels of my brogans made the place
resound. But he gave all official privileges. He received me with the
fine manly hand-clasp, the glitter of teeth, the pat on the back. He
insisted I use the shower bath, writing room, reading table. Then I
suggested a conference among a dozen of his devouter workers on the
relation of the sense of Beauty to their present notion of Christianity
or, if he preferred, a talk on some aspect of art to a larger group.
He took me into his office. He shut the door. He was haughty. He made
me haughty. I give the conversation as it struck me. He probably said
some smart things I do not recall. But I remember all the smart things
I said.
He denounced labor agitators in plain words. I agreed. I belonged to
the brotherhood of those who loaf and invite their souls.
He spoke of anarchy. I maintained that I loved the law.
He very clearly, and at length, assaulted Single Tax. I knew nothing
then of Single Tax, and thanked him for light. He denounced Socialism.
Knowing little about Socialism at that time, I denounced it also,
having just been converted to individualism by a man in Highlands.
The religious leader spoke of his long experience with bunco men. I
insisted I wanted not a cent from him, I was there to do him good. I
had letters of introduction to two men in the city; one of them, an
active worker in the organization, had already been in to identify me.
A third man was coming to climb Mount Mitchell with me.
He doubted that I was a bona fide worker in his organization. Then
came my only long speech. We will omit the speech. But he began to see
light. He took a fresh grip on his argument. He said: “There is a man
here in Asheville I see snooping around with a tin box and a butterfly
net. They call him the state something-ologist. He goes around
and--and--_hunts bugs_. But do you want to know what I think of a crank
like that?” I wanted to know. He told me.
“But,” I objected, “I am not a scientist. I am an art student.”
He expressed an interest in art. He gave a pious and proper view of the
nude in art. It took some time. It was the sort of chilly, cautious
talk that could not possibly bring a blush to the cheek of ignorance.
I assured him his decorous concessions were unnecessary. I was not
expounding the nude.
There was an artist here, and Asheville needed no further instruction
of the kind, he maintained. The gentleman had won some blue ribbons in
Europe. He painted a big picture (dimensions were given) and sold it
for thousands (price was given).
“He is holding the next one, two feet longer each way, for double the
money.”
I told him if he felt there was enough art in Asheville, we might do
something to popularize the poets.
In reply he talked about literary cranks. He spoke of how Thoreau, with
his long hair and ugly looks, frightened strangers who suddenly met
him in the woods. I thanked him for light on Thoreau.... But he had to
admit that my hair was short.
He suspected I was neither artist nor literary man. I assured him my
friends were often of the same opinion.
“But,” he said bitterly, “do you know sir, by the tone of letters
I received from Mr. Powlison I expected to assemble the wealth and
fashion of Asheville to hear you. I expected to see you first in your
private car, wearing a dress-suit.”