In the Heart of a Fool

The Captain stood grinning in pride as the men looked him over.

“’Y gory, boys, you’d be surprised the way that Household Horse has hit the trade. Orders coming in from automobile makers, and last week we decided to give up making the little power saver and make the whole rear axle. We’re going to call it the Morton-Perry Axle, and put in a big plant, and I was telling Ruthy this morning, I says, ‘Ruth,’ says I, ‘if we make the axle business go, I’ll just telephone down to Wright & Perry and have them send you out something nobby in husbands, and, ’y gory, a nice thousand-mile wedding trip and maybe your pa will go along for company–what say?’”

He was an odd figure in his clothes–for they were ready-made–made for the figure of youth, and although he had been in them but a few hours, the padding was bulging at the wrong places; and they were wrinkled where they should be tight. His bony old figure stuck out at the knees, and the shoulders and elbows, and the high collar would not fit his skinny neck. But he was happy, and fancied he looked like the pictures of college boys in the back of magazines. So he answered Mr. Brotherton’s question about the opinion of the younger daughter as to the clothes by a profound wink.

“Scared–scared plumb stiff–what say? I caught Marthy nodding at Ruth and Ruthy looking hard at Marthy, and then both of ’em went to the kitchen to talk over calling up Emmy and putting out fly poison for the women that are lying in wait for their pa. Scared–why, scared’s no name for it–what say?”

“Well, Captain,” answered Mr. Brotherton, “you are certainly voluptuous enough in your new stage setting to have your picture on a cigar box as a Cuban beauty or a Spanish señorita.”

The Captain was turning about, trying to see how the coat set in the back and at the same time watching the hang of the trousers. Evidently he was satisfied with it. For he said: “Well–guess I’ll be going. I’ll just mosey down to Mrs. Herdicker’s to give Emmy and Marthy and Ruthy something to keep ’em from thinking of their real troubles–eh?” And with a flourish he was gone.

When Grant’s order was filled, he said, “Violet will call for this, George; I have some other matters to attend to.”

As he assembled the goods for the order, Mr. Brotherton called out, “Well, how is Violet, anyway?” Grant smiled. “Violet is doing well. She is blooming over again, and when she found herself before a typewriter–it really seemed to take the curve out of her back. Henry declares that the typewriter put ribbon in her hair. Laura Van Dorn, I believe, is responsible for Violet’s shirt waists. Henry Fenn comes to the office twice a day, to make reports on the sewing business. But what he’s really doing, George, is to let her smell his breath to prove that he’s sober, and so she runs the two jobs at once. Have you seen Henry recently?”

“Well,” replied Brotherton, “he was in a month or so ago to borrow ten to buy a coat–so that he could catch up with the trousers of that suit before they grew too old. He still buys his clothes that way.”

Grant threw back his red head and grinned a grim, silent grin: “Well, that’s funny. Didn’t you know what is keeping him away?” Again Grant grinned. “The day he was here he came wagging down with that ten-dollar bill, but his conscience got the best of him for lavishing so much money on himself, so he slipped it to Violet and told her to buy her some new teeth–you know she’s been ashamed to open her mouth now for years. Violet promised she would get the teeth in time for Easter. And pretty soon in walks Mrs. Maurice Stromsky–who scrubs in the Wright & Perry Building, whose baby died last summer and had to be buried in the Potter’s field–she came in; and she and Violet got to talking about the baby–and Violet up and gave that ten to Mrs. Stromsky, to get the baby out of the Potter’s field.”

Mr. Brotherton laughed his great laugh. Grant went on:

“But that isn’t all. The next day in walks Mrs. Maurice Stromsky, penitent as a dog, and I heard her squaring herself with Violet for giving that old saw-buck of yours to the Delaneys, whose second little girl had diphtheria and who had no money for antitoxin. I never saw your ten again, George,” said Grant. “It seemed to be going down for the last time.” He looked at Brotherton quizzically for a second and asked:

“So old Henry hasn’t been around since–isn’t that joyous? Well–anyway, he’ll show up to-day or to-morrow, for he’s got the new coat; he got it this morning. Jasper was telling me.”

In an hour Grant, returning after his morning’s errands, was standing by the puny little blaze that John Dexter had stirred out of the logs in the Serenity. The two were standing together. Mr. Brotherton, reading his Kansas City paper at his desk, called to them: “Well, I see Doc Jim’s still holding his deadlock and they can’t elect a United States Senator without him!”

A telegraph messenger boy came in, looked into the Serenity, and said, “Mr. Adams, I was looking for you.”

Grant signed the boy’s book, read the telegram, and stood dumbly gazing at the fire, as he held the sheet in his hand.

The fire popped and snapped and the little blaze grew stronger when a log dropped in two. A customer came in–picked up a magazine–called, “Charge it, please,” then went out. The door slammed. Another customer came and went. Miss Calvin stepped back to Mr. Brotherton. The bell of the cash register tinkled. Then Grant Adams turned, looked at the minister absently for a moment, and handed him the sheet. It read:

“I have pledged in writing five more votes than are needed to make you the caucus nominee and give you a majority on the joint ballot to-night for United States Senator. Come up first train.”

It was signed “James Nesbit.” The preacher dropped his hand still holding the yellow sheet, and looked into the fire.

“Well?” asked Grant.

“You say,” returned John Dexter, and added: “It would be a great opportunity–give you the greatest forum for your cause in Christendom–give you more power than any other labor advocate ever held in the world before.”

He said all this tentatively and as one asking a question. Grant did not reply. He sat pounding his leg with his claw, abstractedly.

“You needn’t be a mere theorist in the Senate. You could get labor laws enacted that would put forward the cause of labor. Grant, really, it looks as though this was your life’s chance.”

Grant reached for the telegram and read it again. The telegram fluttering in his hands dropped to the floor. He reached for it–picked it up, folded it on his claw carefully, and put it away. Then he turned to the preacher and said harshly:

“There’s nothing in it. To begin: you say I’ll have more power than any other labor leader in the world. I tell you, labor leaders don’t need personal power. We don’t need labor laws–that is, primarily. What we need is sentiment–a public love of the under dog that will make our present laws intolerable. It isn’t power for me, it isn’t clean politics for the State, it isn’t labor laws that’s my job. My job, dearly beloved,” he hooked the minister’s hand and tossed it gently, “my job, oh, thou of little faith,” he cried, as a flaming torch of emotion seemed to brush his face and kindle the fanatic glow in his countenance while his voice lifted, “is to stay right down here in the Wahoo Valley, pile up money in the war chest, pile up class feeling among the men–comradeship–harness this love of the poor for the poor into an engine, and then some day slip the belt on that engine–turn on the juice and pull and pull and pull for some simple, elemental piece of justice that will show the world one phase of the truth about labor.”

Grant’s face was glowing with emotion. “I tell you, the day of the Kingdom is here–only it isn’t a kingdom, it’s Democracy–the great Democracy. It’s coming. I must go out and meet it. In the dark down in the mines I saw the Holy Ghost rise into the lives of a score of men. And now I see the Holy Ghost coming into a great class. And I must go–go with neither purse nor script to meet it, to live for it, and maybe to die for it.” He shook his head and cried vehemently:

“What a saphead I’d be if I fell to that bait!” He turned to the store and called to Miss Calvin. “Ave–is there a telegraph blank in the desk?”

Mr. Brotherton threw it, skidding, across the long counter. Grant fumbled in his vest for a pen, held the sheet firmly with his claw and wrote:

“You are kindness itself. But the place doesn’t interest me. Moreover, no man should go to the Senate representing all of a State, whose job it is to preach class consciousness to a part of the State. Get a bigger man. I thank you, however, with all my heart.”

Grant watched the preacher read the telegram. He read it twice, then he said: “Well–of course, that’s right. That’s right–I can see that. But I don’t know–don’t you think–I mean aren’t you kind of–well, I can’t just express it; but–”

“Well, don’t try, then,” returned Grant.

However, Doctor Nesbit, having something rather more than the ethics of the case at stake, was aided by his emotions in expressing himself. He made his views clear, and as Grant sat at his desk that afternoon, he read this in a telegram from the Doctor:

“Well, of all the damn fools!”

That was one view of the situation. There was this other. It may be found in one of those stated communications from perhaps Ruskin or Kingsley, which the Peach Blow Philosopher sometimes vouchsafed to the earth and it read:

“A great life may be lived by any one who is strong enough to fail for an ideal.”

Still another view may be had by setting down what John Dexter said to his wife, and what she said to him. Said he, when he had recounted the renunciation of Grant Adams:

“There goes the third devil. First he conquered the temptation to marry and be comfortable; next he put fame behind him, and now he renounces power.”

And she said: “It had never occurred to me to consider Laura Van Dorn, or national reputation, or a genuine chance for great usefulness as a devil. I’m not sure that I like your taste in devils.”

To which answer may be made again by Mr. Left in a communication he received from George Meredith, who had recently passed over. It was verified by certain details as to the arrangement of the books on the little table in the little room in the little house on a little hill where he was wont to write, and it ran thus:

“Women, always star-hungry, ever uncompromising in their demand for rainbows, nibbling at the entre’ and pushing aside the roast, though often adoring primitive men who gorge on it, but ever in the end rewarding abstinence and thus selecting a race of spiritually-minded men for mates, are after all the world’s materialists.”

CHAPTER XLII

A CHAPTER WHICH IS CONCERNED LARGELY WITH THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF “THE FULL STRENGTH OF THE COMPANY”

This story, first of all, and last of all, is a love story. The emotion called love and its twin desire hunger, are the two primal passions of life. From love have developed somewhat the great altruistic institutions of humanity–the family, the tribe, the State, the nation, and the varied social activities–religion, patriotism, philanthropy, brotherhood. While from hunger have developed war and trade and property and wealth. Often it happens in the growth of life that men have small choice in matters of living that are motived by hunger or its descendant concerns; for necessity narrows the choice. But in affairs of the heart, there comes wide latitudes of choice. It is reasonably just therefore to judge a man, a nation, a race, a civilization, an era, by its love affairs. So a book that would tell of life, that would paint the manners of men, and thus show their hearts, must be a love story. “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,” runs the proverb, and, mind you, it says heart–not head, not mind, but heart; as a man thinketh in his heart, in that part of his nature where reside his altruistic emotions–so is he.

It is the sham and shame of the autobiographies that flood and dishearten the world, that they are so uncandid in their relation of those emotional episodes in life–episodes which have to do with what we know for some curious reason as “the softer passions.” Cæsar’s Gaelic wars, his bridges, his trouble with the impedimenta, his fights with the Helvetians–who cares for them? Who cares greatly for Napoleon’s expedition against the Allies? Of what human interest is Grant’s tale of the Wilderness fighting? But to know of Calpurnia, of her predecessors, and her heirs and assigns in Cæsar’s heart; to know the truth about Josephine and the crash in Napoleon’s life that came with her heartbreak–if a crash did come, or if not, to know frankly what did come; to know how Grant got on with Julia Dent through poverty and riches, through sickness and in health, for better or for worse–with all the strain and stress and struggle that life puts upon the yoke that binds the commonplace man to the commonplace woman rising to eminence by some unimportant quirk of his genius reacting on the times–these indeed would be memoirs worth reading.

And whatever worth this story holds must come from its value as a love-story,–the narrative of how love rose or fell, grew or withered, bloomed and fruited, or rotted at the core in the lives of those men and women who move through the scenes painted upon this canvas. After all, who cares that Thomas Van Dorn waxed fat in the land, that he received academic degrees from great universities which his masters supported, that he told men to go and they went, to come and they came? These things are of no consequence. Men are doing such things every minute of every day in all the year.

But here sits Thomas Van Dorn, one summer afternoon, with a young broker from New York–one of those young brokers with not too nice a conscience, who laughs too easily at the wrong times. He and Thomas Van Dorn are upon the east veranda of the new Country Club building in Harvey–the pride of the town–and Thomas is squinting across the golf course at a landscape rolling away for miles like a sea, a landscape rich in homely wealth. The young New Yorker comes with letters to Judge Van Dorn from his employers in Broad Street, and as the two sip their long cool glasses, and betimes smoke their long black cigars, the former judge falls into one of those self-revealing philosophical moods that may be called the hypnoidal semi-conscious state of common sense. Said Van Dorn:

“Well, boy–what do you think of the greatest thing in the world?” And not waiting for an answer the older man continued as he held his cigar at arm’s length and looked between his elevated feet at the landscape: “‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.’ Great old lover–Solomon. Rather out of the amateur class–with his thousand wives and concubines; perhaps a virtuous man withal, but hardly a fanatic on the subject; and when he said he was sick of love–probably somewhere in his fifties,–Solomon voiced a profound man’s truth. Most of us are. Speaking generally of love, my boy, I am with Solomon. There is nothing in it.”

The cigar in his finely curved mouth–the sensuous mouth of youth, that had pursed up dryly in middle age–was pointed upward. It stood out from a reddish lean face and moved when the muscles of the face worked viciously in response to some inward reflection of Tom Van Dorn.

He drawled on, “Think of the time men fool away chasing calico. I’ve gone all the gaits, and I know what I’m talking about. Ladies and Judy O’Gradies, married and single, decent and indecent–it’s all the same. I tell you, young man, there’s nothing in it! Love,” he laughed a little laugh: “Love–why, when I was in the business,” he sniffed, “I never had any trouble loving any lady I desired, nor getting her if I loved her long enough and strong enough. When I was a young cub like you,” Van Dorn waved his weed grandly toward the young broker, “I used to keep myself awake, cutting notches in my memory–naming over my conquests. But now I use it as a man does the sheep over the fence, to put me to sleep, and I haven’t been able to pass my fortieth birthday in the list for two years, without snoozing. What a fool a man can make of himself over calico! The ladies, God bless ’em, have got old John Barleycorn beaten a mile, when it comes to playing hell with a man’s life. Again speaking broadly, and allowing for certain exceptions, I should say–” he paused to give the judicial pomp of reflection to his utterances–“the bigger fool the woman is, the greater fool a man makes of himself for her. And all for what?”

His young guest interjected the word “Love?” in the pause. The Judge made a wry face and continued: