A Traveler from Altruria: Romance

W >> W. D. Howells >> A Traveler from Altruria: Romance

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

"Oh, I don't believe that will ever happen in America," I protested.

"Why not?" asked the banker. "Practically, it is owned already in a vastly
greater measure than we recognize. And where would the great harm be? The
new slavery would not be like the old. There needn't be irresponsible
whipping and separation of families, and private buying and selling. The
proletariate would probably be owned by the state, as it was at one time
in Greece; or by large corporations, which would be much more in keeping
with the genius of our free institutions; and an enlightened public
opinion would cast safeguards about it in the form of law to guard it from
abuse. But it would be strictly policed, localized, and controlled. There
would probably be less suffering than there is now, when a man may be
cowed into submission to any terms through the suffering of his family;
when he may be starved out and turned out if he is unruly. You may be sure
that nothing of that kind would happen in the new slavery. We have not had
nineteen hundred years of Christianity for nothing."

The banker paused, and, as the silence continued, he broke it with a
laugh, which was a prodigious relief to my feelings, and I suppose to the
feelings of all. I perceived that he had been joking, and I was confirmed
in this when he turned to the Altrurian and laid his hand upon his
shoulder. "You see," he said, "I'm a kind of Altrurian myself. What is the
reason why we should not found a new Altruria here on the lines I've
drawn? Have you never had philosophers--well, call them philanthropists; I
don't mind--of my way of thinking among you?"

"Oh yes," said the Altrurian. "At one time, just before we emerged from
the competitive conditions, there was much serious question whether
capital should not own labor instead of labor owning capital. That was
many hundred years ago."

"I am proud to find myself such an advanced thinker," said the banker.
"And how came you to decide that labor should own capital?"

"We voted it," answered the Altrurian.

"Well," said the banker, "our fellows are still fighting it, and getting
beaten."

I found him later in the evening talking with Mrs. Makely. "My dear sir,"
I said, "I liked your frankness with my Altrurian friend immensely; and it
may be well to put the worst foot foremost; but what is the advantage of
not leaving us a leg to stand upon?"

He was not in the least offended at my boldness, as I had feared he might
be, but he said, with that jolly laugh of his: "Capital! Well, perhaps I
have worked my candor a little too hard; I suppose there is such a thing.
But don't you see that it leaves me in the best possible position to carry
the war into Altruria when we get him to open up about his native land?"

"Ah! If you can get him to do it."

"Well, we were just talking about that. Mrs. Makely has a plan."

"Yes," said the lady, turning an empty chair near her own toward me. "Sit
down and listen."

X

I sat down, and Mrs. Makely continued: "I have thought it all out, and I
want you to confess that in all practical matters a woman's brain is
better than a man's. Mr. Bullion, here, says it is, and I want you to say
so, too."

"Yes," the banker admitted, "when it comes down to business a woman is
worth any two of us."

"And we have just been agreeing," I coincided, "that the only gentlemen
among us are women. Mrs. Makely, I admit, without further dispute, that
the most unworldly woman is worldlier than the worldliest man; and that in
all practical matters we fade into dreamers and doctrinaires beside you.
Now, go on."

But she did not mean to let me off so easily. She began to brag herself
up, as women do whenever you make them the slightest concession.

"Here, you men," she said, "have been trying for a whole week to get
something out of Mr. Homos about his country, and you have left it to a
poor, weak woman, at last, to think how to manage it. I do believe that
you get so much interested in your own talk, when you are with him, that
you don't let him get in a word, and that's the reason you haven't found
out anything about Altruria yet from him."

In view of the manner in which she had cut in at Mrs. Camp's, and stopped
Homos on the very verge of the only full and free confession he had ever
been near making about Altruria, I thought this was pretty cool; but, for
fear of worse, I said:

"You're quite right, Mrs. Makely. I'm sorry to say that there has been a
shameful want of self-control among us, and that, if we learn anything at
all from him, it will be because you have taught us how."

She could not resist this bit of taffy. She scarcely gave herself time to
gulp it before she said:

"Oh, it's very well to say that now! But where would you have been if I
hadn't set my wits to work? Now, listen! It just popped into my mind, like
an inspiration, when I was thinking of something altogether different. It
flashed upon me in an instant: a good object, and a public occasion."

"Well?" I said, finding this explosion and electrical inspiration rather
enigmatical.

"Why, you know, the Union Chapel, over in the village, is in a languishing
condition, and the ladies have been talking all summer about doing
something for it, getting up something--a concert or theatricals or a
dance or something--and applying the proceeds to repainting and papering
the visible church; it needs it dreadfully. But, of course, those things
are not exactly religious, don't you know; and a fair is so much trouble;
and _such_ a bore, when you get the articles ready, even; and everybody
feels swindled; and now people frown on raffles, so there is no use
thinking of them. What you want is something striking. We did think of a
parlor-reading, or perhaps ventriloquism; but the performers all charge so
much that there wouldn't be anything left after paying expenses."

She seemed to expect some sort of prompting at this point; so I said:
"Well?"

"Well," she repeated, "that is just where your Mr. Homos comes in."

"Oh! How does he come in there?"

"Why, get him to deliver a Talk on Altruria. As soon as he knows it's for
a good object, he will be on fire to do it; and they must live so much in
common there that the public occasion will be just the thing that will
appeal to him."

It did seem a good plan to me, and I said so. But Mrs. Makely was so much
in love with it that she was not satisfied with my modest recognition.

"Good? It's magnificent! It's the very thing! And I have thought it out,
down to the last detail--"

"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Do you think there is sufficient general
interest in the subject, outside of the hotel, to get a full house for
him? I shouldn't like to see him subjected to the mortification of empty
benches."

"What in the world are you thinking of? Why, there isn't a farm-house,
anywhere within ten miles, where they haven't heard of Mr. Homos; and
there isn't a servant under this roof, or in any of the boarding-houses,
who doesn't know something about Altruria and want to know more. It seems
that your friend has been much oftener with the porters and the
stable-boys than he has been with us."

I had only too great reason to fear so. In spite of my warnings and
entreaties, he had continued to behave toward every human being he met
exactly as if they were equals. He apparently could not conceive of that
social difference which difference of occupation creates among us. He
owned that he saw it, and from the talk of our little group he knew it
existed; but, when I expostulated with him upon some act in gross
violation of society usage, he only answered that he could not imagine
that what he saw and knew could actually be. It was quite impossible to
keep him from bowing with the greatest deference to our waitress; he shook
hands with the head-waiter every morning as well as with me; there was a
fearful story current in the house, that he had been seen running down one
of the corridors to relieve a chambermaid laden with two heavy water-pails
which she was carrying to the rooms to fill up the pitchers. This was
probably not true; but I myself saw him helping in the hotel hay-field one
afternoon, shirt-sleeved like any of the hired men. He said that it was
the best possible exercise, and that he was ashamed he could give no
better excuse for it than the fact that without something of the kind he
should suffer from indigestion. It was grotesque, and out of all keeping
with a man of his cultivation and breeding. He was a gentleman and a
scholar, there was no denying, and yet he did things in contravention of
good form at every opportunity, and nothing I could say had any effect
with him. I was perplexed beyond measure, the day after I had reproached
him for his labor in the hay-field, to find him in a group of table-girls,
who were listening while the head-waiter read aloud to them in the shade
of the house; there was a corner looking toward the stables which was
given up to them by tacit consent of the guests during a certain part of
the afternoon.

I feigned not to see him, but I could not forbear speaking to him about it
afterward. He took it in good part, but he said he had been rather
disappointed in the kind of literature they liked and the comments they
made on it; he had expected that with the education they had received, and
with their experience of the seriousness of life, they would prefer
something less trivial. He supposed, however, that a romantic love-story,
where a poor American girl marries an English lord, formed a refuge for
them from the real world which promised them so little and held them so
cheap. It was quite useless for one to try to make him realize his
behavior in consorting with servants as a kind of scandal.

The worst of it was that his behavior, as I could see, had already begun
to demoralize the objects of his misplaced politeness. At first the
servants stared and resented it, as if it were some tasteless joke; but in
an incredibly short time, when they saw that he meant his courtesy in good
faith, they took it as their due. I had always had a good understanding
with the head-waiter, and I thought I could safely smile with him at the
queer conduct of my friend toward himself and his fellow-servants.
To my astonishment he said: "I don't see why he shouldn't treat them as if
they were ladies and gentlemen. Doesn't he treat you and your friends so?"

It was impossible to answer this, and I could only suffer in silence, and
hope the Altrurian would soon go. I had dreaded the moment when the
landlord should tell me that his room was wanted; now I almost desired it;
but he never did. On the contrary, the Altrurian was in high favor with
him. He said he liked to see a man make himself pleasant with everybody;
and that he did not believe he had ever had a guest in the house who was
so popular all round.

"Of course," Mrs. Makely went on, "I don't criticise him--with his
peculiar traditions. I presume I should be just so myself if I had been
brought up in Altruria, which, thank goodness, I wasn't. But Mr. Homos is
a perfect dear, and all the women in the house are in love with him, from
the cook's helpers, up and down. No, the only danger is that there won't
be room in the hotel parlors for all the people that will want to hear
him, and we shall have to make the admission something that will be
prohibitive in most cases. We shall have to make it a dollar."

"Well," I said, "I think that will settle the question as far as the
farming population is concerned. It's twice as much as they ever pay for a
reserved seat in the circus, and four times as much as a simple admission.
I'm afraid, Mrs. Makely, you're going to be very few, though fit."

"Well, I've thought it all over, and I'm going to put the tickets at one
dollar."

"Very good. Have you caught your hare?"

"No, I haven't yet. And I want you to help me catch him. What do you think
is the best way to go about it?"

The banker said he would leave us to the discussion of that question, but
Mrs. Makely could count upon him in everything if she could only get the
man to talk. At the end of our conference we decided to interview the
Altrurian together.

I shall always be ashamed of the way that woman wheedled the Altrurian,
when we found him the next morning, walking up and down the piazza, before
breakfast--that is, it was before our breakfast; when we asked him to go
in with us, he said he had just had his breakfast, and was waiting for
Reuben Camp, who had promised to take him up as he passed with a load of
hay for one of the hotels in the village.

"Ah, that reminds me, Mr. Homos," the unscrupulous woman began on him at
once. "We want to interest you in a little movement we're getting up for
the Union Chapel in the village. You know it's the church where all the
different sects have their services; alternately. Of course, it's rather
an original way of doing, but there is sense in it where the people are
too poor to go into debt for different churches, and--"

"It's admirable!" said the Altrurian. "I have heard about it from the
Camps. It is an emblem of the unity which ought to prevail among
Christians of all professions. How can I help you, Mrs. Makely?"

"I knew you would approve of it!" she exulted. "Well, it's simply this:
The poor little place has got so shabby that _I'm_ almost ashamed to be
seen going into it, for one; and want to raise money enough to give it a
new coat of paint outside and put on some kind of pretty paper, of an
ecclesiastical pattern, on the inside. I declare, those staring white
walls, with the cracks in the plastering zigzagging every _which_ way,
distract me so that I can't put my mind on the sermon. Don't you think
that paper, say of a Gothic design, would be a great improvement? I'm sure
it would; and it's Mr. Twelvemough's idea, too."

I learned this fact now for the first time; but, with Mrs. Makely's
warning eye upon me, I could not say so, and I made what sounded to me
like a Gothic murmur of acquiescence. It sufficed for Mrs. Makely's
purpose, at any rate, and she went on, without giving the Altrurian a
chance to say what he thought the educational effect of wall-paper would
be:

"Well, the long and short of it is that we want you to make this money for
us, Mr. Homos."

"I?" He started in a kind of horror. "My dear lady, I never made any money
in my life. I should think it _wrong_ to make money."

"In Altruria, yes. We all know how it is in your delightful country, and I
assure you that no one could respect your conscientious scruples more than
I do. But you must remember that you are in America now. In America you
have to make money, or else--get left. And then you must consider the
object, and all the good you can do, indirectly, by a little Talk on
Altruria."

He answered, blandly: "A little Talk on Altruria? How in the world should
I get money by that?"

She was only too eager to explain, and she did it with so much volubility
and at such great length that I, who am good for nothing till I have had
my cup of coffee in the morning, almost perished of an elucidation which
the Altrurian bore with the sweetest patience.

When she gave him a chance to answer, at last, he said: "I shall be very
happy to do what you wish, madam."

"_Will_ you?" she screamed. "Oh, I'm so glad! You _have_ been so slippery
about Altruria, you know, that I expected nothing but a point-blank
refusal. Of course, I knew you would be kind about it. Oh, I can hardly
believe my senses! You can't think what a dear you are." I knew she had
got that word from some English people who had been in the hotel; and she
was working it rather wildly, but it was not my business to check her.
"Well, then, all you have got to do is to leave the whole thing to me, and
not bother about it a bit till I send and tell you we are ready to listen.
There comes Reuben, with his ox-team. Thank you so much, Mr. Homos. No one
need be ashamed to enter the house of God"--she said Gawd, in an access of
piety--"after we get that paint and paper on it; and we shall have them on
before two Sabbaths have passed over it."

She wrung the Altrurian's hand; I was only afraid she was going to kiss
him.

"There is but one stipulation I should like to make," he began.

"Oh, a thousand," she cut in.

"And that is, there shall be no exclusion from my lecture on account of
occupation or condition. That is a thing that I can in no wise
countenance, even in America; it is far more abhorrent to me even than
money-making, though they are each a part and parcel of the other."

"I thought it was that," she retorted, joyously. "And I can assure you,
Mr. Homos, there shall be nothing of that kind. Every one--I don't care
who it is or what they do--shall hear you who buys a ticket. Now, will
that do?"

"Perfectly," said the Altrurian, and he let her wring his hand again.

She pushed hers through my arm as we started for the dining-room, and
leaned over to whisper jubilantly: "That will fix it. He will see how much
his precious lower classes care for Altruria if they have to pay a dollar
apiece to hear about it. And I shall keep faith with him to the letter."

I could not feel that she would keep it in the spirit; but I could only
groan inwardly and chuckle outwardly at the woman's depravity.

It seemed to me, though I could not approve of it, a capital joke, and so
it seemed to all the members of the little group whom I had made
especially acquainted with the Altrurian. It is true that the minister was
somewhat troubled with the moral question, which did not leave me wholly
at peace; and the banker affected to find a question of taste involved,
which he said he must let me settle, however, as the man's host; if I
could stand it, he could. No one said anything against the plan to Mrs.
Makely, and this energetic woman made us take two tickets apiece, as soon
as she got them printed, over in the village. She got little hand-bills
printed, and had them scattered about through the neighborhood, at all the
hotels, boarding-houses, and summer cottages, to give notice of the time
and place of the talk on Altruria. She fixed this for the following
Saturday afternoon, in our hotel parlor; she had it in the afternoon so as
not to interfere with the hop in the evening; she put tickets on sale at
the principal houses and at the village drug-store, and she made me go
about with her and help her sell them at some of the cottages in person.

I must say I found this extremely distasteful, especially where the people
were not very willing to buy, and she had to urge them. They all admitted
the excellence of the object, but they were not so sure about the means.
At several places the ladies asked who was this Mr. Homos, anyway; and how
did she know he was really from Altruria? He might be an impostor.

Then Mrs. Makely would put me forward, and I would be obliged to give such
account of him as I could, and to explain just how and why he came to be
my guest; with the cumulative effect of bringing back all the misgivings
which I had myself felt at the outset concerning him, and which I had
dismissed as too fantastic.

The tickets went off rather slowly, even in our own hotel; people thought
them too dear; and some, as soon as they knew the price, said frankly they
had heard enough about Altruria already, and were sick of the whole thing.

Mrs. Makely said this was quite what she had expected of those people;
that they were horrid and stingy and vulgar; and she should see what face
they would have to ask her to take tickets when _they_ were trying to get
up something. She began to be vexed with herself, she confessed, at the
joke she was playing on Mr. Homos, and I noticed that she put herself
rather defiantly _en evidence_ in his company whenever she could in the
presence of these reluctant ladies. She told me she had not the courage to
ask the clerk how many of the tickets he had sold out of those she had
left at the desk.

One morning, the third or fourth, as I was going in to breakfast with her,
the head-waiter stopped her as he opened the door, and asked modestly if
she could spare him a few tickets, for he thought he could sell some. To
my amazement the unprincipled creature said: "Why, certainly. How many?"
and instantly took a package out of her pocket, where she seemed always to
have them. He asked, Would twenty be more than she could spare? and she
answered: "Not at all. Here are twenty-five." and bestowed the whole
package upon him.

That afternoon Reuben Camp came lounging up toward us, where I sat with
her on the corner of the piazza, and said that if she would like to let
him try his luck with some tickets for the Talk he would see what he could
do.

"You can have all you want, Reuben," she said, "and I hope you'll have
better luck than I have. I'm perfectly disgusted with people."

She fished several packages out of her pocket this time, and he asked: "Do
you mean that I can have them all?"

"Every one, and a band of music into the bargain," she answered,
recklessly. But she seemed a little daunted when he quietly took them.
"You know there are a hundred here?"

"Yes, I should like to see what I can do among the natives. Then there is
a construction train over at the junction, and I know a lot of the
fellows. I guess some of 'em would like to come."

"The tickets are a dollar each, you know," she suggested.

"That's all right," said Camp. "Well, good-afternoon."

Mrs. Makely turned to me with a kind of gasp as he shambled away. "I don't
know about that."

"About having the whole crew of a construction train at the Talk? I dare
say it won't be pleasant to the ladies who have bought tickets."

"_Oh_!" said Mrs. Makely, with astonishing contempt, "I don't care what
_they_ think. But Reuben has got all my tickets, and suppose he keeps them
so long that I won't have time to sell any, and then throws them back on
my hands? _I_ know!" she added, joyously. "I can go around now and tell
people that my tickets are all gone; and I'll go instantly and have the
clerk hold all he has left at a premium."

She came back looking rather blank.

"He hasn't got a single one left. He says an old native came in this
morning and took every last one of them--he doesn't remember just how
many. I believe they're going to speculate on them; and if Reuben Camp
serves me a trick like that--Why," she broke off, "I believe I'll
speculate on them myself. I should like to know why I shouldn't. Oh, I
should just _like_ to make some of those creatures pay double, or treble,
for the chances they've refused. Ah, Mrs. Bulkham," she called out to a
lady who was coming down the veranda toward us, "you'll be glad to know
I've got rid of all my tickets. _Such_ a relief!"

"You _have_?" Mrs. Bulkham retorted.

"Every one."

"I thought," said Mrs. Bulkham, "that you understood I wanted one for my
daughter and myself, if she came."

"I certainly didn't," said Mrs. Makely, with a wink of concentrated
wickedness at me. "But, if you do, you will have to say so now, without
any ifs or ands about it; and if any of the tickets come back--I let
friends have a few on sale--I will give you two."

"Well, I do," said Mrs. Bulkham, after a moment.

"Very well; it will be five dollars for the two. I feel bound to get all I
can for the cause. Shall I put your name down?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Bulkham, rather crossly; but Mrs. Makely inscribed her
name on her tablets with a radiant amiability, which suffered no eclipse
when, within the next fifteen minutes, a dozen other ladies hurried up and
bought in at the same rate.

I could not stand it, and I got up to go away, feeling extremely
_particeps criminis_. Mrs. Makely seemed to have a conscience as light as
air.

"If Reuben Camp or the head-waiter don't bring back some of those tickets,
I don't know what I shall do. I shall have to put chairs into the aisles
and charge five dollars apiece for as many people as I can crowd in there.
I never knew anything so perfectly providential."

"I envy you the ability to see it in that light, Mrs. Makely," I said,
faint at heart. "Suppose Camp crowds the place full of his trainmen, how
will the ladies that you've sold tickets to at five dollars apiece like
it?"

"Pooh! What do I care how they like it! Horrid things! And for repairs on
the house of Gawd, it's the same as being in church, where everybody is
equal."

The time passed. Mrs. Makely sold chances to all the ladies in the house;
on Friday night Reuben Camp brought her a hundred dollars; the head-waiter
had already paid in twenty-five. "I didn't dare to ask them if they
speculated on them," she confided to me. "Do you suppose they would have
the conscience?"

They had secured the large parlor of the hotel, where the young people
danced in the evening, and where entertainments were held, of the sort
usually given in summer hotels; we had already had a dramatic reading, a
time with the phonograph, an exhibition of necromancy, a concert by a
college glee club, and I do not know what else. The room would hold
perhaps two hundred people, if they were closely seated, and, by her own
showing, Mrs. Makely had sold above two hundred and fifty tickets and
chances. All Saturday forenoon she consoled herself with the belief that a
great many people at the other hotels and cottages had bought seats
merely to aid the cause, and would not really come; she estimated that at
least fifty would stay away; but, if Reuben Camp had sold his tickets
among the natives, we might expect every one of them to come and get his
money's worth; she did not dare to ask the head-waiter how he had got rid
of his twenty-five tickets.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15