They call me carpenter, p.7
They Call Me Carpenter, page 7
Presently the mother of the household appeared. She was distressed, because it did not seem possible that a great man should be interested in the prattle of children, when he had people like us, evidently rich people, to talk to. “You will bother the master,” she said, in Spanish. He seemed to understand, and answered, “Let the children stay with me. They teach me that the world might be happy.”
So the prattle went on, and the woman stood in the doorway, with other women behind her, all beaming with delight. They had known all their lives there was something especially remarkable about these children; and here was their pride confirmed! When the little ones laughed, and the stranger laughed with them, you should have seen the pleasure shining from a doorway full of dusky Mexican faces!
But after a while one of the children began to rub his eyes, and the mother exclaimed—it was so late! The children had stayed awake because of the excitement, but now they must go to bed. She bundled them out of the room, and presently came back, bearing a glass of milk and a plate with bread and an orange on it. The master might be hungry, she said, with a humble little bow. In her halting English she offered to bring something to us, but she did not suppose we would care for poor people's food. She took it for granted that “poor people's food” was what Carpenter would want; and apparently she was right, for he ate it with relish. Meantime he tried to get the woman to sit on the couch beside him; but she would not sit in his presence—or was it in the presence of Mary and me? I had a feeling, as she withdrew, that she might have been glad to chat with him, if a million-dollar movie queen and a spoiled young club man had not been there to claim prior rights.
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So presently we three were alone once more; and Mary, gazing intently with those big dark eyes that the public knows so well, opened up: “Tell me, Mr. Carpenter! Have you ever been in love?”
I was startled, but if Carpenter was, he gave no sign. “Mary,” he said, “I have been in grief.” Then thinking, perhaps, that he had been abrupt, he added: “You, Mary—you have been in love?”
She answered: “No.” I'm not sure if I said anything out loud, but my thought was easy to read, and she turned upon me. “You don't know what love is. But a woman knows, even though she doesn't act it.”
“Well, of course,” I replied; “if you want to go into metaphysics—”
“Metaphysics be damned!” said Mary, and turned again to Carpenter.
Said he: “A good woman like you—”
“Me?” cried Mary. And she laughed, a wild laugh. “Don't hit me when you've got me down! I've sold myself for every job I ever got; I sold myself for every jewel you saw on me this afternoon. You notice I've got them off now!”
“I don't understand, Mary,” he said, gently. “Why does a woman like you sell herself?”
“What else has she got? I was a rat in a tenement. I could have been a drudge, but I wasn't made for that. I sold myself for a job in a store, and then for ribbons to be pretty, and then for a place in the chorus, and then for a speaking part—so on all the way. Now I portray other women selling themselves. They get fancy prices, and so do I, and that makes me a 'star.' I hope you'll never see my pictures.”
I sat watching this scene, marvelling more than ever. That tone in Mary Magna's voice was a new one to me; perhaps she had not used it since she played her last “speaking part!” I thought to myself, there was a crisis impending in the screen industry.
Said Carpenter: “What are you going to do about it, Mary?”
“What can I do? My contract has seven years to run.”
“Couldn't you do something honest? I mean, couldn't you tell an honest story in your pictures?”
“Me? My God! Tell that to T-S, and watch his face! Why, they hunt all the world over for some new kind of clothes for me to take off; they search all history for some war I can cause, some empire I can wreck. Me play an honest woman? The public would call it a joke, and the screen people would call it indecent.”
Carpenter got up, and began to pace the room. “Mary,” said he, “I once lived under the Roman empire—”
“Yes, I know. I was Cleopatra, and again I was Nero's mistress while he watched the city burning.”
“Rome was rough, and crude, and poor, Mary. Rome was nothing to this. This is Satan on my Father's throne, making new worlds for himself.” He paced the room again, then turned and said: “I don't understand this world. I must know more about it, if I am to save it!” There was such grief, such selfless pity in his voice as he repeated this: “I must know more!”
“You know everything!” exclaimed Mary, suddenly. “You are all wisdom!”
But he went on, speaking as if to himself, pondering his problem: “To serve others, yet not to indulge them; for the cause of their enslavment is that they have accepted service without return. And how shall one preach patience to the poor, when the masters make such preaching a new means of enslavement?” He looked at me, as if he thought that I could answer his question. Then with sudden energy he exclaimed: “I must meet those who are in rebellion against enslavement! Tomorrow I want to meet the strikers—all the strikers in your city.”
“You'll have your hands full,” I said—for I was a coward, and wanted to keep him out of it.
“How shall I find them?” he persisted.
“I don't know; I suppose their headquarters are at the Labor Temple.”
“I will go there. Meantime, I fear I shall have to be alone. I need to think about the things I have learned.”
“Where are you going to stay?”
“I don't know.”
Said Mary, hesitatingly: “My car is outside—”
He answered: “In ancient days I saw the young patricians drive through the streets in their chariots; no, I shall not ride with them again.”
Said I: “I have an apartment at the club, with plenty of room—”
“No, no, friend. I have seen enough of the masters of this city. From now on, if you want to see me, you will find me among the poor.”
“If I may meet you in the morning,” I said—“to show you to the Labor Temple—” Yes, I would see him through!
“By all means,” said he. “But you must come early, for I cannot delay.”
“Where shall I come?”
“Come here. I am sure these people will give me shelter.” He looked about him. “I suspect that some of them sleep in this room; but they have a little porch outside, and if they will let me stay there I shall be alone, which is what I want now.” After a moment, he added, “What I wish to do is to pray. Have you ever tried prayer, Mary?”
She answered, simply, “I wouldn't know how.”
“Come to me, and I will teach you,” he said.
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I went early next morning, but not early enough. The Mexican woman told me that “the master” had waited, and finally had gone. He had asked the way to the Labor Temple, and left word that I would find him there. So I stepped back into my taxi, and told the driver to take the most direct route.
Meantime I kept watch for my friend, and I did not have to watch very long. There was a crowd ahead, the street was blocked, and a premonition came to me: “Good Lord, I'm too late—he's got into some new mess!” I leaned out of the window, and sure enough, there he was standing on the tail-end of a truck, haranguing a crowd which packed the street from one line of houses to the other. “And before he got half way to the Labor Temple!” I thought to myself.
I got out, and paid the driver of the taxi, and pushed into the crowd. Now and then I caught a few words of what Carpenter was telling them, and it seemed quite harmless—that they were all brothers, that they should love one another, and not do one another injustice. What could there have been that made him think it necessary to deliver this message before breakfast? I looked about, noting that it was the Hebrew quarter of the city, plastered with signs with queer, spattered-up letters. I thought: “Holy smoke! Is he going to convert the Jews?”
I pushed my way farther into the crowd, and saw a policeman, and went up to him. “Officer, what's this all about?” I spoke as one wearing the latest cut of clothes, and he answered accordingly. “Search me! They brought us out on a riot call, but when we got here, it seems to have turned into a revival meeting.”
I got part of the story from this policeman, and part from a couple of bystanders. It appeared that some Jewish lady, getting her shopping done early, had complained of getting short weight, and the butcher had ordered her out of his shop, and she had stopped to express her opinion of profiteers, and he had thrown her out, and she had stood on the sidewalk and shrieked until all the ladies in this crowded quarter had joined her. Their fury against soaring prices and wages that never kept up with them, had burst all bounds, and they had set out to clean up the butcher-shop with the butcher. So there was Carpenter, on his way to the Labor Temple, with another mob to quell!
“You know how it is,” said the policeman. “It really does cost these poor devils a lot to live, and they say prices are going down, but I can't see it anywhere but in the papers.”
“Well,” said I, “I guess you were glad enough to have somebody do this job.”
He grinned. “You bet! I've tackled crowds of women before this, and you don't like to hit them, but they claw into your face if you don't. I guess the captain will let this bird spout for a bit, even if he does block the traffic.”
We listened for a minute. “Bear in mind, my friends, I am come among you; and I shall not desert you. I give you my justice, I give you my freedom. Your cause is my cause, world without end. Amen.”
“Now wouldn't that jar you?” remarked the “copper.” “Holy Christ, if you'd hear some of the nuts we have to listen to on street-corners! What do you suppose that guy thinks he can do, dressed up in Abraham's nightshirt?”
Said Carpenter: “The days of the exploiter are numbered. The thrones of the mighty are tottering, and the earth shall belong to them that labor. He that toils not, neither shall he eat, and they that grow fat upon the blood of the people—they shall grow lean again.”
“Now what do you think o' that?” demanded the guardian of authority. “If that ain't regular Bolsheviki talk, then I'm dopy. I'll bet the captain don't stand much more of that.”
Fortunately the captain's endurance was not put to the test. The orator had reached the climax of his eloquence. “The kingdom of righteousness is at hand. The word will be spoken, the way will be made clear. Meantime, my people, I bid you go your way in peace. Let there be no more disturbance, to bring upon you the contempt of those who do not understand your troubles, nor share the heartbreak of the poor. My people, take my peace with you!” He stretched out his arms in invocation, and there was a murmur of applause, and the crowd began slowly to disperse.
Which seemed to remind my friend the policeman that he had authority to exercise. He began to poke his stick into the humped backs of poor Jewish tailors, and into the ample stomachs of fat Jewish housewives. “Come on now, get along with you, and let somebody else have a bit o' the street.” I pushed my way forward, by virtue of my good clothes, and got through the press about Carpenter, and took him by the arm, saying, “Come on now, let's see if we can't get to the Labor Temple.”
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There was a crowd following us, of course; and I sought to keep Carpenter busy in conversation, to indicate that the crowd was not wanted. But before we had gone half a block I felt some one touch me on the arm, and heard a voice, saying, “I beg pardon, I'm a reporter for the 'Evening Blare'.”
Now, of course, I had known this must come; I had realized that I would be getting myself in for it, if I went to join Carpenter that morning. I had planned to warn him, to explain to him what our newspapers are; but how could I have foreseen that he was going to get into a riot before breakfast, and bring out the police reserves and the police reporters?
“Excuse us,” I said, coldly. “We have something urgent—”
“I just want to get something of this gentleman's speech—”
“We are on our way to the Labor Temple. If you will come there in a couple of hours, we will give you an interview.”
“But I must have a story for our first edition, that goes to press before that.”
I had Carpenter by the arm, and kept him firmly walking. I could not get rid of the reporter, but I was resolved to get my warning spoken, regardless of anything. Said I: “This is a matter extremely urgent for you to understand, Mr. Carpenter. This young man represents a newspaper, and anything you say to him will be read in the course of a few hours by perhaps a hundred thousand people. If it is found especially senational, the Continental Press may put it on its wires, and it will go to several hundred papers all over the country—”
“Twelve hundred and thirty-seven papers,” corrected the young man.
“So you see, it is necessary that you should be careful what you say—far more so than if you were speaking to a handful of Mexican laborers or Jewish housewives.”
Said Carpenter: “I don't understand what you mean. When I speak, I speak the truth.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied—and meantime I was racking my poor wits figuring out how to present this strange acquaintance of mine most tactfully to the world. I knew the reporter would not tarry long; he would grab a few sentences, and rush away to telephone them in.
“I'll tell you what I'm free to tell,” I began. “This gentleman is a healer, a man of very remarkable gifts. Mental healing, you understand.”
“I get you,” said the reporter. “Some religion?”
“Mr. Carpenter teaches a new religion.”
“I see. A sort of prophet! And where does he come from?”
I tried to evade. “He has just arrived—”
But the blood-hound of the press was not going to be evaded. “Where do you come from, sir?” he demanded, of Carpenter.
To which Carpenter answered, promptly: “From God.”
“From God? Er—oh, I see. From God! Most interesting! How long ago, may I ask?”
“Yesterday.”
“Oh! That is indeed extraordinary! And this mob that you've just been addressing—did you use some kind of mind cure on them?”
I could see the story taking shape; the headlines flamed before my mind's eye—streamer heads, all the way across the sheet, after the fashion of our evening papers:
PROPHET FRESH FROM GOD QUELLS MOB
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I came to a sudden decision in this crisis. The sensible thing to do was to meet the issue boldly, and take the job of launching Carpenter under proper auspices. He really was a wonderful man, and deserved to be treated decently.
I addressed the reporter again. “Listen. This gentleman is a man of remarkable gifts, and does not take money for them; so, if you are going to tell about him at all, do it in a dignified way.”
“Of course! I had no other idea—”
“Your city editor might have another idea,” I remarked, drily. “Permit me to introduce myself.” I gave him my name, and saw him start.
“You mean the Mr.—” Then, giving me a swift glance, he decided it was not necessary to complete the question.
Said I: “Here is my card,” and handed it to him.
He glanced at it, and said, “I'll be very glad to explain matters to the desk, and see that the story is handled exactly as you wish.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Now, yesterday I was caught in that mob at the picture theatre, and knocked nearly insensible. This gentleman found me, and healed me almost instantly. Naturally, I am grateful, and as I find that he is a teacher, who aids the poor, and will not take money from anyone, I want to thank him publicly, and help to make him known.”
“Of course, of course!” said the reporter; and before my mind's eye flashed a new set of headlines:
WEALTHY CLUBMAN MIRACULOUSLY HEALED
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Or perhaps it would be a double head:
CLUBMAN, SLUGGED BY MOB, HEALED BY PROPHET
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WEALTHY SCION, VICTIM OF PICTURE RIOT, RESTORED BY MAN FRESH FROM GOD
I thought that was sensation enough, and that the interview would end; but alas for my hopes! Said that blood-hound of the press: “Will you give public healings to the people, Mr. Carpenter?”
To which Carpenter answered: “I am not interested in giving healings.”
“What? Why not?”
“Worldly and corrupt people ask me to do miracles, to prove my power to them. But the proof I bring to the world is a new vision and a new hope.”
“Oh, I see! Your religion! May I ask about it?”
“You are the first; the world will follow you. Say to the people that I have come to understand the nature and causes of their mobs.”
“Mobs?” said the puzzled young blood-hound.
“I wish to understand a land which is governed by mobs; I wish to know, who lives upon the madness of others.”
“You have been studying a mob this morning?” inquired the reporter.
“I ask, why do the police of Mobland put down the mobs of the poor, and not the mobs of the rich? I ask, who pays the police, and who pays the mobs.”
“I see! You are some kind of radical!” And with sickness of soul I saw another headline before my mind's eye:
WEALTHY CLUBMAN AIDS BOLSHEVIK PROPHET
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I hastened to break in: “Mr. Carpenter is not a radical; he is a lover of man.” But then I realized, that did not sound just right. How the devil was I to describe this man? How came it that all the phrases of brotherhood and love had come to be tainted with “radicalism”? I tried again: “He is a friend of peace.”
