THEY CALL ME CARPENTER

A Tale of the Second Coming

By

UPTON SINCLAIR

NEW YORK

1922






To

Charles F. Nevens

True and devoted friend






I


The beginning of this strange adventure was my going to see a motion
picture which had been made in Germany. It was three years after the
end of the war, and you'd have thought that the people of Western
City would have got over their war-phobias. But apparently they
hadn't; anyway, there was a mob to keep anyone from getting into the
theatre, and all the other mobs started from that. Before I tell
about it, I must introduce Dr. Karl Henner, the well-known literary
critic from Berlin, who was travelling in this country, and stopped
off in Western City at that time. Dr. Henner was the cause of my
going to see the picture, and if you will have a moment's patience,
you will see how the ideas which he put into my head served to start
me on my extraordinary adventure.

You may not know much about these cultured foreigners. Their manners
are like softest velvet, so that when you talk to them, you feel as
a Persian cat must feel while being stroked. They have read
everything in the world; they speak with quiet certainty; and they
are so old--old with memories of racial griefs stored up in their
souls. I, who know myself for a member of the best clubs in Western
City, and of the best college fraternity in the country--I found
myself suddenly indisposed to mention that I had helped to win the
battle of the Argonne. This foreign visitor asked me how I felt
about the war, and I told him that it was over, and I bore no hard
feelings, but of course I was glad that Prussian militarism was
finished. He answered: "A painful operation, and we all hope that
the patient may survive it; also we hope that the surgeon has not
contracted the disease." Just as quietly as that.

Of course I asked Dr. Henner what he thought about America. His
answer was that we had succeeded in producing the material means of
civilization by the ton, where other nations had produced them by
the pound. "We intellectuals in Europe have always been poor, by
your standards over here. We have to make a very little food support
a great many ideas. But you have unlimited quantities of food,
and--well, we seek for the ideas, and we judge by analogy they must
exist--"

"But you don't find them?" I laughed.

"Well," said he, "I have come to seek them."

This talk occurred while we were strolling down our Broadway, in
Western City, one bright afternoon in the late fall of 1921. We
talked about the picture which Dr. Henner had recommended to me, and
which we were now going to see. It was called "The Cabinet of Dr.
Caligari," and was a "futurist" production, a strange, weird freak
of the cinema art, supposed to be the nightmare of a madman. "Being
an American," said Dr. Henner, "you will find yourself asking, 'What
good does such a picture do?' You will have the idea that every work
of art must serve some moral purpose." After a pause, he added:
"This picture could not possibly have been produced in America. For
one thing, nearly all the characters are thin." He said it with the
flicker of a smile--"One does not find American screen actors in
that condition. Do your people care enough about the life of art to
take a risk of starving for it?"

Now, as a matter of fact, we had at that time several millions of
people out of work in America, and many of them starving. There must
be some intellectuals among them, I suggested; and the critic
replied: "They must have starved for so long that they have got used
to it, and can enjoy it--or at any rate can enjoy turning it into
art. Is not that the final test of great art, that it has been
smelted in the fires of suffering? All the great spiritual movements
of humanity began in that way; take primitive Christianity, for
example. But you Americans have taken Christ, the carpenter--"

I laughed. It happened that at this moment we were passing St.
Bartholomew's Church, a great brown-stone structure standing at the
corner of the park. I waved my hand towards it. "In there," I said,
"over the altar, you may see Christ, the carpenter, dressed up in
exquisite robes of white and amethyst, set up as a stained glass
window ornament. But if you'll stop and think, you'll realize it
wasn't we Americans who began that!"

"No," said the other, returning my laugh, "but I think it was you
who finished him up as a symbol of elegance, a divinity of the
respectable inane."

Thus chatting, we turned the corner, and came in sight of our goal,
the Excelsior Theatre. And there was the mob!



II


At first, when I saw the mass of people, I thought it was the usual
picture crowd. I said, with a smile, "Can it be that the American
people are not so dead to art after all?" But then I observed that
the crowd seemed to be swaying this way and that; also there seemed
to be a great many men in army uniforms. "Hello!" I exclaimed. "A
row?"

There was a clamor of shouting; the army men seemed to be pulling
and pushing the civilians. When we got nearer, I asked of a
bystander, "What's up?" The answer was: "They don't want 'em to go
in to see the picture."

"Why not?"

"It's German. Hun propaganda!"

Now you must understand, I had helped to win a war, and no man gets
over such an experience at once. I had a flash of suspicion, and
glanced at my companion, the cultured literary critic from Berlin.
Could it possibly be that this smooth-spoken gentleman was playing a
trick upon me--trying, possibly, to get something into my crude
American mind without my realizing what was happening? But I
remembered his detailed account of the production, the very essence
of "art for art's sake." I decided that the war was three years
over, and I was competent to do my own thinking.

Dr. Henner spoke first. "I think," he said, "it might be wiser if I
did not try to go in there."

"Absurd!" I cried. "I'm not going to be dictated to by a bunch of
imbeciles!"

"No," said the other, "you are an American, and don't have to be.
But I am a German, and I must learn."

I noted the flash of bitterness, but did not resent it. "That's all
nonsense, Dr. Henner!" I argued. "You are my guest, and I won't--"

"Listen, my friend," said the other. "You can doubtless get by
without trouble; but I would surely rouse their anger, and I have no
mind to be beaten for nothing. I have seen the picture several
times, and can talk about it with you just as well."

"You make me ashamed of myself," I cried--"and of my country!"

"No, no! It is what you should expect. It is what I had in mind when
I spoke of the surgeon contracting the disease. We German
intellectuals know what war means; we are used to things like this."
Suddenly he put out his hand. "Good-bye."

"I will go with you!" I exclaimed. But he protested--that would
embarrass him greatly. I would please to stay, and see the picture;
he would be interested later on to hear my opinion of it. And
abruptly he turned, and walked off, leaving me hesitating and angry.

At last I started towards the entrance of the theatre. One of the
men in uniform barred my way. "No admittance here!"

"But why not?"

"It's a German show, and we aint a-goin' to allow it."

"Now see here, buddy," I countered, none too good-naturedly, "I
haven't got my uniform on, but I've as good a right to it as you; I
was all through the Argonne."

"Well, what do you want to see Hun propaganda for?"

"Maybe I want to see what it's like."

"Well, you can't go in; we're here to shut up this show!"

I had stepped to one side as I spoke, and he caught me by the arm. I
thought there had been talk enough, and gave a sudden lurch, and
tore my arm free. "Hold on here!" he shouted, and tried to stop me
again; but I sprang through the crowd towards the box-office. There
were more than a hundred civilians in or about the lobby, and not
more than twenty or thirty ex-service men maintaining the blockade;
so a few got by, and I was one of the lucky ones. I bought my
ticket, and entered the theatre. To the man at the door I said: "Who
started this?"

"I don't know, sir. It's just landed on us, and we haven't had time
to find out."

"Is the picture German propaganda?"

"Nothing like that at all, sir. They say they won't let us show
German pictures, because they're so much cheaper; they'll put
American-made pictures out of business, and it's unfair
competition."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, and light began to dawn. I recalled Dr. Henner's
remark about producing a great many ideas out of a very little food;
assuredly, the American picture industry had cause to fear
competition of that sort! I thought of old "T-S," as the screen
people call him for short--the king of the movie world, with his
roll of fat hanging over his collar, and his two or three extra
chins! I though of Mary Magna, million dollar queen of the pictures,
contriving diets and exercises for herself, and weighing with fear
and trembling every day!



III


It was time for the picture to begin, so I smoothed my coat, and
went to a seat, and was one of perhaps two dozen spectators before
whom "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" received its first public showing
in Western City. The story had to do with a series of murders; we
saw them traced by a young man, and fastened bit by bit upon an old
magician and doctor. As the drama neared its climax, we discovered
this doctor to be the head of an asylum for the insane, and the
young man to be one of the inmates; so in the end the series of
adventures was revealed to us as the imaginings of a madman about
his physician and keepers. The settings and scenery were in the
style of "futurist" art--weird and highly effective. I saw it all in
the light of Dr. Henner's interpretation, the product of an old,
perhaps an overripe culture. Certainly no such picture could have
been produced in America! If I had to choose between this and the
luxurious sex-stuff of Mary Magna--well, I wondered. At least, I had
been interested in every moment of "Dr. Caligari," and I was only
interested in Mary off the screen. Several times every year I had to
choose between mortally hurting her feelings, and watching her
elaborate "vamping" through eight or ten costly reels.

I had read many stories and seen a great many plays, in which the
hero wakes up in the end, and we realize that we have been watching
a dream. I remembered "Midsummer Night's Dream," and also "Looking
Backward." An old, old device of art; and yet always effective, one
of the most effective! But this was the first time I had ever been
taken into the dreams of a lunatic. Yes, it was interesting, there
was no denying it; grisly stuff, but alive, and marvelously well
acted. How Edgar Allen Poe would have revelled in it! So thinking, I
walked towards the exit of the theatre, and a swinging door gave
way--and upon my ear broke a clamor that might have come direct from
the inside of Dr. Caligari's asylum. "Ya, ya. Boo, boo! German
propaganda! Pay your money to the Huns! For shame on you! Leave your
own people to starve, and send your cash to the enemy."

I stopped still, and whispered to myself, "My God!" During all the
time--an hour or more--that I had been away on the wings of
imagination, these poor boobs had been howling and whooping outside
the theatre, keeping the crowds away, and incidentally working
themselves into a fury! For a moment I thought I would go out and
reason with them; they were mistaken in the idea that there was
anything about the war, anything against America in the picture. But
I realized that they were beyond reason. There was nothing to do but
go my way and let them rave.

But quickly I saw that this was not going to be so easy as I had
fancied. Right in front of the entrance stood the big fellow who had
caught my arm; and as I came toward him I saw that he had me marked.
He pointed a finger into my face, shouting in a fog-horn voice:
"There's a traitor! Says he was in the service, and now he's backing
the Huns!"

I tried to have nothing to do with him, but he got me by the arm,
and others were around me. "Yein, yein, yein!" they shouted into my
ear; and as I tried to make my way through, they began to hustle me.
"I'll shove your face in, you damned Hun!"--a continual string of
such abuse; and I had been in the service, and seen fighting!

I never tried harder to avoid trouble; I wanted to get away, but
that big fellow stuck his feet between mine and tripped me, he
lunged and shoved me into the gutter, and so, of course, I made to
hit him. But they had me helpless; I had no more than clenched my
fist and drawn back my arm, when I received a violent blow on the
side of my jaw. I never knew what hit me, a fist or a weapon. I only
felt the crash, and a sensation of reeling, and a series of blows
and kicks like a storm about me.

I ask you to believe that I did not run away in the Argonne. I did
my job, and got my wound, and my honorable record. But there I had a
fighting chance, and here I had none; and maybe I was dazed, and it
was the instinctive reaction of my tormented body--anyhow, I ran. I
staggered along, with the blows and kicks to keep me moving. And
then I saw half a dozen broad steps, and a big open doorway; I fled
that way, and found myself in a dark, cool place, reeling like a
drunken man, but no longer beaten, and apparently no longer pursued.
I was falling, and there was something nearby, and I caught at it,
and sank down upon a sort of wooden bench.



IV


I had run into St. Bartholomew's Church; and when I came to--I fear
I cut a pitiful figure, but I have to tell the truth--I was crying.
I don't think the pain of my head and face had anything to do with
it, I think it was rage and humiliation; my sense of outrage, that
I, who had helped to win a war, should have been made to run from a
gang of cowardly rowdies. Anyhow, here I was, sunk down in a pew of
the church, sobbing as if my heart was broken.

At last I raised my head, and holding on to the pew in front, looked
about me. The church was apparently deserted. There were dark
vistas; and directly in front of me a gleaming altar, and high over
it a stained glass window, with the afternoon sun shining through.
You know, of course, the sort of figures they have in those windows;
a man in long robes, white, with purple and gold; with a brown
beard, and a gentle, sad face, and a halo of light about the head. I
was staring at the figure, and at the same time choking with rage
and pain, but clenching my hands, and making up my mind to go out
and follow those brutes, and get that big one alone and pound his
face to a jelly. And here begins the strange part of my adventure;
suddenly that shining figure stretched out its two arms to me, as if
imploring me not to think those vengeful thoughts!

I knew, of course, what it meant; I had just seen a play about
delirium, and had got a whack on the head, and now I was delirious
myself. I thought I must be badly hurt; I bowed my reeling head in
my arms, and began to sob like a kid, out loud, and without shame.
But somehow I forgot about the big brute, and his face that I wanted
to pound; instead, I was ashamed and bewildered, a queer hysterical
state with a half dozen emotions mixed up. The Caligari story was in
it, and the lunatic asylum; I've got a cracked skull, I thought, and
my mind will never get right again! I sat, huddled and shuddering;
until suddenly I felt a quiet hand on my shoulder, and heard a
gentle voice saying: "Don't be afraid. It is I."

Now, I shall waste no time telling you how amazed I was. It was a
long time before I could believe what was happening to me; I thought
I was clean off my head. I lifted my eyes, and there, in the aisle
of the most decorous church of St. Bartholomew, standing with his
hand on my head, was the figure out of the stained glass window! I
looked at him twice, and then I looked at the window. Where the
figure had been was a great big hole with the sun shining through!

We know the power of suggestion, and especially when one taps the
deeps of the unconscious, where our childhood memories are buried. I
had been brought up in a religious family, and so it seemed quite
natural to me that while that hand lay on my head, the throbbing and
whirling should cease, and likewise the fear. I became perfectly
quiet, and content to sit under the friendly spell. "Why were you
crying?" asked the voice, at last.

I answered, hesitatingly, "I think it was humiliation."

"Is it something you have done?"

"No. Something that was done to me."

"But how can a man be humiliated by the act of another?"

I saw what he meant; and I was not humiliated any more.

The stranger spoke again. "A mob," he said, "is a blind thing, worse
than madness. It is the beast in man running away with his master."

I thought to myself: how can he know what has happened to me? But
then I reflected, perhaps he saw them drive me into the church! I
found myself with a sudden, queer impulse to apologize for those
soldier boys. "We had some terrible fighting," I cried. "And you
know what wars do--to the minds of the people, I mean."

"Yes," said the stranger, "I know, only too well."

I had meant to explain this mob; but somehow, I decided that I could
not. How could I make him understand moving picture shows, and
German competition, and ex-service men out of jobs? There was a
pause, and he asked, "Can you stand up?"

I tried and found that I could. I felt the side of my jaw, and it
hurt, but somehow the pain seemed apart from myself. I could see
clearly and steadily; there were only two things wrong that I could
find--first, this stranger standing by my side, and second, that
hole in the window, where I had seen him standing so many Sunday
mornings!

"Are you going out now?" he asked. As I hesitated, he added,
tactfully, "Perhaps you would let me go with you?"

Here was indeed a startling proposition! His costume, his long
hair--there were many things about him not adapted to Broadway at
five o'clock in the afternoon! But what could I say? It would be
rude to call attention to his peculiarities. All I could manage was
to stammer: "I thought you belonged in the church."

"Do I?" he replied, with a puzzled look. "I'm not sure. I have been
wondering--am I really needed here? And am I not more needed in the
world?"

"Well," said I, "there's one thing certain." I pointed up to the
window. "That hole is conspicuous."

"Yes, that is true."

"And if it should rain, the altar would be ruined. The Reverend Dr.
Lettuce-Spray would be dreadfully distressed. That altar cloth was
left to the church in the will of Mrs. Elvina de Wiggs, and God
knows how many thousands of dollars it cost."

"I suppose that wouldn't do," said the stranger. "Let us see if we
can't find something to put there."

He started up the aisle, and through the chancel. I followed, and we
came into the vestry-room, and there on the wall I noticed a full
length, life-sized portrait of old Algernon de Wiggs, president of
the Empire National Bank, and of the Western City Chamber of
Commerce. "Let us see if he would fill the place," said the
stranger; and to my amazement he drew up a chair, and took down the
huge picture, and carried it, seemingly without effort, into the
church.

He stepped upon the altar, and lifted the portrait in front of the
window. How he got it to stay there I am not sure--I was too much
taken aback by the procedure to notice such details. There the
picture was; it seemed to fit the window exactly, and the effect was
simply colossal. You'd have to know old de Wiggs to appreciate
it--those round, puffy cheeks, with the afternoon sun behind them,
making them shine like two enormous Jonathan apples! Our leading
banker was clad in decorous black, as always on Sunday mornings, but
in one place the sun penetrated his form--at one side of his chest.
My curiosity got the better of me; I could not restrain the
question, "What is that golden light?"

Said the stranger: "I think that is his heart."

"But that can't be!" I argued. "The light is on his right side; and
it seems to have an oblong shape--exactly as if it were his
wallet."

Said the other: "Where the treasure is, there will the heart be
also."



VI


We passed out through the arched doorway, and Broadway was before
us. I had another thrill of distress--a vision of myself walking
down this crowded street with this extraordinary looking personage.
The crowds would stare at us, the street urchins would swarm about
us, until we blocked the traffic and the police ran us in! So I
thought, as we descended the steps and started; but my fear passed,
for we walked and no one followed us--hardly did anyone even turn
his eyes after us.

I realized in a little while how this could be. The pleasant climate
of Western City brings strange visitors to dwell here; we have
Hindoo swamis in yellow silk, and a Theosophist college on a
hill-top, and people who take up with "nature," and go about with
sandals and bare legs, and a mane of hair over their shoulders. I
pass them on the street now and then--one of them carries a
shepherd's crook! I remember how, a few years ago, my Aunt Caroline,
rambling around looking for something to satisfy her emotions, took
up with these queer ideas, and there came to her front door, to the
infinite bewilderment of the butler, a mild-eyed prophet in pastoral
robes, and with a little newspaper bundle in his hand. This, spread
out before my aunt, proved to contain three carrots and two onions,
carefully washed, and shining; they were the kindly fruits of the
earth, and of the prophet's own labor, and my old auntie was deeply
touched, because it appeared that this visitor was a seer, the sole
composer of a mighty tome which is to be found in the public
library, and is known as the "Eternal Bible."

So here I was, strolling along quite as a matter of course with my
strange acquaintance. I saw that he was looking about, and I
prepared for questions, and wondered what they would be. I thought
that he must naturally be struck by such wonders as automobiles and
crowded street-cars. I failed to realize that he would be thinking
about the souls of the people.

Said he, at last: "This is a large city?"

"About half a million."

"And what quarter are we in?"

"The shopping district."

"Is it a segregated district?"

"Segregated? In what way?"

"Apparently there are only courtesans."

I could not help laughing. "You are misled by the peculiarities of
our feminine fashions--details with which you are naturally not
familiar--"

"Oh, quite the contrary," said he, "I am only too familiar with
them. In childhood I learned the words of the prophet: 'Because the
daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks
and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a
tinkling with their feet; therefore the Lord will smite with a scab
the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the Lord will
discover their secret parts. In that day the Lord will take away the
bravery of their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and their
cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and the
bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of the
legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings, and nose
jewels, the changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the
wimples, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and
the hoods, and the veils. And it shall come to pass that instead of
sweet smell there shall be stink; and instead of a girdle a rent;
and instead of well set hair, baldness; and instead of a stomacher a
girding of sackcloth; and burning instead of beauty.'"

From the point of view of literature this might be great stuff; but
on the corner of Broadway and Fifth Street at the crowded hours it
was unusual, to say the least. My companion was entering into the
spirit of it in a most alarming way; he was half chanting, his voice
rising, his face lighting up. "'Thy men shall fall by the sword, and
thy mighty in the war. And her gates shall lament and mourn; and she
being desolate shall sit upon the ground.'"

"Be careful!" I whispered. "People will hear you!"

"But why should they not?" He turned on me a look of surprise. "The
people hear me gladly." And he added: "The common people."

Here was an aspect of my adventure which had not occurred to me
before. "My God!" I thought. "If he takes to preaching on street
corners!" I realized in a flash--it was exactly what he would be up
to! A panic seized me; I couldn't stand that; I'd have to cut and
run!

I began to speak quickly. "We must get across this street while we
have time; the traffic officer has turned the right way now." And I
began explaining our remarkable system of traffic handling.

But he stopped me in the middle. "Why do we wish to cross the
street, when we have no place to go?"

"I have a place I wish to take you to," I said; "a friend I want you
to meet. Let us cross. "And while I was guiding him between the
automobiles, I was desperately trying to think how to back up my
lie. Who was there that would receive this incredible stranger, and
put him up for the night, and get him into proper clothes, and keep
him off the soap-box?

Truly, I was in an extraordinary position! What had I done to get
this stranger wished onto me? And how long was he going to stay with
me? I found myself recalling the plight of Mary who had a little
lamb!

Fate had me in its hands, and did not mean to consult me. We had
gone less than a block further when I heard a voice, "Hello! Billy!"
I turned. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Of all the thankless
encounters--Edgerton Rosythe, moving picture critic of the Western
City "Times." Precisely the most cynical, the most profane, the most
boisterous person in a cynical and profane and boisterous business!
And he had me here, in full daylight, with a figure just out of a
stained glass window in St. Bartholomew's Church!



VII


"Hello, Billy! Who's your good-looking friend?" Rosythe was in full
sail before a breeze of his own making.

How could I answer. "Why--er--"

The stranger spoke. "They call me Carpenter."

"Ah!" said the critic. "Mr. Carpenter, delighted to meet you." He
gave the stranger a hearty grip of the hand. "Are you on location?"

"Location?" said the other; and Rosythe shot an arrow of laughter
towards me. Perhaps he knew about the vagaries of my Aunt Caroline;
anyhow, he would have a fantastic tale to tell about me, and was
going to exploit it to the limit!

I made a pitiful attempt to protect my dignity. "Mr. Carpenter has
just arrived," I began--

"Just arrived, hey?" said the critic. "Oviparous, viviparous, or
oviviparous?" He raised his hand; actually, in the glory of his wit,
he was going to clap the stranger on the shoulder!

But his hand stayed in the air. Such a look as came on Carpenter's
face! "Hush!" he commanded. "Be silent!" And then: "Any man will
join in laughter; but who will join in disease?"

"Hey?" said Rosythe; and it was my turn to grin.

"Mr. Carpenter has just done me a great service," I explained. "I
got badly mauled in the mob--"

"Oh!" cried the other. "At the Excelsior Theatre!" Here was
something to talk about, to cover his bewilderment. "So you were in
it! I was watching them just now."

"Are they still at it?"

"Sure thing!"

"A fine set of boobs," I began--

"Boobs, nothing!" broke in the other. "What do you suppose they're
doing?"

"Saving us from Hun propaganda, so they told me."

"The hell of a lot they care about Hun propaganda! They are earning
five dollars a head."

"What?"

"Sure as you're born!"

"You really know that?"

"Know it? Pete Dailey was at a meeting of the Motion Picture
Directors' Association last night, and it was arranged to put up the
money and hire them. They're a lot of studio bums, doing a real mob
scene on a real location!"

"Well, I'll be damned!" I said. "And what about the police?"

"Police?" laughed the critic. "Would you expect the police to work
free when the soldiers are paid? Why, Jesus Christ----"

"I beg pardon?" said Carpenter.

"Why--er--" said Rosythe; and stopped, completely bluffed.

"You ought not swear," I remarked, gravely; and then, "I must
explain. I got pounded by that mob; I was knocked quite silly, and
this gentleman found me, and healed me in a wonderful way."

"Oh!" said the critic, with genuine interest. "Mind cure, hey? What
line?"

I was about to reply, but Carpenter, it appeared, was able to take
care of himself. "The line of love," he answered, gently.

"See here, Rosythe," I broke in, "I can't stand on the street. I'm
beginning to feel seedy again. I think I'll have a taxi."

"No," said the critic. "Come with me. I'm on the way to pick up the
missus. Right around the corner--a fine place to rest." And without
further ado he took me by the arm and led me along. He was a
good-hearted chap inside; his rowdyisms were just the weapons of his
profession. We went into an office building, and entered an
elevator. I did not know the building, or the offices we came to.
Rosythe pushed open a door, and I saw before me a spacious parlor,
with birds of paradise of the female sex lounging in upholstered
chairs. I was led to a vast plush sofa, and sank into it with a sigh
of relief.

The stranger stood beside me, and put his hand on my head once more.
It was truly a miracle, how the whirling and roaring ceased, and
peace came back to me; it must have shown in my face, for the moving
picture critic of the Western City "Times" stood watching me with a
quizzical smile playing over his face. I could read his thoughts, as
well as if he had uttered them: "Regular Svengali stuff, by God!"



VIII


I was so comfortable there, I did not care what happened. I closed
my eyes for a while; then I opened them and gazed lazily about the
place. I noted that all the birds of paradise were watching
Carpenter. With one accord their heads had turned, and their eyes
were riveted upon him. I found myself thinking. "This man will make
a hit with the ladies!" Like the swamis, with their soft brown
skins, and their large, dark, cow-like eyes!

There had been silence in the place. But suddenly we all heard a
moan; I felt Carpenter start, and his hand left my head. A dozen
doors gave into this big parlor--all of them closed. We perceived
that the sound came through the door nearest to us. "What is it?" I
asked, of Rosythe.

"God knows," said he; "you never can tell, in this place of
torment."

I was about to ask, "What sort of place is it?" But the moan came
again, louder, more long drawn out: "O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" It ended
in a sort of explosion, as if the maker of it had burst.

Carpenter turned, and took two steps towards the door; then he
stopped, hesitating. My eyes followed him, and then turned to the
critic, who was watching Carpenter, with a broad grin on his face.
Evidently Rosythe was going to have some fun, and get his revenge!

The sound came again--louder, more harrowing. It came at regular
intervals, and each time with the explosion at the end. I watched
Carpenter, and he was like a high-spirited horse that hears the
cracking of a whip over his head. The creature becomes more
restless, he starts more quickly and jumps farther at each sound.
But he is puzzled; he does not know what these lashes mean, or which
way he ought to run.

Carpenter looked from one to another of us, searching our faces. He
looked at the birds of paradise in the lounging chairs. Not one of
them moved a muscle--save only those muscles which caused their eyes
to follow him. It was no concern of theirs, this agony, whatever it
was. Yet, plainly, it was the sound of a woman in torment:
"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

Carpenter wanted to open that door. His hand would start towards it;
then he would turn away. Between the two impulses he was presently
pacing the room; and since there was no one who appeared to have any
interest in what he might say, he began muttering to himself. I
would catch a phrase: "The fate of woman!" And again: "The price of
life!" I would hear the terrible, explosive wail:
"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" And it would wring a cry out of the depths of
Carpenter's soul: "Oh, have mercy!"

In the beginning, the moving picture critic of the Western City
"Times" had made some effort to restrain his amusement. But as this
performance went on, his face became one enormous, wide-spreading
grin; and you can understand, that made him seem quite devilish. I
saw that Carpenter was more and more goaded by it. He would look at
Rosythe, and then he would turn away in aversion. But at last he
made an effort to conquer his feelings, and went up to the critic,
and said, gently: "My friend: for every man who lives on earth, some
woman has paid the price of life."

"The price of life?" repeated the critic, puzzled.

Carpenter waved his hand towards the door. "We confront this
everlasting mystery, this everlasting terror; and it is not becoming
that you should mock."

The grin faded from the other's face. His brows wrinkled, and he
said: "I don't get you, friend. What can a man do?"

"At least he can bow his heart; he can pay his tribute to
womanhood."

"You're too much for me," responded Rosythe. "The imbeciles choose
to go through with it; it's their own choice."

Said Carpenter: "You have never thought of it as the choice of God?"

"Holy smoke!" exclaimed the critic. "I sure never did!"

At that moment one of the doors was opened. Rosythe turned his eyes.
"Ah, Madame Planchet!" he cried. "Come tell us about it!"



IX


A stoutish woman out of a Paris fashion-plate came trotting across
the room, smiling in welcome: "Meester Rosythe!" She had black
earrings flapping from each ear, and her face was white, with a
streak of scarlet for lips. She took the critic by his two hands,
and the critic, laughing, said: "Respondez, Madame! Does God bring
the ladies to this place?"

"Ah, surely, Meester Rosythe! The god of beautee, he breengs them to
us! And the leetle god with the golden arrow, the rosy cheeks and
the leetle dimple--the dimple that we make heem for two hundred
dollars a piece--eh, Meester Rosythe? He breengs the ladies to us!"

The critic turned. "Madame Planchet, permit me to introduce Mr.
Carpenter. He is a man of wonder, he heals pain, and does it by
means of love."

"Oh, how eenteresting! But what eef love heemself ees pain--who
shall heal that, eh, Meester Carpentair?"

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!" came the moan.

Said Rosythe: "Mr. Carpenter thinks you make the ladies suffer too
much. It worries him."

"Ah, but the ladies do not mind! Pain? What ees eet? The lady who
makes the groans, she cannot move, and so she ees unhappy. Also, she
likes to have her own way, she ees a leetle--what you say?--spoilt.
But her troubles weel pass; she weel be beautiful, and her husband
weel love her more, and she weel be happy."

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" from the other room; and Madame Planchet
prattled away: "I say to them, Make plenty of noises! Eet helps! No
one weel be afraid, for all here are worshippers of the god of
beautee--all weel bear the pains that he requires. Eh, Meester
Carpentair?"

Carpenter was staring at her. I had not before seen such intensity
of concentration on his face. He was trying to understand this
situation, so beyond all believing.

"I weel tell you something," said Madame Planchet, lowering her
voice confidentially. "The lady what you hear--that ees Meeses T-S.
You know Meester T-S, the magnate of the peectures?"

Carpenter did not say whether he knew or not.

"They come to me always, the peecture people; to me. the magician,
the deputee of the god of beautee. Polly Pretty, she comes, and
Dolly Dimple, she comes, and Lucy Love, she comes, and Betty Belle
Bird. They come to me for the hair, and for the eyes, and for the
complexion. You are a workair of miracles yourself--but can you do
what I do? Can you make the skeen all new? Can you make the old
young?"

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

"Mary Magna, she comes to me, and she breengs me her old
grandmother, and she says, 'Madame,' she says, 'make her new from
the waist up, for you can nevair tell how the fashions weel change,
and what she weel need to show.' Ha, ha, ha, she ees wittee, ees the
lovely Mary! And I take the old lady, and her wrinkles weel be gone,
and her skeen weel be soft like a leetle baby's, and in her cheeks
weel be two lovely dimples, and she weel dance with the young boys,
and they weel not know her from her grandchild--ha, ha, ha!--ees eet
not the wondair?"

I knew by now where I was. I had heard many times of Madame
Planchet's beauty-parlors. I sat, wondering; should I take Carpenter
by the arm, and lead him gently out? Or should I leave him to fight
his own. fight with modern civilization?

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

Madame turned suddenly upon me. "I know you, Meester Billee," she
said. "I have seen you with Mees Magna! Ah, naughtee boy! You have
the soft, fine hair--you should let it grow--eight inches we have to
have, and then you can come to me for the permanent wave. So many
young men come to me for the permanent wave! You know eet? Meester
Carpentair, you see, he has let hees hair grow, and he has the
permanent wave--eet could not be bettair eef I had done eet myself.
I say always, 'My work ees bettair than nature, I tell nature by the
eemperfections.' Eh, voila?"

I am not sure whether it was for the benefit of me or of Carpenter.
The deputee of the god of beautee was moved to volunteer a great
revelation. "Would you like to see how we make eet--the permanent
wave? I weel show you Messes T-S. But you must not speak--she would
not like eet if I showed her to gentlemen. But her back ees turned
and she cannot move. We do not let them see the apparatus, because
eet ees rather frightful, eet would make them seek. You will be very
steel, eh?"

"Mum's the word, Madame," said Rosythe, speaking for the three of
us.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" moaned the voice.

"First, I weel tell you," said Madame. "For the complete wave we wind
the hair in tight leetle coils on many rods. Eet ees very delicate
operations--every hair must be just so, not one crooked, not one
must we skeep. Eet takes a long time--two hours for the long hair;
and eet hurts, because we must pull eet so tight. We wrap each coil
een damp cloths, and we put them een the contacts, and we turn on
the eelectreeceetee--and then eet ees many hours that the hair ees
baked, ees cooked een the proper curves, eh? Now, very steel, eef
you please!"

And softly she opened the door.



X


Before us loomed what I can only describe as a mountain of red
female flesh. This flesh-mountain had once apparently been slightly
covered by embroidered silk lingerie, but this was now soaked in
moisture and reduced to the texture of wet tissue paper. The top of
the flesh-mountain ended in an amazing spectacle. It appeared as if
the head had no hair whatever; but starting from the bare scalp was
an extraordinary number of thin rods, six inches or so in length.
These rods stood out in every direction, and being of gleaming
metal, they gave to the head the aspect of some bright Phoebus
Apollo, known as the "far-darter;" or shall I say some fierce Maenad
with electric snakes having nickel-plated skins; or shall I say some
terrific modern war-god, pouring poison gases from a forest of
chemical tubes? Over the top of the flesh-mountain was a big metal
object, a shining concave dome with which all the tubes connected;
so that a stranger to the procedure could not have felt sure whether
the mountain was holding up the dome, or was dangling from it. A
piece of symbolism done by a maniac artist, whose meaning no one
could fathom!

From the dome there was given heat; so from the pores of the
flesh-mountain came perspiration. I could not say that I actually
saw perspiration flowing from any particular pore; it is my
understanding that pores are small, and do not squirt visible jets.
What I could say is that I saw little trickles uniting to form
brooks, and brooks to form rivers, which ran down the sides of the
flesh-mountain, and mingled in an ocean on the floor.

Also I observed that flesh-mountains when exposed to heat do not
stand up of their own consistency, but have a tendency to melt and
flatten; it was necessary that this bulk should be supported, so
there were three attendants, one securely braced under each armpit,
and the third with a more precarious grip under the mountain's chin.
Every thirty seconds or so the heaving, sliding mass would emit one
of those explosive groans: "O-o-o-o-o-oh!" Then it would collapse,
an avalanche would threaten to slide, and the living caryatids would
shove and struggle.

Said Madame Planchet, in her stage-whisper: "The serveece of the
young god of beautee!" And my fancy took flight. I saw proud vestals
tending sacred flames on temple-clad islands in blue Grecian seas; I
saw acolytes waving censers, and grave, bearded priests walking in
processions crowned with myrtle-wreaths. I wondered if ever since
the world began, the young god of beautee looking down from his
crystal throne had beheld a stranger ritual of adoration!

Silently we drew back from the door-way, and Madame closed the door,
reducing the promethean groans and the strong ammoniacal odors. I
did not see the face of Carpenter, because he had turned it from us.
Rosythe favored me with a smile, and whispered, "Your friend doesn't
care for beautee!" Then he added, "What do you suppose he meant by
that stuff about 'the price of life' and 'the choice of God?'"

"Didn't you really get it?" I asked.

"I'm damned if I did."

"My dear fellow," I said, "you didn't tell us what sort of place
this was; and Carpenter thought it must be a maternity-ward."

The moving picture critic of the Western City "Times" gave me one
wild look; then from his throat there came a sound like the sudden
bleat of a young sheep in pain. It caused Carpenter to start, and
Madame Planchet to start, and for the first time since we entered
the place, the birds of paradise gave signs of life elsewhere than
in the eye-muscles. The sheep gave a second bleat, and then a third,
and Rosythe, red in the face and apparently choking, turned and fled
to the corridor.

Madame Planchet drew me apart and said: "Meester Billee, tell me
something. Ees eet true that thees gentleman ees a healer? He takes
away the pains?"

"He did it for me," I answered.

"He ees vairy handsome, eh, Meester Billee?"

"Yes, that is true."

"I have an idea; eet ees a wondair." She turned to my friend.
"Meester Carpentair, they tell me that you heal the pains. I think
eet would be a vairy fine thing eef you would come to my parlor and
attend the ladies while I give them the permanent wave, and while I
skeen them, and make them the dimples and the sweet smiles. They
suffer so, the poor dears, and eef you would seet and hold their
hands, they would love eet, they would come every day for eet, and
you would be famous, and you would be reech. You would meet--oh,
such lovely ladies! The best people in the ceety come to my beauty
parlors, and they would adore you, Meester Carpentair--what do you
say to eet?"

It struck me as curious, as I looked back upon it; Madame Planchet
so far had not heard the sound of Carpenter's voice. Now she forced
him to speak, but she did not force him to look at her. His gaze
went over her head, as if he were seeing a vision; he recited:

"Because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched
forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and
making a tinkling with their feet; therefore the Lord will smite
with a scab the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the
Lord will discover their secret parts."

"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Madame Planchet.

"In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their twinkling
ornaments about their feet, and their cauls, and their round tires
like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers, the
bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the
tablets, and the earrings, the rings and nose jewels, the changeable
suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping
pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils.
And it shall come to pass that instead of sweet smell there shall be
stink; and instead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well set hair,
baldness; and instead of a stomacher a girding of sackcloth: and
burning instead of beauty."

And at that moment the door from the corridor was flung open, and
Mary Magna came in.



XI


"My God, will you look who's here! Billy, wretched creature, I
haven't laid eyes on you for two months! Do you have to desert me
entirely, just because you've fallen in love with a society girl
with the face of a Japanese doll-baby? What's the matter with me,
that I lose my lovers faster than I get them? Edgerton Rosythe, come
in here--you've got a good excuse, I admit--I'm almost as much
scared of your wife as you are yourself. But still, I'd like a
chance to get tired of some man first. Hello, Planchet, how's my old
grannie making out in your scalping-shop? Say, would you think it
would take three days labor for half a dozen Sioux squaws to pull
the skin off one old lady's back? And a week to tie up the corners
of her mouth and give her a permanent smile! 'Why, grannie,' I said,
'good God, it would be cheaper to hire Charlie Chaplin to walk round
in front of you all the rest of your life!' And--why, what's this?
For the love of Peter, somebody introduce me to this gentleman. Is
he a friend of yours, Billy? Carpenter? Excuse me, Mr. Carpenter,
but we picture people learn to talk about our faces and our styles,
and it isn't every day I come on a million dollars walking round on
two legs. Who does the gentleman work for?"

The storm of Mary Magna stopped long enough for her to stare from
one to another of us. "What? You mean nobody's got him? And you all
standing round here, not signing any contracts? You, Edgerton--you
haven't run to the telephone to call up Eternal City? Well, as it
happens, T-S is going to be here in five minutes--his wife is being
made beautiful once again somewhere in this scalping-shop. Take my
advice, Mr. Carpenter, and don't sign today--the price will go up
several hundred per week as long as you hold off."

Mary stopped again; and this was most unusual, for as a general rule
she never stopped until somebody or something stopped her. But she
was fascinated by the spectacle of Carpenter. "My good God! Where
did he come from? Why, it seems like--I'm trying to think--yes,
it's the very man! Listen, Billy; you may not believe it, but I was
in a church a couple of weeks ago. I went to see Roxanna Riddle
marry that grand duke fellow. It was in a big church over by the
park--St. Bartholomew's, they call it. I sat looking at a stained
glass window over the altar, and Billy, I swear I believe this Mr.
Carpenter came down from that window!"

"Maybe he did, Mary," I put in.

"But I'm not joking! I tell you he's the living, speaking image of
that figure. Come to think of it, he isn't speaking, he hasn't said
a word! Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, have you got a voice, or are you
only a close up from 'The Servant in the House' or 'Ben Hur'? Say
something, so I can get a line on you!"

Again I stood wondering; how would Carpenter take this? Would he bow
his head and run before a hail-storm of feminine impertinence? Would
she "vamp" him, as she did every man who came near her? Or would
this man do what no man alive had yet been able to do--reduce her to
silence?

He smiled gently; and I saw that she had vamped him this much, at
least--he was going to be polite! "Mary," he said, "I think you are
carrying everything but the nose jewels."

"Nose jewels? What a horrid idea! Where did you get that?"

"When you came in, I was quoting the prophet Isaiah. Some eighty
generations of ladies have lived on earth since his day, Mary; they
have won the ballot, but apparently they haven't discovered anything
new in the way of ornaments. Some of the prophet's words may be
strange to you, but if you study them you will see that you've got
everything he lists: 'their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and
their cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and
the bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of
the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings, the
rings, and nose jewels, the changeable suits of apparel, and the
mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and
the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils.'"

As Carpenter recited this list, his eyes roamed from one part to
another of the wondrous "get up" of Mary Magna. You can imagine her
facing him--that bold and vivid figure which you have seen as
"Cleopatra" and "Salome," as "Dubarry" and "Anne Boleyn," and I know
not how many other of the famous courtesans and queens of history.
In daily life her style and manner is every bit as staggering; she
is a gorgeous brunette, and wears all the colors there are--when she
goes down the street it is like a whole procession with flags. I'll
wager that, apart from her jewels, which may or may not have been
real, she was carrying not less than five thousand dollars worth of
stuff that fall afternoon. A big black picture hat, with a flower
garden and parts of an aviary on top--but what's the use of going
over Isaiah's list?

"Everything but the nose jewels," said Carpenter, "and they may be
in fashion next week."

"How about the glasses?" put in Rosythe, entering into the fun.

"Oh, shucks!" said I, protecting my friend. "Turn out the contents
of your vanity-bag, Mary."

"And the crisping-pins?" laughed the critic.

"Hasn't Madame Planchet just shown us those?"

All this while Mary had not taken her eyes off Carpenter. "So you
are really one of those religious fellows!" she exclaimed. "You'll
know exactly what to do without any directing! How perfectly
incredible!" And at that appropriate moment T-S pushed open the door
and waddled in!



XII


You know the screen stars, of course; but maybe you do not know
those larger celestial bodies, the dark and silent and invisible
stars from which the shining ones derive their energies. So, permit
me to introduce you to T-S, the trade abbreviation for a name which
nobody can remember, which even his secretaries have to keep typed
on a slip of paper just above their machine--Tszchniczklefritszch.
He came a few years ago from Ruthenia, or Rumelia, or Roumania--one
of those countries where the consonants are so greatly in excess of
the vowels. If you are as rich as he, you call him Abey, which is
easy; otherwise, you call him Mr. T-S, which he accepts as a part of
his Americanization.