CHAPTER XVII
THE SOCIALIST MEETING
The house was full, said the man at the ticket-window. Nothing to behad, short of almost the back row, under the gallery. Rachel shook herhead, and her cousin, Willy Maine, leaving the window, expressed hisindignation. "You ought to have told me this afternoon that you wantedto go! Anybody might have known"--Willy was from one of the sleepiervillages in one of the sleepiest counties of his native state--"Anybodymight have known that in New York you have to get your tickets early!Now we've missed the show!" By now they were out of the swinging doorsand down upon the pavement. The night was bright and not especiallycold. It was the Lyceum Theatre, and they stood at the intersection ofFourth Avenue and Twenty-third Street.
"It's too late to try anything else," pondered Rachel. "Willy, I'msorry. But we truly didn't know we could go until the last minute, andI didn't believe it would be crowded."
"It's a beautiful night," said Hagar. "It's light and bright, and thereare crowds of people. Why can't we just walk about until bedtime?"
Willy, who was nineteen but a young giant, pursed his lips. "Is itproper for ladies?"
"Oh, I think so," said Rachel absently, "but would it really amuse you,Hagar?"
"Yes, it would. Let us go slowly, Rachel, and look in windows andpretend to be purchasing."
Willy laughed, genially and patronizingly. "I've been along here. Therearen't any Paris fashions in these windows."
"I want," said Hagar succinctly, "to saunter through the streets of agreat city."
They began to walk, their faces turned downtown, staying chiefly uponthe avenue, but now and then diverging into side streets where therewere lights and people. By degrees they came into congested, poorerquarters. To Willy, not long removed from a loneliness of tidal creeks,vast stretches of tobacco, slow, solitary sandy roads, all and anyof New York was exciting, all a show, a stimulus swallowed withoutdiscrimination. That day Rachel had found occasion to rage against acertain closed circle of conventions. The subject had come up at thebreakfast table, introduced by a headline in the morning paper, and shehad so shocked her family that for once they had acted as though thevolcano was real. Mrs. Maine had grown moist and pink, and had saidprecipitately that in her time a young woman--whether she were marriedor single, that didn't matter!--would as soon have thought of puttingher hand in the fire as of mentioning such things! And Powhatan hadas nearly thundered as was in his nature to do. Rachel shrugged hershoulders and desisted, but she had gone about all day with defiancewritten in her small, sombre face. Now to-night, the street, the broadstripes of blackness, the thin stripes of gold light, the sound ofvoices and of many footfalls, the faces when the light fell upon themand the brushing by of half-seen forms suited her raised, angry, andmutinous mood. As for Hagar, the street and its movement simply becameherself. She never lost the child's and the poet's power of coalescence.
It was before the days of Waring. The only White Wings upon thisavenue had been the snowflakes which a week ago had fallen thickly,which had been dully scraped over the curbing into the gutter, andwhich now stayed there in irregular, one to three feet in altitude,begrimed Alpine ranges. The cobblestones of the street between, overwhich the great dray horses ceaselessly passed, were foul enough, whilethe sidewalks had their own litter of torn scraps of paper, cheapcigar ends, infinitesimal bits of refuse. The day of the weirdness ofelectric lighting, of the bizarre come-and-go of motion signs was notyet either. Down here there were occasional arc lights, but gas yetreigned in chief. The shops, that were not shops for millionaires, noreven for the Quite Comfortable, all had their winking gaslights. Belowthem like chequered walls sprang out the variegated show-windows. Thewares displayed were usually small in size, slight of value, and highin colour, a kaleidoscopic barbaric display. Above dark doorways thefrequent three golden balls showed up well.
Because the night was so mild and windless many people wereabroad--people not well-dressed, and yet not quite poverty-strickenin aspect; others who were so, lounging men with hopeless faces,women wandering by, pinched and lost-looking; then again groups orindividuals of a fairly prosperous appearance. The flaring gas showednow and again faces that were evidently alien, or there came a snatchof strange jargon. A crowd had gathered at a street corner. A girlwearing a dark-blue poke bonnet with a red ribbon across it was goingfrom one to the other holding out a tambourine. A few pennies clinkedinto it. A man standing in the centre of the crowd, raised his arm."Now, we are going to sing." The women in the bonnets beat upon thetambourines, a man with a drum and another with a cornet gave theopening bars, the women raised shrill, sweet voices,--
"There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains--"
The hymn ended, a woman lifted both hands and prayed with fervour anda strange, natural eloquence. Then the squad gathered up horn and drumand tambourines, and, drawing a part of the crowd with it, moved up thestreet to another skirmish ground.
Rachel and Willy and Hagar drifted on. The night was still young, thestars glittering above, the gaslamps making a vista, the footfalls onthe pavement murmurous as a stream. The clanging of the street-carbell, the rush of a train on the neighbouring Elevated, the abrupt riseand fall of passing voices--all exercised a fascination. The nightwas coloured, rhythmic. They came to a building, narrow and plain,with lit windows, as of a hall, on the second floor, and with a clean,fairly lighted stair going up from an open street door. Men and womenwere entering. A care-worn, stooping, workman-looking man stood by thedoor with handbills or leaflets which he was giving out. "SocialistMeeting," he said. "Good speaking. The Unemployed and the Strikes.Socialist Meeting. Everybody welcome."
Hagar stopped. "Rachel, I want to go in here. Yes, I do! Come now, begood to me, Rachel! Mr. Maine wants to go, too."
"Socialists!" said Willy. "Those are the people who are blowing upeverybody with bombs. I didn't suppose New York would let them hold ameeting! They're devils!"
But Willy had so well-grown a human curiosity that he was not averseto a glimpse of devils. Perhaps he heard himself, back home in thesleepy county, talking at the village post-office or in the churchyardbefore church. "Yes, and where else do you think I went? I went toa Socialist Meeting! Bomb-throwers--Socialists and Anarchists, youknow!" Rachel, hardly more informed, was ready to-night for anything alittle desperate. She would not have taken Hagar where she positivelythought she ought not to go,--but if these were desperate peoplegoing in, they were, to say the least, pretty quiet and orderly anddecent-looking;--and it could do no harm just to slip in and sit on aback seat for a few minutes and look on--just as you might go to massin a cathedral abroad, disapproving all the time, of course. But Hagarhad a book or two in her mind, and in addition the talk that Sundayafternoon at the Settlement.
When they had climbed the stairs and come into the hall, which was asmall one, they found that the back seats were all taken. Apparentlyall seats were taken, but as they stood hesitating, a young manbeckoned, and before they knew it they found themselves well downthe place, seated near the platform. Rachel looked around a littleuneasily. "Crowded, and they all look so intent! It's not going to beeasy to get up and leave."
The hall was rude enough, and small, the light not brilliant, theplatform a few bare boards. Upon it stood a deal table, and threeor four chairs. Back of these, fastened against the wall, was ared flag, and on either side of this a strip of canvas with largeletters. On one side, UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD, and on the other,WORKINGMEN, UNITE! Now standing beside the table, and slowly walkingfrom end to end of the platform, a dark-eyed, well-knit man wasspeaking, quite conversationally, with a direct appeal, now to thisquarter of the hall, now to that. His voice was deep and mellow;he spoke without denunciations, with a quiet reasonableness andconviction. At the moment he was stating a theory, giving thedata upon which it was based, weighing it, comparing it with itscounter theory. He used phrases--"Economic Determinism"--"UnearnedIncrement"-
-"Class-Consciousness"--"Problem of Distribution"--explainedclearly what he meant by them, then put them aside. "They are phrasesthat will serve their ends and pass from speech," he said. "We shallbring in modifiers, we shall make other phrases, and they, too, intheir turn, will pass from the tongues of men; but the idea behindthem--the idea--the idea and its expression, the intellectual and moralsanction, the thing that is metaphysical and immortal, that will notpass! The very word Socialism may pass, but Socialism itself will bein the blood and bone and marrow of the world that is to be! And thisis what is that Socialism." He began to speak in aphorisms, in wordsfrom old Wisdom-Religions, and then, for all they were stories ofquite modern happenings, in parables--the woe of the world epitomized,a generalization of its needs, all lines of help synthesized into aworld saviour, which, lo! was the world itself. He made an end, stood amoment with kindling eyes, then sat down. After an appreciable silencethere came a strange, deep applause, men and women striking fist onpalm, striking the bare floor with ill-shod feet.
A small, wiry dark man, sitting on the platform, rose and spoke rapidlyfor twenty minutes. He had a caustic wit and the power of invectivewhich, if possessed by the other, had not been displayed. Once or twicehe evoked a roar of angry laughter. When he had finished, and theapplause had subsided, the chairman of the evening stood up and spoke."As the comrades know, it is our habit to turn the last half-hour intoan open meeting. Nearly always there's somebody who's been thinkingand studying and wants to say a word as to what he's found--or there'ssomebody who's got a bit of personal experience that he thinks mighthelp a comrade who's struggling, maybe, through a like pit. Anybodythat feels like speaking out, let him do it--or let her do it. Menand women, we're all comrades--and though Socialists are said not tobe religious, we're all religious enough to like a good experiencemeeting--"
He paused, waiting for some one to rise. The first speaker camefor a moment to his side. "Mr. Chairman, may I say one word to ourcomrades, and to any others who may be here? It is this. If 'religious'means world-service and a recognition and a striving toward theultimate divine in my neighbour as in myself, and in myself as in myneighbour--then I think Socialism may be called religious."
As he moved back to his chair a man arose in the back of the houseand began to speak. After a moment the chairman halted him with agesture. "It is difficult for the comrades on this side the hall tohear you. Won't you come to the platform?" The man hesitated, thennodded his head; and with a certain deliberateness moved down theaisle, and stepping upon the only slightly raised platform stood facingthe gathering. A colour flared in his cheek, and his hands, heldsomewhat stiffly at his sides, opened and shut. It was evident that hewas not an accustomed speaker, and that there was diffidence or doubtof himself and his welcome to be overcome. He began stammering, withnervous hesitation. If anything he _could_ say would help by one filinghe would say it, though he wasn't used--yet--to speaking. He owed adebt and he believed in paying debts--though not the way the world madeyou pay them.
It was hard to tell how young or old he was. At times he looked boyish;then, when a certain haggard, brooding aspect came upon him, he seemeda middle-aged man. His clothes were poor, but whole and clean, hisshirt a grey flannel one. Above the loose collar showed a short, darkbeard, well-cut features, and deep-set dark eyes.
Lines came into Hagar's forehead between her eyes. She had seen thisman somewhere. Where? She had a trick of holding her mind passive, whenthe wanted memory would slowly rise, like water from a deep, deep well.Now, after a minute or two, it came. She had seen him in the street-carthat night, going from Eglantine to see "Romeo and Juliet." He had beenin workman's clothes, he had touched her skirt, standing before her inthe car; then he had found a seat, and she had watched him unfold andread a newspaper. Some vague, uncertain thought that she could nottrace had made her regard him at intervals until with Miss Bedford andLily and Laydon she had left the car....
The man on the platform had shaken off the initial clumsiness of speechand bearing. Like a swimmer, he had needled the wave. He was notclumsy now; he was speaking with short, stripped words, nakedly, withearnestness at white heat. Once he had been dumb and angry, he said,as a maddened dog. He had been through years that had made him so. Hehad been growing like a wolf. There were times when he wanted to takehold of the world's throat and tear it out. "Do you remember Ishmaelin the Bible?--his hand against every man and every man's hand againsthim? Well, I was growing to feel that way." Then at that point--"andthat was perhaps three years ago, and I was down South in a town in mystate, trying to get work. I knew how to break rock, and I knew how tomake parts of shoes, and I didn't know much besides, except that itwas a hard world and I hated it"--at this point chance "or something"had sent him an acquaintance, an educated man, a bookkeeper in theconcern where he finally got a job. Out of the acquaintanceship hadgrown a friendship. "After a while I got to going to his house. Hehad a wife who helped him lots." The three used to talk together, andthe man lent him books and made him read them, and "little by little,he led me on. He was like an old man I knew in the mountains when Iwas a boy. He showed me that we're all sick and sorry, but that we'regrowing a principle of health. He showed me how slow we creep up fromworm to man, and how now we're fluttering toward something farther on,and how hands of the past come upon us, and how we yet escape--and thewings strengthen. He showed me how vindictiveness is no use, and howmuch that is wrong with the world is owing to poor social mechanismand can be changed. He showed me what Brotherliness means, on the roadto Unity. He put it in my mind and heart to want to help. He toldme I had a good mind. I had always rather liked books, but I'd beenwhere I couldn't get any, even if they'd given you time for reading.He made me study things out, and one day I began to think--thinkfor myself--think it out. I've never stopped. Usually now, I'm atnight-school nights. I'm learning, and I'm going to keep on, until Imake thinking Wisdom." He studied the ceiling a moment, then spoke outwith a ring in his voice. "I was a mountain boy. When I wasn't out ofmy teens I got drunk at a dance and played hell-fool and almost killeda man or two. Then the sheriff chased me up to Catamount Gap, and thestuff was still in me and my head hitting the stars, and I shot andshot at the sheriff.... Well, the end of all that playing was that Iwent to the penitentiary for four years. One thing I want wisdom foris to know how to talk to people about what is called crime and aboutthat great crime, our law courts and penal system. Well, I came outof the penitentiary, and then it was very hard to get work. It wasbitter hard. That's another thing I want learning and wisdom for--totalk about that. You see, the penitentiary wasn't content with the fouryears; it followed me always. And then it's hard to get work anyhow.There wasn't any use in going back to the mountains. But after a whileI got work and kept it. Then, three months ago, I came up here, and Igot work here. I'm working on your streets now, and studying betweentimes.... I'm standing up here to-night to tell you that you've gota flag that draws the unhappy to you, when it happens that they'reseeking with the mind. I don't know much about class-consciousness.We didn't have it in the mountains, though, of course, we had it inthe penitentiary. But I know that we've got to take the best that wasin the past and leave the worst, and go on with the best toward newthings. We've got to help others and help ourselves. And it doesn't dojust to want to help; you've got to have a working theory; you've gotto use your mind. You've got to consider your line of march and markit out and blast away the rock upon it and go on. And I am willingto be of your construction gang. The man I was talking about thoughtpretty much that way, too. He said there were a lot of isolated people,here, there, and everywhere, not only those that call themselvesworking-people, but others, too, and women just as well as men, whowere thinking that way--that they might not call themselves Socialists,but that they were blood kin just the same. I don't know why, to-night,but I am thinking of something that happened when I had been a year inthe penitentiary, and they had rented a lot of us up the river to makethe bed for a railroad. While I was up there, I couldn't stand it anylonger,
and I ran away. They set the dogs on my track and took me, ofcourse, but before they did, I was lying in a thicket, and I hadn'thad anything to eat for two days and a night. A little girl, abouttwelve years old, I reckon, came over a hill and down to the stream bythe thicket. She gathered flowers and set them around a big rock for aflower doll tea-party. She had two little apple pies and she put thosein the middle--and then she saw me, lying in the thicket. And I waswearing"--the colour flared into his face, then ebbed--"I was wearingstripes.... I don't think she ever thought of being frightened. Shegave me both pies, and she sat and talked to me like a friendly humanbeing. I've never forgotten. And when the dogs came, as they did prettysoon, and the men behind them, she lay on the grass and cried andcried as if her heart would break. I've never forgotten. That's what Imean. I don't care what we've done, if we're not fiends incarnate, andvery few of us are, we've got to feel toward one another like that.We've got to feel, 'if you are struck, I am struck. If you are wearingstripes, I am wearing stripes.' We've got to feel something more thanBrotherhood. We've got to feel identity. And as a part, anyway, of thatroad seems to me to be named Socialization, I'm willing to be called aSocialist."
He nodded to the audience, and, stepping from the platform, amid aclapping of hands and stamping of feet, did not return to his place inthe back of the hall, but sat upon the edge of the stage, his handsclasped around his knee. A German clockmaker and a fiery, dark womanspoke each for a few minutes, and then the meeting ended. There was anoise of rising, of pushing back chairs, a surge of people, in parttoward the exit, in part toward the platform. Hagar touched Rachel onthe arm. "Wait here for me. I want to speak to that man.--Yes, I knowhim. Wait here, Rachel."
She made her way to the space before the platform where men and womenwere pressing about the speakers. The man with the grey flannel shirtwas answering a question or two, put by the dark-eyed man who hadspoken first. He stood with a certain mountain litheness and lack oftension. A movement, his answer given, brought him face to face withHagar. She had taken off her hat, so that it might not trouble thepeople behind her, and she had it still in her hand. Her dark, softhair framed her face much as it had done in childhood; she was lookingat him with wide, startled eyes.
"I had to come to tell you," she said, "that I am glad you camethrough. I never forgot you either."
"'Forgot you either!'--" The man stared at her.
"They were apple turnovers," she said; but before she had really spokenthere came the flush and light of recognition.
"Oh--h!..." He fell back a step; then, with a reddened cheek and alight in his eyes, put out his hand. She laid hers in it; his fingersclosed over hers in a grasp strong enough to give pain.
Then, as their hands dropped, as she fell back a little, the secondspeaker came between, then others. Suddenly the lights were lowered,people were staying too long. Rachel's hand on Hagar's arm drew herback. "Come, we must go!" Willy, too, was insistent. "It's gettinglate. Show's over!" The space between her and the boy of the thicket,the figure drawn against the sky of the canal lock, widened, filledwith forms in the partial dusk. She was half-drawn, half-pushed by theoutgoing stream through the door, out upon the stair, and so down tothe street, where now there were fewer lights. The wind had arisen andthe air turned colder. "We'll take this cross-town car, and then theElevated," and while she was still bewildered, they were on the car.The bell clanged, they went on; again, in what seemed the shortesttime, they were out in the night, then climbing the long stairs, thenthrough the gate and upon the rushing Elevated. Willy talked andtalked. He was excited. "I thought it was going to be all about bombs!But they talked sense, didn't they?--and there was something in the airthat kind of warmed you! Next time I'm in New York I'm going again.Look at the lights streaming off! By Jiminy! New York's great!"
He was not staying at the Maines', but with other kinspeople a fewblocks away. He saw the two in at the door, said good-night, and wentwhistling away. Hagar and Rachel turned off the lowered gas in the halland went softly upstairs.
As they passed Mrs. Maine's door she asked sleepily from within, "Didyou enjoy the play?"
"We didn't go," said Rachel. "We'll tell you about it in the morning."
When the two had said good-night and parted and Hagar, in her own room,kneeling at the window, looked up at the Pleiades, at Aldebaran--onlythen came the realization that she did not know that man's name, thatshe had never heard it. In her thoughts he had always been "the boy."