Part 15

Half way down the block we came to the Palace Hotel, and uniformed men came pouring out of that. I heard the shrieks of a woman, and put my foot on the edge of a store-window, and raised myself up by an awning, to see over the heads of the crowd. Half a dozen rowdies had got hold of a girl; I don't know what she had done--maybe her skirts were too short, or maybe she had been saucy to one of the gang; anyhow, they were tearing her clothes to shreds, and having done this gaily, they took her on their shoulders, and ran her out to the wagon, and tossed her up beside the Red Prophet. “There's a girl for you!” they yelled; and the drunken fellow who wanted Carpenter to cure him, suddenly thought of a new witticism: “Hey, you goddam Bolsheviki, why don't you nationalize her?” Men laughed and whooped over that; some of them were so tickled that they danced about and waved their arms in the air. For, you see, they knew all the details concerning the “nationalization of women in Russia,” and also they had read in the papers about Mary Magna, and Carpenter's fondness for picture-actresses and other gay ladies. He stretched out his hand to the girl, to save her from falling off; and at this there went up such a roar from the mob, that it made me think of wild beasts in the arena. So to my whirling brain came back the words that Carpenter had spoken: “It is Rome! It is Rome! Rome that never dies!”

The cortege came to the “Hippodrome,” which is our biggest theatre, and which, like everything else, had declared open house for Brigade members during the convention. Some one in the crowd evidently knew the building, and guided the procession down a side street, to the stage-entrance. They have all kinds of shows in the “Hippodrome,” and have a driveway by which they bring in automobiles, or war-chariots, or wild animals in cages, or whatever they will. Now the mob stormed the entrance, and brushed the door-keepers to one side, and unbolted and swung back the big gates, and a swarm of yelling maniacs rushed the lumbering prairie-schooner up the slope into the building.

The unlucky girl rolled off at this point, and somebody caught her, and mercifully carried her to one side. The wagon rolled on; the advance guard swept everything out of the way, scenery as well as stage-hands and actors, and to the vast astonishment of an audience of a couple of thousand people, the long string of rope-pullers marched across the stage, and after them came the canvas-covered vehicle with the red-painted letters, and the red-painted victim clinging to the top. The khaki-clad swarm gathered about him, raising their deafening chant: “Hi! Hi! The Bolsheviki prophet. Hi! Hi! The Bolsheviki prophet!”

I had got near enough so that I could see what happened. I don't know whether Carpenter fainted; anyhow, he slipped from his perch, and a score of upraised hands caught him. Some one tore down a hanging from the walls of the stage set, and twenty or thirty men formed a cirfcle about it, and put the prophet in the middle of it, and began to toss him ten feet up into the air and catch him and throw him again.

And that was all I could stand--I turned and went out by the rear entrance of the theatre. The street in back was deserted; I stood there, with my hands clasped to my head, sick with disgust; I found myself repeating out loud, over and over again, those words of Carpenter: “It is Rome! It is Rome! Rome that never dies!”

A moment later I heard a crash of glass up above me; I ducked, just in time to avoid a shower of it. Then I looked up, and to my consternation saw the red-painted head and the red and white shoulders of Carpenter suddenly emerging. The shoulders were quickly followed by the rest of him; but fortunately there was a narrow shed between him and the ground. He struck the shed, and rolled, and as he fell, I caught him, and let him down without harm.

LXII

I expected to find my prophet nearly dead; I made ready to get him onto my shoulders and find some place to hide him. But to my surprise he started to his feet. I could not see much of him, because of the streams of paint; but I could see enough to realize that his face was contorted with fury. I remembered that gentle, compassionate countenance; never had I dreamed to see it like this!

He raised his clenched hands. “I meant to die for this people! But now--let them die for themselves!” And suddenly he reached out to me in a gesture of frenzy. “Let me get away from them! Anywhere, anyway! Let me go back where I was--where I do not see, where I do not hear, where I do not think! Let me go back to the church!”

With these words he started to run down the street; hauling up his long robes--never would I have dreamed that a prophet's bare legs could flash so quickly, that he could cover the ground at such amazing speed! I set out after him; I had stuck to him thus far, and meant to be in at the finish, whatever it was. We came out on Broadway again, and there were more crowds of soldier boys; the prophet sped past them, like a dog with a tin-can tied to its tail. He came to a cross-street, and dodged the crowded traffic, and I also got through, knocking pedestrians this way and that. People shouted, automobiles tooted; the soldiers whooped on the trail. I began to get short of breath, a little dizzy; the buildings seemed to rock before me, there were mobs everywhere, and hands clutching at me, nearly upsetting me. But still I followed my prophet with the bare flying legs; we swept around another corner, and I saw the goal to which the tormented soul was racing--St. Bartholomew's!

He went up the steps three at a time, and I went up four at a time behind him. He flung open the door and vanished inside; when I got in, he was half way up the aisle. I saw people in the church start up with cries of amazement; some grabbed me, but I broke away--and saw my prophet give three tremendous leaps. The first took him up the altar-steps; the second took him onto the altar; the third took him up into the stained-glass window.

And there he turned and faced me. His paint-smeared robes fell down about his bare legs, his convulsed and angry face became as gentle and compassionate as the paint would permit. With a wave of his hand, he signalled me to stand back and let him alone. Then the hand sank to his side, and he stood motionless. Exhausted, dizzy, I fell against one of the pews, and then into a seat, and bowed my head in my arms.

LXIII

I don't know just how much time passed after that. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and realized that some one was shaking me. I had a horror of hands reaching out for me, so I tried to get away from this one; but it persisted, and there was a voice, saying, “You must get up, my friend. It's time we closed. Are you ill?”

I raised my head; and first I glanced at the figure above the altar. It was perfectly motionless; and--incredible as it may seem--there was no trace of red paint upon either the face or the robes! The figure was dignified and serene, with a halo of light about its head--in short, it was the regulation stained glass figure that I had gazed at through all my childhood.

“What is the matter?” asked the voice at my side; and I looked up, and discovered the Reverend Mr. Simpkinson. He recognized me, and cried: “Why, Billy! For heaven sake, what has happened?”

I was dazed, and put my hand to my jaw. I realized that my head was aching, and that the place I touched was sore. “I--I---” I stammered. “Wait a minute.” And then, “I think I was hurt.” I tried to get my thoughts together. Had I been dreaming; and if so, how much was dream and how much was reality? “Tell me,” I said, “is there a moving picture theatre near this church?”

“Why, yes,” said he. “The Excelsior.”

“And--was there some sort of riot?”

“Yes. Some ex-soldiers have been trying to keep people from going in there. They are still at it. You can hear them.”

I listened. Yes, there was a murmur of voices outside. So I realized what had happened to me. I said: “I was in that mob, and I got beaten up. I was knocked pretty nearly silly, and fled in here.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the clergyman, his amiable face full of concern. He took me by my shoulders and helped me to my feet.

“I'm all right now,” I said--“except that my jaw is swollen. Tell me, what time is it?”

“About six o'clock.”

“For goodness sake!” I exclaimed. “I dreamed all that in an hour! I had the strangest dream--even now I can't make up my mind what was dream and what really happened.” I thought for a moment. “Tell me, is there a convention of the Brigade--that is, I mean, of the American Legion in Western City now?”

“No,” said the other; “at least, not that I've heard of. They've just held their big convention in Kansas City.”

“Oh, I see! I remember--I read about it in the 'Nation.' They were pretty riotous--made a drunken orgy of it.”

“Yes,” said the clergyman. “I've heard that. It seems too bad.”

“One thing more. Tell me, is there a picture of Mr. de Wiggs in the vestry-room?”

“Good gracious, no!” laughed the other. “Was that one of the things you dreamed? Maybe you're thinking of the portrait they are showing at the Academy.”

“By George, that's it!” I said. “I patched the thing up out of all the people I know, and all the things I've read in the papers! I had been talking to a German critic, Dr. Henner--or wait a moment! Is he real? Yes, he came before I went to see the picture. He'll be entertained to hear about it. You see, the picture was supposed to be the delirium of a madman, and when I got this whack on the jaw, I set to work to have a delirium of my own, just as I had seen on the screen. It was the most amazing thing--so real, I mean. Every person I think of, I have to stop and make sure whether I really know them, or whether I dreamed them. Even you!”

“Was I in it?” laughed Mr. Simpkinson. “What did I do?”

But I decided I'd better not tell him. “It wasn't a polite dream,” I said. “Let me see if I can walk now.” I started down the aisle. “Yes, I'm all right.”

“Do you suppose that crowd will bother you again? Perhaps I'd better go with you,” said the apostle of muscular Christianity.

“No, no,” I said. “They're not after me especially. I'll slip away in the other direction.”

So I bade Mr. Simpkinson good-bye, and went out on the steps, and the fresh air felt good to me. I saw the crowd down the street; the ex-service men were still pushing and shouting, driving people away from the theatre. I stopped for one glance, then hurried away and turned the corner. As I was passing an office building, I saw a big limousine draw up. The door opened, and a woman stepped out: a bold, dark, vivid beauty, bedecked with jewels and gorgeous raiment of many sorts; a big black picture hat, with a flower garden and parts of an aviary on top--

Her glance lit on me. “My God! Will you look who's here!” She came to me with her two hands stretched out. “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? I just met Edgerton Rosythe; he's got a good excuse, I admit--I'm almost as much scared of his wife as he is himself. But still, I'd like a chance to get tired of some man first! Want to come upstairs with me, and see what Planchet's doing to my old grannie in her 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 around in front of you all the rest of your life.' But the old girl was bound to be beautiful, so I said to Planchet, 'Make her new from the waist up, Madame, for you never can tell how the fashions'll change, and what she'll need to show.'”

And so I knew that I was back in the real world.

APPENDIX

We live in an age, the first in human history, when religion is entirely excluded from politics and politics from religion. It may happen, therefore, that millions of men will read this story and think it merely a joke; not realizing that it is a literal translation of the life of the world's greatest revolutionary martyr, the founder of the world's first proletarian party. For the benefit of those whose historical education has been neglected, I append a series of references. The number to the left refers to a page of this book. The number to the right is a parallel reference to a volume of ancient records known as the Bible; specifically to those portions known as the gospels according to Matthew Everett, Mark Abell, Luka Korwsky, and John Colver.

11........Matthew 14:27

14........Matthew 6:21

16........Isaiah 3:16-26

17........Mark 12:37

70........Luke 6:24

70........John 15:17

72........Luke 9:38

73........Luke 4:40

75........Luke 11:46

78........Matthew 19:14

84........John 15:27

85........Luke 6:25

90........Matthew 12:39

95........Matthew 12:34

99........Matthew 10:9

102........Luke 4:5-8

107........Matthew 26:34

114........Matthew 26:69-75

117........James 5:1-6

119........Matthew 7:7

120........Matthew 7:11

123........Matthew 10:34

123........Matthew 10:16-17

129........Luke 23:23

131........Matthew 9:9

135........Acts 17:24

136........Matthew 21:12

136........Exodus 20:7

136........Matthew 21:13

138........Matthew 5:39-40

140........Matthew 23:l-33

143........Mark 6:56

143........Luke 6:19

144........Matthew 25:36

144........Matthew 21:6

145........Mark 3:20

145........Luke 5:29

146........Matthew 9:37

146........Luke 4:39

150........John 19:26

153........Matthew 19:16

155........Mark 15:14

162........Matthew 5:9

164........Luke 4:18

164........Luke 19:40-44

164........Matthew 11:5

167........Matthew 5:44

171........Matthew 27:14

171........Matthew 8:20

175........Matthew 26:7-13

176........Luke 1:52

179........Matthew 11:19

180........Matthew 5:11

182........Luke 20:20

182........Matthew 26:22

183........Matthew 26:36

185........John 18:3

186........Luke 22:4

190........Matthew 26:40

192........Luke 22:44

193........Matthew 26:40

194........Luke 14:43

195........Matthew 26:52

202........Mark 14:36

203........Matthew 10:28

214........Mark 15:18

214........Luke 23:38

214........Matthew 27:40

End of Project Gutenberg's They Call Me Carpenter, by Upton Sinclair