H. R. walked slowly to his office. Spring was in the air. The sky was
very blue and the air sparkled with sun-dust. Life thrilled in waves.
The breeze sang, as it does at times in the city. It had not the harps
of the trees to strum on, but it made shift with the corners of the
houses. Hand in hand with the breeze from the south came the joy of
living that, after all, is merely the joy of loving.
The soul of God's beautiful world--light, heat, beauty, love--percolated
into the soul of Hendrik Rutgers and filled it--filled it full.
It called for the One Woman in songs--the same songs the breeze was
humming.... Ah, the encouragement of the wind! It bade him take her! It
told him exactly whither the breeze was going, whither he should carry
her in his arms. It whispered to him the place where he might lay down
his burden!
He walked on, head erect, chest inflated, fists clenched. He would take
her from the world and make her his world. Their world!--his and hers;
his first, then hers. After that they would share it equally.
The breeze sang on.
As he crossed Madison Square he was made aware that the sparrows also
had heard the song and, phonograph-like, were repeating it. A little
shriller, but the same song. Ten thousand sparrows--and each thought it
was original! And the little pale-green leaves were nodding approval.
And the azure smile of the sky was benignantly telling all creation to
go ahead--as it was in the beginning, as it would be in the end.
He loved her! He would love her even if she were not the most beautiful
girl in all the round world. He would love her if she were penniless;
even if her father were his best friend. He loved her and he loved his
love of her. Her eyes were two skies that smiled more bluely than God's
one. Her hair had the rust of gold and the dust of sun, and radiated
light and glints of love. From her wonderful lips came, in the voice of
the flowers, the one command that he, a hater of slaves, would obey,
gratefully kneeling. And the lips said it, flower-like, in silence!
She was not there to be loved. But he loved her, and because he loved
her he loved everybody, everything. Even his fellow-men.
They also should love! All of them! Love to love and love to live!
Did they?
He looked for the first time at his fellow-men on the park benches.
He saw sodden faces, reptile-like sunning themselves, warming their
skins; no more.
They were men without money.
They therefore were men without eyes, without ears, without tongues.
They therefore were men without love. Everything had been cleanly
excised by the great surgeon, Civilization!
A wonderful invention, money. To think that puny man had, by means of
that ingenious device, thwarted not only Nature, but God Himself!
If money had not been invented, there would not be great cities to be
loveless in!
But those on the park benches, lizard-like sunning themselves, were
tramps. The pedestrians had money. They, therefore, must have love.
He looked at them and saw that what they had was their hands in their
pockets. Doubtless it was to keep their money there. By so doing they
did not have to sit on park benches and fail to see the sky and the
buds, and fail to hear the birds and the breeze.
And yet, as he looked he saw on their faces the same blindness and the
same deafness.
On the benches sat immortal souls drugged with misery. On the paths
walked men asleep with Self.
He alone was alive and awake!
The appalling solitude of a great city was all about him. He was the
only living man in New York!
And Grace Goodchild was the only woman in the world! He loved her. He
loved everybody. He wished to give, give, give!
"You'll be fed!" he said to the park benches.
"You'll feed em!" he told the sidewalks.
"I'll marry you! he wirelessed to Grace.
"You," he said to all New York, "will pay for every bit of it!"
He walked into his office, frowning. Andrew Barrett was there.
"Come with me," H. R. told him, and led the way into the private office.
He sat down at his desk, brushed away a lot of letters, and said to his
aide:
"Barrett, I've got a man's job this time."
Sandwiching for banks that had deposits of over one hundred millions
appealed to Andrew Barrett. And the Standard Oil and the Steel Trust,
also, held possibilities. After the S. A. S. A. got those he would go
into business for himself.
"Who is it?" he asked, eagerly.
"Grace Goodchild!" answered H. R., absently.
"Oh, I thought--"
H. R. started. "What? Oh! You are thinking of business. Well, I'm going
to put New York on the map at one fell swoop."
Andrew Barrett beamed. At last, millions! All New York using sandwiches
at regular rates!
H. R. looked at his lieutenant and smiled forgivingly. After all, it was
not Andrew's fault that the spring was not in his soul.
"Barrett, men and women in all civilized communities desire three
things. All of them begin with a B. Can you guess?"
"Not I!" answered Barrett, with diplomatic self-depreciation. There are
questions whose answers gain you mortal enmity by depriving the
questioner of the greatest of all pleasures.
"Bread, beauty, and bunco. You satisfy all the natural wants of humanity
by supplying these three. Now men pay for their necessities with
whatever coin happens to be current. I have sometimes thought of a state
of society in which payment need not be made in interchangeable labor
units, but in the self-satisfaction of accomplishment. I have even
dreamed," he finished, sternly, "of making goodness fashionable!"
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Barrett, in indescribable awe.
H. R. shook his head gloomily. "The trouble," he said, bitterly, "is
that it is so damned easy to be good, so obviously intelligent, so
natural! Men are bad, I firmly believe, because badness is so
roundabout and expensive. How else can you explain it? Society, since
money was invented, has craved for expensive things. Society is, in
truth, expense."
"Say, Chief, I don't get the dope about goodness being easy."
"Probably not; it is too obvious. The early Christians died gladly. It
was good form. Dying for God ceased to be fashionable. Hence universal
suffrage. To die for God merely means to live for God. Do you see?"
"No. The Christian part bothers me."
"Let us be heathen, then. The Spartan mother loved her sons. Sent them
to battle saying, _With your shield or on it!_ The axiom of the locality
is the fashion of the place. To die bravely in Sparta was to be
fashionable. If I can make goodness fashionable I'll do something that
is very easy and very difficult. If men were not such damned fools it
would be so restful to be wise."
"Yes, H. R., but human nature--"
"Exactly. We go against human nature always. God gave to men the
precious gift of fear in order that they might overcome it. Man's fear
to-day is to be good. Once upon a time men feared hell. It is now the
fashion for Americans to think, _To hell with hell!_"
Andrew Barrett shook his head dubiously. He was not really interested in
abstractions. But he desired to be on good terms with his chief. The
best way to be nice to a man is to put up a weak argument. He began,
feebly defending, "But there must be some people--"
"It is perfectly proper to be selfish if you are alone. It is stupid to
be selfish when you are one of a group. Therefore, my inveterately young
friend and typical compatriot, we must do something for nothing. Tip off
the papers."
Barrett shook his head. "I don't get you," he confessed, sadly.
"Few people do when you tell them they have to do something and not be
paid for it. To-morrow and the day after our men must display a new
sandwich for the cause for two hours." He paused, then he finished,
sternly, "Tell them I said so!"
"I will," hastily said Barrett, only too glad to shift the
responsibility.
"You might request the regular advertisers to pay full time, just the
same."
"You bet I will! And what will the boards say?"
"Let me have your pencil," said H. R., and he wrote: