VI

I left my guest abruptly, with a feeling of vexation not very easily

definable. His repetition of questions about questions which society has

so often answered, and always in the same way, was not so bad in him as it

would have been in a person of our civilization; he represented a wholly

different state of things, the inversion of our own, and much could be

forgiven him for that reason, just as in Russia much could be forgiven to

an American if he formulated his curiosity concerning imperialism from a

purely republican experience. I knew that in Altruria, for instance, the

possession of great gifts, of any kind of superiority, involved the sense

of obligation to others, and the wish to identify one’s self with the

great mass of men, rather than the ambition to distinguish one’s self from

them; and that the Altrurians honored their gifted men in the measure they

did this. A man reared in such a civilization must naturally find it

difficult to get our point of view; with social inclusion as the ideal, he

would with difficulty conceive of our ideal of social exclusion; but I

think we had all been very patient with him; we should have made short

work with an American who had approached us with the same inquiries.

Even from a foreigner, the citizen of a republic founded on the notion,

elsewhere exploded ever since Cain, that one is his brother’s keeper,

the things he asked seemed inoffensive only because they were puerile;

but they certainly were puerile. I felt that it ought to have been

self-evident to him that when a commonwealth of sixty million Americans

based itself upon the great principle of self-seeking, self-seeking was

the best thing, and, whatever hardship it seemed to work, it must carry

with it unseen blessings in tenfold measure. If a few hundred thousand

favored Americans enjoyed the privilege of socially contemning all the

rest, it was as clearly right and just that they should do so as that four

thousand American millionaires should be richer than all the other

Americans put together. Such a status, growing out of our political

equality and our material prosperity, must evince a divine purpose to any

one intimate with the designs of Providence, and it seemed a kind of

impiety to doubt its perfection. I excused the misgivings which I could

not help seeing in the Altrurian to his alien traditions, and I was aware

that my friends had done so, too. But, if I could judge from myself, he

must have left them all sensible of their effort; and this was not

pleasant. I could not blink the fact that although I had openly disagreed

with him on every point of ethics and economics, I was still responsible

for him as a guest. It was as if an English gentleman had introduced a

blatant American Democrat into Tory society; or, rather, as if a

Southerner of the olden time had harbored a Northern Abolitionist and

permitted him to inquire into the workings of slavery among his neighbors.

People would tolerate him as my guest for a time, but there must be an end

of their patience with the tacit enmity of his sentiments and the explicit

vulgarity of his ideals, and when the end came I must be attainted with

him.

I did not like the notion of this, and I meant to escape it if I could. I

confess that I would have willingly disowned him, as I had already

disavowed his opinions, but there was no way of doing it short of telling

him to go away, and I was not ready to do that. Something in the man, I do

not know what, mysteriously appealed to me. He was not contemptibly

puerile without being lovably childlike, and I could only make up my mind

to be more and more frank with him and to try and shield him, as well as

myself, from the effects I dreaded.

I fell asleep planning an excursion farther into the mountains, which

should take up the rest of the week that I expected him to stay with me,

and would keep him from following up his studies of American life where

they would be so injurious to both of us as they must in our hotel. A

knock at my door roused me, and I sent a drowsy “Come in!” toward it from

the bedclothes without looking that way.

“Good-morning!” came back in the rich, gentle voice of the Altrurian. I

lifted my head with a jerk from the pillow, and saw him standing against

the closed door, with my shoes in his hand. “Oh, I am sorry I waked you. I

thought--”

“Not at all, not at all,” I said. “It’s quite time, I dare say. But you

oughtn’t to have taken the trouble to bring my shoes in.”

“I wasn’t altogether disinterested in it,” he returned. “I wished you to

compliment me on them. Don’t you think they are pretty well done, for an

amateur?” He came toward my bed, and turned them about in his hands, so

that they would catch the light, and smiled down upon me.

“I don’t understand,” I began.

“Why,” he said, “I blacked them, you know.”

“You blacked them?”

“Yes,” he returned, easily. “I thought I would go into the baggage-room,

after we parted last night, to look for a piece of mine that had not been

taken to my room, and I found the porter there, with his wrist bound up.

He said he had strained it in handling a lady’s Saratoga--he said a

Saratoga was a large trunk--and I begged him to let me relieve him at the

boots he was blacking. He refused at first, but I insisted upon trying my

hand at a pair, and then he let me go on with the men’s boots; he said he

could varnish the ladies’ without hurting his wrist. It needed less skill

than I supposed, and after I had done a few pairs he said I could black

boots as well as he.”

“Did anybody see you?” I gasped, and I felt a cold perspiration break out

on me.

“No, we had the whole midnight hour to ourselves. The porter’s work with

the baggage was all over, and there was nothing to interrupt the

delightful chat we fell into. He is a very intelligent man, and he told me

all about that custom of feeing which you deprecate. He says that the

servants hate it as much as the guests; they have to take the tips now

because the landlords figure on them in the wages, and they cannot live

without them. He is a fine, manly fellow, and--”

“Mr. Homos,” I broke in, with the strength I found in his assurance that

no one had seen him helping the porter black boots, “I want to speak very

seriously with you, and I hope you will not be hurt if I speak very

plainly about a matter in which I have your good solely at heart.” This

was not quite true, and I winced inwardly a little when he thanked me with

that confounded sincerity of his which was so much like irony; but I went

on: “It is my duty to you, as my guest, to tell you that this thing of

doing for others is not such a simple matter here, as your peculiar

training leads you to think. You have been deceived by a superficial

likeness; but, really, I do not understand how you could have read all you

have done about us and not realize before coming here that America and

Altruria are absolutely distinct and diverse in their actuating

principles. They are both republics, I know; but America is a republic

where every man is for himself, and you cannot help others as you do at

home; it is dangerous--it is ridiculous. You must keep this fact in mind,

or you will fall into errors that will be very embarrassing to you in your

stay among us, and,” I was forced to add, “to all your friends. Now, I

certainly hoped, after what I had said to you and what my friends had

explained of our civilization, that you would not have done a thing of

this kind. I will see the porter, as soon as I am up, and ask him not to

mention the matter to any one, but, I confess, I don’t like to take an

apologetic tone with him; your conditions are so alien to ours that they

will seem incredible to him, and he will think I am stuffing him.”

“I don’t believe he will think that,” said the Altrurian, “and I hope you

won’t find the case so bad as it seems to you. I am extremely sorry to

have done wrong--”

“Oh, the thing wasn’t wrong in itself. It was only wrong under the

circumstances. Abstractly, it is quite right to help a fellow-being who

needs help; no one denies that, even in a country where every one is for

himself.”

“I am so glad to hear it,” said the Altrurian. “Then, at least, I have not

gone radically astray; and I do not think you need take the trouble to

explain the Altrurian ideas to the porter. I have done that already, and

they seemed quite conceivable to him; he said that poor folks had to act

upon them, even here, more or less, and that if they did not act upon them

there would be no chance for them at all. He says they have to help one

another very much as we do at home, and that it is only the rich folks

among you who are independent. I really don’t think you need speak to him

at all, unless you wish; and I was very careful to guard my offer of help

at the point where I understood from you and your friends that it might do

harm. I asked him if there was not some one who would help him out with

his boot-blacking for money, because in that case I should be glad to pay

him; but he said there was no one about who would take the job; that he

had to agree to black the boots, or else he would not have got the place

of porter, but that all the rest of the help would consider it a disgrace,

and would not help him for love or money. So it seemed quite safe to offer

him my services.”

I felt that the matter was almost hopeless, but I asked: “And what he

said--didn’t that suggest anything else to you?”

“How anything else?” asked the Altrurian, in his turn.

“Didn’t it occur to you that if none of his fellow-servants were willing

to help him black boots, and if he did it only because he was obliged to,

it was hardly the sort of work for you?”

“Why, no,” said the Altrurian, with absolute simplicity. He must have

perceived the despair I fell into at this answer, for he asked: “Why

should I have minded doing for others what I should have been willing to

do for myself?”

“There are a great many things we are willing to do for ourselves that we

are not willing to do for others. But even on that principle, which I

think false and illogical, you could not be justified. A gentleman is not

willing to black _his own_ boots. It is offensive to his feelings, to his

self-respect; it is something he will not do if he can get anybody else to

do it for him.”

“Then in America,” said the Altrurian, “it is not offensive to the

feelings of a gentleman to let another do for him what he would not do for

himself?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ah,” he returned, “then we understand something altogether different by

the word gentleman in Altruria. I see, now, how I have committed a

mistake. I shall be more careful hereafter.”

I thought I had better leave the subject, and, “By-the-way,” I said, “how

would you like to take a little tramp with me to-day farther up into the

mountains?”

“I should be delighted,” said the Altrurian, so gratefully that I was

ashamed to think why I was proposing the pleasure to him.

“Well, then, I shall be ready to start as soon as we have had breakfast. I

will join you down-stairs in half an hour.”

He left me at this hint, though really I was half afraid he might stay and

offer to lend me a hand at my toilet, in the expression of his national

character. I found him with Mrs. Makely, when I went down, and she began,

with a parenthetical tribute to the beauty of the mountains in the morning

light: “Don’t be surprised to see me up at this unnatural hour. I don’t

know whether it was the excitement of our talk last night, or what it was,

but my sulphonal wouldn’t act, though I took fifteen grains, and I was up

with the lark, or should have been, if there had been any lark outside of

literature to be up with. However, this air is so glorious that I don’t

mind losing a night’s sleep now and then. I believe that with a little

practice one could get along without any sleep at all here; at least, _I_

could. I’m sorry to say poor Mr. Makely _can’t_, apparently. He’s making

up for his share of my vigils, and I’m going to breakfast without him. Do

you know, I’ve done a very bold thing: I’ve got the head-waiter to give

you places at our table; I know you’ll hate it, Mr. Twelvemough, because

you naturally want to keep Mr. Homos to yourself, and I don’t blame you at

all; but I’m simply not going to _let_ you, and that’s all there is about

it.”

The pleasure I felt at this announcement was not unmixed, but I tried to

keep Mrs. Makely from thinking so, and I was immensely relieved when she

found a chance to say to me, in a low voice: “I know just how you’re

feeling, Mr. Twelvemough, and I’m going to help you keep him from doing

anything ridiculous, if I can. I _like_ him, and I think it’s a perfect

shame to have people laughing at him. I know we can manage him between

us.”

We so far failed, however, that the Altrurian shook hands with the

head-waiter when he pressed open the wire-netting door to let us into the

dining-room, and made a bow to our waitress of the sort one makes to a

lady. But we thought it best to ignore these little errors of his and

reserve our moral strength for anything more spectacular. Fortunately we

got through our breakfast with nothing worse than his jumping up and

stooping to hand the waitress a spoon she let fall; but this could easily

pass for some attention to Mrs. Makely at a little distance. There were

not many people down to breakfast yet; but I could see that there was a

good deal of subdued sensation among the waitresses, standing with folded

arms behind their tables, and that the head-waiter’s handsome face was red

with anxiety.

Mrs. Makely asked if we were going to church. She said she was driving

that way, and would be glad to drop us. “I’m not going myself,” she

explained, “because I couldn’t make anything of the sermon, with my head

in the state it is, and I’m going to compromise on a good action. I want

to carry some books and papers over to Mrs. Camp. Don’t you think that

will be quite as acceptable, Mr. Homos?”

“I should venture to hope it,” he said, with a tolerant seriousness not

altogether out of keeping with her lightness.

“Who is Mrs. Camp?” I asked, not caring to commit myself on the question.

“Lizzie’s mother. You know I told you about them last night. I think she

must have got through the books I lent her, and I know Lizzie didn’t like

to ask me for more, because she saw me talking with you, and didn’t want

to interrupt us. Such a nice girl! I think the Sunday papers must have

come, and I’ll take them over, too; Mrs. Camp is always so glad to get

them, and she is so delightful when she gets going about public events.

But perhaps you don’t approve of Sunday papers, Mr. Homos.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, madam. I haven’t seen them yet. You know this is

the first Sunday I’ve been in America.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say you won’t see the old Puritan Sabbath,” said Mrs.

Makely, with an abrupt deflection from the question of the Sunday papers.

“Though you ought to, up in these hills. The only thing left of it is

rye-and-Indian bread, and these baked beans and fish-balls.”

“But they are very good?”

“Yes, I dare say they are not the worst of it.”

She was a woman who tended to levity, and I was a little afraid she might

be going to say something irreverent; but, if she were, she was

forestalled by the Altrurian asking: “Would it be very indiscreet, madam,

if I were to ask you some time to introduce me to that family?”

“The Camps?” she returned. “Not at all. I should be perfectly delighted.”

The thought seemed to strike her, and she asked: “Why not go with me this

morning, unless you are inflexibly bent on going to church, you and Mr.

Twelvemough?”

The Altrurian glanced at me, and I said I should be only too glad, if I

could carry some books, so that I could compromise on a good action, too.

“Take one of your own,” she instantly suggested.

“Do you think they wouldn’t be too severe upon it?” I asked.

“Well, Mrs. Camp might,” Mrs. Makely consented, with a smile. “She goes

in for rather serious fiction; but I think Lizzie would enjoy a good,

old-fashioned love-story, where everybody got married, as they do in your

charming books.”

I winced a little, for every one likes to be regarded seriously, and I did

not enjoy being remanded to the young-girl public; but I put a bold face

on it, and said: “My good action shall be done in behalf of Miss Lizzie.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Makely having left word with the clerk where we

were gone, so that her husband need not be alarmed when he got up, we were

striking into the hills on a two-seated buckboard, with one of the best

teams of our hotel, and one of the most taciturn drivers. Mrs. Makely had

the Altrurian get into the back seat with her, and, after some attempts to

make talk with the driver, I leaned over and joined in their talk. The

Altrurian was greatly interested, not so much in the landscape--though he

owned its beauty when we cried out over it from point to point--but in the

human incidents and features. He noticed the cattle in the fields, and the

horses we met on the road, and the taste and comfort of the buildings, the

variety of the crops, and the promise of the harvest. I was glad of the

respite his questions gave me from the study of the intimate character of

our civilization, for they were directed now at these more material facts,

and I willingly joined Mrs. Makely in answering them. We explained that

the finest teams we met were from the different hotels or boarding-houses,

or at least from the farms where the people took city people to board; and

that certain shabby equipages belonged to the natives who lived solely by

cultivating the soil. There was not very much of the soil cultivated, for

the chief crop was hay, with here and there a patch of potatoes or beans,

and a few acres in sweet-corn. The houses of the natives, when they were

for their use only, were no better than their turnouts; it was where the

city boarder had found shelter that they were modern and pleasant. Now and

then we came to a deserted homestead, and I tried to make the Altrurian

understand how farming in New England had yielded to the competition of

the immense agricultural operations of the West. “You know,” I said, “that

agriculture is really an operation out there, as much as coal-mining is in

Pennsylvania, or finance in Wall Street; you have no idea of the vastness

of the scale.” Perhaps I swelled a little with pride in my celebration of

the national prosperity, as it flowed from our Western farms of five and

ten and twenty thousand acres; I could not very well help putting on the

pedal in these passages. Mrs. Makely listened almost, as eagerly, as the

Altrurian, for, as a cultivated American woman, she was necessarily

quite ignorant of her own country, geographically, politically, and

historically. “The only people left in the hill country of New England,” I

concluded, “are those who are too old or too lazy to get away. Any young

man of energy would be ashamed to stay, unless he wanted to keep a

boarding-house or live on the city vacationists in summer. If he doesn’t,

he goes West and takes up some of the new land, and comes back in

middle-life and buys a deserted farm to spend his summers on.”

“Dear me!” said the Altrurian. “Is it so simple as that? Then we can

hardly wonder at their owners leaving these worn-out farms; though I

suppose it must be with the pang of exile, sometimes.”

“Oh, I fancy there isn’t much sentiment involved,” I answered, lightly.

“Whoa!” said Mrs. Makely, speaking to the horses before she spoke to the

driver, as some women will. He pulled them up, and looked round at her.

“Isn’t that Reuben Camp, _now_, over there by that house?” she asked, as

if we had been talking of him; that is another way some women have.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the driver.

“Oh, well, then!” and “Reuben!” she called to the young man, who was

prowling about the door-yard of a sad-colored old farm-house, and peering

into a window here and there. “Come here a moment--won’t you, please?”

He lifted his head and looked round, and, when he had located the appeal

made to him, he came down the walk to the gate and leaned over it, waiting

for further instructions. I saw that it was the young man whom we had

noticed with the girl Mrs. Makely called Lizzie on the hotel piazza the

night before.

“Do you know whether I should find Lizzie at home this morning?”

“Yes, she’s there with mother,” said the young fellow, with neither liking

nor disliking in his tone.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said the lady. “I didn’t know but she might be at

church. What in the world has happened here? Is there anything unusual

going on inside?”

“No, I was just looking to see if it was all right. The folks wanted I

should come round.”

“Why, where are they?”

“Oh, they’re gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes; gone West. They’ve left the old place, because they couldn’t make a

living here any longer.”

“Why, this is quite a case in point,” I said. “Now, Mr. Homos, here is a

chance to inform yourself at first hand about a very interesting fact of

our civilization”; and I added, in a low voice, to Mrs. Makely: “Won’t you

introduce us?”

“Oh yes. Mr. Camp, this is Mr. Twelvemough, the author--you know his

books, of course; and Mr. Homos, a gentleman from Altruria.”

The young fellow opened the gate he leaned on and came out to us. He took

no notice of me, but he seized the Altrurian’s hand and wrung it. “I’ve

heard of _you_” he said. “Mrs. Makely, were you going to our place?”

“Why, yes.”

“So do, then. Mother would give almost anything to see Mr. Homos. We’ve

heard of Altruria, over our way,” he added to our friend. “Mother’s been

reading up all she can about it. She’ll want to talk with you, and she

won’t give the rest of us much of a chance, I guess.”

“Oh, I shall be glad to see her,” said the Altrurian, “and to tell her

everything I can. But won’t you explain to me first something about your

deserted farms here? It’s quite a new thing to me.”

“It isn’t a new thing to us,” said the young fellow, with a short laugh.

“And there isn’t much to explain about it. You’ll see them all through New

England. When a man finds he can’t get his funeral expenses out of the

land, he don’t feel like staying to be buried in it, and he pulls up and

goes.”

“But people used to get their living expenses here,” I suggested. “Why

can’t they now?”

“Well, they didn’t use to have Western prices to fight with; and then the

land wasn’t worn out so, and the taxes were not so heavy. How would you

like to pay twenty to thirty dollars on the thousand, and assessed up to

the last notch, in the city?”

“Why, what in the world makes your taxes so heavy?”

“Schools and roads. We’ve got to have schools, and you city folks want

good roads when you come here in the summer, don’t you? Then the season is

short, and sometimes we can’t make a crop. The frost catches the corn in

the field, and you have your trouble for your pains. Potatoes are the only

thing we can count on, except grass, and, when everybody raises potatoes,

you know where the price goes.”

“Oh, but now, Mr. Camp,” said Mrs. Makely, leaning over toward him, and

speaking in a cosey and coaxing tone, as if he must not really keep the

truth from an old friend like her, “isn’t it a good deal because the

farmers’ daughters want pianos, and the farmers’ sons want buggies? I

heard Professor Lumen saying, the other day, that, if the farmers were

willing to work as they used to work, they could still get a good living

off their farms, and that they gave up their places because they were too

lazy, in many cases, to farm them properly.”

“He’d better not let _me_ hear him saying that,” said the young fellow,

while a hot flush passed over his face. He added, bitterly: “If he wants

to see how easy it is to make a living up here, he can take this place and

try for a year or two; he can get it cheap. But I guess he wouldn’t want

it the year round; he’d only want it a few months in the summer, when he

could enjoy the sightliness of it, and see me working over there on my

farm, while he smoked on his front porch.” He turned round and looked at

the old house in silence a moment. Then, as he went on, his voice lost its

angry ring. “The folks here bought this place from the Indians, and they’d

been here more than two hundred years. Do you think they left it because

they were too lazy to run it, or couldn’t get pianos and buggies out of

it, or were such fools as not to know whether they were well off? It was

their _home_; they were born and lived and died here. There is the family

burying-ground over there.”

Neither Mrs. Makely nor myself was ready with a reply, and we left the

word with the Altrurian, who suggested: “Still, I suppose they will be

more prosperous in the West on the new land they take up?”

The young fellow leaned his arms on the wheel by which he stood. “What do

you mean by taking up new land?”

“Why, out of the public domain--”

“There _ain’t_ any public domain that’s worth having. All the good land is

in the hands of railroads and farm syndicates and speculators; and if you

want a farm in the West you’ve got to buy it; the East is the only place

where folks give them away, because they ain’t worth keeping. If you

haven’t got the ready money, you can buy one on credit, and pay ten,

twenty, and thirty per cent. interest, and live in a dugout on the

plains--till your mortgage matures.” The young man took his arms from the

wheel and moved a few steps backward, as he added: “I’ll see you over at

the house later.”

The driver touched his horses, and we started briskly off again. But I

confess I had quite enough of his pessimism, and as we drove away I leaned

back toward the Altrurian and said: “Now, it is all perfect nonsense to

pretend that things are at that pass with us. There are more millionaires

in America, probably, than there are in all the other civilized countries

of the globe, and it is not possible that the farming population should be

in such a hopeless condition. All wealth comes out of the earth, and you

may be sure they get their full share of it.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said the Altrurian. “What is the meaning

of this new party in the West that seems to have held a convention lately?

I read something of it in the train yesterday.”

“Oh, that is a lot of crazy Hayseeds, who don’t want to pay back the money

they have borrowed, or who find themselves unable to meet their interest.

It will soon blow over. We are always having these political flurries. A

good crop will make it all right with them.”

“But is it true that they have to pay such rates of interest as our young

friend mentioned?”

“Well,” I said, seeing the thing in the humorous light which softens for

us Americans so many of the hardships of others, “I suppose that man likes

to squeeze his brother man when he gets him in his grip. That’s human

nature, you know.”

“Is it?” asked the Altrurian.

It seemed to me that he had asked something like that before when I

alleged human nature in defence of some piece of every-day selfishness.

But I thought best not to notice it, and I went on: “The land is so rich

out there that a farm will often pay for itself with a single crop.”

“Is it possible?” cried the Altrurian. “Then I suppose it seldom really

happens that a mortgage is foreclosed, in the way our young friend

insinuated?”

“Well, I can’t say that exactly”; and, having admitted so much, I did not

feel bound to impart a fact that popped perversely into my mind. I was

once talking with a Western money-lender, a very good sort of fellow,

frank and open as the day; I asked him whether the farmers generally paid

off their mortgages, and he answered me that if the mortgage was to the

value of a fourth of the land, the farmer might pay it off, but if it were

to a half, or a third even, he never paid it, but slaved on and died in

his debts. “You may be sure, however,” I concluded, “that our young friend

takes a jaundiced view of the situation.”

“Now, really,” said Mrs. Makely, “I must insist upon dropping this

everlasting talk about money. I think it is perfectly disgusting, and I

believe it was Mr. Makely’s account of his speculations that kept me awake

last night. My brain got running on figures till the dark seemed to be all

sown with dollar-marks, like the stars in the Milky Way. I--ugh! What in

the world is it? Oh, you dreadful little things!”

Mrs. Makely passed swiftly from terror to hysterical laughter as the

driver pulled up short and a group of barefooted children broke in front

of his horses and scuttled out of the dust into the road-side bushes like

a covey of quails. There seemed to be a dozen of them, nearly all the same

in size, but there turned out to be only five or six; or at least no more

showed their gleaming eyes and teeth through the underbrush in quiet

enjoyment of the lady’s alarm.

“Don’t you know that you might have got killed?” she demanded, with that

severity good women feel for people who have just escaped with their

lives. “How lovely the dirty little dears are!” she added, in the next

wave of emotion. One bold fellow of six showed a half-length above the

bushes, and she asked: “Don’t you know that you oughtn’t to play in the

road when there are so many teams passing? Are all those your brothers and

sisters?”

He ignored the first question. “One’s my cousin.” I pulled out a

half-dozen coppers, and held my hand toward him. “See if there is one

for each.” They had no difficulty in solving the simple mathematical

problem except the smallest girl, who cried for fear and baffled longing.

I tossed the coin to her, and a little fat dog darted out at her feet and

caught it up in his mouth. “Oh, good gracious!” I called out in my light,

humorous way. “Do you suppose he’s going to spend it for candy?” The

little people thought that a famous joke, and they laughed with the

gratitude that even small favors inspire. “Bring your sister here,” I said

to the boldest boy, and, when he came up with the little woman, I put

another copper into her hand. “Look out that the greedy dog doesn’t get

it,” I said, and my gayety met with fresh applause. “Where do you live?” I

asked, with some vague purpose of showing the Altrurian the kindliness

that exists between our upper and lower classes.

“Over there,” said the boy. I followed the twist of his head, and glimpsed

a wooden cottage on the border of the forest, so very new that the

sheathing had not yet been covered with clapboards. I stood up in the

buckboard and saw that it was a story and a half high, and could have had

four or five rooms in it. The bare, curtainless windows were set in the

unpainted frames, but the front door seemed not to be hung yet. The people

meant to winter there, however, for the sod was banked up against the

wooden underpinning; a stovepipe stuck out of the roof of a little wing

behind. While I gazed a young-looking woman came to the door, as if she

had been drawn by our talk with the children, and then she jumped down

from the threshold, which still wanted a doorstep, and came slowly out to

us. The children ran to her with their coppers, and then followed her back

to us.

Mrs. Makely called to her before she reached us: “I hope you weren’t

frightened. We didn’t drive over any of them.”

“Oh, I wasn’t frightened,” said the young woman. “It’s a very safe place

to bring up children, in the country, and I never feel uneasy about them.”

“Yes, if they are not under the horses’ feet,” said Mrs. Makely, mingling

instruction and amusement very judiciously in her reply. “Are they all

yours?”

“Only five,” said the mother, and she pointed to the alien in her flock.

“He’s my sister’s. She lives just below here.” Her children had grouped

themselves about her, and she kept passing her hands caressingly over

their little heads as she talked. “My sister has nine children, but she

has the rest at church with her to-day.”

“You don’t speak like an American,” Mrs. Makely suggested.

“No, we’re English. Our husbands work in the quarry. That’s _my_ little

palace.” The woman nodded her head toward the cottage.

“It’s going to be very nice,” said Mrs. Makely, with an evident perception

of her pride in it.

“Yes, if we ever get money to finish it. Thank you for the children.”

“Oh, it was this gentleman.” Mrs. Makely indicated me, and I bore the

merit of my good action as modestly as I could.

“Then thank _you_, sir,” said the young woman, and she asked Mrs. Makely:

“You’re not living about here, ma’am?”

“Oh no, we’re staying at the hotel.”

“At the hotel! It must be very dear, there.”

“Yes, it is expensive,” said Mrs. Makely, with a note of that satisfaction

in her voice which we all feel in spending a great deal of money.

“But I suppose you can afford it,” said the woman, whose eye was running

hungrily over Mrs. Makely’s pretty costume. “Some are poor, and some are

rich. That’s the way the world has to be made up, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Makely, very dryly, and the talk languished from this

point, so that the driver felt warranted in starting up his horses. When

we had driven beyond earshot she said: “I knew she was not an American,

as soon as she spoke, by her accent, and then those foreigners have no

self-respect. That was a pretty bold bid for a contribution to finish up

her ‘little palace’! I’m glad you didn’t give her anything, Mr.

Twelvemough. I was afraid your sympathies had been wrought upon.”

“Oh, not at all,” I answered. “I saw the mischief I had done with the

children.”

The Altrurian, who has not asked anything for a long time, but had

listened with eager interest to all that passed, now came up smiling with

his question: “Will you kindly tell me what harm would have been done by

offering the woman a little money to help finish up her cottage?”

I did not allow Mrs. Makely to answer, I was so eager to air my political

economy. “The very greatest harm. It would have pauperized her. You have

no idea how quickly they give way to the poison of that sort of thing. As

soon as they get any sort of help they expect more; they count upon it,

and they begin to live upon it. The sight of those coppers which I gave

her children--more out of joke than charity--demoralized the woman. She

took us for rich people, and wanted us to build her a house. You have to

guard against every approach to a thing of that sort.”

“I don’t believe,” said Mrs. Makely, “that an American would have hinted,

as she did.”

“‘No, an American would not have done that, I’m thankful to say. They take

fees, but they don’t ask charity, yet.” We went on to exult in the noble

independence of the American character in all classes, at some length. We

talked at the Altrurian, but he did not seem to hear us. At last he asked,

with a faint sigh: “Then, in your conditions, a kindly impulse to aid one

who needs your help is something to be guarded against as possibly

pernicious?”

“Exactly,” I said. “And now you see what difficulties beset us in dealing

with the problem of poverty. We cannot let people suffer, for that would

be cruel; and we cannot relieve their need without pauperizing them.”

“I see,” he answered. “It is a terrible quandary.”

“I wish,” said Mrs. Makely, “that you would tell us just how you manage

with the poor in Altruria.”

“We have none,” he replied.

“But the comparatively poor--you have some people who are richer than

others?”

“No. We should regard that as the worst incivism.”

“What is incivism?”